Conner nodded. “There might be something to be learned in one of the other fine establishments nearby.
Brodie nodded. “Mr. Dooley has put the word out about the attack, but made certain it’s known that Burke survived.”
Jimmy Conner nodded. “The man will want to know more and be askin’ about.”
The plan was set. “Watch yer back, lad.”
Lad.
Brodie shook his head as he left Holborn and turned toward the Strand.
It had been that way from the beginning when he joined the foot patrol of the MET and first worked with Jimmy Conner, had supported him through the difficulty with Burke, and several years after.
No matter that he had made inspector and was Jimmy’s superior. He still called him that—lad.
He finally reached the office with some time before he intended to go to the Old Bell. Mr. Cavendish nodded a greeting as he rolled up at the sidewalk, the hound with him.
“Miss Mikaela returned earlier and was up in the office for a time, then set off for Sussex Square.”
Brodie nodded and took the stairs up to the second-floor landing. She had spoken about wanting to show that gold button to Lady Montgomery, who might recognize it.
He glanced at the chalkboard, then took a closer look. She’d added notes. One in particular stood out—the laundry receipt, and she’d managed to learn that it was delivered in Southwark?
End of day traffic in that part of London had thinned when he returned to the street and had Mr. Cavendish wave down a driver.
“The Old Bell, ye say guv’ner?” the driver replied. “A round or two to end the day?”
He nodded as he climbed into the cab.
“Right yer are,” the driver added as they set off.
It was well into the evening when he signaled for the driver to stop short of pulling up before the pub and he stepped down. A ‘worker,’ dressed as he was, wouldn’t pay for a driver when the coins could be spent on ale.
He pulled the billed cap low, walked the length of the street, then entered the pub.
It was the same as a hundred more across the city. The sounds, the smells, the smoke that filled the air from a pipe or cigarette. And the woman who cut through the tables with years of experience in the balance of a tray, a laugh at something that was said, and the way her gaze lingered longer than necessary as it found him.
He nodded a greeting and made his way to the bar. And she was there, with that look and a hand on his arm.
“Wot can Mac get for you?” she inquired with a look over her shoulder at the man behind the bar.
He picked up the Scots accent as Mac finally made his way to the end of bar.
Brodie nodded in that silent language of places like this—ale usually the first choice, as it was cheap and there was no doubt an ample supply in the back room.
A frothy brew in a tankard arrived, and he took a long drink as his gaze swept the pub for the worker Mr. Dooley had described who had seen the murderer. He found him across the smoke-filled room at a table playing a game of dice.
There for a bit of the drink after workin’ on a London street, the day’s work caked on the man’s shirt with sleeves rolled back, coarse pants with suspenders and hair that had been plastered to his head with sweat and then dried.
He didn’t approach him straight off, but watched him, the table, and the others gathered there. It appeared the man was having a run of luck as he shouted with laughter, then swept the coins he’d won into the palm of one hand. Enough for the next round.
Bets were made as more ale arrived, and the game began again.
Brodie stayed at the bar and ordered another, then struck up a conversation with the woman as she filled her tray with drinks, then returned a short while later with empty mugs.
“A bit of a ‘stramash’ here the night before,” he said to give the impression that he had been there, another face in the crowd, and was merely making a comment.
“Aye,” she replied with an inviting smile.
