“Pah! I managed all right.” A lopsided smile twitched his lips an instant before he downed another full glass. “’Asides, ye’ll think it worth it when I tell ye what I heard.”
He was a brave one, this boy. Make a fine officer one day. But for now, Jackson clutched his hat and tipped his head. “Let’s have it, then.”
“Well, like I say, I din’t catch it all, but that cully in a coat owns ol’ Bellow. I ne’er heard Bellow’s voice squeak like that a’fore, not even when that horse I made bolt—I mean, when that wild runaway nearly took him down. The man in the coat told Bellow his next shipment better be on time, or he’d have him taken care of just like Blade and Coleman.”
Charles glanced at Jackson. “You thinking what I am?”
Jackson nodded. “I’d say the boy found Carky’s employer.” His gaze shifted back to Frankie. “Please tell me you got the man’s name.”
“Blimey, Mr. Jackson! Ye think I be daft as a daisy picker?”
Charles gently—yet firmly—cuffed the boy on the head. “Mind your tongue, lad. That’s no way to speak to a chief inspector—or anyone else, for that matter.”
“Pardon, Mr. Jackson.” Frankie tucked his chin. “But aye, I did get a name, for I din’t leave till ol’ Bellow bid the man a good day. Goes by the name o’ Mr. Child.”
“Mr. Child,” Charles repeated. “Never heard of him.”
“Neither have I.” Jackson stood and donned his hat. “Which could be to our advantage, for hopefully he’s never heard of us either. Good work, Frankie.” He fished a coin from his pocket and held it out.
Frankie snatched it in a flash, calling over his shoulder as he dashed from the room, “Thank ye, Mr. Jackson!”
“That boy has only one speed.” Charles huffed, then faced Jackson. “So, what have you in mind?”
“Nothing yet, but I suspect if we are out to catch a bully of a smuggler, Kit will have a thing or two to say on the matter. I suggest we meet tomorrow at the enquiry agency and pool our ideas into a real wig flinger of a scheme to bring down Bellow and Child.” He strode to the door and paused at the threshold. “Oh, and if you don’t mind, not a word to Kit of what happened last night. She’s been shaken enough. I fear that in such a state of mind, there’d be no stopping her if she found out Bella had been in such grave danger.”
Charles’ brows gathered. “But the danger was by Carky, and she is now out of the picture.”
“True,” he agreed. “Yet that would not stop her from going after Mr. Child, and we cannot afford to tip off the man before we organize a deadly strike.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Life had been topsy-turvy since the day Kit had been born. She’d seen a lot. Done a lot. But Carky’s death was personal, leaving an indelible mark on Kit’s heart. If not for the grace of God that had steered her life onto a new course, she could have easily been the one sailing over that ledge, lost in despair. Even now, a full day after witnessing Carky’s tragic demise, Kit still reeled from the shock of watching the woman throw away her life. With shaky hands, she set down the tea tray on an upturned crate—the sorriest tea table in all of London, but not bad for an enquiry agency that’d been open a scant eleven days.
Jackson leaned aside as she joined the circle of men—him, her father, and Charles Baggett—already seated. “You all right?” he whispered.
“I am fine,” she breathed back, then spoke louder for all to hear. “Help yourselves, gentlemen. Shall we begin?”
Indeed. A new beginning would be just the thing. It would be far better to put her mind on something else.
Favouring her with a last concerned glance, Jackson reached for a teacup. “I think we all know it is imperative we move with haste before Mr. Child has an inkling the law is against him.”
Kit snagged her own cup and blew the steam off the hot liquid. “As he is an opium runner and murderer, I suspect he already knows which side of the law he stands on. He probably wakes up each morning with a glance about for bluecoats.”
“True,” her father rumbled. “But Jackson has a point. The man doesn’t know that we—specifically—are gunning for him. Neither does Bellow. But even so, we’ve got to be smart about how we proceed.”
Charles grabbed a biscuit, waving it in the air as he spoke. “We could infiltrate, pose as customers, discover where and when the shipments arrive, then nail both Bellow and Child when money is exchanged for the opium.”
Jackson shook his head. “To do that right would take too long. The sooner we squash this bug beneath our heel, the better.”
“Then skip the infiltration.” Kit shrugged a shoulder, taking care not to spill the hot brew onto her lap. “Have Frankie find out when the next shipment is to arrive and then go in with a gun-blazing raid.”
“No good.” Her father bit into a biscuit…or tried to. Even from across the circle Kit could hear the grind of his teeth trying to break through the rock-hard dough. Though he graciously removed the sweet from his mouth and palmed the failed baked good—no doubt to toss it in the dustbin as soon as they finished—she could still tell by the wince he unsuccessfully hid that a few choice words of condemnation had risen to his tongue.
Flit. Cooking was just not the talent for her.
“As I was saying,” her father continued, “a warrant would need to be pulled before a raid, and without sufficient evidence up front, there’s no way a judge or a magistrate would issue one.”
“That isifwe follow strict protocol.” Jackson rubbed the back of his neck, casting her a sideways glance. “What about your contacts? If we knew the details of the next shipment, I could pull together some men just like we did several years ago when we cornered Poxley at his gun sale.”
