But Móirín hadn’t come alone. Parkington walked beside her, looking as menacing as she did. His focus was on Uncle Silas, and his expression held unwavering determination. Gemma had known a few bobbies in her time; this one still worried her a little. He seemed to have a good heart, but there was no doubt he could be fearsome.

Her uncle eyed the two of them, then looked back to Gemma. “We know where you work, mop, and we know the streets you frequent. You’ll be seeing us again.”

He pocketed his chiv once more, then tugged his oil-stained, mud-encrusted jacket and tipped his green hat. Rather than walking back in the direction he’d come, he stepped to the pavement and hopped over a wrought-iron fence into the churchyard. Quick as a flash, he was gone.

Móirín and Parkington reached her in the next moment.

“Did he hurt you?” the policeman asked.

“He hadn’t had a chance to,” Gemma said. “I suspect he would’ve in another minute or so.”

Móirín was eyeing Gemma’s knife. “You hold that like you know how to use it.”

Gemma returned it to her pocket. With familiarity borne of practice, she slipped it into its sheath sight unseen. “That were my uncle Silas. He’d kill a person soon as look at ’im.”

“Never you fear, Gemma,” Móirín said. “We’ve a high-and-mighty blue-bottle with us.” She hooked her finger in Parkington’s direction. “Never safer than when you’re with a policeman.”

“One of these days, Móirín Donnelly,” Parkington said, “you’ll confess I’m a fine person.”

“Do you mean to make the same confession about me?”

He shook his head. “I’ve a strict policy against lying.”

“And I’ve a strict policy against being too friendly with Peelers, so seems we’re at an impasse.”

Parkington dipped his head in her direction, then turned and left.

“Why is it you dislike him?” Gemma asked.

“I don’t.” Móirín tossed that out like it made perfect sense. “But ’tis a fun thing indeed watching him go red around the ears.”

With a laugh, she nudged Gemma toward the open street. Together, they walked a roundabout way to Sackville Street and Piccadilly and then inside the flat.

Gemma made her way directly to her room. She sat on the low pallet and emptied her pockets of the knife she’d not had to use and the carrots she’d forgotten she had. Lastly, she pulled out the papers Peter had given her. She unfolded them, carefully, nervously.