She had hired a skinny, fourteen-year-old boy named Lucky Liam Gordon to serve as her guide to the wonders of the market. He had a thatch of rusty brown hair and a scattering of freckles across a pug nose, and he was the son, grandson, and great-grandson of costermongers. Hero was only just beginning to understand how closely knit—and hereditary—the trade was.
“Them’s the growers’ wagons,” said Lucky, nodding to the lines of empty covered wagons and carts pulling away from the square. “They start rollin’ in from the farms about three. I hear tell they load ’em at sunset, then leave for the City anywhere between ten and one, dependin’ on how far they’ve got to come.” He had to shout to be heard over the roar of hundreds of haggling voices, the cracking of whips and the braying of donkeys and the rattle of iron-rimmed wheels bouncing over uneven paving stones.
Hero let her gaze drift over the crush of gaily painted handbarrows, the rows of donkey carts with cracked harnesses so old they were often held together with wire or rope. The crisp morning air was heavy with the scents of charcoal smoke and dung and earthy vegetables, the pungent aromas from the herb stalls mingling with the sweet fragrance of potted laurels and myrtles and boxes. She smiled at the sight of two little boys chasing each other across cobbles smeared green with discarded leaves. Then one of the boys slipped and nearly collided with a market woman staggering beneath a heavy basket balanced on her head, before careening into Hero.
“Careful,” said Hero, keeping a strong grip on her reticule as she steadied the boy.
He threw her a cocky grin and darted off again.
The number of young children at the market, most of them boys, surprised her. Shrieks rose from a clutch of children washing at the pump, while more could be seen crowding around the fires of the coffee and tea stalls beneath the arcades, or congregating near the narrow lanes leading out of the square. Some looked no older than four or five.
“Why are they queuing?” asked Hero, watching the boys push and shove as they lined up.
“They’re ’opin’ some costermonger without a boy of ’is own will ’ire ’em for the day,” said Lucky. “Some ’as parents what send ’em ’ere to look for work. But a good many of ’em are orphans. They sleeps under the stalls at night and eats mainly specks.”
Hero brought her gaze back to his freckled face. “They eat what?”
“Specks. That’s what we call anything that’s overripe or shriveled, or that the wasps ’ave been at. They’re set aside, ye see, then sold for a quarter the price o’ the rest. Me da always says, if somethin’ won’t fetch a good price, then it must fetch a bad one.”
Hero drew her notebook and pencil from her reticule and began scribbling notes.
Officially, Covent Garden Market was devoted to the sale of fruits, vegetables, and flowers. But she could also see old iron sellers and crockery stalls scattered amidst the produce, as well as countrymen peddling wild ducks and rabbits. Rows of baskets and slippers dangled against the railings of St. Paul’s churchyard, while men and women with rusty trays slung from straps around their necks pushed their way through the crowd, hawking seedcakes and sweetmeats, razors and knives, ribbons and combs.
She was watching a lark at the bird catcher’s stall beat its wings against the bars of its cage when Lucky said, “Ye know that feller?”
“Who?” asked Hero, her gaze scanning the surging, raucous mass of humanity.
“That queer-lookin’ cove up there by the Piazza Hotel—the one with the fancy black boots. ’E’s been staring at ye ever so long. At first, I thought maybe ’e was jist puzzlin’ over what such a bang-up lady’s doin’ at Covent Garden Market. But ’e ain’t no coster, and ’e ain’t no grower neither, from the looks of ’im. So what’s ’e doin’ ’ere?”
Hero could see him now, a slope-shouldered man of medium height, lanky except for a small, slightly protuberant belly. He had a slouch hat tipped back on his head and was leaning against one of the granite pillars of the elevated north piazza, a tin cup from a nearby coffee stall cradled in one hand, the other resting negligently in his pocket.
“How do you know he’s not a costermonger?” she asked.
Lucky laughed. “I know.”
The man took a slow sip of his coffee. He wore neither the blue apron of the greengrocers nor the straw hat, smock frock, and dusty shoes of the countrymen, although his coat and breeches had never been of particularly good quality and were now worn and rumpled and greasy. Only his well-polished, high-topped boots struck a discordant note.