comfortable. His rooms consisted of a small bedroom and sitting room and a bathroom on the landing, which he shared with two other gentleman boarders. When the time came for him to move, he would be hard-pressed to find similarly cheap lodgings so close to his work.
He prayed that his landlady, the widowed Mrs. Keating, had not waited up for him. He tried to ensure that he arrived home at the busiest time of her day, when she was serving the evening meal to her five gentlemen boarders—or so late that even she would not be awake.
His timing was wrong tonight. The flaking wooden door opened before he could put his key into the lock. Mrs. Keating stood there, swaying slightly, dressed in feathers and jewels as if she had just returned from an evening out.
“Mr. Pike, I was getting worried about you,” she said. “You never told me nothing about missing supper tonight. But I’ve kept a lovely pig’s trotter warm for you if you’re hungry—my other gentlemen was most complimentary of the dish.”
“I’m sure your supper was of your usual high standard, Mrs. Keating, but I’m afraid I’ve already eaten.” Pike undidthe buttons of his overcoat and removed his scarf, putting his hat and gloves on the hall table.
His landlady smiled and sidled towards him. “No collar tonight, Mr. Pike? And you who usually looks such the gentleman. Your blue cravat is back from the laundry, the one that brings out your eyes so well. I put it on your bed.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Keating, you are most kind.” The banister was pressing into his back as he attempted to increase the distance between himself and the invitation of the low-cut cleavage thrust towards his chest. This aging trollop was as lonely as he was, but she would have to look elsewhere for her comfort. He had his standards, and the womanising ways of his early youth were well and truly over. After the miserable years of his marriage to a woman he could never, apparently, satisfy, he had little taste for embarking on the whole catastrophe again.
“I’m very tired and will retire to my rooms,” he muttered, turning his cowardly heel upon the foot of the stair. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Keating,” he added softly.
Behind him he heard her huff of breath. “Well, you’ve got no letters. Not one from your daughter nor your sister, neither,” she said with relish.
He turned and gave her a tight smile. “Then perhaps I shall hear from them tomorrow. Good night, Mrs. Keating.”
Chapter Ten
B y lunchtime the next day Pike had finished interviewing several more officers and detectives involved in the riot—without thankfully having to sack any of them. He picked up the photograph of his daughter from his desk. Despite his regrets about his catastrophic marriage, he could never look back and think of those years as wasted. His daughter’s sunny smile cheered him up as it always did and encouraged him to keep going.
He asked Fisher to chase up the last batch of photographs to be developed and then set off along the endless corridors to the section of the building devoted to the offices of Special Branch.
Superintendent Thomas Callan listened intently as Pike reported his confrontation with the O’Neill brothers in the public house. Callan had been with the elite division of the Met since its formation when it was called the Special Irish Branch. Recently the “Irish” part of its title had been dropped and its responsibilities increased. Now it concerned itself withthe gathering, collating, and exploiting of intelligence relating to any security threat, irrespective of origins. Britannia might still rule the waves, but at the dawn of the new century, her grip on the established order had become tenuous and she faced more threats than ever from both within and without.
Callan reassured Pike that the brothers’ arrival in the country had been noted and their movements closely monitored. “So you can rest easy, Matthew,” he said with a smile. “I’m sure they
He prayed that his landlady, the widowed Mrs. Keating, had not waited up for him. He tried to ensure that he arrived home at the busiest time of her day, when she was serving the evening meal to her five gentlemen boarders—or so late that even she would not be awake.
His timing was wrong tonight. The flaking wooden door opened before he could put his key into the lock. Mrs. Keating stood there, swaying slightly, dressed in feathers and jewels as if she had just returned from an evening out.
“Mr. Pike, I was getting worried about you,” she said. “You never told me nothing about missing supper tonight. But I’ve kept a lovely pig’s trotter warm for you if you’re hungry—my other gentlemen was most complimentary of the dish.”
“I’m sure your supper was of your usual high standard, Mrs. Keating, but I’m afraid I’ve already eaten.” Pike undidthe buttons of his overcoat and removed his scarf, putting his hat and gloves on the hall table.
His landlady smiled and sidled towards him. “No collar tonight, Mr. Pike? And you who usually looks such the gentleman. Your blue cravat is back from the laundry, the one that brings out your eyes so well. I put it on your bed.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Keating, you are most kind.” The banister was pressing into his back as he attempted to increase the distance between himself and the invitation of the low-cut cleavage thrust towards his chest. This aging trollop was as lonely as he was, but she would have to look elsewhere for her comfort. He had his standards, and the womanising ways of his early youth were well and truly over. After the miserable years of his marriage to a woman he could never, apparently, satisfy, he had little taste for embarking on the whole catastrophe again.
“I’m very tired and will retire to my rooms,” he muttered, turning his cowardly heel upon the foot of the stair. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Keating,” he added softly.
Behind him he heard her huff of breath. “Well, you’ve got no letters. Not one from your daughter nor your sister, neither,” she said with relish.
He turned and gave her a tight smile. “Then perhaps I shall hear from them tomorrow. Good night, Mrs. Keating.”
Chapter Ten
B y lunchtime the next day Pike had finished interviewing several more officers and detectives involved in the riot—without thankfully having to sack any of them. He picked up the photograph of his daughter from his desk. Despite his regrets about his catastrophic marriage, he could never look back and think of those years as wasted. His daughter’s sunny smile cheered him up as it always did and encouraged him to keep going.
He asked Fisher to chase up the last batch of photographs to be developed and then set off along the endless corridors to the section of the building devoted to the offices of Special Branch.
Superintendent Thomas Callan listened intently as Pike reported his confrontation with the O’Neill brothers in the public house. Callan had been with the elite division of the Met since its formation when it was called the Special Irish Branch. Recently the “Irish” part of its title had been dropped and its responsibilities increased. Now it concerned itself withthe gathering, collating, and exploiting of intelligence relating to any security threat, irrespective of origins. Britannia might still rule the waves, but at the dawn of the new century, her grip on the established order had become tenuous and she faced more threats than ever from both within and without.
Callan reassured Pike that the brothers’ arrival in the country had been noted and their movements closely monitored. “So you can rest easy, Matthew,” he said with a smile. “I’m sure they
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