asked curiously.' 'Thin Jimmy knows me, 'e's a downy little swine, but 'e don' give me no flam-so don' you neither, or yer'll get a right dew-skitch afore yer leaves Lime'ouse.'
Pitt had no doubt that indeed he would be thrashed soundly if he gave Deacon any 'flam.' Word for word, he passed on the information he had gleaned so carefully all day. Deacon looked satisfied; the light of a deep inner jubilation spread over his broad face, and his lips parted in a gummy smile.
'Right. So wotcher want from me, then? This in't fer nuffin'!'
'Westminster Bridge murder,' Pitt replied candidly. 'Anarchists? Irish Fenians? Revolutionaries? What do you hear?'
Deacon was surprised. 'Nuffink! Least, o' course I 'card a bit! Ten years ago I'd 'a said 'Arry Parkin. Great one fer the anarchists, 'e were, but 'e were crapped in 'eighty-three. Three week in the saltbox, then the long drop fer 'im. 'E were never good fer nuffink but bug 'unting anyway, poor bastard.'
' 'They don't hang people for robbing drunks,'' Pitt pointed out.
'Killed some shofulman,' Deacon explained. 'Paid 'im in fakement, an Parkin cracked 'is 'aed open. Stupid bastard!'
'Not much help,' Pitt said dryly. 'Try a little harder.' 68
' 'I'll ask Mary Murphy,'' Deacon offered.' 'She's an 'ore. Sails on 'er bottom-no pimp. She'll 'ave 'card if it's the Fenians, but I reckon it in't.'
'Anarchists?' Pitt pressed.
Deacon shook his head. 'Nan! That in't the way their minds goes. Stick a shiv hi some geezer on Westminster Bridge! Wot good'd that do 'em? They'd go fer a bomb, summink showy. Loves bombs, they do. All talk, they are-never do nuffink so quiet.'
'Then what is the word down here?'
'Croaked by someone as 'ated 'im, personal like.' Deacon opened his little eyes wide. 'In't no flam-I makes me livin' by blowin', I'd be a muck snipe in a munf if I done that! In't quick enough to thieve no more. I'd 'ave ter try a scaldrum dodge, an that in't no way ter live!'
No, begging by fake or self-inflicted wounds would hardly fit Deacon's sense of his own dignity.
'No,' Pitt agreed, standing slowly, keeping his eye on the dog. ' 'Nor is sitting in lavender in some deadlurk the rest of your days.' It was a cant term for hiding from the police in an empty house.
Deacon understood the threat perfectly, nor did he appear to resent it: it was an expected part of trade.
' 'That murder in't nuffink ter do wiv us in the East End,'' he said with total candor. 'Don' do us no good. An' we knows abaht anarchists and the like, because it pays us ter. I'll keep an ear for yer, seein' as yer gave me wot I wanted. But me best word to you is that it in't nuflink revolutionary, yer'd best look to 'is own sort.'
'Or a random lunatic,' Pitt said grimly.
' 'Oh.'' Deacon sighed deeply. ' 'Well, there's some o' vem an' all, but not from 'ere. We takes care o' vem our own way. Look to 'is own sort, mister, vat's wot I says. 'Is own sort.'
* * *
69
It was five days after Emily's wedding and departure on the boat train for Paris that Pitt was awakened from his first early night since the murder by a loud and urgent knocking on his front door. He emerged slowly from the soft, sweet darkness of sleep into a realization that the thumping was no part of a dream but persisted into reality, demanding his attention.
'What is it?' Charlotte asked drowsily at his side. Funny how she could sleep through this noise, and yet if one of the children but whispered she was wide awake and up on her feet getting into her robe before he had struggled to consciousness.
'Door,' he said blearily, reaching in the dark to find his jacket and trousers. It could only
