“Yes?”
“Only one who wins is the Old Lady of Threadneedle Street.”
“Threadneedle who?”
“Bank of England. It's on Threadneedle Street.” His eyes shifted. He brought her into focus and suddenly changed the subject entirely. “Copperwaite's somewhat upset with us- the two of us-but mostly me. He believes me over the moon about you, in raptures.”
She blushed and lifted the menu to cover her face, pretending hunger and thirst, but asking, “Is Copperwaite right?”
“Right? I can't say. just yet.”
She quickly returned to her menu and asked of a drink, “What's a pink gin?”
“Gin and bitters with water added. Would you care to indulge?”
“Only if you'll join me. But perhaps another beer, or a pint as you call it over here, would be wiser?”
“I'm off the ticker. Either way is fine with me. As for a pint, if a Briton asks for a pint, he means a pint of bitter. It's a unit of liquid measure, the pint in question is an Imperial pint, twenty ounces.”
“A beer in America is only sixteen ounces!”
“Half a pint is ten ounces. That may be what you want to order. It's what I carried over here for you.” He indicated the now empty glass in front of her.
“I see, I think…”
Jessica gave him a bemused smile which he took to mean “go on,” which he did. “As for whiskey or scotch, when you want a decent drink in London, you must ask for a double, but not even the bravest or thirstiest lad would dare ask a British bartender for a triple.”
She laughed loud enough to alert the tables around them. He continued on, “If you want to go easy on yourself, you might try our vintage cider. Goes down too easily, actually.”
“Really?”
“With the consistency of good sherry and at least as strong.”
Row after row of glasses in two sizes, pint and half pint, gleamed in the light just above the bar, tethered upside down on hooks like crystal bats.
“Next,” Richard continued, “you must decide between ordinary bitter and best bitter, when ordering a pint.”
“What's the difference? Which do you prefer?”
“The best, of course. It's stronger, aged longer.”
“Is that what we've had already? It was delicious.”
“Yes. So what will it be?” She settled for the pink gin. He called for two.
“So, I take it that Boulte doesn't like you. Inspector.” Already, the half pint of bitters worked to slur her words and thoughts.
“Boulte would like to make me a points man.”
“Meaning?”
“A policeman on point duty is a traffic cop.”
She asked him about his time in the military. He evaded the question, beginning a spiel on England's pubs instead, pointing about the place as he did so. “Pubs-public houses- like this one are an institution in England. Everyone in Britain has his pub. Some call it the local. Each pub has two bars, generally, the public bar and the private or saloon bar where you're apt to find a carpet on the floor and linen tablecloths on the tables. Drinks in the private room are a bit pricier, of course, but the dartboard, the billiard table, and the shove-half penny board you'll always find out here. If you want, tonight, we could do a pub crawl, that is make the rounds as you Yanks say. In fact, we could go to Clubland.”
“Clubland?”
“St. James's-an area of London that includes the palace of the same name. Houses many of London's most famous clubs.”
“And you wish to do this for me? With the express purpose of getting the both of us loaded?”
“Stinking. Boulte and the public prosecutor would love to learn of it. They might well have one of the Q- Division staring at me right this moment for all I know.”
“Public prosecutor? Q-Division?”i
“A division of the Yard, internal affairs. As for the P.P., that'd be Ellen Sturgeon, what you would call the district attorney. You met her briefly at the meeting of all the citywide officers, didn't you?”
“No, I didn't. No one formally introduced us, but I do recall a stem-looking broomstick in the comer.”
“That's her. She's moving so fast on the rat brothers, you'd imagine the Thames is at Floodgate Street. Boulte and she have it all worked out, you see, and if they can control me, then they haven't a bother. Typical upper-level thinking usually means no-thinking.”
“Then perhaps we should go to a museum instead of doing a pub crawl, is it?”
“I say we rave-up. Take in some dancing. Either that or a drive into the regions?”
“The regions?”
“Home counties, the provinces. See the countryside.”
“Sounds lovely. I'd like that.”
“So, what looks good on the menu?”
She stared down at a list of sandwiches, soups, and meat pies. Coming across one called Spotted-Dog Pie gave her the strangest image of Dalmations all skinned and cooked in a stew. She pointed it out to Richard in a half-singing voice, “See spot ran, see spot die, see spot as a Christmas pie.”
“The dog is rather tasty, actually, a dessert pudding. It's a roly-poly pudding with suet, raisins, and currants, and not a Dalmatian, I assure you. May I suggest number thirteen, however?”
She glanced quickly to the number and read aloud, “Resurrection Pie…”
“Apropos, I should think,” he finished.
“What is it?”
“Resurrection… created from leftovers, you see.” She flashed on a mental image of the leftover lives of the many victims of the Crucifier, wondering if the rat brothers could be considered vicdms in this bizarre case as well. “Suddenly, I'm not so hungry,” she pleaded.
“Fine, then let's have at the shove-halfpenny.”
“But I don't know how to play.”
“You're quite better off not knowing. It's quite possibly the most frustrating game in the world.”
Soon they were shoving well-polished old halfpennies with the flat of the hand along a board separated into horizontal secdons, each with numerical value, a kind of miniature shuffleboard. With each halfpenny came laughter from them both.
As they played, Jessica began telling Sharpe of her last visit to Luc Sante and their conversation. She felt inept, however, in restating the man's words. She feared her retelling of his remarks on the Crucifier fell flat.
“Slut's wool,” he replied.
Taken aback by this, she asked, “Whatever do you mean?”
“It's the stuff collects under the bed, behind the bureau, and other hard-to-reach places. Half or more what the old shrink says is slut's wool. I know. I went to him when I'd become depressed over my divorce.”
“Really?”
“I had worked with him on many occasions. I learned that he was good with divorce, and he was, but he also likes to hear himself talk.”
“But I thought you thought him of excellent reputation and help in police matters.”
“Of course he is, but I'm on my way to being smashed tonight, so there you have it.” Freshly cleaned and scrubbed and prayed over, the holy cross awaited its next supplicant. All about it and all around the pulpit placed here by their leader, the followers of the Church of the New Millennia and the Second Coming, bowed their heads in prayer and supplication. They did so amid the squalor and degradation of a church that must shun the light of a society that condemned it, in a place where rats infested, where an ancient floor lay buried, and where a long forgotten mine shaft and a putrid, unclean canal sat dormant for generations.
The unclean water meant they had to take the bodies elsewhere for cleansing, which was part of the ritual. They had to be cleansed in God's lakes, ponds, and rivers.
