Beth’s look said, That isn’t really fair, Auntie, but she replied in a soft, firm tone, “I’ll wait for Major Jenkin’s next letter.” Then added: “But I won’t wait long.”
Cobb had decided to have lunch at home, thus avoiding the taverns. The news about Marc had unsettled him more than he was willing to let on. Seeing its effect on the ladies had been equally unsettling. He had grown inordinately fond of them both, and was now paying the price for such attachments. It was a hard world they lived in, and one could survive only by being as hard as one’s humanness allowed. That was not the way Cobb himself would have arranged affairs, but then no-one had ever asked him to assist in that business. Such unnerving speculations were skittering through his mind when a sound familiar to his policeman’s ear assailed it from the direction of the alley he had just passed near Front Street and Market Lane. He moved quickly towards the grunts, wheezes, and general scuffling noises.
Two bulky men, unknown to him, were thumping their fists on a smaller creature, well known to the constabulary, on any part of his wriggling body that presented itself. Other than a groan or sigh as the blows struck, the victim did not cry out for help; he expected none. Cobb drew his truncheon.
“Stop that now!” he shouted, as the adrenaline rush hit him. “You’re both under arrest!”
The two toughs halted what they were doing, more in astonishment than fear. Finally, the taller one barked, “And just how’s a tub o’ lard like you gonna make us?”
Cobb’s girth was often the object of amusement among the lower life of the city, often to their instant and eternal regret. For it nicely disguised the fact that he was quick, nimble, and strong as a bullock. Before the tall fellow could snicker or blink, he took Cobb’s truncheon above the left eye and tumbled backwards, gasping in disbelief and pain. The shorter one was able to get a forearm up, but the truncheon-blow broke it without remorse. Unfortunately, at this point the victim decided to try to get up. In doing so, he got himself tangled in Cobb’s feet, and the latter’s momentum caused him to pitch forward and fall onto his side. But the toughs had seen enough, and they took the opportunity to scuttle down the alley and into King Street. Cobb struggled to his feet in order to initiate pursuit when he was once again upended by the object of the assault.
“Christ, Nestor, can’t you do anything right?”
“I’m hurtin’ all over. Whaddya expect me to do, lay here an’ get punched to death?”
Cobb got up and hauled Nestor Peck to his feet.
Nestor, who would have been described as gnome-like if his sallow skin had not begun to sag on the bones, essayed a toothless grin. “I guess I gotta thank you fer this.”
“I do my duty, even fer scum like you.”
Rubbing his cheek gingerly with his ungloved fingers, Nestor looked hurt. “How can you say such a thing, after all the help I’ve given you?” Nestor thought of himself as Cobb’s number one snitch and, on rare occasions, came up with useful bits of information about the underclass he guzzled among.
“Why would those guys waste their knuckles on the likes of you?” Cobb asked. “I ain’t seen them around here before.”
Nestor wiped the blood from his nose and said, “I don’t know their names, but I know who they are.”
“I may be sorry for askin’, but go ahead and tell me.”
“They’re from Thornhill, up in the County. They followed me from the tavern, but I heard them talkin’ in there when they didn’t know I was listenin’.”
“Your only talent.”
“They come down here to teach me and all the other snitches a lesson, they said. Some fellas up that way paid ’em.”
“Paid good money to have you beat up?”
“They thought I’d been tellin’ tales about the big meetin’ of Reformers comin’ up. I think they meant to kill me.”
“But you’ve been spreadin’ nonsense about the radicals for months now. Nobody in their right mind would pay the least attention to it, let alone offer cash to have your mouth shut forever-though that’d be a service to the bawdy politic.”
Nestor looked coy, or at least as coy as a battered and shivering man could manage: “This time I got the real goods. But I ain’t told a soul, I swear to God.”
“And He’d swear right back at you.” Cobb turned to go. “And I ain’t in the mood for any more of your gimcrack gossip.”
“I gotta tell somebody!”
“Go to the station and tell Sarge. He’ll probably give you a medal.”
“You know I can’t go there-Jesus, they loosened my tooth!” Nestor was poking at the single molar that graced the lower back portion of his gaping mouth.
“Stay out of sight for a while,” Cobb said, not unkindly, walking away.
“Hey, what’s this?”
Cobb turned to see Nestor clutching a sheet of paper.
“Give me that, that’s police property.” Cobb could see that Nestor had picked up the broadsheet that Gussie had thrust upon him earlier, the one with the sketch and description of the suspected Yankee agent.
“I seen this fella,” Nestor said. His eyes widened larcenously.
Very slowly, Cobb took the paper from Nestor’s hand. “Where?”
“In the Tinker’s Dam.”
The Tinker’s Dam was a dive up beyond Jarvis and Lot Street, a hangout for fugitives and their admirers. “You did, did you?” Cobb asked, trying not to reveal his interest. “And when would this’ve been?”
“What’s it worth to ya?”
Cobb smiled menacingly. “You’d sell your granny for sixpence. I’ll give you enough for one beer now, and a quarter if anythin’ comes of it.”
Nestor pretended to think this over. “I saw him a coupla days ago. I sat near him up there on Friday, I think. A Yankee with a phony Irish brogue, by the sound of him. He was quite pie-eyed, an’ braggin’ about gettin’ even with some swell who had done his family a grievous wrong.”
“You’re sure? It’s a pretty skimpy sketch.”
“It’s him all right. And I know the name he was usin’, though up there it weren’t likely the one his mama give him.”
“A second beer, then, for the name.”
Nestor grinned, winced at the discomfort doing so caused, and said, “Silas McGinty. Can you believe it?”
“I’m beginnin’ to believe most anythin’.” Cobb sighed. He turned once more to go.
Nestor’s voice, with its wheedling whine, followed Cobb out of the alley: “They’re all meetin’ up at Montgomery’s tavern tonight! They’re plannin’ ta kill us all in our beds!”
Cobb carried on to King Street. He had no doubt who “they” were. But he was trying desperately not to give the least credence to Nestor Peck’s so-called “facts.”
SIX
Dora had gone out to deliver a baby somewhere on Newgate Street, but Fabian and Delia had come home from school early enough to heat up a stew and butter some of Saturday’s bread. They watched their father eat with that mixture of revulsion and awe that children have for the peculiar capacities of adults. Father and offspring were getting ready to leave the house when Dora Cobb came stumbling up the kitchen steps, breathless.
“You run all the way?”
“Don’t start, Mister Cobb.”
“Trouble, luv?”
“False alarm,” she said, puffing and flushing as the children each took hold of a coat-sleeve and pulled.
“Why’re you lookin’ so grim, then?”
Dora nodded meaningfully towards Fabian and Delia.
“You kids run along to school,” Cobb said, and the youngsters reluctantly left. “Now, what’s so grim the kids mustn’t hear?”
With her coat removed and her tuque and mittens set adrift, Dora shifted her bulk onto the nearest chair. “I met my sister May on Yonge Street. She’d come in on the coach from the township just to see me.”
“Strange time to be visitin’ your relatives.”
Dora flinched, but was in no mood to defend her turf, which alarmed Cobb considerably. “Her eldest’s run off.”