“Leave himalone,” Maggie hissed.
“Thank you, miss.” The hawker’s wrinkled face had a kindly demeanor, and his English accents were precise. “I don’t want trouble.”
“Eno’ jabbering. I’m taking that purse.”
The first bastard dove for the chestnut seller. Maggie swung on instinct. She’d only intended to ward him off, but he lowered his head into the trajectory of her pan.
Iron and skull collided; iron won.
“She broke my noggin,” the brute moaned, clutching his bleeding head.
Oops.She couldn’t bring herself to feel sorry for him.
“You’re going to pay fer that.” Spotted-Face pulled out a blade.
Maggie swallowed, raising her pan in readiness.
Click.Both she and her opponent looked in the direction of the sound.
The old Chinese man held a cocked flintlock; it was pointed between his attacker’s eyes.
“I am a good shot.” His gaze and aim were steady. “Do not make me prove it.”
Maggie could see the ruffian teetering between violence and self-preservation. The latter instinct won out. Cursing, he pocketed his knife and gestured for his injured crony to follow him. Within seconds, they disappeared into the throng.
“Why didn’t you take the pistol out earlier?” Maggie asked.
“Didn’t want trouble.” The old man shrugged. “But if trouble comes to find me, I have an answer. One doesn’t survive in Limehouse as long as I have without being prepared.”
He put his pistol away and began cleaning up the mess. Hastily, Maggie set down the pan and between the two of them, they managed to right the cart. The man, who introduced himself as Mr. Jiang, set a fresh batch of chestnuts over the coals.
“Chestnuts on the house,” he said. “Best in Limehouse.”
Maggie’s stomach growled at the mention of food. Yet she had work to do and she’d tarried long enough. “Thank you, Mr. Jiang. But I must continue on an important errand.”
“The errand must be important indeed to miss these beauties.” He stirred the nuts, releasing a mouth-watering sweet and smoky aroma.
“It is important. Actually, perhaps you could help?” On impulse, she took out the Chinese characters. “I’m looking for a place called Plum Forest.”
He looked at the paper she held out. “Ah, you’re too late.Mei-Linrestaurant burned down.”
“Yes, I know.” Maggie fought her rising resignation. “I was hoping that there might be another place by that name.”
“Can’t think of any.” The man gave the nuts another good stir. “But I do know Mei-Lin.”
She frowned. “I don’t understand. I thought you didn’t know a place—”
“Not a place, a woman. Most people know her as Madeline Smith, but since I’m as old as the hills, I knew her back when she was Wong Mei-Lin. She and her husband own a rope-making shop not far from here.”
Excitement shot through Maggie. “Mr. Jiang, could you direct me there?”
It took her twenty minutes to find Smith & Co. Ropemakers, which was located on a tiny lane off Three Colt Street. The shop was closed, but light seeped into the darkness from the curtained window on the story above. Seeing no entrance to the upper flat, Maggie surmised it must be behind the shop and made her way there.
Her nape tingled as she entered the back alley. Its darkness enveloped her, muting the distant sounds. The smell of rotting refuse curled in her nostrils, and she jumped as something brushed against her skirts.
Just a rat. Keep going. You’re almost there.
She wished she’d thought to bring a lamp; instead she had to make do with the shifting moonlight. She counted the buildings, trying to find Smith & Co. A shuffling sound made her spin around. In the darkness, she saw only vague outlines, a sudden flash of yellow eyes.
