“There’s the shelter run by the Sisters of Charity. Why don’t you sleep there?”
Derek kicked at a stray rock, sending it scuttering across the cobblestones. “They’re always gassin’ on about God and faith and little baby Jesus. Makes me head ache.”
Ian had to smile in spite of himself—Aunt Lillian had complained about the nuns’ sanctimonious piety on more than one occasion.
Derek peered at him through lank, greasy bangs, a sly smile on his face. “Sounds like ye’ve had dealings wi’ the sisters, too?”
“My aunt is involved in some of their charitable works.”
“Aye, so she’s told ye what they’re like.”
Ian stopped walking. “Look here, I’ve no doubt you have your reasons for sleeping in the street—that is, if you’re telling the truth.”
“So ’elp me, Guv’nur,” Derek said in a Cockney accent. “Cross me ’eart an’ hope t’die.”
“Why don’t you drop the pathetic-street-urchin act? You’re a clever lad—I’ll wager you can talk posh if you choose to.”
Derek scowled, his face darkening under the layers of grime and dirt. Then he burst out laughing. “By God, I like you, mister! You’re a sharp one, you are.” His accent had disappeared, his enunciation clear and crisp as a university don’s.
“So, what were you so anxious to tell me?”
“I talk better on a full stomach,” he said, resuming his native West Country dialect.
“Very well,” said Ian, and they spent the rest of the walk in silence. Here and there the yellow glow of gaslight shone behind French lace curtains; somewhere a dog barked. The rain had broken, and the sky was dotted with the cold glimmer of distant stars.
“You live here?” Derek said as Ian ushered him into his flat on Victoria Terrace.
“No, I just thought I’d break into the home of a perfect stranger,” Ian replied, throwing his keys on the foyer table.
Derek paused to admire himself in the hall mirror. “This hat looks better on me than it does on you,” he said, pulling the brim lower.
“Keep it,” Ian said.
“Nice cloak,” Derek remarked as Ian hung it up. “Where’d ye get it, a costume shop?”
“It belonged to my uncle.”
Lillian had given Ian the cloak upon Alfred’s death. Made of heavy, good-quality wool, it was old-fashioned, but Ian liked the way it hung all the way to his knees, shielding him from even the wickedest wind. It was rain repellent, and the high collar kept his neck warm. He even liked its quaint look. It made him feel mysterious, and he was touched that Lillian had honored him with her beloved Alfie’s favorite garment.
“Now let’s see about getting you some supper,” he said.
The boy followed him down the front hall to the kitchen, peeking into the parlor as they passed. He reached for the pennywhistle on the side table.
“Leave it,” Ian said.
“Ye play that thing?”
“Don’t touch anything—I don’t like having my things disturbed.”
Derek took in the Persian carpets and silk drapes and whistled softly. “Ye can afford all this on a policeman’s salary?”
Ian smiled. Aunt Lillian, a tireless shopper at jumble sales and estate liquidations, was responsible for much of his flat’s furnishings. “You like lamb chops?”
“Ye bet I do!”
“Right,” said Ian, turning up the gas lamps. “Lamb chops it is.” He took a step into the kitchen—there, sitting on the kitchen counter, was the mouse. It returned his gaze, flicking its tail irritably. It looked decidedly well fed, plump, and sleek.
“A pet mouse!” said Derek. “Yer not so borin’ after all.”
“Go on,” Ian told the mouse. “Go away.”
The mouse sniffed the air.
Ian took a step toward it. “Go away.”
The mouse began industriously cleaning its whiskers.
“GO!” Ian shouted, waving his arms.
With a dismissive shake of its tail, the creature waddled to the other end of the counter and disappeared behind the stove.
“Tomorrow I buy a mousetrap,” Ian muttered.
“So it’s not yer pet, innit?” said Derek, hopping up to sit on the counter.
“No.”
“Why don’t ye kill it?” he asked, scratching behind his ear.
“Why don’t you go take a bath while I make dinner? There are clean towels in the linen closet, and a bathrobe.”
“Ye have a bathtub?”
“Go along, then.”
He listened for the boy’s retreating footsteps before lighting the gas under the skillet. By the time Derek emerged from the bath, pink and scrubbed, Ian had the meal set out on the carved mahogany table in the parlor. A brace of pewter candlesticks bookended a perfectly browned lamb chop smothered in potatoes and turnips.
“Where’d ye learn to cook?” the boy asked as he stuffed his cheeks full of lamb with neeps and tatties. With his dark complexion and black hair, he looked like a Middle Eastern prince in the oversized Turkish bathrobe.
“My uncle ran a restaurant,” Ian said, opening a bottle of pale ale.
“Lucky you. He still ’ave it?”
“He’s dead.”
“Kin I have a beer?” Derek asked, wiping his mouth with his sleeve.
“Oiy!” Ian said, thrusting a napkin at him.
The boy took it. “How ’bout a beer?” he asked, eyeing Ian’s bottle.
“What are you—nine, ten years old?”
“Sixteen.”
“You are not.”
“I’m small fer me age.”
“No, you may not have a beer. You may have a sip of mine.”
“Thanks, mister!” Derek said, gulping it down greedily.
“That’s enough,” Ian said, wresting it from him.
“My da used t’let me drink whenever I wanted.”
“And what a fine specimen of manhood he is. Now then, what did you want to say to me?”
Derek burped loudly. “It’s more in the way of a business proposition.”
“I’m listening.”
The boy put his elbows on the table and leaned forward. “It’s like this, see. I got mates, all over town, what could be of help—”
“Who could be of help.”
“Ye get what I’m sayin’, innit? We could be your eyes and ears, so tae speak, an’ keep ye informed about what’s goin’ on.”
“I assume your sudden passion to aid law enforcement comes with a price.”
Derek grinned. “I’m sure we can think a somethin’, Guv’nur.”
“It’s late. We’ll do our thinking tomorrow.”
“Right,” said Derek, scooping the last bit of food from his plate with a piece of bread.
After dinner, Ian made a bed for the boy on the sofa, giving him a pillow from his own bed. Derek threw himself on the couch and sank into the soft cushions, sighing with contentment. “This is what I call livin’. Play me a tune, will ye?” he said, eyeing the pennywhistle.
“It’s late.”
“Just one, mate? It’ll help me sleep.”
“What do you want to hear?”
“Sommit sad an’ mournful. D’ye know ‘The Minstrel Boy’?”
Ian played the song through slowly, and Derek sang along softly.
“The minstrel boy to the war is gone,
In the ranks of death you’ll find him;
His father’s sword he has girded on,
And his wild harp slung behind him”