The Rose of Birmingham | ᴘᴇᴀᴋʏ ʙʟɪɴᴅᴇʀꜱ

Thirty-Four | ᴇɴꜱᴇᴍʙʟᴇ

Rose ducked into an alleyway as Mr. Gallagher's companion glanced over his shoulder. In the interest of avoiding being seen, she'd spent much of the past half hour in dirty alleys. If not for the early hour, Rose suspected she likely would have met a great many unsavory locals.

Mr. Gallagher, along with the other suited man from the repair yard, continued their short trek through town. Rose followed along behind them, at as minimal a distance as she dared. To advance closer would undoubtedly get her noticed. This irritated her, as she was unable to overhear the vast majority of conversation that took place between the two men.

They made several brief stops along the way, inspecting a building here, or conversing with a person there. Based on his behavior, the man with Mr. Gallagher seemed to be a solicitor of some sort. Rose knew they would ultimately end up at Gallagher Automotive Factory, but this in between time was pure reconnaissance gold. She made note of every address at which the pair stopped and the description of every person to whom they spoke. Hopefully some scrap of information she gathered would be of use to Thomas.

When at last the pair reached the factory, they made their way around to a side entrance that appeared to be inaccessible to the floor workers.

"Must keep a degree of separation from the riffraff," Rose muttered under her breath.

She was unfamiliar with this area of town. To loiter in the street staring at the factory like it had done her some type of personal offense was highly conspicuous. She had to remain unnoticed.

Continuing along the street at a leisurely pace, Rose soon happened upon a tea shop. "The Cavendish Kettle," the weather-worn sign read. It was kitty-corner to the factory and likely had a good view of the main entrance, as the wide front windows of the shop were large and unobstructed.

Taking a deep breath, Rose went inside.

The sitting area was cozy, clean, and hosted a smattering of petite round tables and straight-backed chairs, all empty. Splendid. Rose selected a table immediately adjacent to the front window to better observe any activity across the street.

"What's it to be, love?"

Rose looked up at the tall gray-haired man who had appeared beside her table. "Oh! Um, yes," she said, slightly taken aback. Of course, she would need to order something. It'd look unnatural if she didn’t, and he would have no reason to let her stay. "Black tea, please. Crème, very little sugar."

"Croissant? Biscuit?" he prompted. "I got the best chocolate biscuits this side o' Small Heath, if I do say so me'self."

"That sounds lovely," Rose agreed. "Yes, I'll take two."

"Lass after me own heart," the man said. "Back in a jiff."

As he vanished behind the counter, it occurred to Rose that this gentleman could be a wealth of information. She should use that to her advantage. The shop was well-kept, but not by any means new; it very well may have predated the factory's latest proprietor. The worn wanescotting and hazy glass were telltale signs that the building had existed in this location for quite some time, therefore, so too might the gentleman currently preparing her tea. It was entirely possible that he was not a great admirer of James Gallagher.