away from the stream of bridge traffic, and the thing other folks called “intuition” did not tickle the back of her head as it might have. Nothing about this spot bothered her and made her want to ask questions.
A look at the other side of the bridge was equally fruitless, for there was no spot that gave public access to the bridge wall close enough to the bank as to let a dead body lodge where the boy had been found. The closest open wall on this side was well over the stiff current that would have carried anything dropped from it nearly out of London.
She sighed and moved farther onto the bridge.
The pie seller owned a cart he parked near the center of it. The cart held a large iron box with a drawer beneath where coals on a tray kept the box and its pies warm. The savory smell of them made her realize she’d missed eating dinner, and her stomach gurgled loudly enough for the pieman to hear.
“Ah, mistress! You sound as if you are in need of one of my fine pies! Come, have a taste! Only a single farthing! If you don’t think my pies are the best you’ve ever tasted, I will give you your money back.”
Suzanne knew his game. The sample pies for a farthing were small indeed, and very, very good. A full-sized pie cost more, and though they were also good they were not as tasty as the samples. Nevertheless, she bought a full-sized pork pie for three farthings and bit into it with relish. With the paper it came in, she wiped gravy from her lip and savored the meat and pastry as she chewed. As usual, there was perhaps a bit more gravy than necessary, and an excess of onions because onions were cheap, but the pie was hot, fresh, and well seasoned with salt and pepper. That she was hungry as well made it so much more delicious.
The pieman turned his attention to other prospective customers, but attended to her again when she spoke. “This is an excellent pie, good man, and well worth the price. But for another farthing I would have some information.”
“Information I got, mistress. Ain’t nothing I don’t know about this bridge. ’Tis a small community, the folks who live in this here street. I know them all.”
“Very good, then. I’m told you’re knowledgeable of the murder that happened at the south end of this bridge some days ago.”
“Oh, I know all about that. They found a boy down there, just downstream. They think he was thrown. Just was heaved over the wall upstream, and landed in the water. It’s the mill wheel what got him. Caught him under, and drowned him, it did.”
“Did you see who threw him in?”
The pieman shook his head. “I were at home asleep then.”
“Not making pies?”
Now he laughed. “No, my wife does that. Gets up and bakes them all up so’s I can bring them here and sell them.”
“And then she sleeps while you’re here?”
“No, she works for a weaver during the day.” His brow furrowed at this strange line of questioning, and he seemed to think her questions a bit silly. Her next question was aimed at clarifying why she would want to know so much about his wife’s sleeping habits.
“Do you live nearby? Did your wife see who threw the boy into the river?”
Again the pieman shook his head. “We live up thataway.” He pointed with a thumb over his shoulder toward the north end of the bridge. “Neither of us saw anything.”
“Do you know anyone who saw anything? Who told you about what had happened?”
He thought hard for a moment, then said, “I don’t recall exactly who first told me of it. It seemed everyone was talking about it all at once. Some folks buying pies, mostly. I couldn’t tell you their names.”
“I see.” All rumor and conjecture. No real facts, other than that a boy in a dress had been found dead along the south bank of the Thames. Facts known by everyone who had witnessed the discovery, and nobody to be found who might have seen the crime itself. “Have you, perhaps, seen anyone lurking about the dark corners of the south
A look at the other side of the bridge was equally fruitless, for there was no spot that gave public access to the bridge wall close enough to the bank as to let a dead body lodge where the boy had been found. The closest open wall on this side was well over the stiff current that would have carried anything dropped from it nearly out of London.
She sighed and moved farther onto the bridge.
The pie seller owned a cart he parked near the center of it. The cart held a large iron box with a drawer beneath where coals on a tray kept the box and its pies warm. The savory smell of them made her realize she’d missed eating dinner, and her stomach gurgled loudly enough for the pieman to hear.
“Ah, mistress! You sound as if you are in need of one of my fine pies! Come, have a taste! Only a single farthing! If you don’t think my pies are the best you’ve ever tasted, I will give you your money back.”
Suzanne knew his game. The sample pies for a farthing were small indeed, and very, very good. A full-sized pie cost more, and though they were also good they were not as tasty as the samples. Nevertheless, she bought a full-sized pork pie for three farthings and bit into it with relish. With the paper it came in, she wiped gravy from her lip and savored the meat and pastry as she chewed. As usual, there was perhaps a bit more gravy than necessary, and an excess of onions because onions were cheap, but the pie was hot, fresh, and well seasoned with salt and pepper. That she was hungry as well made it so much more delicious.
The pieman turned his attention to other prospective customers, but attended to her again when she spoke. “This is an excellent pie, good man, and well worth the price. But for another farthing I would have some information.”
“Information I got, mistress. Ain’t nothing I don’t know about this bridge. ’Tis a small community, the folks who live in this here street. I know them all.”
“Very good, then. I’m told you’re knowledgeable of the murder that happened at the south end of this bridge some days ago.”
“Oh, I know all about that. They found a boy down there, just downstream. They think he was thrown. Just was heaved over the wall upstream, and landed in the water. It’s the mill wheel what got him. Caught him under, and drowned him, it did.”
“Did you see who threw him in?”
The pieman shook his head. “I were at home asleep then.”
“Not making pies?”
Now he laughed. “No, my wife does that. Gets up and bakes them all up so’s I can bring them here and sell them.”
“And then she sleeps while you’re here?”
“No, she works for a weaver during the day.” His brow furrowed at this strange line of questioning, and he seemed to think her questions a bit silly. Her next question was aimed at clarifying why she would want to know so much about his wife’s sleeping habits.
“Do you live nearby? Did your wife see who threw the boy into the river?”
Again the pieman shook his head. “We live up thataway.” He pointed with a thumb over his shoulder toward the north end of the bridge. “Neither of us saw anything.”
“Do you know anyone who saw anything? Who told you about what had happened?”
He thought hard for a moment, then said, “I don’t recall exactly who first told me of it. It seemed everyone was talking about it all at once. Some folks buying pies, mostly. I couldn’t tell you their names.”
“I see.” All rumor and conjecture. No real facts, other than that a boy in a dress had been found dead along the south bank of the Thames. Facts known by everyone who had witnessed the discovery, and nobody to be found who might have seen the crime itself. “Have you, perhaps, seen anyone lurking about the dark corners of the south
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