“Small chance of that, Beatrice, if I may call you that at our parting. I wish you only happiness.”
“Thank you,” she replied in a ragged voice.
I lifted my bowler and bowed, not daring to show how wretched I felt. “Good day, Miss Potter.”
I whistled for a hansom, conscious of her scrutiny. Climbing into the cab, I waved, and then she walked into the hall and I never saw her again.
I was dispirited when I arrived back in Craig’s Court. She had treated me poorly, so why did it feel as if it were the other way about? Beatrice was in a bad situation and all because of Chamberlain.
“Did you find Miss Potter?” the Guv asked when I returned.
“I did.” Right then, I decided not to tell Barker about the relationship unless he continued to pursue Chamberlain’s part in the case. “She said to thank you for the letter of recommendation.”
“She deserved it,” he said.
“Has the major communicated with you?”
“Not so far, though I sent him a note detailing all that we uncovered. He may be at his barracks.”
“I hope so,” I said. “I mean, I hope he hasn’t gone back to the drinking.”
“I would not worry over his lack of response. The poor fellow’s got a lot to think over.”
Jenkins came in with a new edition of The Times. I left the Guv alone to read it while beginning the process of preparing a bill. There was a weeks’ worth of cab fares, Soho Vic’s lads, the warehouse rental, and a half dozen other expenses. I wondered if I should expect a bill from Reverend McClain for his instruction, as well. Then another thought occurred to me.
“What shall become of little Esme, sir?”
“I’ll send a message to Andrew to find a proper home for her, at least until her brother is released from the workhouse.”
“Do you think he was angry about my losing the first boxing match?”
“If I know him, he’ll say it was a typical example of the inadequacy of gloved boxing and your winning without them is proof. You needn’t worry on that score.”
“Has anything happened with Stead?”
“He is still in his office, refusing interviews. Vic reports that the Ratcliff Highway Boys have been gathering materials all day. Something is very definitely in the offing. The Times has been assessing public opinion all day and, I believe, shall come down in favor of a bill raising the age of consent to sixteen. I would hazard the bill is already being written by liberal members of the House of Commons. The fight, however, shall be in the House of Lords, where Hesketh and his party votes. The latest editorials claim it shall pass, but not without some struggles.”
“Are we going to the Gazette office then?”
“Oh, you may be sure of it.”
After a dinner of haddock at the Northumberland Hotel, we proceeded to the Pall Mall Gazette building.
There was a large crowd in the street, and somewhere up ahead I heard the sound of breaking glass. I pushed my way through after my employer. When I finally reached the offices, everything looked so different from the last time we’d been there, I thought perhaps a bomb had gone off.
All the lower windows of the newspaper office were broken, and inside one could see a makeshift barricade of desks and filing cabinets. The upstairs windows were still intact, and now and again I could see the top of a man’s head peer over the sill. In front of the building there were dozens of broken bottles, along with rotting vegetables, eggs, and fish offal, all glittering on the pavement. I lost sight of my employer but recognized the Ratcliff Highway Boys, with whom we had faced off in Bethnal Green. Lord Hesketh was keeping them very busy these days. Barker surfaced then, pushing his way through the crowd. He made his way to the door and knocked upon it through a hail of flying bottles, which he ignored.
The door opened quickly, and Barker stepped in but not before another volley of glass crashed into the office entranceway.
“Look, there’s Barker’s man,” one of the gang members said, and I realized all of them were looking my way. Their leader stepped through the knot of them to get a look at me.
“It’s him, all right,” he said.
I wasn’t sure whether they really meant mischief to me, but I was not about to take any chances. I thrust my hand into my pocket and raised my coat with my fingers around the butt of my Webley in its built-in holster. I gave it a gentle push until the muzzle poked through the eyelet hole sewn into the hem. Whatever happened, the leader of the Ratcliff boys was going down with me.
The leader shrugged his shoulders and raised his hands. “Keep your shirt on,” he said. “You’re a nervous little cove, aren’t ye? No need to be a-fingerin’ firearms. We’re just ’avin’ a bit o’fun.”
Then they turned back and continued to pelt the door with bottles and food. They were yelling and joking and making a lot of noise, but if this was a siege, it looked like it would be a long one.
I assessed what strength the crowd might have. There were a dozen or so Ratcliff boys, and it looked as if the tumult had emptied every public house in the area. If they finally broke through the door, how much of this crowd would go with them, and what would happen then? Would they hang Stead from a nearby gas lamp? One could not tell what would happen when a crowd turned into a mob. Where were the police? I wondered. A Division was not so many streets away.
Barker slipped out again, and when the barrage of glass missiles came his way, he butted them away impatiently with the brass head of his walking stick.
“You!” he said, pointing to the leader as he walked to the center of the circle. The rough-hewn man met him there. I was not going to be left out; and as I stepped across, a fourth man, obviously his lieutenant, came as well. Our quartet met in the middle.
“How far are you prepared to take this?” Barker asked.
“As far as it need be,” the young man jeered back.
“But how far are you contracted to go? Are you here to frighten Stead or to take him?”
“To take him.”
“The damage is already done,” the Guv said. “The article came out this morning.”
“But Stead’ll come out with another one tomorrow.”
“If we let you come in and stop the press, will you let Stead alone?”
“Nah,” he said flatly. “He is to be made an example of.”
Barker crossed his burly arms and stood in thought. “There is a lot of give in that statement,” he finally stated. “Do you intend to take his life?”
“I didn’t say that, did I?”
“Break an arm or leg, then?”
“Hadn’t thought that far. Are you tryin’ to broker a compromise?”
“I did not say that, but it appears we are at an impasse. I’m certainly not going to recommend to him that he come out so you can break his head.”
“He should have thought of that before he started making reckless remarks in the newspapers.”
“I think it best,” Barker said, addressing me, “if we went in and joined Stead.”
Our quartet separated, and the bottles came flying again like arrows at a besieged castle. We squeezed sideways through the doorway, closed the door behind us, and listened as more glass shattered on it.
Most of the ground floor was deserted, but there was a brace of Salvation Army women at the door who seemed capable of taking on the entire crowd outside themselves and were not frightened by a little glass. In the back, there was a printing press going full blast, putting out another special edition for the next morning. Upstairs we found a couple of dozen employees watching anxiously out the windows. In Stead’s office, the editor himself sat at his desk, while across from him, the stern but clear-cut features of General Bramwell Booth of the Salvation Army regarded us calmly. If the purpose of the crowd outside was to frighten the men into submission, they had chosen the wrong men. For all the cowering employees outside in the hall, these two acted as if it were any other evening.