The bell above the door jingled. In dashed a lad in a cherry-red cap, his cheeks every bit as rosy. “Message for Mrs. Forge.” He waved a letter in the air.
“That’s me.” She strolled over to the boy and exchanged a coin for the missive. “Thank you.”
“Kipes!” He stared at the money in his hand then lifted his face, gaping. “A whole bob?”
“Yes, I may have need in the future of a stalwart young man such as yourself to deliver messages for me.”
“Oh, I’m yer man, miss!” He thumped his thumb against his puffed-out chest. “Just holler for ol’ Toffy.”
“Very good, Toffy. And mind you don’t spend that all in one place.”
“No, miss. I’ve a sister to care for and this’ll buy her some milk.” He darted to the door. “G’day!”
Kit smiled to herself as she sat at her desk and reached for the letter opener, all the while lifting a prayer for Toffy and his sister. Far too many children lived hat in hand. At least he’d found reputable work. She sliced open the seal and unfolded the page to Jackson’s strong penmanship.
My Love,
Turns out your request took me no time at all to check into, since I was able to skirt jurisdiction politics by messaging the coroner directly. Mr. Blade was the victim of a simple mugging, as was recently confirmed at the St. James Mortuary. If you hurry, you may be able to view the body before it is taken away.
Hope that helps,
Your Loving Husband
Perfect! If she made haste, she could learn another clue and might also be able to pick up Bella early to cook a special supper to thank Jackson for the information. She flew to the coat-tree to grab her hat but then thought better of her plan. If she really wanted to show her appreciation to Jackson, it might be better to ask Martha to cook something. Burnt kippers weren’t exactly the best way to show gratitude.
“Where are you off to?” her father rumbled at her back. “I wasn’t finished telling you about the case.”
“No time now, Father.” She winked at him over her shoulder. “I’m off to the deadhouse to see about your—and my—Mr. Blade.”
Chapter Eight
Charles pounded his fist against his chest as he waited outside the soup kitchen. That spiced kidney pie he’d snagged off a street cart probably wasn’t the wisest choice for lunch. But it had been tasty and timely. Frankie Jones ought to be rolling out the door for his afternoon shift at the glassworks right about—
The door flew open. A gangly lad in an oversized flatcap tore out, a supper pail swinging in one hand. He darted down the pavement like a cat-chased dormouse, not even noticing Charles as he scurried past. Evidently he was running late.
But that didn’t stop Charles from grasping the boy’s collar. The lad may not listen to him, but he had to give it a try. “Hold on, young man. I’d like a word with you.”
Frankie wriggled loose, his spray of freckles riding the wave of a huge glower. “I ain’t done nothin’, Mr. Baggett. I swear it!”
Charles smiled. “I didn’t say you did.”
His brow wrinkled in confusion. “Then why ye nippin’ me?”
“Like I said, just a word.” He swept his hand towards two upturned crates sitting against the building. “Shall we?”
The boy shook his head, resetting his cap low over his eyes. “Don’t have time, gotta get to work.”
“That is exactly what I wish to discuss. Shouldn’t take long.”
“Can’t it wait till later?”
Charles pulled a coin from his pocket and held it out. “I might not have this shilling later.”
Frankie’s muddy-brown eyes brightened a few shades a second before he snatched the money and whumped onto one of the crates so quickly, the wood wobbled. “Must be pretty important to be bribin’ the likes o’ me.”
Cheeky monkey. The boy was far too street smart for a twelve-year-old, though if his memory served, he’d be thirteen in no time.
“It is important, or I’d not be here.” Charles sat next to him, sorting through what to say. Like a hand of cards, he’d have to play this the right way if he wanted to win the boy over to his line of thinking—namely that he ought to quit the glassworks immediately. “The way I see it, you’re the man of the house now, what with your father having passed.”
