“ . . . convinced the prime minister did it, covering up for the queen’s grandson Eddy. Although why he would’ve married a poor Catholic girl when he was screwing half the women in London, and supposedly several men, as well, is anybody’s guess . . .”
“Nuts,” somebody else nearby muttered. “We are hip deep in nuts. Sheesh. I need another beer . . .”
And finally, from the loudspeakers overhead: “Your attention please. Gate Two is due to cycle in three minutes. All departures, be advised . . .”
Thank God, Skeeter thought. He glanced back at Kit and found the retired scout trailing him half a dozen paces back. Kit rolled his eyes at a mob of sign-carrying loons, chanting the praises of their Immortal Lord Jack and heckling the Time Tours guides trying to organize the outgoing Ripper Watch Tour, then indicated with a gesture, “Okay, hotshot, get busy!”
So he worked the crowd, quartering it leisurely, keeping his gaze sharp. When the immense Britannia finally began its cycle, the roar of voices reached a fever pitch. Wagers rattled like hailstones off every echoing surface in Victoria Station. Skeeter prowled through the surging crowd, alert as a snow leopard and beginning to grow impatient, aware of Kit’s presence behind him, watching, judging. He knew his particular brand of prey was out here. His senses twitched, searching for telltale movements, the little signs he knew so well. High overhead, the huge gate dilated slowly open . . . And Skeeter rocked to a halt. His gaze zeroed in, a stooping hawk spotting his next meal. The pickpocket was stalking a man in his fifties whose tanned face, lean build, and expensively casual clothes shouted, California millionaire. The pickpocket lifted a fat wallet from the Californian’s jacket with a practiced stumble and a hasty apology given and accepted with ease.