Traitors Gate - Anne Perry [156]
“It probably will,” Pitt agreed with a tight smile. “Don’t worry, I’ll take you to lunch. Do you know a good pub close by?”
The cabby’s face brightened. “‘Course I do! Bin ’ere before, or ’ereabouts. There’s the Black Bull up over London Bridge, bit over the other side. Or the Triple Plea down Queen Elizabeth Street, just over there.” He pointed with a gnarled hand. “Or over the railway line”—he swiveled farther around—“yer could go into Bermondsey and find anything yer like.”
“We’ll try the Triple Plea,” Pitt promised. “First we’ll go to the Horsley Down Steps.”
“Right, guv. Right y’are.” And he urged his horse forward with something almost close to anticipation.
They went down Tooley Street at a brisk trot until it became Queen Elizabeth Street, then the cab turned sharply left towards the river. There was a large building on the right side of the road which looked like a school. The street bore the dismal name of Potters’ Fields. Pitt wondered if it struck the cabby’s macabre sense of humor. They followed it a hundred yards or so until it ended at the road, little more than a path, which ran along the riverbank. There was only a sloping margin between them and the water, and it was deserted, even at this time of day. They passed two more roads leading up towards Queen Elizabeth Street before they came to the Horsley Down Steps, from where it would have been easy enough to get into a boat.
There was a small open area, less than a square, at the end of Freeman’s Lane. A couple of men stood around idly, watching whoever might pass, mainly the traffic along the water.
Pitt got out of the hansom and approached them. Several possible opening gambits occurred to him; the one he least favored was admitting who he was. It was one of those occasions when his sartorial inelegance was an advantage.
“Where would I get a boat around here?” he asked bluntly.
“What kind of a boat?” one of them asked, removing the clay pipe from between his teeth.
“Small one, only to cross the river,” Pitt replied.
“London Bridge, jus’ up there.” The man gestured with his pipe. “Why don’t yer walk?”
The other one laughed.
“Because I might meet someone I don’t wish to,” Pitt replied without a flicker of humor. “I might be taking something private with me,” he added for good measure.
“Might yer, then?” The first man was interested. “Well I daresay as I could rent yer a boat.”
“Done it before, have you?” Pitt asked casually.
“Wot’s it ter you?”
“Nothing.” Pitt affected indifference and turned as if to leave.
“Yer want a boat, I’ll get yer one!” the man called after him.
Pitt stopped. “Know the tides, do you?” he enquired.
“‘Course I know the tides! I live ’ere!”
“What tide’s best for going across to the Tower?”
“Geez! Yer planning to rob the Tower? After the crown jools, are yer?”
Again the second man laughed uproariously.
“I want to take something, not fetch it back,” Pitt answered, hoping he had not gone too far.
“Slack water,” the first man replied, watching him closely. “Stands ter reason. No current pullin’ yer.”
“Is the current strong?”
“‘Course it’s strong! It’s a tidal river, ain’t it! Geez, w’ere you bin? Yer stupid or summink?”
“If I got here early, where could I wait?” Pitt ignored the insult.
“Well not ’ere, if yer don’t want to be seen, that’s fer sure,” the man said dryly, and clasped his pipe between his teeth again.
“Why? Who’d see me?”
“Well I would, fer a start!”
“Slack water’s in the middle of the night,” Pitt argued.
“I know when slack water is! I come down ’ere middle o’ the night often enough.”
“Why?”
“’cause there ain’t much right ’ere, but a hundred yards or so”—he pointed along the bank—“there’s dozens o’ wharfs. There’s Baker’s Wharf, Sufferance, Bovel and Sons, Landells, West Wharf, the Coal Wharf and a lot o’ steps. And that’s before yer gets to Saint Saviour’s Dock. There’s always summink ter be ‘ad down there.”
“In the middle of the night?”
“‘Course in the middle o’ the night. Look, guv, if yer wants to take summink across the river as yer shouldn’t, this in’t the right place