“It’s what he calls the dress form,” Hetty said around the pins in her mouth. “He thinks it’s funny since the dresses are always for fancy white ladies. But you’re wrong this time,” she informed her husband. “This is for Penelope’s cousin.”
“Which you’re doing out of the goodness of your heart,” he teased. Benjy stood on the other side of the dress form, his hands resting on the wire shoulders. “I went to see Oliver,” he began.
“Hold this.” Hetty thrust the end of the fabric into his hand.
“I ended up having to fix the casket,” Benjy soldiered on.
“Maybe it’s a sign you should have been a carpenter.”
“That’s not funny at all.”
“I should be getting home.” Darlene shut the sketchbook. “I’ve stayed far too long. It’ll be dark soon.”
“Would you like me to walk you home?” Hetty asked. “I know we don’t live in the best part of town.”
“I can manage.” Darlene placed the sketchbook on the table. “The past may be past,” she said, meeting Hetty’s eyes, “but you don’t forget certain things.”
She went to the cradle and picked up Lorene. The little girl didn’t make a sound as Darlene settled her in her arms. “Sound asleep!” Darlene declared with a surprising amount of relief. “It looks like the charms worked.”
She left then, her skirts rustling as she bade them goodbye.
“There’s no charms other than protection on it,” Benjy said once the door shut. “I barely started on it.”
“You should finish it,” Hetty said, and when the fabric slipped, she tapped his hand. “Not at this moment. Tell me what you found out. Because carvings on a casket aren’t that interesting.”
“Charlie, it seems, had ingested a number of herbs before he died.”
“So that was what Oliver wanted to tell me.” Hetty pushed back his arm so the fabric went taut.
“I’m surprised he did. It was gruesome.”
“This whole thing is.” Hetty summoned her scissors to her hand once more and placed the tip to her throat. “He found it here?”
“No,” he said, “but close. Stuck between the teeth. He chewed it like it was Winged Whispers. But it’s not Whispers. Oliver says the herb was something else, but didn’t know what. Penelope should have an answer?”
“Yes, but having her ask at her job might get her in trouble, so take it to a different place. They’ll know what it is, and maybe who might have sold it.”
“Brilliant,” he exclaimed.
“Hardly,” she laughed. “You can let go now.”
Hetty made a decisive snip with her scissors. The fabric parted. Catching the end, she wrapped it around the wire shoulder of Catherine Anne.
Holding on to the scrap fabric, she placed it back onto the table next to the sketchbook. Remembering Darlene’s intent work, Hetty opened the book.
Darlene’s drawing captured the folds and play of the fabric quite well. While it was pretty on the page, it was hardly practical once put on a person. But she could make changes as she saw fit. Hetty flipped through the book and the ragged ends of a torn page flopped out in front of her.
Did this happen when it fell?
“What did Darlene have to say?”
“Not much.” Hetty closed the book. “Although she revealed Marianne lied to me when I spoke to her earlier.”
“You spoke to Marianne?”
“She was at Oliver’s home, giving him grief about seeing Charlie. While I was there, she gave me this.”
From her pocket Hetty pulled out Charlie’s watch. It swung around on its short golden chain like a tiny captured sun.
At the sight of the familiar token, Benjy held out his hand.
“This old thing? Spent all the money he had at the time.” He flipped it open and then frowned. “It’s broken.”
“I know. Marianne hoped you might be able to fix it. She said she didn’t need it soon.”
“That is good, because I’ll need some time with this.”
“Truly?”
“Charlie never let me touch it,” Benjy said. “An astrolabe as small and functional as this is rare. It’s lucky only the clock’s broken.”
“Someone wouldn’t agree.”
“It’s funny. I was looking for this the other night. Charlie always had it with him. I thought it might have been stolen.”
“Clearly he put it away for safekeeping. Marianne told me a man was at her doorstep looking for money to settle some debts.”
Hetty expected Benjy to nod along. Instead he swallowed rather hard.
“Did she know who it was?” he asked, but then muttered, looking past Hetty, “No, don’t ask her. It’s best not to get her even more involved. I should have put wards on their home, just to be safe.”
Hetty reached for his arm, his vague words having brought a sudden chill into the air.
She never liked seeing him spooked. Even less so for reasons she barely understood. “Why are such protections needed?”
“I need to speak to someone.” Benjy shook off her hand, leaving her holding empty air. “I’ll see you later tonight.”
Hetty stared at her hand and remembered sitting next to Marianne as she sobbed heavy tears.
I let him go.
“Wait!” Hetty called after Benjy. “I’m coming with you!”
He stopped and turned back to her. “Not dressed like that. I’m going below Seventh Street. You’ll draw too much attention even this early in the evening. I want to slip in and out without notice.”
Hetty glanced at her skirts, mindful that half his words were about propriety and the rest was a riddle. “Well, it’s a good thing I still have my trousers.”
