She set down her tea cup carefully on its saucer.
‘That is so. A young boy, little more than an urchin, made it look as if he had accidentally collided with father in the street yesterday. He realised that his wallet was missing, and I chased after the boy and caught him.’
‘Did you really?’ George was unable to hide his surprise at this, and hoped she might interpret it as congratulation. ‘Well done,’ he added quickly.
‘I demanded he return father’s wallet. Stupidly, I thought he had. But in fact, he gave me yours in its place.’
George nodded thoughtfully. ‘And did the police not find your father’s wallet on his person?’ She looked away, glancing round the tea rooms as if someone at another table might be better placed to answer the question. George gave a short laugh. ‘Surely you marched the young scoundrel off to the police?’
She returned her attention to her tea. ‘No, actually.’ She took a sip, set down the cup, straightened it on its saucer. ‘I let him go.’
Before George could reply, she was leaning across the table, her hands pushed out in front of her so that they almost sent her teapot flying. Her words came out in a rush. ‘Oh I was stupid to do it, I know. But I suppose I felt sorry for him. I mean it can’t be much of a life can it, for a lad like that. Having to steal to get the money for food, living out on the streets because his mother has passed away and he can’t find his father and sister. Living hand to mouth.’
George sat back and folded his arms. He could not help but smile. ‘So you had quite a conversation with the young criminal then, before you set him free.’ He held up his hands to stop any protest. ‘You asked me about that slip of paper …’ He was leaning forward now, matching her pose. George wondered whether he should say nothing about the fragment of paper. But then again, just by having seen it Miss Oldfield might perhaps be in danger. Surely it was only right and proper at least to warn her of that possibility? ‘People have died, quite possibly because of that tiny scrap of paper,’ George said quietly. ‘I myself may be in danger.’
They sat in silence for a moment after this. ‘My goodness, Mr Archer,’ she said at last, ‘you make it sound as if we are caught up in the events of a penny dreadful. I think perhaps you had better tell me your story.’
She listened attentively as George spoke. It was, he found, a relief to tell someone finally about it. He started with the death of his poor friend Albert, who had died in his sleep — was it only last week? By the time he got to describe the break-in at the Museum and how the scarred man had lunged at him across Percy’s desk, Miss Oldfield was sitting with her eyes wide and her tea quite forgotten.
He described how he had written to Augustus Lorimore, and told her of the strange reply he had received.
‘So you determined to go and see the man?’ she asked him.
George nodded. He was feeling rather parched and asked her if she wanted more tea.
But in reply, her hand flew to her mouth. ‘Oh my goodness, look at the time,’ she cried nodding at the clock on the far wall. ‘I am supposed to be taking my father to visit his former parishioners this afternoon. He will be so cross if I am late.’ She took a final, swift sip of cold tea, grimaced, gathered her bag, and stood up. ‘He can’t manage on his own. He needs me to help him with almost everything these days, I’m afraid.’
‘That must be a burden,’ George said, standing up.
She frowned. ‘I suppose so,’ she said quietly, as if the thought had never occurred to her. ‘But I must know how your story ends.’
‘If it has ended,’ George replied. ‘We could meet here again. Tomorrow perhaps?’
‘I can’t possibly wait that long to hear the rest of your adventures. Why not come to our house?’ she said. ‘Father won’t mind. In fact if you come after eight o’clock this evening he won’t even know — he needs his sleep. Oh, but it will all be quite proper, I assure you, Mr Archer,’ she quickly added. ‘I mean …’
‘I know what you mean,’ he said. ‘And I should be delighted to call on you and finish my story, so far as it goes. I have your address from your letter. But I must not keep you, Miss Oldfield, though I do have one small request.’
She glanced at the clock again and frowned. ‘Yes?’
‘My friends call me George.’
She regarded him sternly for a moment. Then she smiled. ‘Very well, George it is. My name is Elizabeth.’
‘May I call you Elizabeth?’
‘No,’ she said in a matter of fact voice as she walked past him and headed for the door. She paused and turned. ‘But you may call me Liz. I shall see you this evening, George.’
Only after he had sat down, his head swimming with visions of Elizabeth Oldfield’s smile and the anticipation of seeing her again did it occur to George that his recently returned wallet was empty. He had no money at all.
Feeling foolish and anxious, he finally summoned the courage to gesture to the waitress who had served them as she walked past. ‘Excuse me, but about the bill …’
‘That’s all right, sir.’ She barely paused on her way to another customer. ‘The young lady paid on her way out.’
They grabbed him as he was working the side streets near Kensington Gardens. It was a good place to finish up the day, and as night fell Eddie often found useful pickings in the area as people hurried home. That was how the two men knew he would be there, of course. Someone who knew Eddie’s routine, such as it was, had told them — Smudgy Steve or Mike the Mouth. Possibly little Annie from the baker’s who sometimes gave him one of yesterday’s rolls.
The first Eddie knew of anything amiss was when a pair of enormous arms wrapped themselves round him from behind and pulled him backwards. He kicked out at once, shouting and struggling. But one of the arms was positioned so that a huge, sweaty hand clamped over his mouth. Someone else was approaching him, and Eddie’s eyes widened. He hoped they would realise he was in trouble — help him or raise the alarm.
The street was in shadow, the sun already below the level of the buildings. The lamps had been lit, and as he approached Eddie, his potential rescuer’s face caught the light. The man was smiling horribly, and Eddie could clearly see the thin, raised scar that ran down the whole side of his face. Scarface — the man who had been shadowing the old man Eddie had tried to help.
‘I thought it might be you, from the description we were given,’ Scarface said, grabbing Eddie’s thrashing legs and lifting him up. The two men carried Eddie off into a narrow alleyway. ‘So nice to meet you again. Eddie, isn’t it?’ His voice was rough as gravel.
Scarface set Eddie’s feet down on the ground again, and the man holding Eddie from behind relaxed his grip slightly. Not enough for Eddie to have any hope of pulling free, but he could stretch round and see that it was ‘Sidekick’ — the man who had been with Scarface.
‘I’m sorry I got in your way,’ Eddie gasped as soon as the hand was removed from his mouth. ‘I can give you me day’s takings. To make amends.’
‘You hear that, Davey?’ Scarface ground out. ‘Very generous I’m sure.’ His face thrust close to Eddie’s, the scar gleaming. ‘But we don’t want money off you, oh no. You’ve got something far more valuable than money, haven’t you, Eddie the Dipper.’
Eddie swallowed. ‘Have I?’
‘Oh yes,’ Davey — the man holding him — said with a high-pitched chuckle. ‘Much more valuable, that’s right Mr Blade.’
Something caught the light as Scarface drew it out of his jacket. A knife. He angled it so that the reflected light shone in Eddie’s eyes. ‘Bet you’re wondering why I’m called Blade,’ he said. The knife moved slowly closer to Eddie’s eyes. ‘Maybe you think it’s on account of the scar?’ And closer. ‘Or perhaps you think it’s because I’m so good with the knife.’ Closer still.