Tall and thin with gray mustache and eyebrows, Walker looked more like somebody's grandfather than a police constable as he made his way down the street, weaving through the poor folk of the east end as if he were one of them. He nodded to some, waved to others, and swatted tiny hands as they reached for his pockets as if it were simply a game to him. The children, not the least put out by their failure, raced on to find other, more susceptible targets.
Walker watched them as they found their next victim: a sharp-dressed man whose wallet would have been far better off had he stayed clear of parts of London he so obviously did not belong in. The suit was well-made, cut from quality cloth, and clean. His shoes, though starting to wear, were the same. The man himself was neat, precise, and cautious-he at least seemed to realize he was out of his depth.
The newcomer caught a small hand as it reached for his pocket without pausing his search of the crowd, impressing Walker. Perhaps the man was not so far out of his depth after all. The child squirmed, and his captor relented, letting him go without a second glance.
Dark eyes locked in on Walker from across the street, and the constable stilled and waited as the other approached, studying the man all the while.
Eyes that tried to take in everything at once gave the man a nervous, shifty look, and the way he moved, as if prepared for either fight or flight at the slightest provocation, reminded Walker of the boy he had so recently intercepted. Wariness outlined every movement the stranger made. The combined effect could have been easily mistaken, but Walker knew better.
He knew a hunted man when he saw one.
"G'day to you, sir," Walker offered as the man approached. He had to look down a significant distance to meet the man's eyes, and took a moment to guess at his height. 5'6" perhaps. Not more than 5'8". "What can I do for you?"
"I'm looking for Constable Walker," the man replied, then caught himself. "My name is Lestrade. I'm an inspector with Scotland Yard, and I was told I might ask him for help regarding a case."
Walker's eyebrows receded under his helmet. "You've found him. What sort of help, exactly, were you told you might ask for, young man?" he asked, ignoring the man's title. If Lestrade noticed, he did not mention it.
"A woman was murdered on Ratcliffe Highway." Lestrade's voice dropped; Walker doubted anyone around them could make out the other man's words. "The neighbors won't talk to me, of course. The land-lady claims she knows nothing of the woman's business. Constable Mullins suggested you might be willing to ask around. He thought people might talk to you, where they wouldn't give me the time of day." Frustration glowed in the man's eyes only to be quickly banked.
"I could ask," Walker agreed slowly. "Can't promise anything'll come of it. Folks around here don't really trust the police." Lestrade shifted uncomfortably; the man already knew as much, and to his credit did not blame them.
"I'd appreciate it," Lestrade replied. "Anything you can find out would help."
Walker idly swatted a hand away from his wallet. Lestrade did not so much as blink. "I'll ask around," he said again, "but don't expect too much."
"Thank you," Lestrade said. Turning, he made his way back through the crowd. Walker watched him go.
He would talk to Mullins later, find out what had possessed the man to send an inspector, and a fairly fresh one at that, in his direction. The lad must have seen something in the man, to think it worth mentioning Walker to him.
In the meantime, he would ask around and see if anyone knew anything about Miss Gardner, or about a murder over on Ratcliffe Highway. If he heard anything, he would pay the young inspector a visit and find out whether or not he was serious about finding the woman's murderer.
Lestrade relaxed only marginally as he left London's East End behind. A man still had to watch his step-and his pockets-in just about any other part of the city as well. Thieves were less brazen in other parts of London, more cautious and less likely to be seen, which simply meant one had to keep a better lookout.
The inspector made his way to Willie's Tavern, knowing the man he actually wanted to speak with would have closed down the shop by this time of day. With any luck, he would have just finished dinner but not had time to drink himself into a stupor yet, and Lestrade would be able to ask him a few questions.
He found Ronald Harris in his usual booth near the back of the tavern, halfway through his meal. Ronald saw him as he approached, smiled, and waved the inspector over.
"Hungry?" Lestrade shook his head. Ronald grinned and waved for a server to bring him a drink instead. "Thirsty?"
