“Both at different times. His means were variable, like many people of this neighborhood.”
“He never had any trouble with the other inmates?”
“Not at all, no. I make a point of finding out who has.”
“Did you ever have any conversation with Mr. Jigg?”
“Not really, no. He mentioned that he was an orphan, too, lost his parents when he was two to a fire, and complimented our work here.”
“With the orphanage?”
“Yes. London’s a sight more difficult than Norwich, but we get by. Food, clothes, shelter. The three priorities in my life. In the boys’ lives.”
“That was all you and Mr. Jigg talked about?” Lenox asked.
“We may have traded a word or two about his chores for the day, and I certainly might have quoted a passage or two from the scriptures to him.”
None of it was very promising, and neither was Lenox’s conversation with the men staying in the long room behind the church, many of whom were doing chores. Only one man, John Mason, said anything interesting, and that was that he knew Philip Jigg to be a troublemaker.
“I’m surprised to hear that,” Lenox said. “From what I’ve heard he seems to have been a man who kept his own counsel, Mr. Mason.”
“You’d’a been surprised.”
“Can you give me any example of what you mean?”
“Chap didn’t know ‘is business, and chaps like that don’t come to no good,” was all Mason could offer, even when Lenox prodded him for more.
Lenox left St. Martin’s puzzled. The next step, he thought as he walked back toward the circle at the heart of the Seven Dials, was to talk to the other ratters and the men in the arena. After a bite of lunch, perhaps. Coming up to the circle he saw an inoffensive-looking pub called the John o’Groats. It was just by Martha Morris, who studiously ignored Lenox’s glance as she turned her corn. Lenox turned into the pub with a sigh — always grim to lose another source, to alienate another acquaintance. It would only be worth it if he could find the murderer.
At the pub, Lenox sat by a dim transom near the fire, which was roaring despite the improved weather. He ordered half a pint of mild and a slice of steak-and-kidney pie from a young woman of perhaps fifteen, then looked over the notes he had taken from the Plug brothers as he waited for his food. Just as it came, though, Lenox saw a young boy and a man come into the pub, the boy point him out, and a few small coins change hands. The boy scampered out of the pub, and apprehension rose in the detective’s chest as he saw that the man coming toward him was John Mason.
“Ain’t a bobby, is you?” he asked.
“No, I’m not. Can I help you?”
Mason sneered. “Maybe. Though’ I’d just repeat myself — a chap what don’t know ‘is business don’t come to much good.” As he said it he pulled his hand outward from his pocket, and with a flash of panic Lenox saw the dull black sheen of a pistol in the man’s hand.
“All right,” Lenox managed to mutter.
Mason stormed off, and Lenox pushed away the steaming pie, suddenly finding that the cliche was true: He didn’t have an appetite any longer.
That evening Jameson, the bobby who had found Phil Jigg’s body, stopped by Lenox’s house to check on the day’s progress. Lenox told him the little he had learned from the Plug brothers and Reverend Tilton, as well as what had happened with John Mason in the pub.
“We can always bring him in, sir,” said Jameson. “No point in carrying on if you might get hurt.”
“What I wonder is whether the man was threatening me to protect himself or to protect somebody else.”
“Himself, I’d reckon.”
“But why? Why draw attention to himself? It wasn’t as if he were my primary suspect. Or any kind of suspect, for that matter.”
“Don’t know that he’d think it through like that, sir.” He pushed his black hair away from his eyes. An awfully young man, Lenox thought wearily. “If you ask me, he’s the chap.”
“You may be right. But what about proof? Motive? Witnesses?”
“Nobody will stand witness against Mason.”
“No?”
“He’s reckoned quite dangerous, and he’s been known to work for Black Sammy.”
Even Lenox had heard of Black Sammy, the man who ran prostitution, thief-taking, and gambling along most of Great St. Andrew’s. He was known for his violence. His presence cast a shadow over the case now that he was involved, even at one remove.
“He might be the man — Black Sammy, I mean,” said Lenox.
“Might be.”
“Will you come out with me tomorrow morning?
“You mean to go back to the Dials then, sir?”
“I do.”
“I suppose I could come along. Oh — and by the way, I had a friend at the morgue take a quick glance over Phil Jigg’s body.”
“Did you?”
“He confirmed what you said, strangulation, though he found a few bruises on the body as well.”
“Not all that much help, unfortunately.”
“No.” Jameson frowned at his notepad. “A couple of other small notes — Jigg had one tattoo, on the back of his neck. An old one, apparently, reading ST. He was a heavy smoker, though that’s not surprising. Oh — and he had lots of small scars up and down his legs.”
“That’s odd.”
“I thought so, too.”
Lenox looked into the fire in his library, his chin resting on his hand. “Well,” he said, “the only thing for it is another look around the Dials. Can’t be helped, I’m afraid.”
The next morning Lenox went back to see the Plug brothers. Jameson stood outside the shop while Lenox went in. He thought he would ask about Mason.
When he did, though, all of the cheerfulness vanished from the brothers’ faces, their attitude toward Lenox completely altered, and they rushed him back out onto the street without a word. For good measure they locked the door behind him and put up their CLOSED sign, turned out the gas lamps inside the shop, and clattered heavily up the back stairs, which must have led to their residence. All of it happened in only a few seconds; it left Lenox in a daze.
The entire morning passed like that. They asked on Monmouth Street, in the arena, among the street urchins, and nobody would answer any questions about Mason or Black Sammy. Finally, nearing noon, as they walked dejectedly back to the beginning of Great St. Andrew’s, they heard a whisper from the shadows say, “Come over here!” Following it (guardedly), they found a woman beckoning them down a slip of an alleyway. It was Martha Morris.
“Why, Mrs. Morris!” said Lenox.
“Listen ‘ere — I’ll only say this because Phil Jigg was a decent chap. The question is: Why was a man like John Mason, plenty of scratch, staying at St. Martin’s?” Before Jameson or Lenox could answer, she had gone back out into the street and picked up her tongs. Prodding the bobby, Lenox motioned toward the other end of the alley, where they wouldn’t give her away.
“What was that about?” Jameson asked.
“An old friend.”
“What do you think, sir?”
“She’s right. Back to the church, I say, and see if we can hunt down Reverend Tilton, or at least the man who rents out the beds, and ask for an explanation.”
As they walked back down toward the church, Lenox had to admit that it was a relief to see Jameson’s cosh and pistol in his belt. He didn’t relish the prospect of another meeting with Mason.
At the church the page who had helped Lenox before appeared again.
“Can you take us to see Reverend Tilton, my lad?” said Jameson. “Or the man who runs the refectory?”
“Aye, sir, they’ll both be back in the low courtyard with the orphans. Morning chores.”
The courtyard was a small one with a frail tree at its center, obviously dying from lack of sunlight. It was a dark place. A door at the back marked out the orphanage; a door at the front, the long room where Phil Jigg had taken to sleeping. Reverend Tilton was pacing among the orphans, watching as they swept the courtyard, wiped down the walls, copied out sheet music, mended socks and blankets — did all the chores they were evidently asked to. Lenox felt his heart sink again. They were all frightfully thin, the poor lads, and wearing patched-up clothes. And he noticed that they all had unusually shaggy hair, long enough to touch their shoulders.