responsibilities of his office had taken a deep toll. No one knew better than Sir John the inadequacy of his Runners’ official salaries; even the additional money provided them by government rewards seldom totaled more than an annual £30. Consequently, and against his better judgment, he said, “If your services are requested; I won’t stand in your way—providing you can convince me that you are making progress on my business. Does that answer your question, Crump?”
“Aye, guv’nor, it does.” Crump was already halfway out the door. Once outside, he proceeded more slowly down the stairway and out into the street. Of habit, his footsteps carried him to the tavern viewed so clearly from the window above.
It was an old building, constructed partially of powdered flaking brick, its drab walls bearing ancient advertisements for soap, cure-all pills and physics, combs and pomades and snuff. Crump sat down at a table, prepared to seek a degree of solace in beefsteak and oyster sauce, washed down with stout. Despite the impression he’d given his Chief Magistrate, the Runner had no intention of tramping from milliner to milliner in search of one who had a relative or lover a great deal more enterprising than was prudent. The number of such shops in the city was staggering, females of every station being constitutionally unable to endure existence without access to folderols and furbelows. Crump had visited a few milliners himself, result of his acquaintance with a dollymop with a fondness for laces and bows.
For a few moments, Crump’s thoughts lingered upon that little dollymop. During their last encounter she had pined for stockings of fashionable silk, nonsense his pocketbook could not stand.
The Runner shook his head. There must be some means by which he could discover whether this rumor regarding Blood-and-Thunder had any basis, and at the same time allow himself sufficient freedom to pursue the private commissions which enabled him to enjoy his pipe tobacco and his eye-catching waistcoats—aye, and his little dollymop. Hard on the heels of that thought, Crump’s least favorite among all the Bow Street personnel stepped into the tavern, a young man of nondescript features, anxious expression, and an irremedial habit of tripping over his own feet.
Samson Puddiphat! Crump grimaced so severely that the owner of the tavern wondered if the Runner had taken a sudden dislike to his beefsteak and oyster sauce. Then the Runner’s features assumed their usual genial expression, and he gestured expansively with his fork.
In response to that gesture, Puddiphat made his way to Crump’s table, after disengaging himself from a table that had put itself in his way. “Pleased to see you, Mr. Crump!” he enthused.
“Aye, I’m pleased about it myself, laddie.” Puddiphat’s eternal desire to please was one of the several things that most annoyed Crump. “Rest yourself.” He gestured toward a chair.
Looking very gratified, Puddiphat did so, with careful attention to the saber which he wore with his greatcoat. These items constituted only part of the uniform of the Bow Street Horse Patrol. In addition, Puddiphat wore blue trousers, white leather gloves, boots with steel spurs, and a scarlet waistcoat. It was a costume that looked excellent on horseback, during the dark hours of the night when Puddiphat and his fellows patrolled the roads leading into London. Crump was not impressed, however, with the appearance of the uniform in a tavern in midday. But Puddiphat was never seen in any other garb. More than once Crump had uncharitably wished Puddiphat might do himself an injury with the saber he always wore.
Confidentially, he leaned forward. Looking even more gratified, Puddiphat followed suit. “Tell me, laddie,” Crump murmured, “do you still have a hankering to better yourself?” It was no special secret that Puddiphat yearned to exchange his saber for a Runner’s Occurrence Book.
Chapter
“Aye, guv’nor, it does.” Crump was already halfway out the door. Once outside, he proceeded more slowly down the stairway and out into the street. Of habit, his footsteps carried him to the tavern viewed so clearly from the window above.
It was an old building, constructed partially of powdered flaking brick, its drab walls bearing ancient advertisements for soap, cure-all pills and physics, combs and pomades and snuff. Crump sat down at a table, prepared to seek a degree of solace in beefsteak and oyster sauce, washed down with stout. Despite the impression he’d given his Chief Magistrate, the Runner had no intention of tramping from milliner to milliner in search of one who had a relative or lover a great deal more enterprising than was prudent. The number of such shops in the city was staggering, females of every station being constitutionally unable to endure existence without access to folderols and furbelows. Crump had visited a few milliners himself, result of his acquaintance with a dollymop with a fondness for laces and bows.
For a few moments, Crump’s thoughts lingered upon that little dollymop. During their last encounter she had pined for stockings of fashionable silk, nonsense his pocketbook could not stand.
The Runner shook his head. There must be some means by which he could discover whether this rumor regarding Blood-and-Thunder had any basis, and at the same time allow himself sufficient freedom to pursue the private commissions which enabled him to enjoy his pipe tobacco and his eye-catching waistcoats—aye, and his little dollymop. Hard on the heels of that thought, Crump’s least favorite among all the Bow Street personnel stepped into the tavern, a young man of nondescript features, anxious expression, and an irremedial habit of tripping over his own feet.
Samson Puddiphat! Crump grimaced so severely that the owner of the tavern wondered if the Runner had taken a sudden dislike to his beefsteak and oyster sauce. Then the Runner’s features assumed their usual genial expression, and he gestured expansively with his fork.
In response to that gesture, Puddiphat made his way to Crump’s table, after disengaging himself from a table that had put itself in his way. “Pleased to see you, Mr. Crump!” he enthused.
“Aye, I’m pleased about it myself, laddie.” Puddiphat’s eternal desire to please was one of the several things that most annoyed Crump. “Rest yourself.” He gestured toward a chair.
Looking very gratified, Puddiphat did so, with careful attention to the saber which he wore with his greatcoat. These items constituted only part of the uniform of the Bow Street Horse Patrol. In addition, Puddiphat wore blue trousers, white leather gloves, boots with steel spurs, and a scarlet waistcoat. It was a costume that looked excellent on horseback, during the dark hours of the night when Puddiphat and his fellows patrolled the roads leading into London. Crump was not impressed, however, with the appearance of the uniform in a tavern in midday. But Puddiphat was never seen in any other garb. More than once Crump had uncharitably wished Puddiphat might do himself an injury with the saber he always wore.
Confidentially, he leaned forward. Looking even more gratified, Puddiphat followed suit. “Tell me, laddie,” Crump murmured, “do you still have a hankering to better yourself?” It was no special secret that Puddiphat yearned to exchange his saber for a Runner’s Occurrence Book.
Chapter
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