"Do you and your brother have anything you want to take with you?" Lestrade asked. The girl stared up at him in response, horror shining in her eyes.

"What are you going to do with us?" Her voice came out in a whisper, nearly inaudible to either man. Mullins had to lean closer to hear her.

Lestrade raised an eyebrow at the child. "I can't leave the two of you here, you know that."

"Why not?" Rose wanted to know. "It's better than the orphanage."

"The landlady is not going to let you stay." Lestrade pointed out reasonably, and the constable with him felt sorry for inspector and child. It was a difficult conversation for both of them, unless he was greatly mistaken. "You'll end up on the streets, and she'll keep anything that once belonged to you or your mother. You'll be left with nothing but the clothes on your backs."

The girl scowled at him, but for all that she was no more than seven years of age, she knew he was right. Rose had not lived a particularly sheltered life-in fact, her life so far had been anything but-and she knew that all the things he was saying were true. She also recognized that he was, in spite of the harsh reality of his words, doing her a kindness in offering her the opportunity to get anything that was hers or her brother's-or their mother's, unless she was greatly mistaken-before the landlady could lay claim to the contents of the room.

For all that he was an adult, and a policeman, this man was trying to help.

"Me and William's things are in the front room," she told Lestrade. "I don't want him going back in there." The inspector nodded.

"He can stay out here with Constable Mullins."

"Mum had a suitcase, but it's in the closet." Rose told Lestrade as she gathered some clothes for herself and her brother. She also picked up a few wooden blocks and a spinning top and added them carefully to her pile.

Lestrade retrieved the suitcase. Nestled away in the closet, it was unlikely the object held any clues to the identity of the woman's murderer. Careful not to disturb anything else , he returned to the other room to find that Rose had added the dishware to her pile as well. She glared at him defiantly as he set the suitcase down on the floor beside her.

"Those are ours," she told him. Lestrade spared the cracked cups and plates the briefest of looks. Their only possible value was sentimental, though he did not doubt the landlady would try to keep them anyway, if given the chance.

"Anything else?" he asked, and Rose hesitated. The inspector remained still, waiting, while she tried to decide how to answer. After a long moment, the girl looked toward the bedroom door.

"Mama had a comb," she said. "It used to belong to her mama, and her mama before that. She loved it so much. She always promised she'd give it to me when I was older."

Lestrade knew the landlady would most likely be furious over that loss. He returned to the bedroom and picked up the comb, examining it more closely. Though somewhat plain looking at a first glance, the comb was not a cheap piece of jewelry. It was made of silver, unless Lestrade was greatly mistaken, with vines twining delicately around tiny flowers and leaves. In the center rested a small but very real opal.

Lestrade frowned at the comb, knowing full well it did not belong here. Not in this dingy apartment, not on Ratcliffe Highway. The girl had claimed it was an heirloom, passed down from mother to daughter over generations, and perhaps it was.

It might just as easily have been a gift from her frequent caller, the man Rose said had killed her mother, though it could just as easily have been stolen. Even if it were a family heirloom, there was always the possibility, slight though it was, that he could use it to try to find the murdered woman's family.

He sighed and wrapped it carefully in a handkerchief for safekeeping. He would make some inquiries, and in the meantime the comb would be kept safe from thieving hands. He was not entirely sure that Rose would understand, as young as she was, anything other than that he was keeping the comb, no matter what the reason. There was little enough reason for her to believe she would ever get it back, he supposed. Trust wasn't something freely given; it had to be earned, and he had done little enough so far to deserve it.

Returning to the girl, he knelt down and offered her the wrapped comb, hoping he was not about to make a terrible mistake. "Here you are."

She snatched it from him as if afraid he might change his mind, quickly unwrapping it to make certain the comb was, in fact, actually there. Reassured and a bit surprised, she smiled up at him through tears that had suddenly started running down her face. Throwing herself at him, Rose shoved her face into his jacket and bawled.

Lestrade laid a comforting hand on her shoulder and waited for the girl to cry herself out, ignoring the growing damp spot on his jacket. He did not bother trying to console her; the girl had just lost her mother, and nothing he could say would make that any better. The most he could do was sit there and let her cry.

