constant irritant that went by the name Soho Vic. As I understood it, he was a miniature Fagan, running a warren full of underage messengers in Whitechapel.
“That’s the last thing I want to do,” Barker countered. “Two hundred and fifty pounds might not be much to us under normal circumstances, but it’s a fortune for Vic. I don’t want to put him in the way of so much temptation, especially with the number of mouths he has to feed. Besides, people know he delivers messages for us and will be following him, hoping he’ll lead them to us.”
“So, we’re alone, then. Cut off from all effectual aid. Nightwine certainly knows what he’s about. What o’clock is it?”
“Nearly four,” he said, consulting his old repeater. I’d left my pocket watch back on my desk in Craig’s Court, the special one given to Barker by the Prince of Wales.
“If we were to have a pint at the right kind of public house, we might learn more about this reward.”
“Thomas, that is a canny suggestion, the first one you’ve made today. I know just the place.”
Ten minutes later we were sitting in a dark tavern with pint glasses in front of us. I was glad it was dark so I couldn’t see how dirty the table was, or what was crawling about underfoot. I was also relieved I hadn’t ordered any food, even though we’d missed lunch. I’d hoped for a better class of public house, but understood that matters such as a rumored reward would be more likely to be discussed openly in a tavern like this one in George Street, which was called the Regency Buck.
“They say the Irishman will live,” someone said at a nearby table.
“Take more than a bit of poison to bring him down. Seamus is a tough old bird. So’s Push, for that matter.”
“I’d have paid cash money,” another man said, “to see the Guv take apart three blues and chain them like a necklace ’crost Charing Cross footbridge.”
“Where’d ye s’pose the Moor’s got to?”
“Bound to be somewheres. Can’t have one wiffout t’other.”
“Is it true there’s a big reward, then?”
Barker had hoped to slip the question in unobserved, but in a place like this, one has to establish one’s bona fides before being allowed to participate in such rarefied conversations. However, it was a juicy question, one that everyone wanted to discuss anyway, and so they let it slip by, which I’m sure was what the Guv had intended.
“What reward might that be, mister?” the publican asked, coolly.
“Two hundred and fifty quid for Barker’s head on a pole, that’s what reward. Personally, I don’t believe it. Somebody’s pulling our leg.”
“That’s where you’re wrong then, mister. The Elephant and Castle gang have been spreading the message, and swore the bloke that started it spread out the entire amount in front of them in ten-pound notes, to show he had ’em.”
“What did he look like, this chap with the notes?”
“They didn’t say and I didn’t ask. Who wants to know?”
“Name’s Shadwell,” Barker said. “Me and my boy are up from Surrey. We don’t wanna waste our time. How many are out lookin’?”
“Go back where you come from, then,” one of the crowd advised. “There’s hoondreds of us. Some ’ud hunt down Cyrus Barker for nothin’, just to knock him off his bleedin’ perch. Put my cousin in Holloway two months ago, he did.”
“Isn’t the Met looking for him, as well?” Barker asked.
“That’s why we’re here,” one man said. “The manhunt starts in about harf an hour on the embankment in front of Scotland Yard. We’re gettin’ our last drinks in before we sign up.”
“What do you say, boy?” Barker asked. “Shall we hunt this detective fellow or go home?”
“Whatever you say, Da,” I replied, trying not to look intelligent, which my contemporaries will tell you is not difficult.
“Wouldn’t hurt to look about for an hour or two, would it? Might bump into this Barker bloke by accident,
“That’s the last thing I want to do,” Barker countered. “Two hundred and fifty pounds might not be much to us under normal circumstances, but it’s a fortune for Vic. I don’t want to put him in the way of so much temptation, especially with the number of mouths he has to feed. Besides, people know he delivers messages for us and will be following him, hoping he’ll lead them to us.”
“So, we’re alone, then. Cut off from all effectual aid. Nightwine certainly knows what he’s about. What o’clock is it?”
“Nearly four,” he said, consulting his old repeater. I’d left my pocket watch back on my desk in Craig’s Court, the special one given to Barker by the Prince of Wales.
“If we were to have a pint at the right kind of public house, we might learn more about this reward.”
“Thomas, that is a canny suggestion, the first one you’ve made today. I know just the place.”
Ten minutes later we were sitting in a dark tavern with pint glasses in front of us. I was glad it was dark so I couldn’t see how dirty the table was, or what was crawling about underfoot. I was also relieved I hadn’t ordered any food, even though we’d missed lunch. I’d hoped for a better class of public house, but understood that matters such as a rumored reward would be more likely to be discussed openly in a tavern like this one in George Street, which was called the Regency Buck.
“They say the Irishman will live,” someone said at a nearby table.
“Take more than a bit of poison to bring him down. Seamus is a tough old bird. So’s Push, for that matter.”
“I’d have paid cash money,” another man said, “to see the Guv take apart three blues and chain them like a necklace ’crost Charing Cross footbridge.”
“Where’d ye s’pose the Moor’s got to?”
“Bound to be somewheres. Can’t have one wiffout t’other.”
“Is it true there’s a big reward, then?”
Barker had hoped to slip the question in unobserved, but in a place like this, one has to establish one’s bona fides before being allowed to participate in such rarefied conversations. However, it was a juicy question, one that everyone wanted to discuss anyway, and so they let it slip by, which I’m sure was what the Guv had intended.
“What reward might that be, mister?” the publican asked, coolly.
“Two hundred and fifty quid for Barker’s head on a pole, that’s what reward. Personally, I don’t believe it. Somebody’s pulling our leg.”
“That’s where you’re wrong then, mister. The Elephant and Castle gang have been spreading the message, and swore the bloke that started it spread out the entire amount in front of them in ten-pound notes, to show he had ’em.”
“What did he look like, this chap with the notes?”
“They didn’t say and I didn’t ask. Who wants to know?”
“Name’s Shadwell,” Barker said. “Me and my boy are up from Surrey. We don’t wanna waste our time. How many are out lookin’?”
“Go back where you come from, then,” one of the crowd advised. “There’s hoondreds of us. Some ’ud hunt down Cyrus Barker for nothin’, just to knock him off his bleedin’ perch. Put my cousin in Holloway two months ago, he did.”
“Isn’t the Met looking for him, as well?” Barker asked.
“That’s why we’re here,” one man said. “The manhunt starts in about harf an hour on the embankment in front of Scotland Yard. We’re gettin’ our last drinks in before we sign up.”
“What do you say, boy?” Barker asked. “Shall we hunt this detective fellow or go home?”
“Whatever you say, Da,” I replied, trying not to look intelligent, which my contemporaries will tell you is not difficult.
“Wouldn’t hurt to look about for an hour or two, would it? Might bump into this Barker bloke by accident,
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