The Quickening and the Dead by J. C. Briggs

Author:J. C. Briggs [Briggs, J. C.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781912786886
Publisher: Sapere Books
Published: 2019-04-10T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter 22: A Long Black Nose

At Bow Street, Jones’s office seemed a bit crowded. Dickens sat on the desk, Stemp and Rogers took the two straight-backed chairs, and Jones stood by a fire of rather miserable coals. Brandy and warm, Dickens had said, darting into his office at Wellington Street to get a bottle of brandy, and now they felt the benefit of it — warmer than the fire, at any rate.

Scrap was looking at the feeble flames while he sipped his drink. The rest were waiting. Scrap had been found by Stemp, coming at a run from the alleys that led off Dab Lane. Rogers had met them at the chop house — he, too, had experienced the eeriness of those alleys. As he had observed trenchantly to Stemp, ‘Give me the creeps, I’ll tell you.’

Dickens and Jones had been mightily relieved to find Scrap unscathed, if somewhat subdued. Back to Bow Street, Jones had decided. He wanted to question Mrs Raspin — though she would keep for a while. Let her stew, he thought grimly. First he wanted to hear Scrap’s tale for, he thought, seeing something curiously sombre in those eyes which usually sparkled with confidence, there was a story to be told.

‘I dint find the boy, Mr Jones, but I found some Italians — livin’ in Beggar’s Lane. I asked ’em if they knowed of Joe Seppy. I think they did, but they don’t speak much English. Jabbered a lot, they did, ’ands flappin’ an’ that — all talkin’ at once. Got the impression they woz frightened.’

‘What kept you so long? Constable Stemp was worried about you.’ Jones’s tone was mild, but he wondered about the expression in Scrap’s eyes — something had happened, other than his discovery of the Italian family.

Scrap looked at Stemp. ‘Sorry about that — I woz follered. Dint see no one, but I knowed it.’

‘How?’ asked Jones.

Scrap thought. ‘Felt it — yer knows. Yer senses someone — a footstep, p’raps, a sound o’ somethin’. Yer looks back, but nothin’ ter see. But, ’e’s there. An’ it’s queer, Mr Jones, there ain’t no one about — not like the Dials — dead quiet — as if folk are hidin’ indoors. I dunno — it’s ’ard to explain.’

‘Just wot I felt,’ Stemp offered.

‘Any idea who followed you?’

‘There was a lad — in Bones Alley. ’Ard case — black eyes. Nasty look in ’em. Dint trust ’im, some’ow.’

Dickens looked at Jones. Jimmy Brady, they both thought. ‘I think we met him,’ Jones said, ‘and you’re right — a nasty piece of work. Go on.’

‘Well, ’e told me about Beggar’s Lane and them Italians. Said ’e ’adn’t ’eard the name Joe Seppy, but I don’t know. Picked up a brick so I went off. Anyway, I went ter see if I could find Beggar’s Lane. Met a woman an’ a little girl — queer-lookin’ like she was only ’alf there. I dunno — jest — innocent — some’ow.’

May Brady, Dickens thought. He wasn’t surprised. Scrap was a perceptive reader of human nature.

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