Twenty-Seven – The SquealerThe evening of 29 September the rain came down.
Have no fear, I didn't allow that to deter me. I'd planned all day, eagerly anticipated, going out and touring the town. My town, the East End. I had a new task, owing to a wrinkle in my mission, after all. Those who were supposed to be taking a message from my work, the wretched residents of the slums, the booze-guzzling unfortunates, were again back-sliding. Somehow, it appeared, they'd gotten it into their heads that I had gone away. That I'd left London and taken my show on the road, like an aimless gypsy, like an unemployed vagabond, like one of them. A punter in the north had fecklessly killed a respectable woman then tried to cover his tracks by imitating my work afterward. The fools living hand to mouth in
