Fear flickered in Will’s remaining eye. Seeing it, Tumbler grinned and made a stabbing motion with his hand.
“Watch yourself, you little shit,” Will growled, moving away from them.
Tumbler put his fingers his mouth and blew a shrill whistle. Seconds later, a ladder was lowered from the balcony. He climbed it.
Fay nodded at Jo. “What were you thinking, bringing her here?” she asked Eddie.
“It’s a long story,” Eddie replied.
Fay shook her head. “You’re a fool, Newsie. She’ll be the death of you.” She started up the ladder.
“You’re next,” Eddie told Jo, keeping a watchful eye on Pretty Will.
Jo put her hands on a rung, took a deep breath, and started to climb.
Jo expected fierce-looking villains. Guns and knives. Piles of money. Bottles of gin.
She never expected lace.
As she stepped through the window into the Tailor’s rookery, she nearly landed in a basket of it. Bolts of fabric leaned against the walls—delicate chintzes, watered silks, rich brocades. Coffee tins overflowed with buttons and beads. On the far side of the room stood several dressmaker’s dummies. One sported a mauve gown so exquisite it could have passed for a Worth. Jo walked to it and touched a sleeve. She couldn’t help herself.
“It would look divine on you, my dear,” a voice said.
She turned and saw a man sitting at a wooden worktable. He held a long pair of scissors in one hand. He was slight, with a narrow, angular face, a high forehead, and deep-set eyes. They glittered darkly in the lamplight. His hair, dark brown and streaked with gray, was pulled back and tied with a ribbon. He wore a grimy white shirt, a gray wool vest, and matching narrow-cut trousers. A pincushion was strapped to one wrist.
“Jacob Beckett, high-class tailor, at your service,” he said, dipping his head.
Something in his smile frightened Jo, but she knew better than to show it. She met his gaze and said, “Josie Jones, reporter. I’m pleased to meet you.”
Just then, a small, dirty hand came up over the top of the table and closed around a jeweled button. In one swift, fluid motion, the man stabbed his scissors into the table. Jo gasped, certain he’d driven the blades through the child’s flesh, but he’d only pinned its shirt cuff. The child, a little blond boy with vacant eyes, whined as he tried to pull free.
The tailor put a hand on the boy’s head. “You steal for me, Noggin, not from me, remember? If you bring me something, I … ,” he prompted. “I what, boy?”
“Feed Noggin,” the boy said.
“And if you take something I … what? Come now, say it. …”
“Beat Noggin.”
“Very good. Off you go.” The man pulled his scissors out of the table, releasing the boy’s cuff, and turned back to Jo. “Simple as an apple, that one, but he has a face like an angel. He’s so pretty in the sailor suit I made him, ladies stop dead in their tracks to coo over him.”
“And never feel a thing when Fay moves in,” Eddie said. He’d just crawled in through the window, after having pulled the ladder up behind them.
The Tailor ignored his remark. “Do have a seat,” the Tailor said, motioning Jo and Eddie to two empty chairs at the table. “Fay, my dear, some coffee for our guests.”
Jo’s eyes followed Fay as she moved across the room to a large black stove. She saw more children—dozens of them. They were thin and wary and wouldn’t meet her gaze. Some had bruises on their arms or faces. The youngest were asleep in wooden bunks. Older ones were wearily polishing silver, cleaning jewelry, or sorting coins.
It hit Jo then, how big the Tailor’s operation was. All these orphans were being brought up to lead a life of crime. She was so deeply distressed by the sight of the children, she spoke without thinking.
“You’re running a factory here—a factory of little thieves. The Artful Dodger would feel right at home.”
“Jo … ,” Eddie warned.
But the Tailor smiled. “I thank you for the compliment. Dickens’s work is an inspiration to me, Fagin a hero.”
“I wasn’t paying you a compliment, sir,” Jo retorted. “Dickens wrote Oliver Twist as a deterrent to crime, not a spur to it. You’re exploiting innocent children. You’ve made criminals of them. Doesn’t your conscience trouble you?”
