“Authorities.” He spewed the word like a mouthful of soured milk. “Hah! Gilliam said he’d lay the blame at my doorstep if I breathed a word to police. He’d tell ’em I were the one safeguardin’ Spaddy, not him. So tell me, lawman, would ye believe a barker’s word over an upstanding circus owner?”
Martha frowned. “Don’t sound so upstandin’ to me.”
But sound and appearance were two different things. As ugly as the truth was, a business owner’s word always held more sway than a menial’s, often merely by credit of fine clothes and a banknote or two slipped beneath the counter. Charles scrubbed a hand over his face, weary of the unending cycle of injustice. If Gilliam hadn’t leaned on Roy, Roy wouldn’t have pressed so hard on Martha.
He dropped his hand. “And what did Spaddy have to say about your eavesdropping? I can’t imagine he’d let something like that slip by.”
“He didn’t. He waved that blade o’ his around, making sure I knew that if I went squealin’ on him, he’d go after my family.” A visible lump traveled down his thin neck as he slid his gaze to Martha. “And ye’re the only family what I’ve got. Couldn’t let that happen to ye, Sister, which was why I got a little overzealous when askin’ fer money. I…I couldn’t see anything bad happen to ye, not as bad as what Spaddy woulda done.” He reached for her hand, wincing as his gaze landed on the bruise above her eye. “I’m powerful sorry fer any pain I caused ye. I din’t know what else to do. Where else to turn.”
“Oh Roy.” The words shivered out of her, and after a shaky breath, she peered at Charles, eyes swimming. “Can ye help him, Mr. Baggett? Can ye get my brother out o’ this snarl?”
He could—but the damage left behind would affect far more than Gilliam or Bootblade. Even so, now that he knew of the corruption—and of Spaddy’s location—he had no choice in the matter. Slowly, he nodded. “A good shakedown ought to put an end to such trafficking.”
“Put an end to the circus as well.” Roy kicked at the edge of a rug dirtier than the ground it lay upon. “Hate to see all my friends thrown to the street and scrabblin’ fer a meal.”
“I’ll feed them, Brother.” Martha set her jaw. “I won’t let one belly go without.”
“Ye—” Roy’s voice broke, and even in the dim light of the tent Charles could see his chin quiver. “Ye’d do that even after the way I treated ye?”
Of course she would. Charles’ heart squeezed. The woman was gold.
“Like ye said, we’re family.” Her smile shamed the sun.
And shamed him as well. She’d pardoned her brother without hitch, without qualm, while he still nursed a blister of rage every time he chanced a look at the growing bruise above her eye. It had been wrong of Roy to rough her up, but did holding on to unforgiveness make him any more virtuous? He gritted his teeth, eking out a silent prayer that was hard in coming.
God, forgive me even as I forgive this troubled man.
“I thank ye for the offer, Sister.” He gave her a sideways hug. “I won’t have me a job, but least ’twill have a mouthful o’ food.”
Charles blew out a long breath, hardly believing what he was about to offer—yet hadn’t Jesus offered far more than a few gold coins to those who’d wronged him? “For the information you’ve given me, Roy, I’ll see you get the money that’s on Spaddy’s head. It’s a good sum, ought to hold you over until you can find another job. But—” He sprang upward, hauling the man to his feet as well. He may have forgiven the bully, but he’d not forget nor so easily trust. He shoved his face into Roy’s. “If I ever hear that you have so much as wrinkled the sleeve of your sister’s gown, I will not be as lenient. I shall hunt you down, and trust me…” He lowered his voice to a death growl. “The wrath of the ox man is nothing compared to mine. Understood?”
Roy nodded, slow and deliberate.
“Good.” He loosened his grasp and offered Martha a hand. “Then let’s be off. I’ve a squad to pull together.”
Her fingers wrapped around his, and as he fumbled with unloosing the door ties, she glanced back at her brother. “Remember what I said, Roy. Send yer hungry friends my way, and yer always welcome to a bowl as well.”
“Thank ye.” His blue eyes sought out Charles’. “Thank ye both.”
With a single dip of his head, Charles pulled Martha out into the morning sunshine, where surprisingly, instead of letting go, she entwined her fingers more firmly with his.
“Yer a gem, Mr. Baggett.” Admiration gleamed in her eyes.
Grace and mercy, but he could live in that look. Pack up his belongings from the boardinghouse and dwell right here in this moment until he died. He turned his face lest she see the pleasure that was sure to be pasted like a broadsheet on his face. “Think nothing of it, Mrs. Jones,” he murmured.
He walked on a cloud all the way through the tents and halfway past the big top—where a man pushing a broom caught his attention. The hair that stuck out of his flatcap was poorly dyed to an orangish hue. His jaw was cartoonishly square below an overwide mouth. And that hump on his nose was a definite leftover from a skirmish that’d broken it years ago. Intense brown eyes drilled holes into him as the man returned his stare.
Martha squeezed his hand. “What is it?”
“Hmm?” He pulled his gaze away from the fellow who perfectly fit Kit’s missing man. “Oh, nothing. Just thought I saw someone.”
And if he had—were he right about that being Kit’s man—perhaps the squad he was about to organize would shake out more than just ol’ Bootblade.
Kit paused at the base of the police station’s stairs, her earlier fatigue faded now that she’d engaged in a brisk walk—one that Mrs. Coleman had matched step for step. Flit. She never should have let slip where she was going, not to Mrs. Coleman, for that dogged woman had kept pace with her all the way from the enquiry agency to here. For a pampered lady, she surely was headstrong and surprisingly fleet of foot. Then again, were her own sweet babe taken from her, she’d not only move heaven and earth to get her back; she’d rip apart the whole universe.
Kit sidestepped the woman, blocking her path. “I think it better, Mrs. Coleman, if you wait out here. I shan’t be long, and the station isn’t fit for a lady such as yourself. It’s a rough lot in there, harried lawmen, perpetrators of the most unsavoury sort, language that would make a stevedore blush—you get the idea.”
“I am made of sterner stuff than you imagine, Mrs. Forge. I shall be fine.” She dodged past her with a wink, then called over her shoulder, “I am keen to speak to the man your husband is interrogating. His information could be vitally important.”
