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Authors: Alex Scarrow
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understand, Mr Tolly, that we . . . uh . . . we could find you very easily. And if we decided to do that, you and your colleagues would end up in a very unfortunate way.’ The
gentleman took a step closer, but Bill stood his ground.
Brass it out, Bill. Show ’im who’s boss here.
If Mr Jones had brought along with him a pair of knuckle-heads, then now would be the time he’d beckon them forward, he figured.
‘Mr Jones, you ain’t gonna find this nice little piece and the picture in it, not if you do anything to me. It’s safe with a friend of mine. Anythin’ funny ’appens
to me and it’ll get took to one of ’em penny papers.’
Mr Jones stopped where he was. ‘It would be desirable to have this item back without any more blood being shed.’ He waved a hand. ‘The money is inconsequential. But discretion,
you understand; discretion – that’s something we value far more.’
‘I can un’erstan’ that, Mr Jones. Summin’ like this in the paper would be very embarrassin’.’
‘Hmmm,’ replied the gentleman. He turned to watch the last of the crimson stain disappear from the twilight sky. Silent consideration of the way ahead that lasted long enough for
Bill to prompt him.
‘So . . . Mr Jones?’
‘So, it seems, then, our little matter is not going to be concluded tonight. You and I will require a second meeting. I don’t have that sum of money on me right now.’
Bill shrugged. ‘Of course not. Didn’t expect yer to. But I’ll ’ave me hundred pounds now, Mr Jones, if that’s all the same to yer. And the rest when yer got
it.’
‘I shall need to make some . . . uh . . . arrangements first.’
‘Do what you ’ave to, but you don’t want to keep me waitin’ too long, Mr Jones. I tend to get impatient.’
CHAPTER 9
21st September 1888, Saint Bartholomew’s Hospital, London
‘I s he awake yet this morning?’
The ward matron turned at the sound of her soft voice. ‘Ahh, here she is again! Good morning, Mary,’ she said with a polite nod. ‘Yes, he’s up and about. Had a cup of tea
and making quite a nuisance of himself so far this morning.’
‘Oh, good,’ Mary replied cheerfully, striding along the polished floor of the hallway towards the nurses’ station, a bunch of fresh daffodils under one arm and a basket of
fruit from the market in the other.
‘Good lord! Are those grapes! Goodness, lucky Mr Argyll!’
Mary smiled as she passed by. ‘Yes, I heard tell they were good for a weak constitution,’ she replied, self-conscious that she was over-egging her ‘h’s.
Over the last week, she’d been working so hard on that, and other things. Listening closely to the way more refined ladies than her spoke to each other. This morning, stopping at Covent
Garden on the way in to Saint Bart’s, she’d discreetly followed two well-to-do young ladies all the way around the market, listening to the sounds of the words coming out of their
mouths and the sorts of things they talked about. Mary had all new clothes now. Nice clothes, better than she’d ever worn before. And walking around the market, if she kept her mouth shut and
just practised the measured little steps of a properly finished lady, if she didn’t swing her arms like she was used to doing but kept them occupied holding a small purse, she could
almost pass as one of them.
Almost?
No, not almost – she did. Men – the nice gentlemen – tipped their hats, offered polite smiles and stepped aside for her. And the tradesmen and stall owners! Good lord, there
were even faces amongst them she recognised, men who would have crudely wolf-whistled at her only a few days ago, or slapped her behind playfully or even grabbed at her cleavage. Now they doffed
their caps politely and with exaggerated and misplaced ‘h’s enquired hhhhall hhhabout ’er ’ealth .
Mary bustled into the ward and instantly spotted John Argyll sitting in striped hospital issue pyjamas, a dressing gown and slippers on his
gentleman took a step closer, but Bill stood his ground.
Brass it out, Bill. Show ’im who’s boss here.
If Mr Jones had brought along with him a pair of knuckle-heads, then now would be the time he’d beckon them forward, he figured.
‘Mr Jones, you ain’t gonna find this nice little piece and the picture in it, not if you do anything to me. It’s safe with a friend of mine. Anythin’ funny ’appens
to me and it’ll get took to one of ’em penny papers.’
Mr Jones stopped where he was. ‘It would be desirable to have this item back without any more blood being shed.’ He waved a hand. ‘The money is inconsequential. But discretion,
you understand; discretion – that’s something we value far more.’
‘I can un’erstan’ that, Mr Jones. Summin’ like this in the paper would be very embarrassin’.’
‘Hmmm,’ replied the gentleman. He turned to watch the last of the crimson stain disappear from the twilight sky. Silent consideration of the way ahead that lasted long enough for
Bill to prompt him.
‘So . . . Mr Jones?’
‘So, it seems, then, our little matter is not going to be concluded tonight. You and I will require a second meeting. I don’t have that sum of money on me right now.’
Bill shrugged. ‘Of course not. Didn’t expect yer to. But I’ll ’ave me hundred pounds now, Mr Jones, if that’s all the same to yer. And the rest when yer got
it.’
‘I shall need to make some . . . uh . . . arrangements first.’
‘Do what you ’ave to, but you don’t want to keep me waitin’ too long, Mr Jones. I tend to get impatient.’
CHAPTER 9
21st September 1888, Saint Bartholomew’s Hospital, London
‘I s he awake yet this morning?’
The ward matron turned at the sound of her soft voice. ‘Ahh, here she is again! Good morning, Mary,’ she said with a polite nod. ‘Yes, he’s up and about. Had a cup of tea
and making quite a nuisance of himself so far this morning.’
‘Oh, good,’ Mary replied cheerfully, striding along the polished floor of the hallway towards the nurses’ station, a bunch of fresh daffodils under one arm and a basket of
fruit from the market in the other.
‘Good lord! Are those grapes! Goodness, lucky Mr Argyll!’
Mary smiled as she passed by. ‘Yes, I heard tell they were good for a weak constitution,’ she replied, self-conscious that she was over-egging her ‘h’s.
Over the last week, she’d been working so hard on that, and other things. Listening closely to the way more refined ladies than her spoke to each other. This morning, stopping at Covent
Garden on the way in to Saint Bart’s, she’d discreetly followed two well-to-do young ladies all the way around the market, listening to the sounds of the words coming out of their
mouths and the sorts of things they talked about. Mary had all new clothes now. Nice clothes, better than she’d ever worn before. And walking around the market, if she kept her mouth shut and
just practised the measured little steps of a properly finished lady, if she didn’t swing her arms like she was used to doing but kept them occupied holding a small purse, she could
almost pass as one of them.
Almost?
No, not almost – she did. Men – the nice gentlemen – tipped their hats, offered polite smiles and stepped aside for her. And the tradesmen and stall owners! Good lord, there
were even faces amongst them she recognised, men who would have crudely wolf-whistled at her only a few days ago, or slapped her behind playfully or even grabbed at her cleavage. Now they doffed
their caps politely and with exaggerated and misplaced ‘h’s enquired hhhhall hhhabout ’er ’ealth .
Mary bustled into the ward and instantly spotted John Argyll sitting in striped hospital issue pyjamas, a dressing gown and slippers on his
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