Page 85 of Murder in Blackfriars

I set down my sherry and balanced the large book on my lap. In the list of children, I saw the names Fergus Draper and Eddie Barlow. Another one readRobbie Taylor.

“Taylor,” I repeated. “Was that Robbie’s true surname?”

Dr. Boland shrugged. “Anyone I’ve asked says no one knew the lad’s true name. They choseTaylorto have something to write on the ledger.”

“To receive the funding to feed him,” Mr. Fielding said, an edge of disparagement to his voice.

“Very likely. It is difficult to find the money to do all the good works we are supposed to, as you know, Mr. Fielding.”

There was nothing about Mr. Banks in the ledger, since he hadn’t been left here. He’d been older than the others, able to join the army to fend for himself.

I hadn’t come to ask about little Robbie, and I had the feeling Dr. Boland knew nothing about him. But there was a man who might give us a little more information on both.

“Did you find Mr. Patterson?” I asked Mr. Fielding. “Can we perhaps bring him here?” I looked hopefully at Dr. Boland. “He might be more willing to come to a church than having us descend on him, wherever he lives.”

Less chance of him legging it out the back door, I meant, and by the twinkle in Mr. Fielding’s eye, he knew it.

“I did,” Mr. Fielding said. “Bringing him here will besimplicity itself, since he has now taken lodgings here in the workhouse.”

Dr. Boland nodded. “Not that he can work anymore, but the poor soul had nowhere else to go. I’ll have him fetched over, if you like.”

* * *

Mr. Patterson entered not long later. I found it ironic that the closest place Mr. Patterson could go for help was the very workhouse in which he’d abandoned the children—and possibly Daniel—all those years ago, but I kept the observation to myself.

Mr. Patterson paused on the threshold, his gaze taking in us all and resting on Daniel. As he’d done the day Mr. Fielding had brought him to Mr. Thanos’s flat, Mr. Patterson’s eyes flickered and he resolutely turned his gaze away.

The man sidled to the chair Dr. Boland offered, his body trembling as he sat. He switched his very blue eyes to me, which I realized were not watery because of his age.

Mr. Patterson was weeping, and striving not to, just as he’d done when he’d met us the first time.

“Mr. Patterson,” I said with certainty. “Youdorecognize Daniel, don’t you?”

Mr. Patterson shook his head, then studied the threadbare carpet beneath his shoes. “It were a long time ago.”

“Perhaps, but time only alters so much,” I insisted. “Especially if you look at Daniel and see someone else.”

While Daniel stared at me in trepidation, Mr. Fielding and Dr. Boland in perplexity, Mr. Patterson put his hand over his eyes and let his tears come.

“I see me daughter,” he gasped.

28

“Your daughter?” I repeated, taken aback.

I’d expected him to confess something else, such as he recognized himself in Daniel. I’d realized that what had bothered me upon meeting Mr. Patterson, my conviction that he seemed somewhat familiar, was that he and Daniel had the same eyes—the same shape, the same color, the same way of assessing and then moving quickly away.

Mr. Patterson raised his head and looked straight at Daniel. “He has her manner, her way of tilting her head a little when she talked. Her smile.” Tears trickled down his face.

“Then Daniel is—”

“Me grandson. He must be.”

Daniel slowly rose to his feet. “Your grandson?”

“Aye, lad. I’m sorry.”

I’d never seen Daniel so still. His face was fixed, his eyes a mystery. The only thing that moved was a bob of his throat.