Toting a crying babe in each arm, a third one strapped to her back, she demanded, “Wot you want, eh? Spent an ’our, I did, getting the sprats down and there you go, knocking loud eno’ to wake the dead.”
“My sincere apologies, madam.” Wick bowed. “I’m Wickham Murray, and this is Lady Beatrice Wodehouse. My man was here earlier, and he said you had information regarding Randall Perkins…whom I believe you know as Ralph Palmer?”
“Why are you after Ralph?” she asked bluntly.
Wick decided honesty was the best policy. “We suspect he may be involved in a plot against Lady Beatrice. One that has thus far involved arson and kidnapping.”
“That ne’er-do-well. Wouldn’t surprise me one bit.” Snorting, the woman stepped aside. “Come on in, then. I’m Mabel Palmer. You can speak to my ’usband David ’bout ’is scoundrel o’ a nephew.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Palmer. May I?” Wick extended his arms, intending to relieve her of one of her squalling burdens. He owed her that much for waking the babes.
Her eyebrows shot up. “Lardy-dardy, ain’t you a gent? Don’t mind if I do.”
Before Wick knew it, he had a babe in each arm and another strapped to his back. He amicably took on the task, bouncing the babes as he walked into the flat. Within a minute, the two in the crooks of his arms were cooing up at him, the third one dozing against his shoulder.
“How the bloody ’ell did ’e do that?” Mrs. Palmer muttered to Bea.
Bea’s mouth quivered. “I have no idea, ma’am.”
They were in the main living area, which contained the kitchen, a table and chairs, and a tangle of children playing on the floor. A curtain hung across a doorway to the right, through which a man passed. He was barrel-chested and balding, his bushy whiskers in sore need of a trim.
“David, this ’ere’s Mr. Murray,” his wife said. “The toff who wants to know ’bout that no-good nephew o’ yours. Ralph done ’em wrong, just like ’e done us.”
David Palmer gave Wick a once-over. “Why’s the cove got the triplets?”
“Doyouwant ’em?” Mrs. Palmer retorted.
In answer, Palmer sat in one of the chairs, putting his feet up on an old crate. “Pull up a seat, Mr. Murray. You keep the babes, and I’ll tell you what you be wantin’ to know.”
* * *
Wick’s ability to engage with people never failed to amaze Bea. From farmers to underworld denizens to his own upper-class family, he found a way to connect. His charm was more than skin-deep; his true beauty lay in the way he treated everyone as his equal.
As a result, three strange babes were snuggled happily against him as their father, an out-of-work carpenter, related his story of woe concerning his nephew Ralph Palmer…who did indeed match the description of Randall Perkins, from his belligerent attitude down to the birthmark on the left side of his face.
“Now Ralph, ’e didn’t ’ave an easy start to life. ’E was teased by the bullies on account o ’is birthmark and then ’is ma and pa, my older brother, cocked up their toes when he was twelve. Me and Mabel took ’im in, tried to do our best by ’im—”
“But a bad seed will grow into poisonous fruit,” Mrs. Palmer declared from the cooking area where she was peeling potatoes. “Ralph was trouble from the start.”
“How so?” Bea asked.
“’E ne’er took to schooling, always involved in fisticuffs and the like.” Mr. Palmer sighed. “By the time the lad was sixteen, ’e ’ad more than a few brushes wif the authorities. ’E ran wif a bad crowd, see, and they led ’im to do stupid things. The females, especially. Weren’t nothin’ the lad wouldn’t do to impress a pretty face. One time, ’e lit Roman candles in an abandoned warehouse and set it on fire—”
“He committed arson?” Wick said alertly.
“Not on purpose. Like I said, ’e was trying to impress some fancy piece—”
“’E’s a liar, thief, and criminal, and I’m tired o’ you making excuses for ’im.” His wife tossed a peeled potato into a wooden bucket. “’Ave you forgotten Ralph got you sacked from your job and left you to pay the damages?”
“Damages?” Wick asked.
Mr. Palmer huffed a breath. “For years, I was the principal workman for a builder—”
“Good-paying job, that was.” His wife plunked another potato into the bucket. “’Til that bounder Ralph ruined it all.”
“Do you want to tell the story, or do you want me to do it?” Mr. Palmer asked.
“Go ahead and tell it,” she grumbled. “But don’t go making light o’ ’is misdeeds. You always were too kind-’earted, David Palmer, and look where that’s got us. Living in this cesspool, that’s wot.”