EAGLE
13
SALOONS AND ILLICIT MAGIC ran amuck below Seventh Street. It was the part of town where luck had long fled and people went without even on the finest summer days. There were far too many boardinghouses packed to the brim with people who never stayed longer than the change of the moon. In alleyways, foul magic came in flasks, cracked vials, and in fine powder poured from one hand to another. Most streets didn’t have streetlamps, causing shadows to be mistaken for people. Although the grisliest of murders occurred in these streets, night or day, Hetty had never fretted. She had her magic and she had her hairpins, not to mention enough common sense to avoid fools. And most of the people, even those with pinched faces that betrayed their taste for crime, did not bother strangers who didn’t prod fingers where they didn’t belong.
None of this explained why she needed such a flimsy disguise. One of Benjy’s shirts tucked into her trousers, and her hair hidden under a hat, did make her appear less conspicuous, but so far she saw nothing to need such caution. Benjy had told her nothing, even after resigning himself to her clever solution. He hadn’t even said one thing about where they were going or even what to expect. Only that it was related to Charlie’s gambling.
Their walk took them past a number of gambling houses, brimming with loud laughter and music.
Benjy stopped at none of these places. She was almost certain they were going to keep on walking until they reached the river when he stopped at a squat and unassuming saloon. The doorman was ignoring a poor sap searching his pockets for a coin, but as Hetty and Benjy drew close, the doorman stepped aside to let them through, nodding at Benjy as he did.
The Smoked Hen was much more spacious than it appeared on the outside. In the dimly lit space she could tell its occupants were mostly men. Men from the docks adorned in stained uniforms. Men in neatly pressed suits. And men in faded rags fingering their empty flasks.
No matter where they stood, folks kept one eye on the raised platform in the center. Hetty thought it a stage at first, until she saw the ropes were slung between the posts at each of the four corners.
“Is this a duel?” Hetty whispered.
“Not with magic but with fists,” Benjy replied. “It’s a boxing match.”
“A magic duel sounds a bit more in
teresting.”
“Harder to have those underground,” he said, almost absently addressing her. “The real appeal is betting. The sport takes second place to it. Which is funny, considering such bets might not be legal.”
“When did I ever care if something is legal?”
He didn’t smile at her little joke, looking deep into the crowd. “They won’t be placing bets for tonight, but for Sunday’s match.”
“What makes Sunday the bigger draw?”
“Some idiot is going toe to toe with an Irishman. He has to lose. If he wins there will be a riot.”
“Why host the match at all?”
“Money” was all Benjy said, as if that explained nearly everything.
She watched more of the crowd and noted a few women here and there. They dangled off the arms of their companions, whispering secrets and laughing into the men’s ears. It wasn’t just one or two, but at least a dozen and a half. More than enough that one more wouldn’t be noticed.
Unless of course the concern wasn’t that they would notice her, but who she was with.
Benjy had come here directly and was let in by the doorman with a nod.
That was familiarity, not courtesy.
“You came here with Charlie,” Hetty said. “Did you place bets on the matches?”
Benjy didn’t answer.
Instead of her husband, there was only an empty patch of air.
Hetty poked at the space, just to be certain.
This earned her some odd stares from those nearby, and since she found no sign of Benjy in disguise, she quickly moved on from the spot lest she draw more attention to herself.
It wasn’t like Benjy to disappear without a word, unless he saw someone he couldn’t let slip past. He had been on his way to this place and delayed because she’d insisted on coming along. Now that she was here, though, she was disappointed.
From his manner, she thought he was going somewhere dangerous to meet some ruffian who might have been responsible for killing Charlie. Though they were in a corner of town she wasn’t fond of, it wasn’t worth the bit of panic that had taken hold of her.
Still, she wasn’t about to go looking for Benjy. When he was done, he would find her. For now, she was occupied with why he knew about this place at all.
Over her head, a clanging bell sounded and the din in the room receded. A man jumped into the middle of the raised platform.
“Welcome, one and all, to tonight’s main event!” boomed the man, his voice magically enhanced, so all could hear. “Fighting for your viewing pleasure are two fellows you should start getting to know. In this corner, we have longtime favorite Tommy ‘Thunder’ Jones, and in this corner, we have newcomer Max Stallion!”
Cheers rose up from the crowd as the names were spoken, with boos peppered in as two men climbed into the ring. Stripped to the waist, the men in the ring bore scars and bruises from other matches. They acknowledged each other with curt nods. They pounded their hands together so a cloud of magic circled their fists. Blue for the man on the left, red for the man on the right.
Another bell clanged, and the men hurled themselves at each other.
Around her, the audience howled with each blow, excitement riveting the crowd as flesh met flesh, and blue light bled into red light.
The pacing, the posturing, the back-and-forth. It just kept going even when blood arced into the air.
What a brutal sport, Hetty thought, and the people involved in organizing such a thing were probably even worse.
