Snobbery with Violence by MC Beaton Page A

Station. He located the site of the new tunnel, located the gate where the workers would come out and waited patiently. At seven o’clock, dirty, weary men began to file out. Leaning against a hoarding, Harry studied their faces. He at last picked out a man older than the rest. His face was criss-crossed with broken veins and his nose was bulbous, all the signs of a heavy drinker. He followed him as he walked from the station, keeping a steady pace behind him. He was feeling decidedly weary as he trudged along, his bad leg aching, wondering if the man lived at the ends of the earth, but his quarry finally opened the doors of a pub in Limehouse and walked in. Harry gave it a few minutes and then walked in as well.
    The air was full of the smell of pipe smoke and cheap cigarette smoke. The smoke lay in wreaths across the dingy pub, which was lit by flickering gas lamps.
    The smell of unwashed bodies struck him like a blow in the face. He went to the bar and ordered a pint of porter and looked around. The man he was chasing was carrying a full pint to a corner table. Harry picked up his drink, walked over and sat down.
    ‘I want to talk to you,’ he said.
    ‘What about?’ The man took a pull at his beer. ‘Who are you?’ he growled. An evil-looking prostitute with sagging breasts and black teeth leaned against Harry’s shoulder. ‘Fancy a good time, guv?’
    ‘Shove off,’ said Harry.
    He waited until she had gone.
    ‘My name’s Bill Sykes,’ said Harry.
    ‘Bin reading Dickens, ’ave you?’ sneered his companion.
    Harry cursed himself. He should have guessed that a dipsomaniac, like many of his kind, would turn out to have come down in the world.
    ‘My mother did,’ said Harry. ‘Your name?’
    ‘Pat Brian.’
    ‘Mr Brian, I have an offer for you. How would you like to earn two hundred guineas?’
    ‘Garn.’
    ‘The truth.’
    ‘What d’ye want for it?’
    ‘A quantity of dynamite, enough to blow up, say, a bridge and a building, and instructionson how to do it.’
    ‘How did you know I was a blaster? Come on. Who’s bin talking?’
    ‘No one. Lucky guess.’ I am a rank amateur, thought Harry. He could have turned out just to be one of the labourers.
    ‘Two hundred guineas. What’s it for?’
    ‘The two hundred guineas are for you to supply the material and instructions, keep your mouth shut and not ask questions.’
    ‘Two hundred guineas!’ Pat stared into his beer and then took a long pull. ‘I could quit. I could get back to Ireland. Buy a bit o’ land, I could.’
    ‘When could you get the stuff?’
    Pat finished his drink. ‘Come along o’ me. Going back to Liverpool Street.’
    ‘Have you a key to the site?’
    ‘Don’t need one, guv. Know a way in. How do I know you’ll pay?’
    Harry slid a wash-leather bag out of his pocket and passed it over. ‘Look in there. Under the table.’
    Pat fumbled with the bag under the table. His eyes widened. He stuffed the bag in his jacket pocket. ‘Thanks,’ he jeered. ‘You’d best walk out of here. One shout from me that you’re the perlice, and they’ll murder you.’
    Harry sighed. He fished in his other pocket and then said levelly, ‘I now have a pistol pointed at your private parts under the table. Give me back the gold or I’ll blow your manhood off.’
    Pat ducked his head under the table and then straightened up. He shrugged. ‘Worth a try. Can’t blame me, now can you, guv?’
    ‘Get to your feet and walk to the door. I will follow. You now know too much, so if you attempt to run away, I will shoot you.’
    ‘You’re going to force me to get the stuff for nothink,’ wailed Pat, his accent an odd mixture of Irish and Cockney. ‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph. I have no luck at all, at all.’
    ‘You’ll get your money. Now, walk!’
    *  *  *
    ‘That person is here again,’ complained Rose.
    ‘If you mean Captain Cathcart, yes,’ growled her father. ‘And speaking of persons, why hasn’t that Daisy creature been