“Which pub is she in?” I asked Soho Vic.
“She’s been crawlin’ since they opened the doors. Already kicked out of the Juniper Lane Gin Shop. She’s holdin’ court at the Rosy Crown now, and will for a while if they don’t chuck her out on her straw hat, as well.”
“Thanks.” I tossed him a sovereign. It was Barker’s standard price for information. Vic caught and pocketed it.
“Got what I came for. Ta-ta, laddies.” Soho Vic trundled down the stairs, whistling the lastest music hall song.
“I’m going to kill him one of these days,” I contented myself with saying.
“Not if I get there first,” Mac replied. “Drat! Someone just went in and I didn’t see who it was. That street arab has thrown off my records.”
“I should go looking for him-the Guv, I mean. He’ll want to know this. If Stead should prove to be openly buying children in Bethnal Green, then he could quite possibly be Miacca himself. Or could he be doing it to corroborate the white slaver stories.”
“That would be scandalous,” Mac said. “I mean, doesn’t Stead have a reputation as a reformer and a brilliant newspaperman? If this should be true…I mean, it’s unthinkable.”
“I’m not one who ascribes weaknesses to the masses,” I answered. “Even great men can have their flaws. In fact, it would take a strong mind to come up with a plan even Scotland Yard and Cyrus Barker are unable to foil. I really should look for him.”
“But where? He could be anywhere in the Green or even out of it. You can’t just walk the area. If you go straight down Globe Road, he’s liable to come in from Green Street looking for you. It’s best for you to stay here. Hallo! This is interesting.”
“What?” I asked, sitting up.
“Your Miss Potter is giving a gentleman a piece of her mind.”
“A gentleman?”
“Yes, I think it was the one who slipped in a few minutes ago. Middle-aged fellow with a monocle.”
Despite my protesting limbs, I pulled myself to the window and peered over the sill.
“My word,” I said. “She’s really laying in to him.”
I was spying upon the poor girl, but I could not help it. She was in the midst of a strong argument with the fellow I’d seen at the Egyptian Hall. They were outside the charity building, just out of earshot, and she was shaking a finger at him and speaking animatedly. The gentleman, if I dare call him that, had his arms crossed and responded to her every now and then coolly. He was unflappable. I felt despite all her words and gestures, he was in control of the situation. What was going on? Who was this chap and what was he to her? What on earth were they arguing about?
“I suppose it’s her father,” Mac stated.
I’d forgotten I wasn’t alone.
“No doubt he prefers she give up this socialist nonsense and come home.”
“You think it nonsense?” I asked.
With a flounce, Beatrice turned and marched back into the building. This was a side of her I had not seen and did not wish to see again, not if that finger was waving in my face. The gentleman took out his watch and consulted it, then turned, raised his hat to a man passing by, and walked down Globe Road. The man to whom he had raised his hat was Cyrus Barker.
Below, the door squealed and I heard the Guv’s steady tread upon the stair. He came up and stood at the top, staring at us.
“What has happened?” he asked.
“Who did you speak to in the street, sir?” I asked. “We just witnessed an argument between him and Miss Potter.”
“It was quite heated,” Jacob Maccabee put in.
“Was it the gentleman you saw at the Egyptian Hall?” the Guv asked.
“It was.”
“That is Joseph Chamberlain, the MP, leader of the radical party.”
I turned to Mac. “So much for your father theory.”
“He could be a friend of the family,” our factotum maintained. “Perhaps her father objects to her being in such a dangerous area and sent a family friend to make his wishes known.”
“She spoke awfully heatedly to him,” I argued. “That’s not the way a girl usually speaks to her father’s friends.”
“But she’s one of those women who sets propriety at naught.”
“Is that all, gentlemen?” Barker asked, ending the discussion, which could have gone all day unresolved.
“No, sir,” I answered. “Vic’s just been here. An agent working for Mr. Stead purchased a child from her mother this morning for the princely sum of five pounds.”
“That is news. If you wish to accompany me, you had better get dressed.”
In the hansom that took us to Northumberland Street, Barker appeared to be off in his own private world. The actual solving of the case, the tracking down of Miacca, was Barker’s doing, though I knew someday I would be required to attempt such solutions myself. Had it really been Stead all along, killing those girls and sending us taunting messages? I was content to let Barker discern the mystery.
In Northumberland Street, the Guv passed one of his agency cards to a clerk of the Pall Mall Gazette. After five minutes’ delay, we were shown into Stead’s office. The editor himself was behind his desk, which was covered in papers, messages, telegrams, rival newspapers, notes, a wrapper containing half a sandwich, and a tankard of stout. Stead did not look like a fugitive ready to leave for the Continent any time soon.
“Where is the child?” Barker demanded. “The one you purchased from her mother for five pounds.”
“Ah. You mean Eliza Armstrong. Sweet girl. Yes, she and the woman who purchased her for me are on their way to Dover.” He consulted his watch from his waistcoat pocket. “They should arrive in half an hour or so.”
I could not believe my ears. Stead was admitting everything to us.
“And what shall become of them, then?” my employer demanded.
“Oh, the child is to be spirited to a secluded house in the French countryside owned by the Salvation Army. They are helping me in this endeavor. Won’t you gentlemen have a chair?”
The Guv and I sat down.
“What you have done today will become known-” my employer said.
“Oh, I shall announce it in the Gazette soon. I plan a special supplement. I shall call it ‘Maiden Tribute of Modern Babylon.’ I’ll confess everything freely.”
“You shall go to jail for it,” Barker warned.
“Oh, most certainly. My solicitor says I will be lucky to get less than six months. But that was not my purpose. There are easier ways to get into jail.”
“You mean to force the bill raising the age of consent.”
“Precisely. They’ll be reading ‘Maiden Tribute’ from Lyme Regis to the Outer Hebrides. If that doesn’t pass the bill, then London really has become Babylon, and I shall step down from the helm of this newspaper and retire.”
“‘Maiden Tribute,’” Barker said, frowning.
“Greek mythology, sir,” I supplied. “Children in Crete were sacrificed to appease the lusts of a monster named the Minotaur.”
“You should have left London, Mr. Stead,” Barker said.
“That would add fuel to the rumor that I truly was transporting Miss Armstrong for immoral purposes.”
“True, but you would be out of harm’s way. Is there not some other way?” Barker implored. “This is ruinous to your career.”
“My constituents claim they shall support me, should this go to trial. If they do not, I should start my own journal in competition with the Gazette when I am a free man again. Have you any other option?”
“None, now that the machinery is in place. I should warn you that there is a group of nobles who are ready to fight against any possible bill-and I do not mean merely in the houses of Parliament. They have procured the
