Highgate Rise - Anne Perry [107]
On the other hand, Jack looked like a dandy, in spite of his rather well-worn clothes. They might be old, but that did not disguise the flair with which he tied his cravat, or the good cut of the shoulders and the lie of the lapels. No, here was a man who knew and liked the good things. If he was on hard times he would make no worker: his hands, smooth, well-manicured and gloveless, attested to that. But then he did look shrewd, and there was an air about him of easiness, a charm. He might make an excellent trickster, well able to live on his arts. And he would not be the first gentieman to do that—by a long way.
“So yer want a room?” he said mildly. “I daresay as I can find yer one. Mebbe if yer can pay fer it, one all ter yerselves, like. Ow abaht five shillin’s a week?”
Jack’s lip curled with distaste and he reached out and put his hand on Emily’s arm. “Actually you mistake our purpose,” he said very frankly, looking at Thickett with hard eyes. “I represent Smurfitt, Taylor and Mordue, Solicitors. My name is John Consterdine.” He saw Thickett’s face tighten in a mixture of anger and caution. “There is a suit due to be heard regarding property upon which there have been acts of negligence which bear responsibility for considerable loss. Since you collect the rents for this property, we assume you own it, and therefore are liable—”
“No I don’t!” Thickett’s eyes narrowed and he tightened his body defensively. “I collect rents, that’s all. Just collect. That’s an honest job and yer got no business wi’ me. I can’t ’elpyer.”
“I am not in need of help, Mr. Thickett,” Jack said with considerable aplomb. “It is you, if you own the property, who will shortly be in prison for undischarged debt—”
“Oh no I won’t. I don’t own nuffin but this ’ouse, which in’t ’ad nuffin wrong wif it fer years. Anyway”—he screwed up his face in new appraisal, his native common sense returning, now the first alarm had worn off—“if yer a lawyer, ’oo are they? Lawyers’ clerks, eh?” He jabbed a powerful finger towards Emily, Charlotte and Gracie.
Jack answered with transparent honesty.
“This is my wife, this is my sister-in-law, and this is her maid. I brought them because I knew you would be little likely to see me alone, having a good idea who I was and why I came. And circumstances proved me right. You took us for a family on hard fortune and needing to rent your rooms. The law requires that I serve papers on you—” He made as if to reach into his inside pocket.
“No it don’t,” Thickett said rapidly. “I don’t own no buildings; like I said, I just collect the rents—”
“And put them in your pocket,” Jack finished for him. “Good. You’ll likely have a nice fund somewhere to pay the costs—”
“All I ’ave is me wage wot I’m paid for it. I give all the rest, ceptin’ my bit, over.”
“Oh yes?” Jack’s eyebrows went up disbelievingly. “To whom?”
“Ter ve manager, o’ course. Ter ’im wot manages the business fer ’o’ever owns all them buildings along Lisbon Street.”
“Indeed? And who is he?” The disbelief was still there.
“I dunno. W’ere the ’ell are you from? D’yer think people ’oo ’as places like vat puts their names on the door? Yer daft, or suffink?”
“The manager,” Jack backtracked adeptly. “Of course the owner wouldn’t tell the likes of you, if you don’t report to him—who is the manager?’ I’m going to serve these papers on someone.”
“Mr. Buffery, Fred Buffery. Yer’ll find ’im at Nicholas Street, overbe’ind the brewery, vat’s w’ere ’e does business. Yer go an’ serve yer papers on ’im. It in’t nuffink ter do wi’ me. I just take the rents. It’s a job—like yours.”
Jack did not bother to dispute it with him. They had what they wanted and he had no desire to remain. Without expressing any civilities he opened the door and they all left, finding the carriage a few houses away, and proceeding to the next address.
Here they were informed that Mr. Buffery was taking luncheon at the neighboring public house, the Goat and Compasses, and they decided it would be an excellent time to do the same. Emily