“Life’s black-and-white uptown, but here in the Bend, it’s a dirty gray,” the Tailor said. He wasn’t smiling anymore. “I’ve kept throwaway children alive—that’s what I’ve done. See Jakes over there?” He nodded at a little boy. “I found him abandoned in the outhouse where he was born. And Muttbait”—he pointed at a tiny girl with livid scars on her face—“she was left in an alley and attacked by dogs. I found Snow”—he gestured at a girl of about ten—“freezing to death on Mott Street. Her mother turned her out. She had no choice. She has seven more at home and earns less in a year than what you spend on one bonnet. I house them and feed them, and they, in turn, must earn their keep. So no, Miss Montfort, my conscience does not trouble me. Does yours trouble you?”
Jo blinked. “How did you know my—”
“I make it my business to know who enters my home.”
Jo was taken aback but not ready to concede her point. “There are orphanages where these children could go. There are mission houses.”
“Indeed there are,” the Tailor allowed. He turned his glittering eyes on Eddie. “And most would rather starve on the streets than live in them. Isn’t that right, Mr. Gallagher?”
Eddie gave him a deadly look. “Are we going to chat all night?” he said. “What do you want?”
Before the Tailor could reply, Fay, still in her elegant suit, came up behind Eddie and Jo and placed mugs of black coffee before them. Then she walked around to where the Tailor stood and dropped a handful of heavy silver buttons on the table.
His eyes lit up. “Very nice! Where’d you get them?” he asked her.
“Pastor’s Theatre,” she said. “I snuck into the cloakroom and cut them off.”
As Jo watched, astounded, Fay divested herself of the evening’s gleanings. Two wallets and a gold watch came out of pockets cannily stitched between the pleats of her skirt. A silver cigarette case was pulled out of one boot, a money clip from the other. Five silver dollars came out of her corset, followed by a gold ring with a diamond in it.
The Tailor gave an admiring whistle as he examined the ring, and Fay proudly related how she pretended to stumble outside the theater and took it off a man’s hand as he helped her up.
“Well done,” the Tailor said, beaming at her.
“Wait,” Fay said. “There’s one more thing. …”
With a taunting smile, she held out a gold ladies’ watch. And a five-dollar note.
Jo recognized the watch. She felt in her skirt pocket; it was empty. “Those are mine!” she cried.
“Not anymore,” the Tailor said happily.
“Give them back,” Eddie demanded.
“I could,” the Tailor mused. “Or I could keep them, beat you both silly, and toss you off the balcony.”
Eddie rose from his chair. Immediately, a dozen children surrounded them, each brandishing some sort of weapon—scissors, kitchen knives, ice picks, a wrench.
Jo put a hand on Eddie’s arm and pulled him back down. She was very scared now, but she knew she must not lose her head. The portrait of Admiral Montfort flashed before her eyes. She heard his stern voice telling her that a Montfort does what needs to be done. What needed to be done now was to figure out how to get herself and Eddie out of there. Alive.
“Why are you down here?” the Tailor asked. “I don’t like reporters. I especially don’t like them in my backyard.”
“We’re working on a story. An exposé of living conditions in the Bend,” Eddie lied.
The Tailor shook his head. “I want the truth, boy,” he said. And t
hen, in one swift, fluid motion, he arched across the table and drove his scissors into the wood—this time only inches from Jo’s hand.
“God damn you!” Eddie shouted.
He was out of his seat again in an instant, ready to lunge at the Tailor, but Muttbait stopped him.
She’d come up from under the table, as silent as a viper. She was wedged between Eddie and the table now, still holding the ice pick she’d brandished earlier. Only now she was holding it directly under Eddie’s left eye. The tip had nicked his skin. A drop of blood slowly made its way down his cheek.
“You might have left, boy, but I’m still here,” the Tailor hissed. “You forget me? Forget who I am? Some cheek, to come nosing around in the Bend, my Bend, without so much as a by-your-leave. Talk. Now. Or you’ll be feeling your way home.”
It wasn’t Eddie who started talking, but Jo. She was terrified. Not for herself, for him. She was so scared, she babbled like a lunatic.
