Long Spoon Lane - Anne Perry [28]
Pitt decided on at least something of the truth. “I haven’t been here much. Usually work up the Bow Street area.”
The man swore viciously, but there was as much despair in his voice as anger.
Pitt waited. Something was wrong, but he did not understand what it was.
The man’s face was bitter. “Well, I in’t givin’ yer nothin’! I paid already this week, an’ I in’t got no more. Close me down, then! Go on! Then yer get nothin’! Yer stinkin’ bastards!”
“I didn’t ask you for anything,” Pitt said slowly. “What made you think I wanted money?”
The man’s face was ugly with contempt, his lips twisted showing yellow teeth. “Yer stand ’ere, blockin’ me way. Yer don’t want ale. Yer think I’m stupid? Well, I in’t. An’ I in’t payin’ yer neither. Do yer worst! I in’t got no more.”
Pitt’s stomach turned cold. The man thought he had come for more protection money, just as Carmody had said. “Nobody can pay more than once,” he agreed. “Better not to pay at all…”
“An’ get me ’ead beat in?” the man said savagely. “An’ ’oo’s gonna ’elp me, eh? Police?” He spat on the ground at Pitt’s feet, but he was close to weeping with frustration. He choked on his words. “Go on, get out of ’ere!” He stood with his fists clenched, his shoulders tight, as if he were on the edge of losing control and lashing out.
“Tell me who’s taking the money, and I’ll…” Pitt started, then realized the futility of it. He was the enemy, no matter how much he worked to deny it. As far as this man was concerned, it was the truth. “Look…” he started again.
The man took a step towards him, head down, muscles bunched, ready to swing his fist.
Pitt moved back, then turned and walked away. He had not handled it well, and he had learned nothing that was of any use. The man believed his tormentors were policemen, but Pitt needed names, accounts, times of collection, something he could prove. He must do a great deal better than this.
He went up Bishopsgate and turned left past the bootlace seller on the corner of Brushfield Street towards Spitalfields Market. Three women were standing on the curb arguing. A child wailed. A chimney sweep’s boy passed by, soot-stained, round-shouldered. Half a dozen urchins played a game of bones on the pavement, tossing them up in the air and catching them again while they moved others as counters, absorbed in the skill of it. It was good for nimble fingers, training them for picking a pocket swiftly, unfelt.
He passed houses that were shabby now but had once been the homes and workshops of silk merchants who had fallen on much harder times. A costermonger’s cart trundled by, then a brewer’s dray, wagons of coal and timber being moved down towards the docks.
At the Ten Bells tavern, he went inside and asked for a pint of cider. He let the clean taste of it wash away the sour flavor of the streets, at least for a few moments.
He was aware of the landlady watching him covertly, because he was a stranger here. She was small and buxom, with fair hair falling out of its pins. All the time she smiled, as she greeted most people by name. She was doing a good trade.
He walked over to the bar and ordered a second pint of cider, and a portion of bread and cheese. She passed it to him, the smile still curving her mouth, but her eyes were wary. Closer to, he noticed that her white neck was sagging a little and there were fine lines on her skin.
“Thank you.” He took the tankard and the plate. “You keep a good house here, mistress. A lot of trade.”
She stared at him. He knew in that careful look that she was already certain in her own mind that he was going to cause her trouble. He loathed doing this, but he had to have the information.
“Enough,” she said, keeping up the pretense of welcome.
“Enough to share the profit a bit,” he replied, making it a statement rather than a question.
The warmth in her face died. “I already pay,” she said coldly.
“I know!” he cut across her protest. “Can’t pay twice. I know that. Just pay me instead. I’ll take care of it. Pay me, and pay less, just