Jinkinson was now in a hurry. He increased his pace as he made his way down the Strand. He came to a halt briefly outside a London and Westminster Bank. Adam thought for a moment he was about to enter it, but the enquiry agent had no such intention. After looking down at his shoes and rubbing first one and then the other on the backs of his trouser legs, he hurried on. He crossed the entrance to Villiers Street and made his way past the French Renaissance frontage of the Charing Cross Hotel. Adam, still some twenty yards to his rear, was hard pressed to keep his quarry in sight as he walked into Whitehall. Jinkinson’s stride had become unmistakeably purposeful. Within ten minutes he was in the middle of Westminster Bridge. There he halted and, leaning against the railings, looked down into the waters of the Thames below. Adam also stopped. Standing to one side of the flow of pedestrians across the bridge, he watched a man in a charcoal grey morning suit and top hat approach the enquiry agent. Jinkinson turned to greet him.
Even at a distance of fifty yards, Adam had no difficulty recognising the newcomer. Although he had never been introduced to him, he knew the man by sight from the Marco Polo. It was Sir Willoughby Oughtred. From where he was standing, he could see that Jinkinson and the baronet were already deep in conversation. They made an incongruous couple, one plump and yellow-waistcoated, the other tall and formally dressed. He could not, of course, hear anything of what they said but Jinkinson looked to grow increasingly excited. After a minute or two, he was waving an arm and seemed to be pointing across the bridge in the direction of the Clock Tower. Oughtred responded by leaning forwards and prodding the agent three times in the chest. He then turned on his heel and began to walk back towards the Palace of Westminster. As he passed Adam, the young man feigned extreme interest in the river and the curious patterns of the railings reflected on the water, but he need not have bothered. Oughtred, who looked furious, had no eyes for anybody around him. He marched on in the direction of Parliament Square and was soon lost to sight amidst the other pedestrians. Adam glanced back at Jinkinson, who had remained on the bridge. He decided he had seen enough for one morning. Hailing one of the many cabs that patrolled the area, he headed for home.
For the next five days, Jinkinson made few excursions from Poulter’s Court without someone at his heels. The following morning it was Quint who stood near the archway and waited for the enquiry agent to emerge on his business. From that day onwards, he and his master divided the duties between them. On four of those days, Jinkinson did little but stroll through the streets that ran between High Holborn and the Strand, like a nobleman touring his estate. He nodded amiably to passing acquaintances and stopped to engage many of them in lengthy conversation. On several occasions, Jinkinson sang as he walked. He had a deep baritone voice and he always sang the same tune, treating his fellow pedestrians to an aria from an Italian opera Adam half recognised as the work of Donizetti. Was it, he wondered, Lucia di Lammermoor? The plump investigator peered from time to time into shop windows on his travels and rarely passed a public house without venturing inside to sample its ale. He chose to spend little time in the offices off Lincoln’s Inn Fields. Only on the afternoon of the fifth day did he demonstrate any sense of purpose. It was Quint who was loitering near Poul-ter’s Court when Jinkinson emerged at around three o’clock, and it was Quint who followed him down to the Strand. Back in Doughty Street, he reported his news to Adam while preparing a supper for himself of cold meats, bread and ale.
‘It wears a man out, following old Jinks. Never was such a bugger for walking. And talking. Gawd, how ’e can talk. Gassing away at everybody he meets.’
‘He’s certainly a man of eloquence when given the opportunity.’
‘’E’s like a sheep’s head. All bleeding jaw.’
‘True enough, Quint. But what did he do today apart from jawing?’
‘Well, ’e sets off from Poulter’s Court. Going at a good lick. Not like the other day when he was moochin’ around like the bleeding Duke of Seven Dials. Off he goes down Chancery Lane with me a short ’op behind ’im. Into the Strand we goes and we ends up outside that pub on the corner of Fountain Court. You know the one?’
Adam indicated that he did.
‘’Ere we are, I thought. Ain’t that just plummy?’ Quint spoke with bitter sarcasm. ‘’E’ll be in here the rest of the day and half the night and, by stop-tap, he’ll be as drunk as a rolling fart. But, no, this is one pub he ain’t going into. ’E stops outside. In fact, he moves round the side of the pub and stands leaning against the wall in the court.’
‘Unusual, indeed, for our man to resist the lure of liquor. Was he waiting for someone, I wonder?’
‘’Ere, moisten your chaffer on this.’ Quint handed Adam a glass of beer. ‘There’s more of the story to come. Jinkinson’s standing there in the court and I’m a-loiterin’ in the street, tryin’ to keep half an eye on him, when this gent comes up the Strand from Trafalgar Square end. All togged up to the nines like a right swell. And ’e joins our man in the court.’
‘A swell, you say?’
‘Thought at first he might be some Champagne Charley out on a spree. But ’e knows old Jinks.’
‘So he was the man for whom Jinkinson was waiting? Any distinguishing marks to this swell?’
‘Not so’s you’d notice.’ Quint shrugged. ‘Enough moustache for ten men. Can’t hardly see his mouth for lip-thatch. But nothing else.’
‘And why was he meeting Jinkinson in some pub alley?’
‘Old your ’orses. I’m comin’ to that. Now Jinkinson don’t know me, do ’e? There’s no harm, I think, in getting a bit closer. So, I stagger into the court as if the drink has just took me and fall into a heap.’
‘Quick thinking, Quint.’
‘That’s what I thought,’ said Quint complacently. ‘You get the picture, then. There’s our man. And there’s his friend, all dressed up like Christmas beef. Both of them standing in the court. And then there’s me, playing the drunk and sliding down the wall. They give me a quick glance and then they forget me. They begin to talk. Whispering, mind you, but I can catch some of what they say.’
‘And what do they say?’
‘The gent’s name is Garland. Mr Garland, I hear Jinkinson say, not once but several times. Same name as was in the book I filched.’
‘Lewis Garland. He’s an MP.’
‘Well, this here Lewis Garland is fit to be tied. Angry as a dog chasing rats, by the sounds of ’im. Not that he raises his voice or anything. But I can tell ’e’s raging.’
‘He was threatening Jinkinson, was he?’
‘I reckon so. But our man ain’t too fussed. Sounds like ’e’s doing a bit of ’is own threatening in return. Something about the papers and a scandal.’ Quint sat down at the table with a plateful of food and fell upon the cold mutton and bread.
‘And how did Garland respond to what our friend Jinkinson was saying?’
‘He didn’t say more ’n a few words. But he looked as if he was like to have forty fits, didn’t ’e? Then Jinkinson was off again, yammering and chattering at ’im a bit more.’
‘Could you catch any more of the conversation?’ Adam asked.
‘Not much.’ His mouth full of meat and bread, Quint’s voice was indistinct. Crumbs sprayed upon the table.
‘You eat as if you’d had no sustenance in weeks, Quint. Lions rending the flesh from their prey have nothing on you attacking cold mutton.’