“My father was murdered. I’m trying to find who did it. Eddie’s helping me. That’s why we’re here,” she said.
The Tailor raised an eyebrow. “Keep going,” he ordered.
Jo did. Without looking at Eddie. She knew if she so much as glanced at him, she’d come apart. She told the Tailor about her trip to the morgue. About Kinch, Eleanor Owens, and the Bonaventure. She said they’d just come from Mick Walsh’s, where they’d spoken to a man named Jackie Shaw.
“What did Shaw tell you?” the Tailor asked. “The truth, girl.”
“Not much. Shaw doesn’t know who Kinch is,” Jo said, trying hard not to give in to her fear.
“What about the ship?”
“He said the Bonaventure docked in Zanzibar,” Jo explained. “He led us to believe that it carried some kind of mysterious cargo, but he didn’t tell us what it was. I think he might’ve, but someone spooked him. A man. He had a scar on his face. Dark eyes. Short hair. Shaw saw him and left Walsh’s as fast as he could.”
The Tailor pondered her words, then nodded. “Down, Muttbait,” he said.
The little girl lowered her ice pick and disappeared back under the table, and Jo felt her heart rate return to something approaching normal. Her fear ebbed, and anger took its place. The Tailor was a bully, and she despised bullies. He lived off the backs of children and kept them, and his visitors, in line using violence.
Eddie wiped the blood off his face with the heel of his hand. “She gave you what you want. Let us go,” he said.
“Before you do, I would like to have my watch back,” Jo said.
The Tailor sputtered laughter. “I’m sure you would,” he said.
Jo was seething, but she kept her expression calm and her voice level. The Tailor, she saw, understood two things—brute force and money. She had no access to the former, but she could leverage the latter.
“I’m afraid you don’t understand,” she continued. “My mother will notice that I no longer have the watch and will want to know what became of it. I don’t want to raise her suspicions. It’s difficult enough as it is for me to get out of my house at night. You may keep the five dollars.”
The Tailor looked as if he simply could not believe what he was hearing. “Oh, I may, may I? How very kind of you,” he said sarcastically. “I’m tempted to follow my original idea, however, and throw you off the balcony.”
Jo frowned regretfully. “That would be an unfortunate choice.”
“Very unfortunate,” the Tailor agreed. “For you.”
“No, sir. For you.”
“How do you figure that?”
“If you take my things and kill me, you forfeit a lucrative business arrangement,” she explained. “The watch is only gold plate. It’s from Woolworth’s. Would I be foolish enough to wear anything of value to the Bend? Of course not. I’ve already paid for Tumbler’s services. I’ll pay you again for similar services, or for any information pertaining to Kinch or the Bonaventure.” She gestured to the room and all of its occupants. “These children go everywhere, do they not? One of them might spot Kinch. My proposal will bring you more profit than what you’d make selling a trinket.”
Eddie blinked.
The Tailor cocked his head, taking her measure. “You’re a Montfort through and through,” he said. Then he gave Fay a curt nod. She handed Jo her watch back but gave the five-dollar note to him.
“How am I supposed to get her a cab home with no money?” Eddie asked.
“You’re a clever lad. You’ll think of something. But do be careful, my dears. It’s dangerous in the Bend,” the Tailor said with a baiting smile.
Jo didn’t care about a cab, or how far she had to walk. All she felt was relief that they’d survived their interview with this dangerous man. She stood, wanting only one thing: to get far away from him.
As she and Eddie rose from their seats to leave, she saw Fay—who’d removed her face paint—grasp her hair and pull it off. She’d been wearing a wig. Her real hair, coiled close to her head, was a silvery blond. They stared at each other.
Jo was angry at Fay for leading her here and picking her pocket, but at the same time, Fay intrigued her. Jo guessed they were about the same age, but that was the only similarity between them.
“You look very different now,” she said.
“That’s the idea,” Fay replied.
