When the dice came back round, he bet again, rolled and won. He grinned.
“Now I won’t have to listen to me missus complainin’ about them shoes.”
As the evening wore on, Brodie bet, lost as the dice and cup were passed round, and struck up the usual sort of conversation found at a table with those were who were regular patrons.
“There was a dust-up here the other night,” he commented. “That newspaper man, accordin’ to the word on the street.”
Fitch nodded. “Not that anyone here thinks much of him, buyin’ drinks, askin’ his questions, then hearin’ about it wrote up in the daily sometimes different than was told.”
Such was Burke’s reputation, according to Mikaela and others Brodie knew. The man was notorious for twisting a story about.
“Attacked just outside the other night, I heard.” Brodie shook his head as if simply sharing what he had learned on the street.
Fitch tossed the dice, lost then passed the cup. “He had it comin’, if you ask a lot of them here, but I wouldn’t wish that on anyone.”
“I heard ye saw it,” Brodie shook the cup and tossed the dice down onto the table.
Fitch nodded. “Afterward, when the man was layin’ there.”
“And the one who done it was a rough sort, accordin’ to wot I heard.” Brodie passed the cup to the man on his left.
Fitch shrugged. “The man just stood there in his fine clothes.” He frowned. “Come to think on it now, that seemed outta place here, you know? Them that come here don’t have such finery.”
That was something that hadn’t been in Dooley’s report.
“And the bloke just stood over him for a few moments, lookin’ satisfied instead of takin’ off like most would have."
Fitch was thoughtful as he took the cup and shook it.
“It was the same look from me supervisor when we finish a section of roadwork by end of day. Satisfied over wot we done. It gave me a cold feelin'. Then he left and got into a coach down the way.”
Fine clothes. And a coach. Two more pieces of information not in the report. It told Brodie more about the man who had attacked Burke.
“A private coach?” he commented then to draw more out of Fitch. “Not something ye see around here.”
Fitch tossed the dice, won, and scooped up coins that had been bet against him. He shook his head as he set out his next bet.
“Not private. It had one of those metal plates on the back that the city gives to drivers.”
A rented coach. Another piece that could be useful.
The game continued as the cup was passed round, the players changing from time to time as bets were won, then lost.
Stragglers wandered into the Old Bell, then thinned as the evening wore on. Brodie watched from the table over ale that he drank sparingly.
Meara arrived at the table, cleared empty mugs, and exchanged a new round.
“There’s one for you,” she commented with a jerk of her chin toward the bar.
“Tight-fisted,” she spat out. “Pays only enough for the drink with no thought to them that needs a few extra coins to pay the rent. As if he can’t spare it. And he’s got an evil eye.”
Brodie looked past her to the man at the bar. He’d noticed him when he arrived, dressed in trousers with a black jumper beneath his coat, a billed cap pulled low.
The description that Fitch had given the police that night was there—compact body, thick-muscled at the shoulders, and the way he moved as if he might have just stepped off the boxing stage, wearing the fine clothes that didn’t belong in that part of London.
Brodie continued to watch him as the dice rolled. A spare movement, ale that went untouched as he spoke with Mac. The slow looks around the pub, pausing then moving on, eventually resting on the man across from him who pushed back his chair.
“I’m for home,” Fitch announced. “I’ve a bit more coin in my pockets than I started with.” He smiled as he stood. “The missus will be glad to see me.”
