Tennant folded the map back to the rectangle that showed Kilcullen. “Make a list of the villages, Paddy. Then we’ll send a message to the Kilcullen constabulary. Someone must know the Dowling family.”
O’Malley grinned. “Sure, it will give those sleepy coppers something to do.”
Julia said, “Perhaps if you ask around London’s Irish neighborhoods for people from Kildare. Kate said emigrants tend to cluster.”
Tennant said, “We’re looking for someone else from Kildare.” He explained the hunt for McGrath, the sniper.
“Paddy, can we identify some likely neighborhoods?”
“There was a flood of famine emigration from Kildare and other Leinster counties, so it’ll be hard to find just one or two.”
Tennant picked up a box of red-tipped pins and turned to his wall map of London. The inspector stuck markers as O’Malley rattled off place names, and Julia added some Irish neighborhoods in Whitechapel.
Tennant stood back from the map. “We’ll start by alerting these divisional inspectors to look out for an Irishman in ‘square-toed boots.’”
Two days later, they received a report of a sighting, so Tennant, O’Malley, and a pair of constables headed to a Whitechapel pub.
The Blue Anchor’s barman dragged a mop cloth from his shoulder and wiped a few circles around the smooth oak surface. He’d had crossed anchors inked into the webbing of his left hand, and his fingers were stamped “H-O-L-D” and “F-A-S-T,” one letter per knuckle.
Tennant held up his warrant card.
The barman peered at it and said, “The copper on this beat said to keep an eye out, so I reported a bloke wearing square-toed boots. He’s a new face around here and looked and sounded like a typical Mick.”
“And where will we be finding this typical Mick?” O’Malley asked in his broadest brogue.
“Sorry, mate. Meant no offense. Said he was lodging at Cohen’s rooming house. Down the street, over the butcher shop.”
A five-minute walk brought them there. The shop bell’s tinkle summoned the butcher from the back, wiping his hands on a bloody rag. He said he’d seen the “upstairs Irishman” mounting the stairs thirty minutes earlier.
Tennant asked, “Any other exit besides the side staircase?”
“Not unless you take a flying leap out the back window,” the butcher said.
O’Malley asked, “Will the lock be giving us trouble if we force the door?”
“No worries, Sarge.” The butcher tapped the side of his nose. “I got a key from old Cohen. Likes me to keep an eye on things.”
Tennant assigned the two constables to watch the back window. “All right, Paddy. Let’s move.”
Tennant unlocked the door and pushed it open with a bang. The crash sent a man leaping from a wooden chair, knocking it backward. He had taken off his boots and jacket and had been reading a newspaper. O’Malley grabbed him under an armpit.
“What the fecking hell?” he said, struggling to free himself from the sergeant’s grip.
“Name?” Tennant said.
“Who wants to know?”
“Scotland Yard.” The inspector held up his warrant card. “Answer my question. Your name?”
The man stopped squirming. He blinked nervously and said, “Willie Hood. William Hood. Why are you here? I’ve done nothing wrong.”
“He’s not from Kildare,” O’Malley said. “The fella’s an Ulsterman. And he looks ten years too young.”
“Have you ever been to America?” Tennant asked.
“That I haven’t.”
Tennant picked up his square-toed boots. “Where did you get these?”
