A Donation of Murder by Felicity Young Page B

off.’
    â€˜I got money, but not on me. ‘Ow ’bout some tick, mate?’
    â€˜You gotta cheek,’ the man said, shaking the basket of nuts over the glowing coals.
    â€˜I’m gunna be a gent one day and then you’ll be sorry.’ Tommy climbed unsteadily to his feet. He thought about pissing into the man’s brazier, then decidedagainst it. The shakes were still rattling his bones and he’d probably miss and make a fool of himself.
    â€˜You wouldn’t talk like that if you knew what was buttoned in me shirt,’ he said.
    At last the chestnut seller looked interested. His gaze dropped to Tommy’s bulging shirtfront. ‘What’s that then, give us a look.’
    â€˜You’ll give me some nuts if I shows you?’
    â€˜Well . . .’
    Then, from the corner of his eye, Tommy glimpsed the unmistakable point of a police helmet sticking up above the heads of the crowd.
    Rozzers. Shit.
    â€˜See ya round, mate,’ Tommy said casually to the costermonger before he sidled off into the crowd.
    *
    Tommy managed to hitch a ride on the back of a tram for most of the way until the conductor spied him hanging on and rapped his knuckles. He fell off just as they were pulling up at a stop not far from his destination.
    The sight of the boss’s large house in Mayfair left Tommy trembling more than the sight of the rozzers had done. He’d never seen the opulent mansion before, though he’d heard about it enough. He enjoyed the stories of how Mr Giblett had been nothing more than a street urchin, like Tommy, when he’d started off in the Trade. And now he controlled one of the most successful gangs ever to prey upon the ranks of London’s upper classes, becoming a toff himself in the process.
    And here was Tommy, standing in the porch of the great man’s house.
    He pressed the bell near the glossy black door and heard it jangle on down to the kitchen.
    A tall footman looked down his nose at Tommy. ‘What the hell do you want?’ the footman demanded.
    â€˜I come to see Mr Giblett. I got orders, see.’
    â€˜Not on the front steps, you don’t. Go down the back and wait at the tradesman’s entrance till I see if you got clearance.’
    Tommy shrugged his skinny shoulders and followed the signs down some steep stone steps towards the side of the house. He tried the door but it was locked. It was fucking cold down here. He slapped his arms across his body to keep warm.
    It seemed to take an eternity for the door to open, and as soon as the footman finished sliding the bolt Tommy was in like a flash, passing through a soft curtain of heat and enticing smells. He hadn’t eaten since the night before and realised then how weak and faint he felt. He glimpsed a fat-arsed cook leaning over a pot on the range. Maybe she’d just let him sit by the fire for a minute, toast him a crumpet or two.
    â€˜This way, son,’ the footman said, guiding Tommy away from the warmth of the kitchen to some draughty back stairs. By the time they reached the third floor his leg was hurting like Hades.
    They stepped onto a carpeted landing, where Tommy was instructed to wait outside a panelled door while the footman announced his arrival. The footman took his time before he returned, snatched the cap from Tommy’s head and pushed him through the open door.
    Tommy gasped without meaning to. The room was the poshest he’d ever seen. Silver gleamed from every surface, there were chairs and couches as soft-looking as beds, pretty pictures on the walls, diamond-paned windows, and a blazing log fire.
    Two men sat in wingback chairs on either side of the fireplace, swirling brandy in delicate glass balloons. Tommy’s spirits rose. He knew one of them, and limped towards him with his hand extended.
    â€˜Well, I never, ’ow did you get out then, Mr James?’ Tommy asked, face beaming. ‘I thought you was a goner. I ’ardly