The Detective and Mr. Dickens by William J. Palmer Read Free Book Online Page B

prostitute. Says she saw it all. Says body went in off the stairs above Blackfriars. We figure the Thames river rats will save us the price of a dredger. One in particular we keep in our pay. We’re waitin’ for word of ’im.”
    “How did it go in?” Dickens asked eagerly. No detail could be too insignificant for his novelist’s curiosity.
    For my part, I was captured by the woman. Her neck was white and her full breasts almost completely exposed by the low-cut, loosely laced bosom of her dark, blood-coloured dress. She stared fixedly at the flames as if contemplating throwing herself into them. The shimmering blaze sent flickering shadows across her face which softened her mien, and ripples of orange light sparked in her thick mob of ungoverned curls.
    From across the room, she seemed beautiful to me. Dickens has frequently cautioned me about my tendency to idealize. *
    “She saw it all,” Field answered Dickens’s question.
    He led us across the bullpen to hold audience with the fire-woman.
    “This is Meggy Sheehey, also known as Irish Meg,” Field introduced the woman, who raised her eyes from the fire with disdain. “This is Mister Dickens and Mister Collins.”
    “Aye…Mister Dickens, eh? Oy’ve ’eard o’ you, all right, oy ’ave.”
    “We’re lucky to ’ave Meg this time.” Field played to his audience. “We’ve got ourselves a reg’lar eyewitness come for’ard voluntarily.”
    “The bloody bastards did’na pay me. That’s the only reason I follered ’em. To make ’em pay. Fieldsy knows that. All’s for a price, Fieldsy. For a price. Don’t forgit.”
    Field frowned at her familiarity. “We’re not so sure Meg didn’t ’ave something to do with this man’s goin’ in, are we Meg? That scene’s still possible. You’re goin’ to watch your langwidge, ain’t you Meg?”
    Her lips clamped tight, and she slumped back in the chair, subdued.
    “Now,” Field ordered, bending down and crooking his forefinger lightly under her defiant chin, “tell your story from start to the throwin’ in.”
    “Oy wos workin’ the street outsoyd the door o’ The Snug Harbor verry late las’ night. On a suddin, five swells, all drunk, climb out o’ a ’ansom cab. They muss’a bin piled atop each other. Wos a strange sight. Five swells in that place near the river at that time o’ night. The Snug , she’s a sailors’ pub, she is. But there wos five fine ’uns, standin’ there in the street big as life. Wos a strange sight, allright.”
    As if the strangeness of it all had suddenly parched her whole being, the fire-woman reached for her glass, which was sitting on the small deal table at her right hand. Field caught her meaning immediately, and produced a half-full bottle of gin out of a cabinet. Her glass filled, Irish Meg returned to her tale.
    “The five swells didna go inta The Snug . Smart o’ ’em. Instead they spotted me. I gave ’em me terms. They walked me to a bench near the river. Two o’ ’em used me. The other three jus’ watched. Two o’ ’em used me but only one paid proper. The others, the one wi’ the fat, curlin’ nosebrush, laughed and spit on me as I knelt there. They were an ugly crew, all drunk, and at each other the ’ole time. They staggered away along the river. I follered ’em, keepin’ my distance.”
    At this point in her narrative, Rogers stuck his head in and called Inspector Field from the room to consult. The woman seized the occasion to take a long pull from her gin glass. Satisfied, she grinned slyly up at us and dropped all pretension. “Wot are you gents?” she asked boldly. “Swells come to sniff about in London’s dustbin? Swells brought round to watch the animals perform? You know, gents, for a price you can perform with the animals.” With a wink, she brazenly threw back her shoulders to display the full white expanse of her breasts and with both hands she formed the most indecent of gestures. With the thumb and forefinger of her