At last her sobs turned to sniffles, and Rose pulled away, red-faced and red-eyed, to look up at him. "You're gonna find him, aren't ya? The man who killed her?"

"I'll do my best," he promised. It was all he could do, really. Steeling himself, he looked down at the comb in her hand. "It's very pretty," he said.

Rose nodded in agreement, her fingers traces the outline of the stone. "She said never to tell anyone about it. It was our secret. Like a treasure. Nothin' around here is this nice." The girl looked up at him. "This is special, isn't it?"

"Very special," he agreed. Hesitating, he added. "It might be able to help us. Either to find the man that killed her, or to find your mother's family." Rose drew back from him, clutching the comb desperately in her hands. "I promise you would get it back when I'm done."

He let the girl think it through, knowing better than to rush her. "You wouldn't hurt it?" she asked nervously, her own dark eyes staring up into his.

"Not even a little bit."

She worried her bottom lip with her teeth. "You seem like a nice man, Mister," she admitted. "But I've seen a lot of men who started out nice, and then turned mean later." She paused again. "What if you're just pretending to be nice just so you can get the comb for yourself? I bet it's worth a lot of money."

Lestrade did not point out that if he had wanted it for himself, he could have simply kept it and there would have been nothing she could do about it. The argument seemed counterproductive at this point. Instead he reached into his pocket and pulled out his pocket watch.

"My sister gave this to me, to mark our first year back in London," he said, showing it to her. Wound with a key as was standard, the watch was nothing overly fancy; the case was stainless steel, smooth and unadorned on the outside, with only the engraving G. Lestrade on the inside. "I still haven't figured out how she managed to save up enough for it. We came here with nothing but the clothes on our backs, and nearly starved to death that first year before all was said and done, but somehow she managed it. Insisted it was more than just sentimentality; I obviously needed one, since I was constantly coming home late for dinner."

The girl giggled in spite of herself, and reached out carefully for the watch. Lestrade reluctantly let her take it, and she examined it with interest. "Maybe you could hold on to it," he suggested after a moment.

"Like a trade?" The girl was clever. Lestrade again hoped he was not making a mistake. He shrugged.

"More like a promise. That watch means a lot to me, just like your ma's comb means a lot to you. So maybe you could hold on to the watch, just until you get the comb back."

The girl considered the offer for a long moment. "All right," she agreed at last, not without some heaviness. "Just until you're finished with mama's comb." She looked up at him. "Do you really think it'll help find the man that killed her?"

Lestrade knew better than to make promises he was not certain he could keep. "I hope so," he said instead.

Rose offered him the comb, still tucked away in his handkerchief, before secreting his pocket watch safely away on her person. "I'll keep it safe," she promised. "I'll take real good care of it, Mr. Inspector."

"I'll hold you to that," he replied, his tone solemn. "Come on. Let's go."

Talking to the neighbors would have to wait until Lestrade had figured out what to do with the children. Knowing full well it was probably a terrible idea, he took a cab back to Scotland Yard, Rose and her little brother William in tow. The driver balked at taking the two ragged children on until Lestrade politely explained that he was an Inspector with the Yard, and in the middle of a murder investigation, thank you very much. In the end he let the children ride, though he kept shooting glances at them as if trying to figure out exactly how they were involved. Lestrade did not offer to clear the matter up.

The two children were silent for the duration of the trip, William watching out the window in fascination as the world passed by, Rose more interested in the inside of the cab itself. Lestrade helped them both down when they arrived, then grabbed the suitcase containing their few belongings. Rose took her brother William by the hand then, staring up at the building before them.

"We ain't in trouble, are we?" she asked, her voice suddenly small. Lestrade shook his head.

"Not at all," he promised.

William, who had up until now been both extremely quiet and remarkably well behaved for both his age and the current situation, sat down heavily on the sidewalk and started crying. Shooting frantic looks around her, his older sister turned and immediately started trying to shush him without success. The boy would not be consoled, and he would not get up from the walk.

They were starting to attract attention. Lestrade took one look around, then another at the exhausted child before him. Stepping forward, he scooped William up off the ground and planted him firmly on one hip, his arm holding the child in place. Surprised, the boy stopped crying long enough for the inspector to maneuver the suitcase awkwardly into the hand on the same side. Lestrade reached for Rose, who stood staring at him, with his other hand, and offered the girl a small smile.

