“Well, Madame Genius,” he said, “I’ve shared m’ worry. Now you’re meant to share yours.”
Vera slowly emptied her lungs. “You can likely guess my biggest worry is the threat hanging over Old Compton Street.”
“I’d twigged that, yeah.”
She smiled at his use of the cant phrase she’d taught him. “I’d hoped coming here would let my thoughts rest at night . . .” She let the sentence wander off. Gads, she was even too weary to finish talking.
He squeezed her hand. “Troubles don’t disappear simply because we’re not looking at them.”
“Is that another of your parents’ poetic words of wisdom?”
“I’ll claim that as one of my own.”
She ran her thumb over the thick scars on his knuckles. “Did you get these in Dublin?”
“Most of ’em.”
“You did say you lived a colorful life there.” This evidence of his rough past had worried her when she’d first met him. She saw them differently now. He was a fighter, yes, but one dedicated to fighting for those who needed a champion and for causes worth backing.
“Hideous ol’ things, aren’t they?”
“Not at all.” She threaded her fingers through his, grateful for the strength she found in him. “Thank you again for bringing Captain Shaw around. We’ll all feel safer knowing he’ll answer if we raise the alarm.”
“And yet it doesn’t seem to have set you much at ease,” he said.
“Not entirely.” What a sour broth it all was. “If only we knew who the Protector is; who’s leaving the notes and who set the fire. I had everyone write down what they can recollect about the days they received their notes. I’m hoping against hope there’ll be a clue in there somewhere.”
“Have you looked over the lists yet?” he asked.
“I was completely knackered by the time we left the shop. Even reading felt beyond me.”
“Does it still?”
“If you’d go through them with me, I think I could manage it.”
“Of course.”
She rose and reluctantly released his hand. Until she’d had that connection, she hadn’t realized how much she’d longed for a reassuring touch. For years, she’d reconciled herself to being, in many ways, alone. She’d more or less accepted that the characters she came to love in the stories she read on the sly would be her only reliable companions. Vera was pleased to be wrong.
Her coat was hanging on a hook near the front door. She reached into the pocket where she’d tucked the stack of papers.
When she returned to the sitting room, Ganor was standing beside the round table under the far windows. He’d pulled out a chair for her.
She sat, then set each paper down, the stack turning into three neat rows. Ganor opened the drawer under the tabletop and pulled out a notebook and pencil. He sat in the chair beside hers.
They proved a good team, making quick work of the lists. When something matched between lists, Ganor made a note of it. The similarities ran from the vague to the detailed, everything from “more customers than usual” to “a man with a cane and pocket watch who didn’t buy anything.”
They’d been cracking on with the effort for a quarter hour when she realized a name appeared on every list. “Clare is on all of these.”
“She frequents all the shops,” he said. “I’ve seen her about quite regularly.”
That was certainly true. Vera spun her mind on her gabs with Clare. There weren’t anything suspicious in any of it. “She’s a bit quiet—shy and fragile—but also friendly.”
Ganor read over his notes. “Everyone said ’twasn’t anything odd about her being there.”
Vera shook her head. “It’d be stranger if she weren’t knocking about.”
He leaned back, clearly thinking. “You’ve doubts she’d be the one leaving the notes.”
“Can you picture her being part of something like that?” Vera asked.
“’Twould be out of character, for certain. Unless . . .”
“Unless, what?”
“Unless she’s being forced into it,” he said.
Vera hadn’t thought of that but couldn’t deny it was possible. The entire street, after all, was being forced into paying the Protector. Stood to reason he might be forcing someone to leave the notes.
“Any notion where she lives?” Ganor asked.
“Somewhere near the shop.” She stopped up short. “I suppose I don’t know that for sure and certain.”
“That’ll complicate things.” He rubbed at his mouth and chin. “If we can find her, we might manage to get to the truth of her situation, which might set us on the trail of the Protector, or at least save us a misdirection.”
Vera bent her elbows on the tabletop, searching her memory for any hint Clare had given of her home neighborhood. “We can watch for Clare, but if she ain’t knocking about Old Compton, watching won’t be of much use. It ain’t as if everyone and anyone knows what she looks like.”
It wasn’t Brogan who answered, but Móirín. “So describe her.”
They both turned toward the doorway. How long Móirín had been there Vera hadn’t the first idea.
“Do you mean to help?” Vera asked.
Móirín offered a single nod, then snatched up a stool and sat at the table with them. “We frequent nearly every poor corner of this ol’ town. M’brother knows what she looks like. If I knew, the two of us might run her to ground. Better yet, if we’d a sketch of the lass we could ask around and see if anyone else has seen her.”
“I don’t have a drawing of her,” Vera said. “And I cain’t draw to save my skin.”
“Móirín can,” Ganor said. “She’s brilliant at it.”
“Give me some paper, Brog. I’ll see if I can’t sketch out this mysterious woman.”
Brog? An Irish word, perhaps? Vera didn’t dwell on it. They’d a woman to find and a drawing to get done. The urgency of the moment was more important than passing curiosity.
Móirín sketched as Vera described Clare. Their efforts went on for long minutes, stretching into at least an hour.
Through it, Ganor gathered up the neighbors’ accounts and neatly stacked them. He fetched them both glasses of water. He brought Vera a blanket, apparently noticing she was shivering. And he sat beside her, patient and supportive. He was showing himself thoughtful. Again.