She fished in her large pocket and brought out her purse. She counted out two sixpences and a threepenny piece but kept them in her hand.
“Where can I find Joe Slater?”
“In’t them boots good enough for yer?”
“W’ere is ’e?” Her fingers closed over the money.
“Leather aprons, ’bout ten stalls down.” He held out his hand for the money.
She gave it to him, thanked him and took her boots.
She found Joe Slater approximately where Sid had told her. She regarded him discreetly for several minutes, judging what she would say to him, how to begin. He was a lean, scrawny youth with fair hair and careful gray eyes. She liked his face. Of course it was a swift judgment, and she was very prepared to change it if it proved necessary, but so far there was a quality in his features which pleased her.
She made up her mind. She lifted her chin, straightened her back and walked over to him, her eyes bright and very direct.
“You Joe Slater?” she asked cheerfully, her voice conveying her own certainty that he was.
“ ’Oo are you?” he said with mild suspicion. One had to be careful.
“I’m Gracie ’Awkins,” she replied with total candor. “I want ter talk to yer.”
“I’m ’ere ter sell, not talk ter bits o’ girls,” he said. But there was no abruptness in his voice, and his expression was not unpleasant.
“I in’t stoppin’ yer sellin’,” she pointed out. Now came the lie, at least the first one. “I works for a lady in the thee-ayter wot yer could ’elp, if yer cared to.”
“Wot’s in it fer me?”
“I dunno! Nuffink fer me, that’s certain. But I reckon as fer you it could be summink good. She in’t poor, and she in’t mean.”
“So why me? Wot does she want me ter do for ’er?” He screwed up his face in considerable doubt. “You ‘avin’ me on?”
“I got better things ter do wif me time than come traipsin’ down ’ere lookin’ fer someone I never ’eard of afore, just ter ’ave yer on!” She laughed sharply and with derision. “It ’as ter be you, cos yer the only one wot knows.”
“Knows wot?” In spite of himself he was interested.
“The face of a man wot killed someone. Murdered ’im pretty ’orrible, an’ got the wrong man ’anged fer it.”
His expression pinched and a closed, angry look came into his eyes.
“Yer mean ’im wot was murdered in Farriers’ Lane, don’t yer? Well, I already told the rozzers all I know an’ I in’t sayin’ no more ter no one. The rozzers send yer ’ere after me? Gawd, won’ them bastards never leave me alone?” Now there was real bitterness in him and his body was stiff, his hands clenched tight.
“Oh yeah?” she said sarcastically, angry with herself for having spoiled the mood, and with him. “I’m part o’ the rozzers, I am. I only look like this w’en I’m out on a case. Really I’m six foot ’igh and strong as an ox. A real rozzer, I just left me uniform at ’ome terday.”
“Oh, very smart tongue,” he sneered. “So you in’t a rozzer. Why d’yer want ter know about ’im, eh? It’s all over, and in’t nuffink ter me now. The bleedin’ rozzers ’ave ’ounded me like a rat ever since then. First they tried ter tell me I saw a man as I didn’t. They near broke me arms.” He hunched his shoulders experimentally to see if it still pained. “ ’Urt fer munfs after, they did. Then w’en the trial came up they ’ounded me again. I argued wif ’em an’ they told me as they’d put me in the Coldbath Fields fer thievin’.” He scowled. “D’yer know ’ow many folks dies in there o’ gaol fever? Fousands! Put me on the treadmill, one of them cockchafers—w’ere yer can’t breathe fer suffocation, and if yer don’t keep on walking them steps yer fall over, an’ the ’ole thing ’urts yer privates terrible. I in’t tell-in’ nobody nuffink about that night, not fer you nor yer lady in the thee-ayter. Now go away and bother someone else. Garn!” He flapped his hand, dismissing her, and glared out of narrow, angry eyes.
For a moment she was stumped. She did not argue; she knew enough of the police from the wrong side of the law to believe what he said. She had had uncles and a brother who had been hounded, and a distant cousin who had been sent to prison. She had seen him when he had come out, slow-witted, wasted by gaol fever, his joints aching, his walk shambling and uncertain from the agony of the cockchafer.
“Gam,” he said again, more sharply. “I can’t tell yer nuffink!”
She stepped back a bit, disconcerted, but not defeated, not yet.
A customer came and haggled for several minutes before finally buying an apron, then another one came, argued, and bought nothing. For over an hour Gracie stood and watched, getting colder and colder, her hands becoming stiff holding the new boots.
Joe left and went to a barrow on the next street to get himself an eel pie. Gracie followed him, and bought herself one as well. It was hot and tasted delicious.
“There in’t no use yer followin’ me,” Joe said when he saw her. “I in’t tellin yer nuffink! Nor I certainly in’t goin’ ter no rozzers.” He sighed, licking the juice off his lips. “Listen, yer stupid lump! The rozzers swear they got the right geezer. They ’ad ’im arrested and tried! The toffs were ’appy wif it! They argued ’round an’ ’round, like they always do. They said ’e were guilty, they’d done right ter nab ’im, and they ’anged the poor swine.” He took another bite of his pie and went on with his mouth full. “If yer think they’re goin’ ter say now as they was wrong, on the word o’ some nobody orf the street, then yer daft enough fer Bedlam, an that’s a fact.” He swallowed. “Yer mistress is dreamin’ an she’ll only ’urt ’erself, an’ you too, if you’ve got no more sense than to listen to ’er.”
“It weren’t ’im wot done it,” Gracie began.
“ ’Oo cares?” he cut across her angrily. “Listen, you idjut! It don’t matter ’oo done it. Wot matters now is ’oo’s made ter look bad cos they ’anged the wrong bloke. They in’t goin’ ter say as they did that—no matter wot.” He jerked his hand in the air with his pie in it. “Think abaht it, if yer’ve got anyfink in yer ’ead at all besides sawdust.
