Snobbery With Violence - M. C. Beaton [20]
“Shove off,” said Harry.
He waited until she had gone.
“My name’s Bill Sykes,” said Harry.
“Bin reading Dickens, ‘ave you?” sneered his companion.
Harry cursed himself. He should have guessed that a dipsomaniac, like many of his kind, would turn out to have come down in the world.
“My mother did,” said Harry. “Your name?”
“Pat Brian.”
“Mr. Brian, I have an offer for you. How would you like to earn two hundred guineas?”
“Garn.”
“The truth.”
“What d’ye want for it?”
“A quantity of dynamite, enough to blow up, say, a bridge and a building, and instructions on how to do it.”
“How did you know I was a blaster? Come on. Who’s bin talking?”
“No one. Lucky guess.” I am a rank amateur, thought Harry. He could have turned out just to be one of the labourers.
“Two hundred guineas. What’s it for?”
“The two hundred guineas are for you to supply the material and instructions, keep your mouth shut and not ask questions.”
“Two hundred guineas!” Pat stared into his beer and then took a long pull. “I could quit. I could get back to Ireland. Buy a bit o’ land, I could.”
“When could you get the stuff?”
Pat finished his drink. “Come along o’ me. Going back to Liverpool Street.”
“Have you a key to the site?”
“Don’t need one, guv. Know a way in. How do I know you’ll pay?”
Harry slid a wash-leather bag out of his pocket and passed it over. “Look in there. Under the table.”
Pat fumbled with the bag under the table. His eyes widened. He stuffed the bag in his jacket pocket. “Thanks,” he jeered. “You’d best walk out of here. One shout from me that you’re the perlice, and they’ll murder you.”
Harry sighed. He fished in his other pocket and then said levelly, “I now have a pistol pointed at your private parts under the table. Give me back the gold or I’ll blow your manhood off.”
Pat ducked his head under the table and then straightened up. He shrugged. “Worth a try. Can’t blame me, now can you, guv?”
“Get to your feet and walk to the door. I will follow. You now know too much, so if you attempt to run away, I will shoot you.”
“You’re going to force me to get the stuff for nothink,” wailed Pat, his accent an odd mixture of Irish and Cockney. “Jesus, Mary and Joseph. I have no luck at all, at all.”
“You’ll get your money. Now, walk!”
“That person is here again,” complained Rose.
“If you mean Captain Cathcart, yes,” growled her father. “And speaking of persons, why hasn’t that Daisy creature been sent packing?”
“I am teaching her to read and write, Pa. When she has mastered both, she will find a good position, possibly as a clerk, in London. I would like a typewriter.”
There were two reasons why the earl finally capitulated and gave in to his daughter’s demands. Rose kept busy with her protegee was less likely to get into trouble, and a typewriter was considered to be a woman’s machine and was designed with scrolls of gold on black to give the machine the feminine touch.
Rose went immediately to find the earl’s secretary, Matthew Jarvis, to instruct him to order a typewriter and have it delivered as soon as possible. Matthew nodded and said he would attend to the matter immediately. Matthew was a chubby man whose clothes always seemed too tight for him. He had a round red face, a heavy moustache, and little brown eyes.
Daisy had been regaling Rose with stories of her sometimes quite horrific childhood in the East End of London. Rose had begun to wonder about people in the household, realizing they had lives and thoughts of which she had hitherto known nothing.
“Are you happy here, Mr. Jarvis?” Rose asked.
“Yes, my lady.”
“You have worked for my father for five years now Do you sometimes find the job a little tedious?”
Matthew looked shocked. “Not in the slightest, my lady.”
“Your family, do you visit them?”
“Yes, my lady. If you will excuse me, I will continue with my work. I will now be able to telephone to order the typewriter, my lord having recently had that very useful instrument installed.