Narraway was watching him. “Be careful. You have no friends out there. Never forget that, even for an instant. Trust no one.”
“No, sir. Thank you.” Pitt went out of the door feeling cold, in spite of the close air and the semisweet smell of rotting wood, and somewhere close by an open midden.
A couple of enquiries led him through the narrow, gray byways to Heneagle Street. He found the house of Isaac Karansky on the corner of Brick Lane, a busy thoroughfare leading past the towering mass of the sugar factory down to the Whitechapel Road. He knocked on the door. Nothing happened, and he knocked again.
It was opened by a man who appeared to be in his late fifties. His countenance was dark, very obviously Semitic, and his black hair was liberally flecked with gray. There were both gentleness and intelligence in his eyes as he regarded Pitt, but circumstances had taught him to be cautious.
“Yes?”
“Mr. Karansky?” Pitt asked.
“Yes …” His voice was deep, slightly accented, and very wary of intrusion.
“My name is Thomas Pitt. I am new to the area, and looking for lodging. A friend of mine suggested you might have a room to let.”
“What was your friend’s name, Mr. Pitt?”
“Narraway.”
“Good, good. We have one room. Please come in and see if it will suit you. It’s small, but clean. My wife is very particular.” He stood back to allow Pitt to pass him. The hall was narrow and the stairs were no more than a couple of yards from the door. It was all dark, and he imagined that in the winter it would be damp and bitterly cold, but it smelled clean, of some kind of polish, and ahead of him there was an aroma of herbs he was unused to. It was pleasant, a house where people led a family life, where a woman cooked, swept and did laundry, and was generally busy.
“Up the stairs.” Karansky pointed ahead of them.
Pitt obeyed, climbing slowly and hearing the creak with every step. At the top Karansky indicated a door and Pitt opened it. The room beyond was small with one window so grimed it was difficult to see what lay outside, but perhaps it was a sight better left to the imagination. One could create one’s own dream.
There was an iron bedstead, already made up with linen that looked clean and crisp. There seemed to be several blankets. A wooden dresser had half a dozen drawers with odd handles, and a ewer and basin on top. A small piece of mirror was attached to the wall. There was no cupboard, but there were two hooks on the door. A knotted rag rug lay on the floor beside the bed.
“It will do very well,” Pitt accepted. Years fled away and it was as if he were a boy again on the estate, his father newly taken away by the police, he and his mother moved out of the gamekeeper’s cottage and into the servants’ quarters in the hall. They had counted themselves lucky then. Sir Matthew Desmond had taken them in. Most people would have turned them onto the street.
Looking around this room, remembering poverty again, cold, fear, it was as if the intervening years had been only a dream and it was time to wake up and get on with the day, and reality. The smell was oddly familiar; there was no dust, just the bareness and the knowledge of how cold it would be, bare feet on the floor, frost on the window glass, cold water in the jug.
Keppel Street seemed like something of the imagination. He would miss the physical comfort he had become used to. Immeasurably more than that, unbearably more, he would miss the warmth, the laughter and the love, the safety.
“It will be two shillings a week,” Karansky said quietly from behind him. “One and sixpence more with food. You are welcome to join us at the dinner table if you wish.”
Remembering what Narraway had said about Karansky’s position in the community, Pitt had no hesitation in accepting. “Thank you, that would be excellent.” He fished in his pocket and counted out the first week’s rent. As Narraway had said, he must find work of some sort, or he would arouse suspicion. “I am new in the area. Where is the best place to look for a job?”
Karansky shrugged expressively, regret in his face. “There’s no best place. It’s a fight to survive. You look like you have a strong back. What are you prepared to do?”
Pitt had not thought seriously about it until this moment. Only as he counted out the money for his rent did he realize that he would have to have a visible means of earning it or he would invite undue suspicion. It was many years since he had put in great physical effort. His work was hard on the feet sometimes, but mostly it was his mind he used, more especially since he had been in charge in Bow Street.
“I’m not particular,” he answered. At least he was not close enough to the docks to have to heave coal or lift crates. “What about the sugar factory? I noticed it just along Brick Lane. Can smell it from here.”
Karansky raised one black eyebrow. “Interested in that, are you?”
“Interested? No. Just thought it might have a job offering. Sugar uses a lot of men, doesn’t it?”
“Oh yes, hundreds,” Karansky agreed. “Every second family around here owes at least some of its living to one of them. Belongs to a man called Sissons. He has three of them, all around here. Two this side of the Whitechapel Road, one the other.”
There was something in his expression that caught Pitt’s attention, a hesitation, a watchfulness.
“Is it a good place to work?” Pitt asked, trying to sound completely casual.
“Any work is good,” Karansky answered. “He pays fair enough. Hours are long and the work can be hard, but it’s enough to live on, if you are careful. It’s a lot better than starving, and there’s already enough around here that do that. But don’t set your heart on it, unless you know someone who can get you in.”
“I don’t. Where else should I look?”
Karansky blinked. “You’re not going to try for it?”
