“Sony to rouse you up again, Wentworth,” he said, opening the door and peering in at me. “But I thought this would be a good time to go visit that place Lestrade told us about—you know, the pub where McPhee’s Irish assistant used to wet his whistle. I’d like somebody with me if I’m going to walk into a rough workingmen’s bar, preferably a big football player. I know you’ve taken your lumps already today, but do you think you could manage to get back on your feet for one more round?”
“You make it sound like a prizefight,” I said. “I hope that’s a figure of speech.” He simply grinned, so I pulled myself to my feet, with a deep sigh, and quickly girded my loins to go back out on the town.
The place Lestrade had mentioned was within easy walking distance, but in deference to my bruises, we took the carriage. Not all the way: as Mr. Clemens pointed out, our clothes and American accents were likely enough to make us conspicuous. Not wanting to emphasize that by pulling up in front of it in even his modest rented rig, he had our driver drop us off at the nearest corner, rather than directly in front.
Our destination, when we found it, was a shabby building near the river. The street was not quite as brightly lit as other parts of London I had seen, and there was a briny smell in the neighborhood, reminiscent of a pickle barrel. The Painted Lady’s signboard was chipped and faded, hard to read with the gas lamp all the way across the street. Below it was a dilapidated flight of stairs leading to a stout wooden door. We were the only ones on the street, but when we opened the door we found a room full of smoke, noise, and brawny workingmen holding tankards of ale.
Every eye turned to inspect us, and there was a distinct pause in the conversation—exposing the wheezing sound of a concertina and an off-key tenor voice singing some oddly familiar air whose words were lost in an accent too thick to penetrate—then the denizens of the little pub gave a collective shrug and returned to their amusements. Still, there was a chill in the air around us as we made our way to the bar and leaned against it, waiting for the tavernkeeper’s attention. We were by a considerable margin the best-dressed men in the place, and both of us had decided to dress down for our foray into Terry Mulligan’s native habitat.
Finally the tavernkeeper—a broad-beamed fellow with round spectacles and a waxed moustache—sidled over to us. He looked us up and down, then said, “You gents might be ’appier in the Royal Harms, two streets over. This ’ere’s just a workman’s pub, nothin’ posh to hit. Gets a mite rough sometimes, hit does.” A big man next to Mr. Clemens nodded, scowling the whole time.
“We don’t mind rough,” said Mr. Clemens. “In fact, we’re here because we hear tell this is the right place to find somebody that don’t mind a little rough work. But I reckon the first thing we want is a couple of pints of your best bitter, if you don’t mind drawing ’em for us.” He slapped a pound note on the counter and waited.
The tavernkeeper stared at the bill as if it might be a ransom note—evidently folding money was not common hereabouts—but then he picked it up and went to draw the drinks. While he worked the taps, Mr. Clemens turned to inspect the crowd, leaning his elbows back on the bar. There were a few of the locals still eyeing us suspiciously—we were probably the only visitors the place had seen in weeks, other than the deliveryman for the brewery. Those who hadn’t overheard my employer’s Missouri twang were probably wondering if he was a plainclothes policeman, and what they had done to make themselves the object of his attention.
The tavernkeeper set the two pints to the side to let the foam settle, and came back over to our side of the bar; the scowling fellow had signaled him. The two leaned close together and whispered. The noise covered most of what they said, but the phrase “bloody Yanks” came through clearly enough. That, combined with the hostile glances the customer sent our way, was sufficient to convey the general tenor of their discourse. I remembered that Lestrade hadn’t wanted to send his men in here, and I wondered how wise we were to enter someplace the police did not care to visit. I doubted whether any information we might find here was worth having to fight our way out of the place—a prospect Mr. Clemens seemed not to have taken into account.
Indeed, Mr. Clemens was scanning the room as nonchalantly as he might have an elegant parlor full of tea-drinking literary ladies. Most of the customers had gone back to whatever had occupied them before our entrance—a group was gathered around the concertina, others were playing cards or checkers, and many were simply talking, no doubt on very much the same subjects that would interest their peers in New York (or Singapore, for that matter). It would have seemed a perfectly ordinary place, except for the evident antipathy its regular denizens had for strangers.
Mr. Clemens broke my train of thought by nudging me and saying quietly, “I don’t think Mulligan’s here, but maybe I don’t remember him well enough to recognize him. Take a look and see if you spot him.”
A quick look around revealed nobody resembling Mulligan, but the dim light and thick
