Page 68 of In Want of a Suspect

“Good day.” She greeted the boy.

“G’day, miss,” he said. Now that she was paying attention, she realized he almost sounded like one of the street children, but not quite. It was as if Henry was playacting at sounding uneducated. Lizzie doubted she would have picked up on thedifference in his speech if he hadn’t tipped her off by admitting he knew how to read.

“Tell me, Henry—have you been following my every move since we last spoke?”

His eyes widened in surprise at Lizzie’s boldness, and he shook his head unconvincingly. “No, miss!”

“Hmm,” was all Lizzie said, but her thoughts were racing. He seemed too smart to attach himself to any person who showed him kindness. “Surely I cannot be so interesting that you’ve followed me all around London for fun?”

He shrugged. “Are you still trying to find out what happened with the fire, miss?”

“I am.” Why was he curious about that?

“Why?”

“What do you mean?”

“Just... why?”

“People hire me to help them,” Lizzie said.

Henry made an ugly face. “People like the men who own the storehouse that burned?”

“Yes,” she said slowly. “But also... if I see something wrong or unjust, I try to help the people in need. Mr. Mullins no longer wants me to look into the fire, actually.”

“Why not?”

“I have no idea. Do you?”

Henry looked at her with suspicion.Too close, Lizzie told herself. She had to gain his trust. “You’re not going to stop?” he asked.

“No, I’m not. A woman was murdered, Henry. I simply cannot let that go.”

“Why not?” Henry’s question was a challenge, but there was something else in his voice that tugged at Lizzie’s heart.

“Because looking away when bad things happen is wrong,” she said. “And because if I stop trying to find out who killed her, then whoever did will likely get away with it.”

Lizzie felt the truth of her words sink in, even after she spoke them. This case wasn’t like last time, when, yes, she wanted to find Hurst’s killer, but she mostly wanted to prove to her father that she had what it took to be a barrister. Now she still wanted to prove to her father, to the courts, to the men of the world that she had what it took to succeed. But that felt secondary to getting justice for the deaths of Simon Mullins and Leticia Cavendish.

“Mr. Mullins doesn’t just have cloth in his storehouse,” Henry announced.

Lizzie went very still. She wanted to swing around and grab the boy by the shoulders and beg him to tell her everything he knew, but she was aware of how skittish he could be. “Oh?” she asked.

Henry shrugged. “Cloth doesn’t ship in crates with straw.”

Lizzie stared at him as she absorbed his meaning. “You’re right. How very astute of you.”

“His storehouse is mostly cloth,” the boy continued. “But he also gets special shipments.”

Lizzie trembled with excitement. “And these special shipments, you’ve seen them?”

Henry nodded. “They come at night.”

Lizzie swallowed hard. Her mouth had gone dry, but she tried not to show it. “Do you know what time? Closer to midnight, or closer to morning?”

“I don’t know,” the boy said. “But on the nights that they come, they don’t like us sleeping anywhere nearby. Men with pistols come by and they chase us off.”

Lizzie thought of Henry’s nest in the alley, and what it must be like to have only a bed of refuse to lie on each chilly night. Then she pictured men coming by, shaking him awake, forcing him off into the cold darkness. Her blood began to boil.