Page 79 of Guardian
Mr. Fuller was partly turned away from us, so I first saw his right shoulder, his arm, his hand resting near a coffee cup, and a plate with two thick slabs of bread untouched. I had a peculiar feeling as I moved toward him. The round head, the reddish hair that flopped over his forehead, the beakish nose, and the pasty complexion: I recognized him from somewhere, and it only took a moment to remember. He’d been outside the Fairleigh house when I’d been talking to the Yard man. Had they been there together? Or had the Yard man been observing him?
My every nerve was pulled taut as James and I approached. As Mr. Fuller’s brown eyes caught sight of James, he gave a look of recognition that had some pleasure in it, but upon seeing me, a resentful frown formed a single furrow, sharp as a knife cut, between his gingery brows. He’d guessed I knew how they met, and he didn’t like it.
“It’s been a fair while,” Mr. Fuller said to James.
James nodded and drew out a chair that would put my back to the room, so anything I said would be imperceptible to others. James nudged a third chair to where he could keep an eye on the room for us both.
Mr. Fuller turned to me. “And who is this?”
“A friend,” James said easily.
Mr. Fuller’s lips pursed irritably. “Ah. Well, hello, friend.” I nodded a greeting, and he turned back to James. “Are you still at the Custom House? Is it working out?”
“It is,” James said.
Mr. Fuller relaxed visibly, and his gaze grew keen. “And do you really have information for me about the murders?”
“I do,” I said shortly.
Mr. Fuller’s hand raised in a gesture meant to placate me. “Where are my manners? Some coffee or chocolate for you?”
“Coffee,” I said, and James nodded.
Mr. Fuller turned, caught the eye of the server, and pointed to his own cup, raising two fingers. At the table beside us a man flapped theTelegraphopen and refolded it into a manageable rectangle.
I assumed that Mr. Fuller would lean forward, eager to have me relate what I knew about the murders. To my surprise, he sat back and studied me, so I did the same, absorbing details that told me a bit more: The suit was once a good one of fine wool, but was now worn, shiny at the elbows, and looked slightly too large for him, as if he’d lost a stone or two; the cuffs of his shirtsleeves were frayed, though the threads had been trimmed. His hands were squarish, and the second finger on his right hand bore a formless gray ink stain beside the top knuckle; the third finger had a narrow gold band, the sign of his aforementioned wife.
James leaned in. “Begging your pardon, Fuller, but you don’t look yourself. Have you been ill?”
“Influenza,” he said soberly. “My daughter nearly died of it last month.”
I felt a poke of sympathy, and James said, “I’m sorry to hear it.” The server brought our coffee, together with tin spoons not worth stealing and a silver plate sugar bowl, much dented.
Fuller’s eyes flicked between us. “Before you tell me anything, you should know that if you’re trying to get information to the Yard, I don’t have their ear. They don’t trust me anymore.”
James stilled, and his face registered dismay. “Is that because you helped me?”
Fuller’s mouth tightened, as if he wished it were only that, but he shook his head. “No.”
“Then why?” I asked.
The look he gave me was coolly assessing. “If you must know, I’ll tell you, but I’d appreciate it if you don’t spread it about.”
“Of course.”
Fuller drained his coffee cup, leaving some dark grounds stuck to his upper lip. He licked to remove them. He settled his palm on the table, tapping his thumb several times, then stilled it with an air of having decided where to begin, and looked up at me. “I once had the confidence of a Yard inspector. He’s young and grew up outside of London, and frankly, he was a bit at sea when he arrived at the Yard. But he has an amiable manner that made me want to throw him an oar, so to speak, so I shared with him certain ... insights about the underworld, gangs, docks, corruption in Whitehall, and so on. In return, he sometimes shared information with me. Naturally, if he asked me to hold a story back for a time because it would compromise his detecting, I would.” His eyes dropped to his coffee cup, and his mouth twisted into a regretful line. “Six months ago, I was working on a story about counterfeiters here in London—it’s a rampant problem—and I had discovered a coin man in a basement not far from here. I trusted someone I shouldn’t have, and that evening, the story appeared, complete with the counterfeiter’s address, in another paper. The counterfeiter was tipped off. He gathered his belongings, stole a hansom cab, killed the driver, and left London hours before my inspector was going to arrest him.”
“So he doesn’t trust you anymore,” I said.
“No,” Mr. Fuller replied. “Not that I blame him.”
“And you want to get back in his good graces.”
“No, I’m genuinely bloody sorry,” he said shortly, his eyes blazing. “I’d make amends, if I could.” He set a forearm on the table and leaned toward me, close enough that I could smell the coffee on his breath. “The duty of every decent newspaperman is to tell the truth and bring unknown stories to light, to improve our city, to make it safer, to uphold justice, to help those in need. Wedomake a difference.”
That’s true enough, I thought, recalling the Canterbury orphanage that had burned down and been rebuilt because of a sympathetic story in the paper.
“It’s the whole reason I came today. If I can help solve the Fairleigh murders”—Mr. Fuller tapped his thumb in that restless tattoo—“it could save the Yard, which is of crucial importance for London.”