“She’s as fair as the wee people. That’s why I call her Fairy Fay. She came to me as a tiny girl. She’d been left in a stairwell by her gin-fiend mother. She was starving and sick, and lucky I came along when I did. She’s brilliant, my Fay. Learned the trade quick. With that face and the dresses I put her in, she can mix anywhere, but alas, she’s getting known. Despite the rouge and the wigs,” he said, sighing. “Her pickpocket’s career is ending and another awaits her. She has something even more valuable under her skirts than wallets or buttons.”
Fay looked away, but not before Jo could see the hopelessness in her eyes.
The Tailor caught it, too. “Oh, come now! That’s no way to repay my kindness,” he scolded. He rose and walked behind her. “I took you in, girl. Taught you a trade.” He skimmed his hands over her waist to her hips. She stiffened but didn’t move away. “And when the time comes, Madam Esther will teach you another. Only the rich can afford to be idle,” he said, looking pointedly at Jo.
Jo’s skin crawled at the way the Tailor put his hands on Fay.
“Who’s Madam Esther?” she asked, aiming the question at Fay.
Fear flickered in Fay’s eyes. She walked away without answering and busied herself at the stove.
Jo wanted an answer. She turned to the Tailor. “Who’s Madam Esther?”
Eddie took her arm. “Forget it,” he said. “We’re leaving. Now.”
The courtyard was empty as they climbed down the ladder. As soon as it was hauled up again, the Tailor stuck his head over the balcony.
“You’re not quite the clever negotiator you think you are, Miss Montfort,” he said tauntingly.
“I’m not?” Jo said, looking up at him.
“Next time, I’ll expect a tenner for any information I give you. And I’m doubling Tumbler’s rate, too,” he gloated. “You want my help, miss, you’ll pay for it.”
“Yes, I suppose I shall,” Jo conceded. “Still, I didn’t do so badly,” she added. “Do you recall that Woolworth watch you returned to me?”
The Tailor nodded.
Jo smiled. “It’s really Cartier.”
Eddie and Jo stood on the corner of Baxter and Canal, gasping for breath. They’d run all the way there from the Tailor’s roost.
“Cartier? You came down here with a Cartier watch? Are you insane? I can’t believe he didn’t come after us. He still might. Put it down your corset—now,” Eddie ordered.
“What? How? I can’t!” Jo protested.
“Put it in your underwear or I will.”
&
nbsp; Jo saw that he meant it. She unbuttoned the top of her jacket, then her blouse, and dropped the watch down her corset.
“His eyes must be getting bad. Or maybe it was the light,” Eddie said as she buttoned herself back up again. “If he’d seen what that watch really was, he would have thrown us off the balcony. I can’t believe you got it back. Where’d you learn to negotiate like that, anyway? Your father?”
“Certainly not,” Jo said. “He never talked business around me. I learned it from Katie, my maid. We haggle all the time.”
“Over what?”
“The cost of her services. I pay her to sneak things into the house that my mother doesn’t approve of, and to help me sneak out. These past few days, I’ve paid her a small fortune. She’s in my bed right now pretending to be me. And probably wondering where on earth I am.”
Eddie checked his own watch. “It’s late. If we walk at a good clip, we should get you home before two.” He took her hand and they started walking east on Canal. It’s been a very interesting evening in your company, Miss Montfort. As usual,” he said. “But once again, it seems we’ve ended up with more questions than we started with.”
“Speaking of questions,” Jo said, “no one ever answered mine. What was the Tailor talking about when he said Fay would have to learn a new trade? Who’s Madam Esther?”
“You should probably ask your mother about that,” Eddie said. Then he shook his head. “What am I saying? Whatever you do, don’t ask your mother about that. She’ll never let you out of the house again.”
“What do you mean?” Jo said.
“Esther is … well, she’s like Della McEvoy.”
Jo remembered her conversation with Katie. “You mean she’s a pimp?”
Eddie nearly choked. “Um, madam is generally how such women are referred to. Where did you learn that word?”
“Does that mean Fay will work for Esther? As a prostitute?”
“It looks that way,” Eddie said grimly.
“Because the Tailor’s making her?”
These Shallow Graves Page 18