“Rubbish!” a black-haired man contradicted her with contempt. “It’s them Jews!”
“Hang ’em!” a man in green shouted, raising his arm. “Hang ’em all!”
“Bring back deportation!” someone else called. “Let Orstralia ’ave ’em! Should never ’ave got rid o’ deportation—that’s wot’s wrong.”
“Can’t do anything until you catch them,” Jack pointed out. “I say get more professional police, men who are trained to do the job, not gentlemen who speak nicely and have good clothes but couldn’t catch a thief if they were locked in a room with him.”
“Yeah! Yeah, that’s right!” someone called out. A thin woman in gray waved her hand approvingly. A stout man with waxed mustaches jeered and whistled. “What you got agin’ gentlemen? You an anarchist, eh? You one o’ them wot wants ter get rid o’ the Queen, are yer?”
“Certainly not,” Jack replied, keeping his equanimity with difficulty. “I’m a loyal subject of Her Majesty. And I like gentlemen—some of my best friends are gentlemen. In fact, at times I am one myself.”
There was a roar of laughter.
“But I’m not a policeman,” he went on. “I don’t have that skill—and I know it. Neither do most other gentlemen.”
“Even some o’ our policemen don’t, an’ all!” the pie seller shouted, to more laughter. “ ’Oo’s the ’Yde Park ’Eadsman, then? Why don’t they catch ’im?”
“They will do!” Jack called out impulsively. “There’s a first-class professional policeman on the case—and if the Home Office helps instead of curbing him, he’ll catch the Headsman!” As soon as he had said it, Emily knew he regretted it, but the words were out.
There was a roar of skepticism from the crowd, and one or two turned to look at Uttley.
“Superintendent Pitt,” Uttley said with a jeering smile. “A gamekeeper’s son. I know why Mr. Radley has such confidence in him—they are brothers-in-law! Do you know something the public have not been told, Radley? Something secret, perhaps? What are the police doing? What is Pitt doing?”
Now the crowd was looking at Jack with suspicion, and an ugliness shadowed their faces. The mood had changed again.
“I know he’s a brilliant policeman, working as hard as any man can,” Jack shouted back. “And if he isn’t hobbled by the powers in the Home Office and the government, trying to protect their own, then he’ll catch the Headsman.”
There was a low, angry rumble and again the mood swung right around and directed the anger at Uttley.
“Yeah!” a fat man said loudly. “Give us real police, not some bleedin’ toff in fancy clothes wot won’t get his ’ands dirty.”
“That’s right,” the woman with the peppermint drinks added. “Get rid of them wot’s protecting their own. The ’Eadsman maybe ain’t a poor lunatic at all. Maybe ’e’s one o’ them fancy gents wot’s got something personal agin’ other gents.”
“Maybe they was perverts wot picked up women an’ got done by their pimps for something real nasty?”
Uttley opened his mouth to deny it, then saw their faces and changed his mind.
“They are our police, and it’s our city,” Jack said finally. “Let’s give them our support and they’ll catch this monster—whoever he is: gentleman or lunatic—or both.”
There was a cheer from the crowd, and one by one they began to drift away.
Uttley jumped down from the carriage steps where he had been standing and walked over to Jack and Emily, his eyes hard and narrow, the small muscle in his jaw pinched. “A little cheap laughter,” he said between his teeth. “Half a dozen men who can vote—maybe. The rest is dross.”
“If they were no use, what were you doing here?” Emily said before she thought.
Uttley glared at her. “There are issues here, madam, you know nothing about.” He looked at Jack with a steady, unblinking stare. “But you do, Radley. You know who is on my side … and who on yours.” His lips parted in a very slight smile. “You made a bad mistake last time, and it will tell against you. You’ve made enemies. It will be enough—you’ll see.” And with that he turned on his heel, strode back to his carriage and swung himself up into it in a single movement. He shouted at his coachman and without hesitation the horses threw themselves forward as the whip lashed over their backs.
“He means the Inner Circle, doesn’t he?” Emily said with a shiver as though the sun had gone in, although actually it was as bright as the moment before. “Can it really make so much difference?”
“I don’t know,” Jack answered honestly. “But if it can, it’s a very black day for England.”
Charlotte was in the kitchen after Pitt had left for the day, and the breakfast dishes were cleared away. Daniel and Jemima were preparing to leave for school, and Gracie was at the sink.
Five-year-old Daniel coughed dramatically, then as no one paid him any attention, Charlotte being busy with seven-year-old Jemima’s hair, he did it again.
“Daniel has a cough,” Jemima said helpfully.
“Yes I have,” Daniel agreed immediately, and went into a paroxysm to demonstrate it.
“Don’t do that anymore, or you’ll have a real sore throat,” Charlotte said unsympathetically.
“I have,” he agreed, nodding his head, his eyes on hers, bright and clear.
She smiled at him. “Yes, my dear, and it is my considered deduction that you also have arithmetic today, yes?”
He was too young to have learned successful evasion.
“I don’t think I’m well enough for arithmetic,” he said candidly. The sun through the windows shone on his bright hair, gleaming with the same auburn as hers.
