Page 99 of An Artful Dodge
Grabbing her hand in mine, I dodged into a grimy little alley, barely a snicket. “In here. It cuts through to London Road. Run, Sarah!” I pushed her ahead of me.
Past dustbins and over muck and dung, past broken crates and closed doors, we raced toward the busy street at the end, but Billy was gaining on us.
We flew around the corner toward St. George’s Circus, the busiest place in this part of Southwark, known for every kind of crime.
“Kit!” Sarah pointed. “It’s a constable.”
We ran straight toward the man in uniform.
Yet another thing I never imagined doing.
The constable was young, and he started as Sarah threw herself at him, clutching his arm. “Please, sir, there’s a man frightening us!”
“What?” He drew himself up and scanned the street, palming the side pocket of his trousers, where he kept his truncheon. “That one, there?”
Billy came to a quick halt. Sarah nodded and pointed—her little finger was as effective a weapon as a gun—and Billy melted back into the alley.
“Can you take us to the nearest police station?” I asked through gasps. “Please?”
“That’ll be the Yard,” he said. “Come with me, ladies,” he added gallantly. He offered his elbow to Sarah, and she tucked her hand inside, as if she’d done it a dozen times. I wondered where she’d learnt that bit of manners. From someone at the Willitses’ house perhaps.
“Thank you. We’re ever so grateful. You may not hear it often enough,” Sarah said earnestly, “but many of us girls are very glad you’re patrolling the streets.”
He halted and looked down at her, askance at first and suspicious that she was teasing him, but then genuinely pleased as her eyes remained on his. “You’re right. We never hear that.”
“Well, it’s true, even if the papers don’t print it.”
I fell behind and let Sarah chatter to him the entire way to the Yard. She was clever, yes, but she was also sincere. I couldn’t have done it as well. For my part, I was content to be silent and follow where they led.
Our constable took us through a heavy stone arch into a cobbled yard, where clumps of hay lay scattered about and the smell of horse piss was sharp in the air. Half a dozen boys lurked near the back entrance, fidgety as hungry cats. A plainclothesman appeared at the door, wagged a finger at one, and handed over a folded note and a coin. The coin slid into a pocket and the boy trotted across the yard and through the stone arch, and vanished into the street.
The door opened four more times as we crossed the cobbled yard, with people going in and out. You could tell the Yard men, in their plain clothes and tall top hats. Rumor was their brims were reinforced with enough cane to break someone’s nose.
As we reached the entrance, our constable swung the door open with a flourish and gestured for us to enter.
Yet another thing I never imagined doing, walking into Scotland Yard of my own volition. This was indeed a fortnight for unlikely events.
The constable took us straight to a sergeant, whose wooden desk faced the door. There was a ledger before him of roughly the same shape and size as our thieving one, along with several morning newspapers. As he saw us, he picked up his pen and his eyebrows rose slightly. “What is it?”
“These ladies have something to report,” the constable said.
“Very well.” He nodded an abrupt dismissal to the constable, whose face fell. To console him, Sarah gave him a warm smile, and he touched his hat to her and left.
I said to the sergeant, “I’ve been told to ask for Mr. Stiles. Is he here, by chance?”
“He is, mum,” the sergeant replied. His eyebrows crept higher. “What’s this regarding?”
“The Fairleigh murders,” Sarah said.
His bristly eyebrows rose another notch. “All right, then. I’ll fetch him fer ye in a moment. Yes, sir?” Waving us toward a bench, he turned to a red-haired plainclothesman who was tapping his boot impatiently beside the desk.
From our wooden seat, Sarah and I watched the bustle of activity in the main room, with desks in three tightly packed rows, extending across the entire floor, some occupied by plainclothesmen, others by only stacks of papers. Apparently the men who belonged to those desks were out detecting clues. Dim sunlight fell in rays through dirty windows overhead, catching on motes of dust, and the air smelled of cheap tea. Several sergeants and inspectors glanced at us as they passed, and I found myself recalling that Mr. Fuller said my sketch was here at the Yard. I wondered if I might be recognized, but so far no one had given me more than a passing glance. And why would they? No one would expect a known thief to be sitting bold as brass on this bench hoping to speak with an inspector.
Having finished with the impatient plainclothesman, the sergeant made his way to one of the occupied desks at the far end of the room, where he spoke to a young man with fair hair, interrupting him in his writing. The inspector turned, and I peered at his profile. Yes, it was the Yard man I’d seen at the Fairleigh house. Mr. Stiles. He turned to look at us, then nodded, rose, and put on his coat—a gesture of politeness he needn’t have made, as his shirtsleeves appeared quite crisp and fresh.
“You only have to tell them what you saw in Mayfair,” I said to Sarah quietly.
“I know. Don’t worry, Kit.” Her triangle chin lifted and set.
