And then she smiled her recognition.
‘Mr Glapthorn, I think. How do you do?’ Delightfully, she gave me a kiss on the cheek. She smelled of soap and eau de Cologne.
I replied that I was all the better for seeing her and asked after her employer, the enterprising Madame Mathilde, and also her sister Cissie, for I had a sudden strong hankering to reacquaint myself with these most accommodating
Cissie was in Gerrard-street, I was informed, and so after some refreshment at the Opera Tavern, we repaired thither through the rain. Up the stairs we went, to find Miss Cissie warming her pretty toes by the fire.
‘Well, ladies,’ I said gaily, removing my hat and gloves, ‘here we are again.’
Afterwards, I walked down to Leicester-square. Minded to take some supper, I turned into Castle-street and entered Rouget’s, having briefly inspected the offerings in Mr Quaritch’s window
At half past eleven, the waiter opened the door to the street for me to pass through, holding out his hand to assist me as I mounted the step, but I pushed him away with a curse. For a moment or two I was unable to remember where I was. A crowd of bravoes came rolling down the street towards me, and looked me up and down, thinking perhaps that I was ripe for picking. But I was still able to eye them back, defiantly spitting out my cigar butt as I did so. They continued on their way.
‘Looking for business, sir?’
Damn it. I had nothing else to do, and Miss Mabel and Miss Cissie were already dim memories. She was young, not too dirty, and had a pretty smile.
‘Always looking for business, my dear.’
What was that? I turned as quickly as I could; but in my somewhat inebriated state, I lost my balance and fell against the girl. She tried to hold me up but I was too heavy, and we both ended up on the muddy pavement.
‘’Ere, wot’s your game?’ she asked indignantly.
But I was no longer interested in a piece of cheap cunny. That tap on the shoulder had brought me to my senses.
I saw him reach into his pocket, and in another second the cosh was in his hand. The girl, screaming obscenities, scrambled up from the pavement and started to kick at him. As he turned to push her away, I drew out my pistol and pointed it straight into the ugly face of Josiah Pluckrose.
We stood thus, eyeball to eyeball, until he gave me an evil smile, calmly replaced the cosh in his pocket, and walked off, whistling.
My encounter with Pluckrose stung me into action, and I soon devised a plan, which, I hoped, would deprive Daunt of his formidable protector.
A man like Pluckrose, I reasoned, would have made many enemies. As I turned over this likelihood in my mind, I remembered something that Lewis Pettingale had said in passing, during our conversation in Gray’s-Inn, concerning Isaac Gabb, the youngest member of the Newmarket gang to have been despatched by Pluckrose, known then as Mr Verdant.
According to Pettingale, Gabb the Younger’s brother had kept a public-house in Rotherhithe; a moment’s consultation of the Directory on my return to Temple-street quickly identified the establishment and its location. Knowing from my own experience the general disposition of the population of Rotherhithe, and knowing also from Pettingale that Gabb Senior had expressed a clear desire to return the favour to his brother’s killer, if only he could find him, it seemed most probable that this gentleman might not be averse to knowing Mr Verdant’s real name and present whereabouts.
So far, so good. But where was Pluckrose now residing? He had surely moved from Weymouth-street, where he had been living when he married poor Agnes Baker. I consulted the current issue of the Directory and, to my amazement, found him listed therein. Confirmation that Mr J. Pluckrose was the present occupier of Number 42, Weymouth-street, was soon provided by the scullery maid from Number 40; Mr Pluckrose, it seemed, had not vacated the house after the death of his wife but had brazenly remained there, in defiance of his neighbours’ disapproval, ever since.
Armed with this salient fact, I set off for Rotherhithe.
Mr Abraham Gabb was a short, lean-shanked, gimlet-eyed gentleman, possessing the vicious aspect of a terrier perpetually on the look-out for something to sink his teeth into and shake until its back-bone cracked. The public- house in Rotherhithe of which he was lord and master was, like himself, small, dirty, and vicious by reputation. Mine host regarded me warily as I approached the bar; but I was used to such places, and to men such as Mr Gabb, and had only to look him in the eye, slap down some coins, and say but a few choice words before I had his complete attention.
As he digested the information that I put before him, his terrier eyes began to glint – no doubt in eager anticipation of renewing his acquaintance with the gentleman who had undoubtedly cut short his brother’s life. My plan succeeded more easily than I could have anticipated. As he had only ever known Pluckrose by his soubriquet of ‘Mr Verdant’, it had hitherto been impossible for Gabb to hunt down his brother’s killer. Knowing now where he lived, and under what name, the landlord was in a position to mete out the vengeance that he had long contemplated. Throwing back my brandy, I expressed myself heartily gratified that I had been able to perform this trifling service to him.
But Mr Gabb was wary, and said nothing by way of reply; then, calling over two ugly-looking, bull-backed bruisers who had been leaning together, deep in conversation, at the other end of the bar, he left me alone, and the three of them engaged in a huddled conference. At length, after much whistling and pursing of lips, the landlord, nodding knowingly to his two compatriots, turned back towards me.
‘You’re sure Verdant is there?’ Mr Gabb, still wary, fixed me with his eye while he stroked his dirty chin as an aid to comprehension.
‘As sure as I’m standing here.’
‘And wot’s your int’rest in the matter?’ he growled suspiciously.
