"More or less," Tate admitted. "We might think about that, squire, if you gave us that tin on deposit."
"I might give you some part of the money," Mallory allowed. "But then you must give me information on deposit."
Velasco and Tate looked hard at one another. "Give us a moment to confer about it." The two private detectives wandered away through the jostle of sidewalk traffic and sought shelter in the leeway of an iron-fenced obelisk.
"Those two aren't worth five guineas in a year," Fraser said.
"I suppose they are vicious rascals," Mallory agreed, "but it scarcely matters what they are, Fraser. I'm after what they know."
Tate returned at length, the kerchief back over his face. "Cove name of Peter Foulke," he said, his voice muffled. "I wouldn't have said thatwild horses couldn't drag it out of meonly the bugger puts on airs and orders us about like a bloody Lordship. Don't trust our integrity. Don't trust us to act in his interests. Don't seem to think we know how to do our own job."
"To hell with him," Velasco said. Stuck between kerchief and derby-brim, the spit-curls on his cheeks stuck out like greased wings. "Velasco and Tate don't cross the Specials for any Peter bloody Foulke."
Mallory offered Tate a crisp pound-note from his book. Tate looked it over, folded it between his fingers with a card-sharper's dexterity, and made it vanish. "Another of those for my friend here, to seal the deal?"
"I suspected it was Foulke all along," Mallory said.
"Then here's something you don't know, squire," Tate said. "We ain't the only ones dogging you. While you hoof along like an elephant, talking to yourself, there's this flash cove and his missus on your heels, three days in the last five."
Fraser spoke up sharply. "But not today, eh?"
Tate chuckled behind his kerchief. "Reckon they saw you and hooked it, Fraser. That vinegar phiz of yours would make 'em hedge off, sure. Jumpy as cats, those two."
"Do they know you saw them?" Fraser said.
"They ain't stupid, Fraser. They're up and flash. He's a racing-cove or I miss my guess, and she's a high-flyer. The dolly tried talking velvet to Velasco here, wanted to know who hired us." Tate paused. "We didn't say."
"What did they say about themselves?" Fraser said sharply.
"She said she was Francis Rudwick's sister," Velasco said. "Investigating her brother's murder. Said that straight out, without my asking."
"Of course we didn't believe that cakey talk," Tate said. "She don't look a bit like Rudwick. Nice-looking bit o' muslin, though. Sweet face, red hair, more likely she was Rudwick's convenient."
"She's a murderess!" Mallory said.
"Funny thing, squire, that's just what she says about you."
"Do you know where to find them?" Fraser asked.
Tate shook his head.
"We could look," Velasco offered.
"Why don't you do that while you follow Foulke," Mallory said, in
a burst of inspiration. "I have a notion they might all be in league somehow."
"Foulke's away in Brighton," Tate said. "Couldn't abide the Stinkdelicate sensibilities. And if we're to go to Brighton, Velasco and I could do with the railway fareexpenses, you know."
"Bill me," Mallory said. He gave Velasco a pound-note.
"Dr. Mallory wants that bill fully itemized," Fraser said. "With receipts."
"Right and fly, squire," Tate said. He touched the brim of his hat with a copper's salute. "Delighted to serve the interests of the nation."
"And keep a civil tongue in your head, Tate."
Tate ignored him, and leered at Mallory. "You'll be hearing from us, squire."
Fraser and Mallory watched them go. "I reckon you're out two pounds," Fraser said. "You'll never see those two again."
"Cheap at the price, perhaps," Mallory said.
"No it ain't, sir. There's far cheaper ways."
"At least I shan't be coshed from behind any longer."
"No, sir, not by them."
Mallory and Fraser ate gritty sandwiches of turkey and bacon from a glass-sided hot-cart. They were once again unable to hire a cabriolet. None were visible in the street. The underground stations were all closed, with angry sand-hog pickets shouting foul abuse at passers-by.
The day's second appointment, in Jermyn Street, was a severe disappointment to Mallory. He had come to the Museum to confer about his speech, but Mr. Keats, the Royal Society kinotropist, had sent a telegram declaring himself very ill, and Huxley had been dragooned into some committee of savant Lordships meeting to consider the emergency. Mallory could not even manage to cancel his speech, as Disraeli had suggested, for Mr. Trenham Reeks declared himself unable to make such a decision without Huxley's authority, and Huxley himself had left no forwarding address or telegram-number.
To add salt to the wound, the Museum of Practical Geology was almost deserted, the cheery crowds of schoolchildren and natural-history enthusiasts depleted to a few poor sullen wretches clearly come in for the sake of cleaner air and some escape from the heat. They slouched and loitered under the towering skeleton of the Leviathan as if they longed to crack its mighty bones and suck the marrow.