Page 113 of When We Touch

“Missus!” Jamie said. The woman looked at him, and backed away, deciding whether to offer him her services, or scream bloody murder.

He lifted his hands. “Don’t be afraid. I won’t come any closer. I . . . I’ll pay you for information.”

“Information?” she said cautiously.

He produced a silver coin from his pocket and tossed it to her. “What did that gentleman want from you?”

She started to laugh, and slumped against the brick wall that gated a factory on that side of the road. She was drunk, and the sound of her cackle actually made him want to snatch his coin back, but he reminded himself quickly that one look at the surroundings made it easily possible to understand why gin seemed the best remedy for life.

“Please,” he said evenly, “I need to know what that gentleman wanted.”

“Why, just like you, sir! He wanted information.”

“About what?”

“Had I seen anyone suspicious! Everyone in the streets is suspicious these days, dearie! Then, did I know anything about a fellow claiming quietly to be a great spiritualist, or did I know about any particular house of... ill repute.”

What in God’s name was Justin up to now? He’d heard the fellow was trying to turn a new leaf—to have more purpose in life. Still, these were mean streets. Justin had served his time in the Queen’s army, Jamie reminded himself, and still . . . it was somewhat uncomfortable to think about him trying to clean up the streets of Whitechapel—on his own.

“Thank you,” Jamie said. “Where were you off to?” he asked her.

“You’ve something in mind, ducky?” she said, suddenly coy.

He shook his head. “It’s getting late. I’d hoped you were heading home.”

“Well, wot a sweet one ye be, and handsome at that! You’ve given me quite a pretty coin here, sir!”

“Take it, and go home,” he said, and turned, and started walking down the street again.

Watching the pubs would avail him little. The murderer would not strike so close to so much activity, where there was so much light.

As he moved down the street, the mist-shrouded night was suddenly rent asunder by a scream, a man crying out, “Murder! Oh, my God! It’s another murder!”

Jamie started to run in the direction of the shout.

* * *

At the Blarney Stone, Mireau went to the bar and ordered a round of drinks, then joined Maggie, Cecilia, and Fiona at a table.

“What’s going on at the bar?” Maggie asked him.

Mireau shrugged. “They’re talking about the murders. And about their jobs, the casual work some of them get now and then, how the police should be doing more . . . how there’s not enough work, and not enough gin. The woman with the paisley shawl is trying to get the short fellow in the tan cap to take a stroll into an alley with her. And don’t stare now, but there’s a young fellow, tan trousers, black jacket, shaggy brown hair, and a half a day’s beard whose been watching us since we came in here.”

“Oh?” Cecilia said, craning her neck to see over the head of others.

“I said, don’t look now!” Mireau reminded her.

“All right, all right!” Cecilia said. She had worn ragged, fingerless gloves, and as she picked up her gin, Mireau made a tsking sound.

“What?” Cecilia said.

“A perfect manicure. Ah, they’ll think you’re a working girl, all right!”

Maggie had covertly taken notice of the fellow. And he was watching them.

She suddenly let out a loud moan, and let her head slump to the table.

“What is it?” Mireau cried, with real alarm.