Harry departed the shop and turned to the left. Walking along the street, he finally saw the weaver sitting near the corner of a shop that sold crockery. She was perhaps fourteen, dressed in a pale, dingy gown of indeterminate color. Her dark hair hung limply to her shoulders as she wove a basket in her lap.
Harry went to her. “How much for a basket?”
She didn’t look up at him as her fingers continued to weave. “Thruppence.”
Squatting down next to her, Harry produced a shilling. “Can I ask you about the fire that happened over there?” He glanced toward where the flash house had been.
Her hand stilled as her gaze shot to the coin in his hand. “I s’pose.”
“I understand you were inside the building.” He put the coin in her basket. “What do you remember?”
Plucking up the shilling, she held it up and squinted at the coin. Apparently satisfied, she pressed it into something hidden beneath the neckline of her gown. “I was downstairs trying to wash my brother’s face. I smelled smoke, but I was too busy with my brother. When someone yelled fire, I scooped him up and carried him out.”
“Do you know where the fire started?”
She shook her head and went back to weaving.
“What about who started it—do you know that?” Harry asked.
“Everyone says ’twas the Vicar.”
“So I understand,” Harry said wryly. “Did you see him?”
Maggie shook her head again.
“Do you know who the Vicar is?”
She glanced up at Harry. “’E worked for Partridge. We all did.”
“What did you do for him?” Harry was fairly certain he knew.
“Usually, I pretended my brother was sick—I made ’im look really dirty, and people took pity.”
“They gave you money.” Likely, she had a minimum amount she was to earn every day to appease Partridge’s requirements. At her nod, Harry went on. “Were you glad when Partridge died?”
She looked at Harry, an edge of fear in her gaze.
“It’s all right,” Harry soothed with an encouraging nod. “Do you work for Frost now?”
She shook her head a third time but much more vigorously. “My brother does, though.”
“Where can I find your brother?”
Going back to weaving, she shrugged. “’E’s around.”
“One last question, and I’ll leave you alone, Maggie. Do you know who told everyone to say the Vicar started the fire?”
The fourth time she shook her head was the least convincing because she hesitated the barest moment. Harry wouldn’t press her. “Thank you, Maggie. I work at Bow Street. If you ever want to come and talk to me, I’d be honored. About anything. Mayhap I could even help you.” He thought of Winter’s home and how an environment like that could transform Maggie’s life. Hell, had Winter and Madame Sybila won him over?
No. Selina had. She believed in the Home for Wayward Children, and he was starting to as well.
Harry gave Maggie another shilling before standing and checking his pocket watch. He needed to get back to Bow Street for a meeting. He walked all the way to Holborn before catching a hack to Bow Street.
When he got out at the Magistrates’ Court, he ran into Remy, who was also just arriving. “Afternoon, Sheff,” he said in greeting. “Where were you about today?”
“Just came from Saffron Hill,” Harry said as they walked inside.
“Learn anything?”
Harry stopped and turned to Remy. “What do you know about a man named Frost?”
Remy shrugged. “I’ve heard the name. Why?”
“Seems like he may be in charge of Partridge’s old territory.”
“That’s not really our concern, as close as it is to Hatton Garden,” Remy said, referring to the Magistrates’ Court that was closer to Saffron Hill.
“I plan to go and talk to Thorpe.” He was one of the constables at Hatton Garden with whom Harry had worked.
“I’ve got a contact over in Shoe Lane,” Remy said. “I’ll see what I can learn.”
A surge of anticipation rushed through Harry. How he loved the hunt. “Mind if I come along?”
“I don’t, but my informer will. He won’t talk if I bring someone else.”
“Damn.” But Harry understood. Some of his informers were the same.
“We better hurry, or we’ll be late,” Remy said.
As they started toward the stairs, Harry drafted a note to Selina in his head, inquiring as to whether she would like a riding lesson. She could use his mother’s old sidesaddle, and he’d borrow a horse from a friend. All he needed was Selina to agree.
To the lesson, but hopefully also to his proposal.
Rafe had been right. Selina went to his receiver shop in Shoe Lane and fenced the bracelet Beatrix had stolen for a very good price. Had the receiver given her more because Rafe had told him to? Probably. But Selina didn’t care. To her, it wasn’t the same as taking money from him for nothing.
With the money stowed in an interior pocket of her gown and her pistol tucked into her reticule, Selina felt quite secure as she walked to her next destination, which wasn’t The Strand. Madame Sybila had met with a few clients earlier, but was now taking the afternoon to complete personal errands. Or so Mrs. Kinnon would tell those who came to inquire.
The day before, Selina had needed to use another excuse—that Madame Sybila wasn’t feeling well—so that she could attend a meeting of the Spitfire Society at a new friend’s house. A small group of forward-thinking women, the society existed for the purpose of celebrating womanhood and independence, whatever that meant. They also hoped to do something meaningful for women, but that hadn’t been explored as the meeting had been cut short due to some sort of fracas involving a kitten.
Selina looked forward to their next meeting with an eye toward starting a charity that would support women. This could be the answer she’d been looking for—a way to sustain herself without having to be Madame Sybila or steal and fence. It also had the added benefit of being a real charity that would help women and perhaps children too. Yes, that was something about which Selina could nurture a drive…a passion.
She’d been driven to find Rafe, and now that she had, she didn’t feel the triumph or elation she’d hoped for and expected. The brother she remembered was as good as dead. Eighteen years was a long time. They were adults now, completely different from when they’d last been together. The dream she’d held for so long—that she’d regain the family she’d once had—was also as good as dead.
You have a family. You have Beatrix.
Yes, she had Beatrix, but for how long? Beatrix was well on her way to being the toast of the late Season. Invitations had increased due to Lady Aylesbury’s influence, and yesterday, they’d met the Marchioness of Ripley, which could only help Beatrix’s cause. It was possible that Beatrix might find herself taken in by her father. He would never officially recognize her as his daughter, of course, bastard that she was, but he could ensure she was well situated.
And give her the approval—and love—she craved.
Where would that leave Selina? Particularly if Beatrix found herself wed to some wealthy gentleman?