"Let's go, shall we?"

Inspector Smith of Scotland Yard had been made previously aware that the newest and youngest addition to their ranks had a soft spot for children while working a case together. The knowledge did not prepare him for the sight of the man somehow managing to carry both a small boy and suitcase at the same time while his other hand led a young girl along beside him.

Smith blinked, then stepped forward automatically to take the suitcase from the younger inspector. "What have you gotten yourself into?" he asked, more curious than worried. Now that the surprise was wearing off, the spectacle was more amusing than anything else, especially considering that Lestrade stood with the child balanced on his hip as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

The other man did not immediately answer, instead shepherding the girl into his office. Once there, he risked setting the boy down on top of his mostly clean desk, clearing the few papers that had accumulated on it in the same motion.

"Someone killed mama," the girl told Smith, who had followed. Her chin wobbled and her eyes filled with tears, but she did not start crying again. Instead, she turned to Lestrade. "What are you going to do with us?" she wanted to know.

Everything clicked into place. Lestrade did not want to simply drop the children off at an orphanage or workhouse, or even a church. It was understandable; conditions at any one of the aforementioned places could be terrible. Unless they were very lucky, the children could quickly find themselves wishing Lestrade had simply left them to fend for themselves on the street.

Not, Smith suspected, that the man was capable of that either.

It was obvious Lestrade had no idea what to do with them. Smith was aware enough of the man's personal situation to know that he could not look after them himself until he figured something out; willing or no, the man simply could not afford to. Smith had seen Lestrade's current living situation, and though everything was neat and well cared for, there was no denying that he and his sister had only recently gone from barely surviving to barely making ends meet. What had caused them to struggle financially as they had, Smith did not know, and it would have been incredibly rude to ask.

That did not, however, stop him from wondering.

Smith looked the two over. "Well, I suppose I could take them home with me for the night. Get them cleaned up and a decent meal in their bellies. The Missus won't hold that much against me. We can figure out the rest tomorrow."

Something warmed in Lestrade's unnaturally dark eyes. "Thank you," he said, some of the tension bleeding out of his shoulders. "I didn't-I wasn't-"

Smith waved him off. "I was on my way out anyway, and you look like you've got work to do. Have they eaten at all today?"

"The Inspector bought us meat pies and eels!" The girl told him while the man in question refused to meet Smith's eyes.

Smith was not in the least surprised. He smiled down at the girl. "Well, since Mr. Lestrade bought you lunch, young lady, you simply must allow me to treat both you and your brother to dinner. How does that sound?"

The girl looked back to Lestrade for confirmation. The man nodded reassuringly. "All right," she said. "I'm Rose. This is my brother William."

"This is Inspector Smith," Lestrade spoke up, managing to meet the other man's eyes for all of three seconds before looking back at the girl.

"Let me get my coat and hat," Smith told Rose, "and I'll be ready to go."

Stepping out into the hall, Smith made straight for the office across from his own, turning the handle and inviting himself in without waiting for an invitation. Its occupant looked up at him irritably, but waited for him to close the door behind him before speaking.

"What do you want?" he demanded.

"Lestrade caught a murder case," Smith told him. "Two kids just lost their mum."

"Let me guess, he brought them here." Adams retorted with a roll of his eyes. Smith nodded.

"He fed them first." Smith came to the reason for his visit. "Even though he can't afford to." He slapped threepence down on the other man's desk. "Talk to Johnson. Tell him we're taking up a collection to cover the cost. Then do whatever you have to to bully Lestrade into taking it."

Adams sighed but did not argue, instead digging into his own pocket. "So what happens to the children?" he asked.

"I'm taking them home for the night." Smith told him. "Lestrade can't work and watch them at the same time."

Adams eyed his fellow inspector critically. "And you can afford to feed them?" he challenged.

Smith laughed. "My wife makes it her personal mission to feed half the neighborhood's children already. Two more will make little difference." He did not say that it was her way of dealing with the fact that after five years of marriage they still had no children of their own.

Smith left, stopping by to retrieve his hat and coat as promised, then returned to Lestrade's office to collect the children and their things.

