Page 23 of The Gift of Patience
“And we have the dossier on the docks here. It took much longer than expected because there’s so much new traffic there,” Fielding explained.
Renforth raised his brows as the only acknowledgment as he accepted the satchel of papers. “Is there any method to this? I assume you’ve combed through it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“There was nothing unusual in it that we were able to find, but as you know, sometimes it’s in patterns over a long time. This could have been the first time.”
“Thank you. I suspect most of this is legitimate and will mainly serve to help us see what is not.”
Closer to evening, around the time that most of the workers would be finished with their day and most likely together at the public house, they all dispersed to their chambers to don their disguises and set off to the village taverns to infiltrate themselves with the dockworkers and villagers.
As Ashley pulled on the scratchy linen shirt and buckskins, he thought ruefully about how many hours he’d spent at the local tavern as a young buck. No one would expect him to be costumed like this at least.
Once dressed, they were driven to the edge of the village before they alighted. It would not do to be seen arriving in the Westwood carriage. It was decided that Manners and Cholmely would stay in the Greenwich village, and Ashley and Fielding would head across the river. Baines stayed behind to charm the devil, and Renforth was keeping watch. But first, they all stopped for a pint at The Anchor.
A sense of nostalgia being back in the old familiar place swept over Ashley—the smell of ale mixed with the straw dusting the floor below thick wooden beams running low acrossthe whitewashed ceiling. He stopped and pulled his hat lower. Unfortunately, the publican was still the same.
“You do the talking,” he muttered to Cholmely, who did the best East End accent of them all. “They know me well.”
While keeping his hat low, he led them to a large, rounded booth flanking one side of an old brick fireplace.
A young, innocent-looking barmaid came over. “What will ye be ’avin’? We’ve our rabbit pie or mutton stew. I’d ’ave the rabbit pie if I were ye. Once all the workers come in for the evenin’, there won’t be any left.”
“The rabbit pie and ale for all of us then,” Cholmely ordered, giving the young girl a wink.
As she left, Ashley could not help but mutter, “I feel distinctly old. I cannot help but think she is probably no older than Joy?—”
Cholmely groaned. “Now why did you have to go and say that? You make me feel like a predator, when that was the only promise of alleviating an otherwise boring night.”
“She’s young enough to be your daughter, Chum,” Manners drawled in that quiet, superior manner that he had.
Cholmely was pouting when the girl brought back their food and ale. “Are ye new ’ere? Or just passin’ through?”
“We ’eard as there might be better work ’ere with the new docks bein’ built. London’s gettin’ overcrowded, if ye know what I mean.”
“Sure do. I can say as we’ve ’ad some other fellows ’ere with the same thing in mind. They come in about this time every evenin’. Maybe ye could ask ’em.”
“Maybe we will.”
“I will point ’em out when they arrive, but I suspect ye’ll know ’em. They don’t exactly blend in ’ere.”
“Much obliged,” Chum said and tossed her a coin, which earned him a wide grin and a coy look.
“Be careful showing your coin, old fellow. We’re supposed to be poor dockworkers,” Fielding murmured.
“Maybe she is older than she looks,” Cholmely retorted.
When the gang finally came in, Ashley would have described them more as ruffians than labourers. There were five of them, and if Ashley had seen them in the street, he would have crossed it to avoid running into them. They definitely looked out of place in the small, cosy village tavern. But if there were new docks in fact being built, then it might very well change the face of Greenwich and Woolwich.
The group settled in the other round booth flanking the opposite side of the fireplace to them. If they were quiet, they might get lucky and be able to overhear something.
It was hard not to tap his foot with impatience, but they had to wait until the barmaid took orders and served them. There was little discussion happening amongst them as if there was an unspoken agreement not to speak until their bellies were full.
As for their own table, they all knew from experience that patience was the key and they continued to sip their ale and limit their talk to soft mutterings about nothing in particular.
“Any signal today?” one of them spoke at last.
“Nothin’ for two days now. I think somethin’ ’as ’appened to ’im,” a low voice growled.
