officer remained.
‘It’s Pat Nolan, isn’t it?’ he asked, taking a pipe out from the front of his jacket. He stuck it in the side of his mouth and struck a Lucifer.
‘Aye,’ Patrick replied, not too sure he liked his name being known to the local peelers.
‘I’m Plant, Sergeant Plant.’ He drew on his pipe. ‘I heard you’re the one niggling at the Tugmans.’
Ignoring the prickle of uneasiness creeping up his spine, Patrick gave the man an ingenuous smile. ‘Our paths have crossed.’
‘Harry and Charlie are a pair of wrong ’uns and no mistake. Especially Charlie; I reckon he’s got something missing up here.’ Sergeant Plant tapped his temple and Patrick was inclined to agree. ‘They’re almost as bad as that old mother of theirs but then they’d have to go some way to match her wicked streak.’
Patrick wouldn’t have argued that one either but his expression remained impassive.
Plant drew on the pipe and let a puff of smoke escape from the other side of his mouth. ‘I heard it was Harry who lifted the cargo from the Maid of Plymouth last week,’ he said.
Patrick tried to look surprised. Plant studied him for a few more minutes then knocked the ash from his pipe before stuffing it back between his brass buttons. ‘Ah, well. If you do hear a whisper just come and find me. I’ve got an interest in the Tugmans’ business.’
Hitching her basket on her hips, Josie followed her friend Sophie Cooper along Shorter Alley. True to her word, Josie had volunteered to help Sophie with her round of pastoral visits to the poor of the area, and they were making their way to one of the rundown areas just north of Cable Street. It was the last refuge of the destitute before they were forced onto the parish.
Sophie’s father, the Quaker minister, believed that charity didn’t begin at home - as Mrs Munroe would have it - but at his ever open front door. Because of Mr Cooper’s tireless work in the dark alleyways and stews of the area, Sophie was also well known and respected and therefore never needed an escort.
The shops and businesses that made their living from their proximity to the river were already halfway through their morning by the time the two girls walked past, their baskets of provisions held tightly in their hands. It was hard enough to cross the road with the constant flow of heavy wagons rolling by in each direction, but it was also difficult to navigate their way along the pavement, which was equally busy. The shop frontages were piled high with open barrels and crates displaying the goods for sale, while young lads in long aprons that almost covered their toes stood on sentry duty against opportunistic pilfering.
Between the shops, small businesses that supplied the ships in port with provisions were flourishing. Every other yard had miles of rope, some as thin as your little finger and some as thick as your wrist, coiled around overhead beams. Unwary passers-by lost hats or bonnets if they weren’t mindful of the hazards above them. The pungent smell of tar wafted out as ships’ pitch was boiled and barrelled, ready for loading. Behind bevelled window panes, watchmakers tinkered with sextons, nautical clocks, barometers and compasses.
As they made their way past quartermasters ordering provisions and shopkeepers replenishing their displays, Josie told Sophie about her visit to Patrick’s house.
‘I can hardly believe it,’ Sophie said, her oval face a picture of concern.
‘Of course it was a bit awkward,’ Josie replied, as the little niggle of hurt settling around her breastbone jabbed at her again. ‘But, as I keep telling everyone, it was a long time ago.’
‘Well, at least you know why he didn’t return.’
Yes, because he fell in love with someone else! Not that I give a jot.
‘Where are we going?’ Josie asked, turning the conversation away from Patrick. She stepped over a gutter
‘It’s Pat Nolan, isn’t it?’ he asked, taking a pipe out from the front of his jacket. He stuck it in the side of his mouth and struck a Lucifer.
‘Aye,’ Patrick replied, not too sure he liked his name being known to the local peelers.
‘I’m Plant, Sergeant Plant.’ He drew on his pipe. ‘I heard you’re the one niggling at the Tugmans.’
Ignoring the prickle of uneasiness creeping up his spine, Patrick gave the man an ingenuous smile. ‘Our paths have crossed.’
‘Harry and Charlie are a pair of wrong ’uns and no mistake. Especially Charlie; I reckon he’s got something missing up here.’ Sergeant Plant tapped his temple and Patrick was inclined to agree. ‘They’re almost as bad as that old mother of theirs but then they’d have to go some way to match her wicked streak.’
Patrick wouldn’t have argued that one either but his expression remained impassive.
Plant drew on the pipe and let a puff of smoke escape from the other side of his mouth. ‘I heard it was Harry who lifted the cargo from the Maid of Plymouth last week,’ he said.
Patrick tried to look surprised. Plant studied him for a few more minutes then knocked the ash from his pipe before stuffing it back between his brass buttons. ‘Ah, well. If you do hear a whisper just come and find me. I’ve got an interest in the Tugmans’ business.’
Hitching her basket on her hips, Josie followed her friend Sophie Cooper along Shorter Alley. True to her word, Josie had volunteered to help Sophie with her round of pastoral visits to the poor of the area, and they were making their way to one of the rundown areas just north of Cable Street. It was the last refuge of the destitute before they were forced onto the parish.
Sophie’s father, the Quaker minister, believed that charity didn’t begin at home - as Mrs Munroe would have it - but at his ever open front door. Because of Mr Cooper’s tireless work in the dark alleyways and stews of the area, Sophie was also well known and respected and therefore never needed an escort.
The shops and businesses that made their living from their proximity to the river were already halfway through their morning by the time the two girls walked past, their baskets of provisions held tightly in their hands. It was hard enough to cross the road with the constant flow of heavy wagons rolling by in each direction, but it was also difficult to navigate their way along the pavement, which was equally busy. The shop frontages were piled high with open barrels and crates displaying the goods for sale, while young lads in long aprons that almost covered their toes stood on sentry duty against opportunistic pilfering.
Between the shops, small businesses that supplied the ships in port with provisions were flourishing. Every other yard had miles of rope, some as thin as your little finger and some as thick as your wrist, coiled around overhead beams. Unwary passers-by lost hats or bonnets if they weren’t mindful of the hazards above them. The pungent smell of tar wafted out as ships’ pitch was boiled and barrelled, ready for loading. Behind bevelled window panes, watchmakers tinkered with sextons, nautical clocks, barometers and compasses.
As they made their way past quartermasters ordering provisions and shopkeepers replenishing their displays, Josie told Sophie about her visit to Patrick’s house.
‘I can hardly believe it,’ Sophie said, her oval face a picture of concern.
‘Of course it was a bit awkward,’ Josie replied, as the little niggle of hurt settling around her breastbone jabbed at her again. ‘But, as I keep telling everyone, it was a long time ago.’
‘Well, at least you know why he didn’t return.’
Yes, because he fell in love with someone else! Not that I give a jot.
‘Where are we going?’ Josie asked, turning the conversation away from Patrick. She stepped over a gutter
Similar Books
