Page 21 of Guardian
“Any news of Josie?” I asked.
“Not yet,” Mary said. “Trial will likely be tomorrow or the next day.” A pause. “Bea’s in a state.”
“I hope she knows it wasn’t her fault. I heard Josie’d been drinking.”
Mary nodded. “She still feels rotten, though.”
We all knew what a guilty verdict meant. Amelia had influence, but it only went so far.
I pieced the edges of the first rip together. “Turn up the lamp, would you?”
Mary spun the key to brighten the flame, and I made a series of tiny, regular stitches, holding the fabric taut to prevent puckering. I sewed in silence until Mary broke it: “Bea was talking tonight about what she’d do if she wasn’t thieving. She wants to work in a shop.”
I looked up to meet her gaze. “Did you tell her your plan?” Mary wanted to open her own bakery someday.
Mary shook her head deprecatingly. “No. It’s years off. I need at least another two hundred pounds to open anywhere decent.” She paused. “Sorry about Sid blurting out about Josie. Did Sarah ask you to quit again?”
My eyes on my stitches, I replied, “Mm-hmm.”
“I figured she would.” The horsehair and straw crinkled as Mary shifted on the bed. “Brings the danger close, doesn’t it?”
A flare of cold prickled at the back of my neck. “We’re more careful than Josie.”
“But shops are getting sharper.”
“So are we,” I retorted, looking up. “Why are you being like this, when you know neither of us can afford to stop?”
“Kit.” Her blue eyes looked hurt.
“There’s no bloody point in talking about it.” Bending back over the dress, I jabbed the needle into the cloth and sewed until the second rip was mended, knotted the thread, and bit it off, close. “There.” I handed it back without meeting her gaze.
“Thanks.” She hung the dress on one of the nails, then climbed into bed. “Should I turn down the lamp?”
“I’ll do it.” I changed into my nightdress, hung my dress, and twisted the lamp key before turning on my side.
“Good night, Kit.” Her voice was kinder than I deserved.
She understood I was angry, but not at her.
“I’d quit if I could,” I said, my voice a rasp.
“I know.”
“Good night, Mary.”
The church bells struck the hour, the toll lingering in the curdled air of the foggy night.
Chapter 7
The taproom was busier than usual for a Tuesday afternoon, and I sat at one of the triangular corner tables with a sloppy stack of newspapers, a serving of piping hot shepherd’s pie, and a pot of ale for my tea. Both theTimesand the KentAdvertisercarried reports of the Fairleigh investigation, railing against the Yard for making no progress at all. Not for the first time, it occurred to me that an anonymous tip-off to the Yard could put Billy and Tommy away—but Sarah would have to testify for a charge to stick, and even if the Yard tried to keep it anonymous, word might leak out. The Castle men might scrap among themselves, but they closed ranks when needs must and took their revenge.
My one shred of hope was that I hadn’t heard from James. I took it to mean Sarah hadn’t been mentioned, although it could simply mean Billy and Tommy were keeping silent for now.
As I scavenged the pile for another paper, a dark-haired woman rose from one of the tables on the other side of the room. Her back was to me, but I noticed her fashionable woolen paletot with a neat turned down collar and lapels, the sort of coat not often seen here. She approached Pat, put her empty glass on the wooden bar, and laid down a coin. Pat didn’t give his usual amiable smile—didn’t even nod—merely continued scrubbing at a brown whiskey bottle like he’d caught it stealing from the till.
That sent my curiosity high as the rafters.
Then, to my amazement, she stepped around the end of the bar and started up the steps to the private rooms above, and Pat didn’t say a word to stop her. Now that I saw her profile, I realized it was the handsome woman I’d seen here a few nights ago, who had given me that peculiar, sharp look. She must know Amelia, and if I had to guess, she’d climbed these stairs before, more than once. The staircase was steep, and from the first step she plucked her skirts high the way we thieves did. My eyes went to her fingers, pale against her dark skirts. The skin on her near hand was shiny, as if it had been badly burnt, and two of her fingers—the index and the second finger—were twisted from being broken and not reset properly.