"Thank you," Lestrade's polite answer elicited the usual round of mirth from the other man.
Harris grinned at him, not entirely sober, and continued eating while Lestrade considered the drink set before him.
Lestrade had yet to figure out what had caused the other man to approach him one winter evening four years ago. He had even less of an idea what had made the man decide to sit down and immediately start telling the silent constable everything he could think of about his trade, but Lestrade had sat there for roughly four hours that night listening to the man explain the properties of various metals and how that affected cost and value when it came to jewel craft. If the young man had not uttered a word the entire time, the amiable drunk had taken his silence as an invitation to speak to his heart's content.
Harris had greeted Lestrade like an old friend ever since, always eager to share more about his trade, and Lestrade honestly did not mind that the man never seemed to expect him to say anything in return. On the rare occasion that Lestrade did offer the bare minimum of polite conversation, Harris only seemed to view it as a bonus.
"May I ask you a question?" Lestrade ventured before the man could get started on the night's lecture. Harris grinned at him, leaning back in his seat, and picked up his mug.
"Go ahead," he said.
Lestrade offered him the comb that had belonged to the murdered woman. "This is silver, isn't it?"
The other man took the comb and looked it over. "It is. Not plated, either. Silver through and through. Silver-plated items are usually lighter in color. Heavier too, because of the base metal. Silver-plated is more durable, less expensive. This-as old as it is, someone's taken care of it, for it to be in this good of shape."
"I was told it was a family heirloom," Lestrade offered. Harris nodded.
"It's likely," he confirmed. "Pretty little piece. Quite valuable."
"You wouldn't happen to know which family?" Lestrade asked. Harris shook his head.
"I can make some inquiries," he offered. "Was it stolen?"
"Not that I'm aware. A woman was murdered. The comb was either passed down to her through her family, or it was a gift."
"A gentleman's gift," Harris offered. Lestrade shrugged.
"It would be better for any inquiries to be discreet," he admitted. Harris grinned and set his drink aside unfinished.
"Because the woman's family might not want to be associated with her, or because the giver of the gift might be the murderer?" the older man asked, and Lestrade resisted the urge to look away.
"Either is possible," he admitted with some reluctance. "Which is why any questions need to be discreet."
Harris looked uncharacteristically solemn. "Believe it or not, young man, I do know how to keep a secret. I enjoy talking to you, sure enough, and you've been more than obliging over the years, but I'm not the sort to go talking out of turn. You've got nothing to worry about there."
"Thank you," Lestrade reached into his pocket. "One more thing, if you don't mind, Mr. Harris." He held out a handful of the beads from the woman's broken necklace.
"Cheap trinkets," the man asserted immediately. "Bought by women who care more about appearances than actual value, or can't afford anything better."
"What if it was a gift?" Lestrade asked. "From a gentleman caller. Possibly upper class."
"Then he bought it because he thought the woman would think it was pretty." Harris looked thoughtful.
"Could he have bought the comb as well?"
"Wouldn't have bothered." Harris shook his head. "Why give a woman something of actual value when something cheap gets the job done?"
Lestrade considered the question briefly, but lacked the experience to come up with any sort of answer. "Where would someone buy something like this?"
Harris sniffed. "You could find something like this literally anywhere that sells cheap goods," he said. "It's little more than decorative trash. The comb, on the other hand, is a distinct piece, worth tracing." The old jeweler turned his attention back to silver and opal, examining the comb more thoroughly this time.
Lestrade returned the beads to his pocket and watched as the other man lost himself in his work. The inspector nodded as the tavern's owner ambled by on his way to settle a couple of overexcited customers before they could cause any trouble. The man grinned in response but kept moving, preferring overall to keep out of Lestrade's business as much as possible.
Satisfied, Harris returned the comb to the inspector. "I'll let you know if I learn anything," he said.
Lestrade rose from the table. "Thank you, Mr. Harris."