“Is that all you think you are?”
“There’s nothing shameful in being the one who follows through on orders. Not everyone has to be the one giving the orders.”
She leaned forward. “But you seem to think not being the one in charge makes you less needed or important. If you could see how the Dreadfuls are scrambling, you would know that is not true.”
It was both reassuring and discouraging. “I hadn’t meant to leave them in a lurch.”
“You seem to be in a bit of a lurch yourself.”
He shook his head. “My struggles aren’t my biggest worry. Too many people in my life need a champion.”
“So be one.” Elizabeth had a tendency to go directly to the heart of a matter, but it meant she sometimes missed the complications.
“Again, I’m the reinforcements not the hero.”
She rose. “Then be heroically reinforcing.”
“I do not believe that is a real role.”
Elizabeth gave him one of her well-known looks of amused annoyance as she made for the door. “Heroes come in a lot of forms, Brogan. Be the one you are best suited to being.”
Best suited? What type of hero could a one-time street urchin, turned delivery boy, turned refugee, turned second-rate former member of a secret organization possibly be best suited to?
Thinking of Vera and the burden she was carrying, he found his usual doubt less powerful than his wish to help her in whatever way he could.
“Heroes come in a lot of forms.” Perhaps it was time he figured out what form he came in.
“It isn’t protection money.” Vera ended her explanation to her neighbors with very little encouragement to offer. “It’s extortion.”
“What can we do?” Mr. Bianchi asked. “We can’t go on like this forever.”
Vera pushed out a slow, tight breath. “I wish I knew.”
“Would the police help us?” Mr. Okeke asked.
“I received another note today,” Mr. Murphy said. “It warned against bringing in the blue-bottles.”
“I can’t afford to keep paying the ransom,” Gemma said. “I’ll be plum outta blunt soon enough. How do we make it stop?”
“We take away their power,” Vera said. “A big part of doing that is learning who the Protector is.”
Gemma sighed, frustrated. “There’s no way of learnin’ that. It’s a different rough every time what collects the money. And no one’s yet seen who leaves the notes.”
“Arson seems the order of the day. Can we at least protect against that?” Mr. Bianchi asked.
“Not one of us has the blunt for fire insurance,” Mr. Okeke said.
“We shouldn’t have to,” Gemma said. “I read the papers. Parliament passed a law. The fire brigades are supposed to put out any fire.”
“That law don’t go into effect until January,” Vera said. “We can’t depend on the brigades. We need to depend on each other.”
“Takes too long to get water here from the pump down the road.” Mr. Overton spoke for the first time. He and his family had been taken in by the Bianchis, but heaven only knew how long that family could afford the extra mouths when Overton had no income.
“What if we all agree to keep an extra bucket of water in our shops?” Vera suggested. “That’d give us a dozen buckets, at least, to get started dousing a fire while more water was run over from the pump.”
It wouldn’t be foolproof, and it might not be enough, but it’d be a far sight better than doing nothing.
“Word of the fire didn’t reach everyone quickly enough,” Mr. Okeke said. “If we had a plan for getting word to everyone, that’d speed things.”
“Good suggestion,” Vera said.
“I can organize that.” Mr. Overton’s downcast expression lifted. “I’ll work up some kind of plot and let everyone know.”
“Excellent.” Vera gave him what she hoped was an encouraging nod. “And if everyone’d get me them lists of people who were about or anything unusual on the days the notes were left, that’d help a heap.”
They began handing slips of paper to the people sitting closer to her, passing the growing stack forward.
“If we can convince this Protector fella that we’re looking out for each other and can thwart his plans, he might leave us be.” Gemma’s declaration was optimistic, but not entirely unrealistic.
“And anyone struggling to make the payment needs to let the rest of us know,” Vera said. “We’ve strength in our numbers, but only if we work together.”
Exclamations of “hear, hear” and “Indeed” and other shows of agreement followed, as Vera collected her neighbors’ handwritten recollections.
“Miss Vera, you’ve visitors coming.” Peter had been placed at the window, charged with watching the street.
“Who is it?”
“Mr. O’Donnell and some cloddy bloke.”
Ganor had endeared himself to everyone present with his tireless efforts to put out the fire at Overton’s. He also never failed to offer friendly greetings all around. He remembered all their names, their professions, their worries and joys.
A moment later, the man himself stepped inside along with someone Vera didn’t know, a man likely ten years his senior. The gathering grew very quiet, very attentive.
“Forgive the interruption,” Ganor said, “but I’ve called on an acquaintance of mine who’s taken an interest in your recent concerns.”
“Who’s this bloke?” Mr. Overton demanded, his tone as defiant as it was uncertain.
“This here’s Captain Eyre Massey Shaw, head of the London Fire Engine Establishment.” Ganor must’ve felt the same tension Vera sensed growing in the room. “I’ll point out to you that your recent experiences were with private brigades, not with his.”
That eased things a little.
“He told me in detail how you were treated by the insurance brigades.” Captain Shaw was decidedly Irish, which was likely how Ganor had gotten to know him. “I’ve come with the reassurance that I will insist the London Fire Engine Establishment fill in the gap while we wait for the law to change. My brigades will be made aware of your troubles here. They’re brave and tireless, and they aren’t in the pocket of any insurer.”
It weren’t precisely a guarantee, but it was far more reassurance than they’d had mere moments earlier. That was worth something.