The spark of commerce had reignited in his eyes.
“Don’t worry about that blessed plaster, lady. Why, a hot flannel held on for a couple of minutes loosens it off, and you can peel it away without too much palaver.”
The man and the woman stared at him.
“The redness fades after a couple of days,” he insisted. “We tried a gag, see, but she loosens them or gnaws through. She’s spirited—”
“What is her name?” said Sara Falk.
“Lucy. Lucy Harker. She’s just—”
“Mr Sharp,” she said, cutting him off by turning away to kneel by the girl.
“What do you want to do with him?” said the man in midnight.
“What I want to do to a man who’d sell a young woman without a care as to what the buyer might want to do with or to her is undoubtedly illegal,” said Sara Falk almost under her breath.
“It would be justice though,” he replied equally softly.
“Yes,” she said. “But we, as I have said many times, are an office of the Law and the Lore, not of Justice, Mr Sharp. And Law and Lore say to make the punishment fit the crime. Do what must be done.”
Lucy Harker looked at her, still mute behind the gag.
Mr Sharp left them and turned his smile on Ketch, who relaxed and grinned expectantly back at him.
“Well,” said Mr Sharp. “It seems we must pay you, Mr Ketch.”
The thought of money coming was enticing and jangly enough to drown out the question that had been trying to get Ketch’s attention for some time now, namely how this good-looking young man knew his name. He watched greedily as he reached into his coat and pulled out a small leather bag.
“Now,” said Mr Sharp. “Gold, I think. Hold out your hands.”
Ketch did so as if sleepwalking, and though at first his eyes tricked him into the thought that Mr Sharp was counting tarnished copper pennies into his hand, after a moment he realised they were indeed the shiniest gold pieces he had ever seen, and he relaxed enough to stop looking at them and instead to study more of Mr Sharp. His dark hair was cropped short on the back and sides, but was long on top, curling into a cowlick that tumbled over his forehead in an agreeably untidy way. A single deep blue stone dangled from one ear in a gold setting, winking in the lamplight as he finished his tally.
“…twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty. That’s enough, I think, and if not it is at least … traditional.”
And with that the purse disappeared and the friendly arm went round Ketch’s shoulder, and before he could quite catch up with himself the two of them were out in the fog, walking out of Wellclose Square into the tangle of dark streets beyond.
Ketch’s heart was soaring and he felt happier than he had ever been in his life, though whether it was because of the unexpectedly large number of gold – gold! – coins in his pockets, or because of his newfound friend, he could not tell.
CHAPTER 3
A CHARITABLE DEED
If the fog had eyes (which in this part of London it often did) it would not only have noticed Mr Sharp leading Bill Ketch away into the narrow streets at the lower end of the square, it would have remarked that the knot of men who had been unloading boxes of candles into the Danish Church had finished their work, and that the carrier’s cart had taken them off into the night, leaving only the burly red-bearded man with the pipe and a wiry underfed-looking young fellow in a tight fustian coat.
The bearded man locked the heavy doors and then followed the other across the street, heading for the dark carriage still standing outside the sugar refinery. If the fog’s eyes had also been keen, they would have noticed that the red beard overhung a white banded collar with two tell-tale tabs that marked him out as the pastor of the church whose barn-like doors he had just secured. There was a crunch underfoot as they reached the carriage and he looked down at the scattering of oyster shells with surprise. The wiry youth, unsurprised, reached up and rapped his bony knuckles on the polished black of the carriage door.
“Father,” he said. “’Tis the Reverend Christensen. ’E wishes to thank you in person.”
There was a pause as if the carriage itself was alive and considering what had been said to it. Then it seemed to shrug as something large moved within, the weight shifting it on its springs, and then the door cracked open.
The reverend’s beard parted to reveal an open smile as the pastor leant into the carriage apologetically.
“So sorry to discommode you, Mr Templebane, but I could not let the opportunity of thanking you in person pass me by.”
“No matter, no matter at all,” said a deep voice from inside. “Think no more of it, my dear reverend sir. My pleasure indeed. Only sorry we had to deliver at so unholy an hour.”