“I stuck to Town because Matilda was easier to manage if she stayed here with the boy, and I tended to business elsewhere.”

“What did you used to say? A swindler can lie to everybody but hisself. I wish I could place that fellow at the kirk. Had a mean look, but he was good with the boy.”

“Matilda is allowing another man to look after Tommie?”

“Why shouldn’t she? Her ’usband is dead and buried. She’s still wearing Sunday ’alf mourning, but women do that because they can’t afford new clothes.”

“Matilda owns a house, free and clear. If she wants new frocks badly enough, she can sell that house. Maybe that’s why she’s had it all spruced up. A pretty property will fetch a better price.” Except that Matilda would starve before she sold what she thought of as Tommie’s birthright. Lucky boy.

“She’s probably looking to rent it out. Proper ’ouses in London is ever so dear come spring.”

“Spring is months away. Maybe I should let her sell the house, then explain to her that half the money is mine.”

Sparky dumped a whole scoop of coal on the desultory fire. “Not if she’s a widda, it ain’t. Somebody should sweep these stones.”

“The landlord’s wife will tidy up on Thursday.” Matilda had kept a spotless house. More than once, Harry had found himself in some blighted village pub, working a thimble rig and wishing he were home instead, being fussed at by his wife.

She’d tried to make him soft, Matilda had. She’d had the knack of angling a chair just so, the hassock at the exact right distance, the candles positioned precisely where they should be so a fellow could read the paper without squinting.

“Tell me more about the mean-looking men doting on my son.”

Sparky let the lie pass. Harry had been knocking around with Sparky in Bristol nine and a half months prior to Tommie’s birth, revisiting the home port, so to speak. Sparky had likely come to his own conclusions regarding Tommie’s paternity.

“Former military,” Sparky said. “I know the look, and I trailed the lady ’ome after services. If the word of a London crossing sweeper is good, then she’s bidin’ with a lot of former soldiers as their governess or landlady. Something like that.”

“If you can’t trust a London crossing sweeper, the End Times approach. Was one myself, once.”

Hard, thankless, dangerous, smelly work, even for a large, healthy adolescent. Then Harry had figured out that wrangling street dung wasn’t half the job. Spying, running errands, starting rumors, and spreading a juicy lie all paid much better than manual labor.

“You do have a way with horseshite, ’Arry Merchant.”