The fat man shook his head. ‘Didn’t even see them. ’E spent all ’is time up in that room above the billiards. Didn’t come out until an ’our before you arrives. Then ’e goes out for a walk. Needs some air, ’e says.’
‘And returns at the very moment that I was speaking to you and Toby.’
‘That’s about the size of it. ’E must ’ave panicked when ’e saw you. Runs out but ’ooever was after ’im was waiting further along the river. You know the rest.’
The two men had left behind the quiet alleys in which the Cat and Salutation lay hidden and now emerged in a busy and well-lit thoroughfare. Even at this hour, wagons, carts and cabs, both pouring into the city and out of it, streamed past them. Adam peered to his left, looking for landmarks he might recognise. Was this, he wondered, the Ratcliffe Highway? His knowledge of this part of the city was so regrettably poor, but he assumed that it was.
‘Now I got that pig Pulverbatch and his little band of piglets swarming all over my crib,’ Brindle went on, raising his voice to compete with the noise of the passing traffic. ‘And that ain’t something I appreciates.’
‘The inspector is investigating a murder, Mr Brindle. I doubt he’s interested in your assorted crimes and peccadillos.’
‘You’re as green as duckweed, ain’t you,’ the publican said, almost admiringly. ‘It’s the killing as don’t interest Pulverbatch that much. One body more or less pulled out of the river ain’t goin’ to worry him. Especially some private sniffer on ’is uppers like old Jinks. But ’e’s been itching to find a reason to come grubbin’ around the Cat and now ’e’s got one.’
Adam decided directness was his best policy.
‘What if the murder of Jinkinson was connected to the murder of another person? A person of greater social standing?’
‘You mean that cove in ’Erne ’Ill?’ Brindle asked, enjoying Adam’s look of surprise. ‘Oh, I know about ’im. I know Pulverbatch ’as got Ben Stirk lined up for a bit of dancing on nothing down Newgate way as well.’
‘You know Stirk?’
‘Let’s go over there,’ the publican said, gesturing towards a shop doorway further along the highway where a shabby vendor had set up his steaming potato can earlier in the evening and was still standing, close to half past midnight, in the hope of trade. ‘I could do with a bite of supper. And I’ll let you know what else I knows.’
After a minute, Brindle had been served his food, hauled from the can and then sprinkled liberally with salt. Holding the potato in his right hand, he blew on it three times and then bit vigorously into the brown skin and white innards. Between mouthfuls, he continued to speak.
‘First thing you ’ave to remember, sonny, is that Pulverbatch ain’t about to admit ’e knows next door to bugger all about this ’ere killing in ’Erne ’Ill.’ Brindle sprayed small fragments of hot potato in Adam’s direction. ‘That’s a place full of coves with plenty of ready. When someone gets topped in a neck of the woods like that, ’e knows ’e’d better find a daisy-brain to take the drop as soon as ’e can. Otherwise all ’ell will be bustin’ out. That’s where poor Ben Stirk comes in.’
‘So Stirk is no more than a scapegoat?’
‘Ben’s just the nearest dumb gawk that Pulverbatch can lay ’is ’ands on. ’E’ll end up sold like a bullock in Smithfield.’
Brindle took a last bite of his potato and threw the remaining bits of skin over his shoulder.
‘If that is the case,’ Adam said, ‘we must do something to help him.’
The publican waved a fleshy arm in dismissal of the idea. ‘Ain’t a thing as can be done,’ he said, picking at his teeth.
Adam was about to dispute this but Brindle held up his hand to silence him.
‘Second thing you need to know,’ he went on, ‘is that old Jinks didn’t have no visitors at the Cat. But ’e did send out a message. Paid Toby to trot ’alfway across town to deliver it.’
‘A message to whom?’
‘I ain’t at all sure why I should tell you this. Maybe it’s on account of I’m too kind-hearted.’ Brindle smiled like a crocodile scenting its lunch. ‘Maybe it’s because I could do with Pulverbatch out of my ’air. And this might be a way of arranging it.’
The publican pulled an old silver turnip watch from his waistcoat pocket and took a swift look at it.
‘It’s a-getting late, Mr Carver. Time for all of us saints and sinners to be in bed. So I’ll jest tell you one last thing and then I’ll be off. Old Jinks, ’e sent a message to a very important gent. An even more important gent than your good self. ’E sent word to an MP, did Jinks. An MP called Garland.’
With that, the publican raised his chimney-pot hat and then waddled off in the direction of the river.
It was eight o’clock on the following morning and Adam had recovered some of the spirit which his adventures in Wapping had knocked out of him. Sitting at the breakfast table as Quint busied himself in the kitchen, he was looking through what the day’s first post had brought him.
‘A bill from some importunate tradesman. In all likelihood my tailor, who will have to be paid soon before he decides that he has no alternative but to involve the law in our business transactions. A communication from my cousin Richard. Probably news of distant relations about whom I neither know nor care. Or possibly a begging letter. In either case, it can be safely ignored for the present. Something from my publisher. Unlikely to be good news.’
Adam sifted quickly through his correspondence, throwing the letters one by one to the far end of the table. He held the last one up to the light from the window, looking more closely at the inscription on it.
‘Aha, I do believe I recognise this handwriting.’
‘Ain’t another from that young tart what come calling here the other week, is it?’ Quint called. ‘The one you went dancing with at some twopenny hop?’
‘Cremorne Gardens, Quint. We took to the dance floor at Cremorne Gardens, not some twopenny hop. No, it is not. The postmark looks to be Cambridge. And speak more respectfully of Miss Maitland. She is a lady, not some trollop you might find parading down the Haymarket. No, the day before yesterday I wrote to Professor Fields.’ Adam brandished the letter and shouted over his shoulder. ‘Today I have his reply. I am invited to my alma mater to meet with him. You will, of course, accompany me.’
Quint, entering the room and handing Adam a plate of devilled kidneys with mushrooms, looked less than thrilled by the prospect.
‘I ain’t so sure old Fields’ll want to see me again. If you recall, last time he saw me, he told me I was a damned rogue.’
‘Well, so you are, Quint, but your friends have never allowed that fact to stand in the way of their affection for you. If you remember, Fields called you a rogue—’
‘A damned rogue,’ Quint insisted.
‘He called you a damned rogue because, on the night before you and I were to leave the expedition and sail from Salonika, you stole a pouchful of his favourite tobacco.’
Quint watched solemnly as Adam picked up his knife and fork and began to attack his breakfast.
‘I ’ad no choice,’ he said, mustering what dignity he could. ‘There were nothing else but that Turkish filth to be ’ad. I deserved a good smoke before we sailed.’
‘That was not how the professor saw matters, but I am sure that he has now had time to forget — or at least to forgive — your misdeeds. More than two years have passed since we departed from Salonika.’
Quint looked less certain that his theft of the tobacco was now consigned to the realms of history.