“He does.” Bellow shoveled in a bite of pie and chewed. “Jones keeps a fresh stock of soda ash and limestone handy for the blowers. It is imperative he keep an eye on their supplies and replenish as needed. If the furnace temperature dips, production is hindered.”
“Oh, my misunderstanding.” He rose and extended his arm. “Thank you for all your help, Mr. Bellow.”
He shook his hand with a wink. “I only did so for the sake of my dear mother, God rest her.”
“Indeed.” Charles grinned. “Good day.”
He strode from the office only to be met with daggers shooting out of Mr. Popkin’s dark gaze. Charles leaned over his desk, one brow arched. “A piece of advice, sir. Never trust words alone to stop a man. I suggest you invest in a truncheon.”
“Why, I never—”
Charles whistled as he strode from the room, ignoring the clerk’s slurs. He’d expect no less from the fellow after suffering such an embarrassment in front of his superior.
His merriment soon faded as he descended several flights of stairs to the maw of hell. It was a black world down here, full of red sparks and glowing hot orbs. The glassery. Hah. More like Hades. Heat blasted his face, and he tugged at his collar. How did the sweat-streaked men and boys—for yes, lads in aprons two sizes too big were everywhere—stand the heat?
“Mind yer step!”
He ducked as a rod with a tip as fiery as a branding iron nearly clouted him in the head. Even without making connection, the intensity of it seared across his cheek. He pressed his fingers to the burn and edged to a wall, then jumped away from it. That was no mere wall but the side of a furnace, singeing his backside.
Thunder and turf! This was no place for a lanky-limbed boy who hadn’t yet grown peach fuzz on his chin. No wonder the former stock boy had been put out of commission. This was Dante’s Inferno where accidents were just waiting to happen—nay—beggingto happen! Charles scowled. Bellow hadn’t been doing Frankie a favour. He’d doomed the boy to possible injury.
Or death.
Chapter Six
It was the little things that destined a day to greatness, and Jackson had a hunch deep in his gut that this would be a spectacular day. How could it not be? Not so much as a dab of baby drool marred his suit coatandhe wore a sweet-smelling shirt. For once. The passionate kiss Kit had sent him out the door with still burned on his lips, and he’d even gotten a full night’s sleep. Well, five hours anyway, which was practically a miracle considering Bella’s habit of babbling in her sleep. No doubt his little angel would be an orator when she grew up—though as of yet he’d not gotten her to saypapa.He grinned as he turned onto Blackfriars Lane. Isabella Jane was every bit as fiery as her mother, and he loved them both so much his heart swelled to a sweet ache in his chest.
A flash of red lurched out in front of him. Morning sunshine glinted off golden paint on a black masquerade mask. Jackson barely stopped before bowling over the stick figure of Ezra Catchpole. Evidently the man wasn’t certifiably mad, for here he was in all his unconventional glory.
“Good morning, Mr. Forge! On your way to work, I see, which is exactly where I had hoped to cross your path.” He shot out an arm thin as a rake handle, a paper sack clutched in his hand. Grease stains soaked through in splotches. “I have brought you some fortification for all the important criminals you must wrangle today.”
Jackson shook his head. “I appreciate the gesture, but you really needn’t have.”
“I insist, though you deserve more than this mean gift.” He shoved the bag into Jackson’s hand.
Jackson had no choice but to grab the thing lest it fall to the pavement. Inside sat a jumble of squished pastries, apple and mincemeat fillings smeared against the paper. One roll had already been sampled, hopefully broken off and not bitten, but hard to tell. What a contradiction the man was. Dressed in fine garments—albeit garish with that red frock coat—and able to purchase food to share. Yet that stringy hair could use a good washing, and his shoes, while shined to a fine gleam, had paper-thin soles as if he roamed the streets day and night.
“Thank you for your thoughtfulness, Mr. Catchpole.” Jackson scanned the man’s face, what he could see of it, anyway. The scrape on his jaw from yesterday’s tumble bloomed a darker shade of purple and shimmered with some sort of salve that’d been applied atop it.
Jackson angled his head. “Say, how did your doctor visit go?”
“Absolutely capital!” Catchpole’s lips parted in a grin, teeth like crooked fence posts popping out. “Other than a blister on my left toe—which was a foreknown condition—he could find nothing at all of concern.”
“Nothing? Not even…mentally?”
Catchpole tapped his temple. “You will be happy to know I am in a far better state of mind than yesterday, and all because of you. Why, Dr. Stapler declared me as fit as the queen herself. Is that not spectacular news?”
“Er…yes. Of course. I am happy for you.”
“As I knew you would be! So”—he leaned close, dark eyes gleaming behind his mask—“now my health need be no hindrance whatsoever in serving you.”
Jackson’s gut clenched. No doubt the man meant well, but he didn’t have time for this. He ought to be at the station this very minute instead of nattering over a bag of crushed pastries. “I assure you, Mr. Catchpole, I require no service whatsoever other than that you go on and live your life to the fullest.”
“Yes, yes! That I will.” He nudged his shoulder against Jackson’s. “Once I have sufficiently repaid my debt to you.”
“There is no debt.”
“Oh, humble man!” he cried, attracting the stare of a passing nurse and her young charge. “You, sir, are a veritable temple of modesty and decorum. I daresay there is no one more unpretentious than you, Inspector.”
