like.”
“Who’s this Moor fellow, then?” I asked.
“Barker’s assistant,” the publican explained.
“Wha’, is he a blackamoor?”
“Nah, though he’s dark enough. Stands for: More-the-Merrier, Barker’s terrier!”
Everyone enjoyed a laugh over that. The problem with nicknames, I’ve always thought, is that one never gets to invent one’s own.
“Shall we go?” Barker asked.
I put down my sour beer, and dropped a few coins upon the ringed and dirty table. “Gladly.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Instead of retreating to the anonymity and relative safety of the east or south once we were in the street, Barker herded me back along the Thames toward the embankment again.
“Surely you don’t intend for us to go back to the bridge?” I asked, alarmed.
“Thomas, I didn’t shave my mustache and put on this eye patch merely to cower in a corner somewhere. We’re heading along the river for a few miles, and the easiest way to reach it is by the embankment.”
“But it’ll be swarming with constables.”
“Constables who will be looking for a pair of desperate fugitives, not men offering to help in the search. The trick is to be bold as brass. Now, stop dawdling.”
A quarter hour later we were standing where we had begun our journey that morning, at the Charing Cross Railway and Footbridge. What a change a few hours had wrought. Though it had stood near empty hours before, the far shore now teemed with people milling about like ants on a mound. I wondered how the rumor of the reward had already reached into every corner of London. Had not one person come forward to defend the reputation of Cyrus Barker?
“Shall we cross?” he asked, though it was obvious he had every intention of doing so.
“In for a penny,” I quoted.
“Exactly.”
When we reached the bridge it had been barricaded completely, and a queue had formed. Constables questioned anyone attempting to cross.
“Your name, sir?” a bored constable asked as we came forward.
“Shadwell,” the Guv replied. “Robert Shadwell. Bruiser Bob, they call me. This here’s me son, Alf.”
“Shadwell,” the constable wrote on a clipboard. “And your purpose for being here?”
“Come to hunt for this Barker bloke like everyone else. Heard there might be a reward.”
He made a notation on the form and nodded.
“Very well, gentlemen, you may pass.”
As we neared our offices and Scotland Yard, I could hear a man below addressing the crowd in a loud, clear voice.
“Again, we have not established the rumor of a reward for the capture of Cyrus Barker. Scotland Yard disavows any knowledge of such an offer and, frankly, we doubt its veracity. A definite source has not been located. Also, the Yard will brook no interference in this investigation. We will arrest anyone whom we believe to be hindering this manhunt for personal gain!”
“Who’s the fellow speaking?” Barker asked a constable at the checkpoint on the other side.
“That’s Inspector Abberline. He’s in charge of the hunt.”
“Any leads? Where was he last seen?”
“You’ll have to ask him that,” he said, pointing his thumb at his superior on the bank.
“Don’t think I won’t,” my employer said. “Come along, boy. Pick up your feet.”
We descended the steps and found a mixed crowd of would-be man-hunters and newspaper reporters, pestering the officer with questions. Abberline was about thirty, of less than medium height, with good features, a small mustache, and black hair beginning to recede. He looked bright as a new penny and very capable of running such a large-scale operation. The questions with which they peppered him he answered back with aplomb and logic.
“What about the rumor that after mowing down your constables like skittles, he turned back and is hiding somewhere in his rooms?” a reporter asked.
“Absolutely unfounded. We thought of that possibility and have tossed every room in the immediate area from cellar to attic.”
“How are
“Who’s this Moor fellow, then?” I asked.
“Barker’s assistant,” the publican explained.
“Wha’, is he a blackamoor?”
“Nah, though he’s dark enough. Stands for: More-the-Merrier, Barker’s terrier!”
Everyone enjoyed a laugh over that. The problem with nicknames, I’ve always thought, is that one never gets to invent one’s own.
“Shall we go?” Barker asked.
I put down my sour beer, and dropped a few coins upon the ringed and dirty table. “Gladly.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Instead of retreating to the anonymity and relative safety of the east or south once we were in the street, Barker herded me back along the Thames toward the embankment again.
“Surely you don’t intend for us to go back to the bridge?” I asked, alarmed.
“Thomas, I didn’t shave my mustache and put on this eye patch merely to cower in a corner somewhere. We’re heading along the river for a few miles, and the easiest way to reach it is by the embankment.”
“But it’ll be swarming with constables.”
“Constables who will be looking for a pair of desperate fugitives, not men offering to help in the search. The trick is to be bold as brass. Now, stop dawdling.”
A quarter hour later we were standing where we had begun our journey that morning, at the Charing Cross Railway and Footbridge. What a change a few hours had wrought. Though it had stood near empty hours before, the far shore now teemed with people milling about like ants on a mound. I wondered how the rumor of the reward had already reached into every corner of London. Had not one person come forward to defend the reputation of Cyrus Barker?
“Shall we cross?” he asked, though it was obvious he had every intention of doing so.
“In for a penny,” I quoted.
“Exactly.”
When we reached the bridge it had been barricaded completely, and a queue had formed. Constables questioned anyone attempting to cross.
“Your name, sir?” a bored constable asked as we came forward.
“Shadwell,” the Guv replied. “Robert Shadwell. Bruiser Bob, they call me. This here’s me son, Alf.”
“Shadwell,” the constable wrote on a clipboard. “And your purpose for being here?”
“Come to hunt for this Barker bloke like everyone else. Heard there might be a reward.”
He made a notation on the form and nodded.
“Very well, gentlemen, you may pass.”
As we neared our offices and Scotland Yard, I could hear a man below addressing the crowd in a loud, clear voice.
“Again, we have not established the rumor of a reward for the capture of Cyrus Barker. Scotland Yard disavows any knowledge of such an offer and, frankly, we doubt its veracity. A definite source has not been located. Also, the Yard will brook no interference in this investigation. We will arrest anyone whom we believe to be hindering this manhunt for personal gain!”
“Who’s the fellow speaking?” Barker asked a constable at the checkpoint on the other side.
“That’s Inspector Abberline. He’s in charge of the hunt.”
“Any leads? Where was he last seen?”
“You’ll have to ask him that,” he said, pointing his thumb at his superior on the bank.
“Don’t think I won’t,” my employer said. “Come along, boy. Pick up your feet.”
We descended the steps and found a mixed crowd of would-be man-hunters and newspaper reporters, pestering the officer with questions. Abberline was about thirty, of less than medium height, with good features, a small mustache, and black hair beginning to recede. He looked bright as a new penny and very capable of running such a large-scale operation. The questions with which they peppered him he answered back with aplomb and logic.
“What about the rumor that after mowing down your constables like skittles, he turned back and is hiding somewhere in his rooms?” a reporter asked.
“Absolutely unfounded. We thought of that possibility and have tossed every room in the immediate area from cellar to attic.”
“How are
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