Viv banged on the door with both fists until it reopened, this time revealing two gentlemen. One was the same ill-tempered white man as before. The second at least looked at her with curiosity rather than contempt.
By their posture and expressions, she deduced that the second man held seniority, a situation the first was none too happy about. Given the conspicuous finery of the rude investigator’s clothes and the whiff of cheap gin clinging to his person, the first Runner was not dealing well with his wish to appear more important than he was.
The more successful man holding the door open, however, had paper cuts on his ink-stained fingers. His clothes were wrinkled in such a way that indicated long hours behind a desk, and the soles of his shoes were worn thin from constant movement investigating his cases. This was a man who made progress. Exactly what was needed.
“I need your help,” Viv said in a rush.
“Of course,” said the more pleasant of the two men. “I am Basil Newbury, and this is my colleague John Yarrow. What is your name?”
Thank God. “Vivian Henry.”
“And what appears to be the matter?”
“My cousin Quentin. He’s missing. It’s been two days—”
“How old is he?” Yarrow interrupted.
“Eighteen, but—”
“So, no longer under your thumb, eh? Lads do what lads do. There’s no case here.”
“He knows I worry,” she blurted out. “If he were able to, he wouldhave sent word.”
“Not if he’s a runaway,” said Yarrow. “Maybe he’s done having words with you.”
This stung, having hit a little too close.
“He’s not a runaway,” Viv gritted out. “I’m the indigent, andhe’sthe one with trust money. Why would he run away from that?”
“Aha,” said Yarrow. “It’s not your cousin you’re after, but his pocketbook.”
Viv gave up on him and turned to Newbury. “Quentin is a good lad, but impulsive. Anything could have happened to him.”
“Is he an English citizen?”
“Why wouldn’t he—” Oh. Her accent. “Yes, he’s an English citizen.”
“You cannot be taking this seriously,” said Yarrow. “Lookat her. We’re wasting our time.”
“Look at me?” Viv repeated, her limbs and voice shaking. “What about my appearance wastes your time? That I’m poor? That I’m a woman? That I’m Black? That I’m an immigrant?”
Yarrow made a careless, palms-up gesture as though to say,You said it, not me.
Newbury looked chagrined. “My apologies, miss. It pains me not to be able to help, but we investigate crimes, and there’s no evidence of one. Good luck, and good day.”
This time, when the door closed in her face, Viv knew it was final.
No one here would help.
Much as it galled her, if professional investigators charged with protecting the public would not help… Viv would have to resort to theunprofessionals. The rule-flouting, law-breaking, self-appointed Robin Hoods of the lower classes.
The Wynchesters.
6
Her legs stiff and her hands clenched into fists, Viv stalked the two miles from her humble dwellings in Cheapside to Islington, where the infamous caper-committing family of delinquents was supposed to live.
It wasn’t so much the bending of the rules she objected to. Viv had once plotted a full-on revolt. It was that reckless, privileged pets like the Wild Wynchesters got away with anything they dreamed up. The smug, do-right family didn’t even acknowledge the injustice they themselves were perpetrating. Instead, they were idolized and lauded for their law-breaking, whereas people like Viv were beaten and imprisoned and executed for far lesser crimes.