"Back already, Inspector?" The greeting was, Mullins was fully aware, not anything near respectful, but he was surprised so see the man again so soon. Not only had he not expected Inspector Lestrade to free himself of the children this quickly, he had not thought the man would be so eager to return to this part of London after having left it so recently. Caught off guard and with the memory of the man feeding a couple of orphans out of his own pocket and then hauling them about as if they were his own still fresh in his mind, the Constable momentarily forgot that the higher ranking members of London's police force were rarely men to be crossed, and by the time he remembered, it was already too late.

Lestrade looked the man over as if not entirely certain how to respond, and Mullins hurriedly moved on. "They've taken the body away, Inspector. The landlady is insisting that since the woman was behind on her rent, any property left in the room should go to her as compensation." Mullins hesitated. "I wasn't certain you were finished, so I told her she'd have to wait."

"I'm finished with the room, but thank you." Lestrade replied. "I hoped to speak with some of the neighbors, see if anyone heard or saw anything."

Again Mullins risked the man's ire. "I doubt you'll get anything, Inspector. They don't much care for the police around here." Lestrade offered him a strange look.

"Nor do they have much reason to," the man pointed out. "Still, I have to try."

"Shall I wait here then, sir?" Mullins offered, "In case it goes poorly?" He winced.

Lestrade raised an eyebrow at the other man, but did not comment. The constable watched him enter the building, trying to decide what to make of the strange little inspector.

The family living in the rooms to the right of the murdered woman refused to even open the door. Lesrade could hear them moving around on the other side of the wall, but the second he knocked, all went silent. No one answered.

The door to the left opened to reveal a man so drug-addled Lestrade doubted the man would remember him after he was gone. He had nothing to offer other than that the woman next door was very pretty. It really was too bad, he said, that she was stuck with those two children. She could have made someone a lovely bride if it wasn't for those brats hanging off her skirts all day.

A woman across the hall opened the door and looked Lestrade over slowly, from his hat to the tip of his shoes, before wordlessly closing the door. He wondered if she had recognized him as a policeman, or had simply decided he was not worth her time. Either way, he would get nothing from her.

It came as no surprise that no one in the building was willing to talk to him, but Lestrade found it frustrating all the same. Most of the people in this part of London were convinced that the police did not actually care about them, other than to blame them for the city's problems, and for the most part, they were right. The only reason Lestrade was here was because an older, more experienced inspector had taken one look at the murdered woman's address and decided it wasn't worth his time. A woman had died, and because she lived in the wrong part of London, a member of Scotland Yard had simply written her off.

The inspector sighed inwardly as he returned to the front of the building. He was mildly surprised to note that Constable Mullins still stood guard, and wondered whether it was out of a sense of duty or simply a reluctance to leave while the inspector was still present. Lestrade came to stand beside the other man, wondering how much say the constable had had in his current placement.

"Any luck, sir?" Mullins managed just the right amount of sympathy as the inspector shook his head. He wondered if it were worth making a suggestion, or if the other man would take as him trying to tell an inspector his job. So far Lestrade had seemed a tolerable sort, if a little odd, but it was difficult to tell with inspectors. One wrong word was all it took to set some of them off, especially if they didn't think a lowly constable was being properly respectful of their rank.

Still...

"If you don't mind my saying, sir, you might ask Walker to put word out, if you're truly interested in finding out who murdered that woman." Mullins suggested. He regretted the offer almost immediately as the other man turned, his dark gaze catching and holding the constable's for far too long. Mullins felt a shiver run down his spine.

"Walker?" The moment passed. Lestrade pulled out a notebook from his jacket pocket.

"Constable Walker," Mullins confirmed. "He walks the beat a couple of streets over. Been there twenty years. Prefers it, he says, and he knows just about everyone on his beat. Pickpockets, muggers, theives-they don't bother him. If anyone saw or heard anything, they'd be more likely to talk to him than anyone else on the force, Inspector."

Lestrade thought for a moment. "Walker doesn't know me, will that make a difference?" he asked.

Mullins shrugged. "He's quick to size a man up," he admitted. "Sees maybe a little more than a body would like, sometimes. If he decides you're trying to help, he'll ask around. Otherwise..."

Lestrade nodded in understanding. "Thank you, Constable," he said, tucking his notebook back in his jacket. "Carry on."