“I am sorry, Mr. Bellow!” The clerk’s voice stabbed Charles between the shoulder blades. Fingers bit into his upper arm. “Off with you, now!”
Charles stifled a chuckle. He outweighed the man by at least two stone and was an entire head taller. The small clerk was no more threatening than the dead dog outside. He certainly had pluck, though. Charles would give him that. Still, Bellow really ought to employ a larger man as his gatekeeper.
In one swift movement, Charles shrugged off the clerk and flipped up his lapel, flashing his badge—a trick he’d picked up from Jackson. “Your clerk is not to be blamed, sir, just educated in evasion tactics. I am Inspector Baggett, and I reassure you, I need but a moment of your time.”
Mr. Bellow set down his fork. Meat pie, not fruit—kidney, judging by the savory scent and richness of the filling colour. “That will be all, Mr. Popkin.”
“Yes, sir.”
Footsteps retreated as Mr. Bellow leaned back in his seat, perfectly framed by the panes of glass behind him that overlooked the glassworks. He was a fit man, his bespoke suit moulding neatly over his trim physique. A sharp tack, both in figure and intelligence, his silvery-blue eyes keen as they swept over Charles. “Have a seat, Inspector. Am I under some sort of investigation?”
“Nothing of the sort, sir.” He perched on one of the leather chairs in front of the desk. “I am here on a personal matter.”
Bellow cocked his head like a spring robin on the hunt. “Such as?”
“The boy you hired yesterday, Frankie Jones. He returned home with a handful of coins, supposedly an advance from you. I’m merely checking on the validity of his story.” He held up a finger. “Not that the lad is untrustworthy, mind, it just seemed a bit suspect. I promised the lad’s mother I’d look into the truth of it.”
“I suppose in your line of work you see ill intent behind every act, be it kind or not.”
Charles dissected the man’s words with lightning speed. Much could be gleaned when tossing up a statement and allowing the chaff to blow away. “So, am I to understand kindness motivated your generosity?”
“Obligation, actually.”
Ahh. Perhaps Frankie had been forthright, though just how much remained to be discovered. Charles shifted on the chair, angling for answers and comfort on the hard cushion. “Has this anything to do with a horse?”
One grey brow lifted slightly. “He told you, then.”
“He did, but I would still like to hear your side of the story.”
The sudden dip of that same brow indicted in ways Charles couldn’t understand. “Brief, eh?”
Oh. That. A good reminder never to make such a promise. He flashed Bellow a grin. “I realize I am interrupting your meal, and for that I beg your pardon, but for the peace of a mother’s heart—as your own dear mother would surely have requested the same—would you relate a short account of yesterday’s happenings?”
Bellow laughed, the foghorn richness of it surprising for such a compact fellow. “Very shrewd, Inspector. I daresay the force is happy with your performance.” He rose and strolled to the big window overlooking the work floor, then swung back around. “Normally I engage in a short constitutional immediately following my lunch. Not far, merely a leg stretcher the length of the factory wall, across the lane, along the opposite side of the road, then return to finish off my day in the office. But yesterday…”
Absently, he rubbed his shoulder, a slight wince tightening his jaw. “As fate would have it, when I stepped off the pavement, a runaway horse nearly took me out, and would have, had not young Jones launched his full weight into me. We both took a tumble, yet because of the lad’s brave act, I came away with nothing but a suit coat in need of repair and a bit of an ache.”
Dropping his hand, he returned to his chair. “I felt I owed the boy for such a daring feat of courage, hence the handful of coins. A reward, if you will.”
So, Frankie’s story had been true—mostly. No doubt the little scofflaw had cased the area, learned Bellow’s schedule, and arranged for a loose horse at just the right time when he could play the hero. Cunning—something he’d expect from one of Kit’s protégés. A smirk twitched his lips. Poor Martha had her hands full managing Frankie every bit as much as Jackson did reining in Kit.
He met Mr. Bellow’s gaze. “Thank you for the information, sir. By all you’ve shared, it sounds to me like your obligation was fulfilled. You needn’t have hired the lad as your stock boy.”
“That was more of a favour than an obligation.” He spread his hands, a thick gold ring on his pinkie flashing his wealth. “I took pity on him, you see. Judging by the patches on the boy’s coat, I figured he could use the employment. And when I learned Jones was literate, he seemed a natural fit to take on the job of my former stock boy. So, I hired him on the spot.”
Charles narrowed his eyes. That didn’t add up. “How did you discover the boy could read?”
“A document must have fallen from my pocket. Jones collected it and—quite forthrightly, I must add—returned it with the admonition that I ought not lose a paper from Greaves and Grunkle.” Bellow held up the paper in question, pointing at the top of the wrinkled page. “There was no way he could have known that’s who this was from unless he read the letterhead.”
Jackson shoved down a snort. More like the boy had pickpocketed the thing to make a grand show of his intelligence. “Is that so?” he drawled.
“Yes, so you see, Inspector, all is on the up-and-up. My other stock boy happens to be out of commission, and young Jones fits the bill.” He reached for his fork. “Have you any further questions?”
“Just one. Might I stop by and check on how Jones is doing on his first day?”
“As you wish.” He speared a piece of pie. “But you should know this is a hot and sooty industry. Rarely have I visited the floor and left without at least one cinder burn on my suit. You’ll find him in the glassery.” He hitched a thumb towards the large panes behind him, indicating the swarm of gritty workers below. A rather macabre scene lit by the orange glow of fire when small doors opened and glass entered the flames. And a surprisingly good view it was. How much did Bellow pay to have that grand window kept clean?
Charles rubbed the back of his neck, something yet niggling. Frankie had told him he worked in the warehouse, not the blazing work floor. “I thought the lad served as a stock boy.”