As the boxers grappled, Hetty caught sight of Benjy on the other side of the ring. He bent over and leaned his head toward a grizzled man at his side. The old man said something and Benjy laughed, free of the concerns that brought him to this place.
Maybe it was the angle or the shadows, but from her vantage point, it almost looked like he was in the ring with the other men. In fact, considering him once more, clothes aside, he almost looked like he belonged there.
Her mind stuttered to a stop as the pieces slid together. Benjy was familiar with this place, familiar with the people inside and even the upcoming matches.
Not because of the bets, but because he was boxing alongside these fools.
Could it be true?
The idea wasn’t entirely silly. Benjy had gotten into brawls before, in far less structured situations than this. He was strong and fit and could outwit his opponents without trying. She could just see him punching, ducking, and dodging in the ring before her. Winning matches, of course, and—
“Too bad Ross isn’t in the ring tonight.”
A man strode up next to Hetty, but his eyes stayed on the match instead of her. He was older, and scars not only crisscrossed his face but looped around his neck as well.
“Ross?” Hetty echoed, deepening the timbre of her voice.
“Yes, Bender Ross—that’s him over there.” The man gestured toward Benjy. “Doesn’t often show on nights he doesn’t have matches. People like to talk, but I think he’s shy. Stays to himself mostly. It might be the fans. Why, there’s a gaggle of—”
“He’s popular, then?” Hetty cut in, sharper than she should have given her disguise, but the man scarcely blinked.
“More than that. Why, he’s been the highlight since winter, winning matches and causing previous champions to bow out as if they were still wet behind their ears. Word has it he only started because a friend of his owed some money. Him winning that match evened the score, and he just kept going. I won so much money placing bets on him, I’m not even upset he’ll fall on Sunday.”
“How can you be so sure? Can you divine the future?”
“I can.” The man tapped his nose. “White folks won’t let it happen. Either he’ll be pressured to fall in the last few rounds, or he uses the good sense he was born with and gets as close he can and then loses. Most of the bets going on are in that vein.”
“Maybe you should bet differently,” Hetty sniffed. “Just because people expect one thing don’t mean it’ll happen.”
“This your first time here,” the man drawled. “Won’t find anything fair here, ’specially not fights. The winners and losers are already decided, the fix made before the opponents are even cast.”
“Thinking like that keeps the system in place. Change your bet. He won’t lose,” Hetty said with confidence.
“You sound as if you know him.” The man’s eyes narrowed and seemed to cut through her flimsy disguise.
“I don’t,” Hetty said, as the grappling boxers blocked Benjy from her sight. “Least, not as well as I thought.”
The man must have been eager to talk. He filled her ears with chatter about the matches, giving Hetty more details than she ever wished to know about the brutal sport and its spectators.
If she had any lingering doubts, they were gone at the man’s mention of the last name. Ross had been the surname Benjy had considered taking for himself before Hetty suggested a superior option. As for the rest . . .
A friend with bets settled by a match—that was certainly Charlie. Going on since the winter, too? It was amazing Benjy had been able to keep this from her.
Or maybe she simply hadn’t noticed.
The thought froze her in place.
She hadn’t noticed a thing.
A week or two she could dismiss. But a month? Several months? There was a feeling welling up inside of her, and it wasn’t anger, it wasn’t disappointment—it was something else. Something she couldn’t even name.
That feeling grew and grew until she found she couldn’t stay in the room a moment longer.
Hetty pushed through the crowd, nearly losing her hat as she ran through, the noise and clatter falling away as she threw herself out the doors.
The brisk night air struck her face. Stars popped into the air around her. Hetty took a deep breath, but it did little to clear her head of the lingering smoke.
Months of deception? How was that possible? He had been out late a few times. She thought he was playing cards. He played them
often enough with Oliver and Thomas. What did she think he was doing now that Thomas was gone? Did Oliver still play cards these days? How could she not notice a change? The fighting, too. Even if he did miss every strike, he couldn’t always be lucky to leave uninjured. Unless that was the reason the jar of healing salve was nearly empty. Every wound, every bruise, wiped away before she could see them.
Why didn’t he tell her?
That thought lingered the most, until Hetty dismissed it.
They had lived separate lives before they married and did so more or less afterwards. It was how she wanted it to be. She had her amusements and he had his, and there were spots that aligned together rather nicely. But otherwise, but otherwise . . .
It wasn’t important.
The boxing and Benjy’s business with it was not important. This was about figuring out why Charlie was killed. Nothing else mattered.
Hetty took another deep breath, and as she had done many times in the past, she pushed down her thoughts and feelings until they were tucked away and out of sight.
Her spirits greatly improved, she continued home and turned her attention to more important matters—like how much money Charlie must have gambled to get himself killed.
When she rounded the corner to the boardinghouse, she stopped as she passed the streetlamp. Benjy stood directly under the light, his left foot tapping out a pattern, though there was no music to be heard.
When she drew up next to him, the tapping stopped, but he made no further move.
“You disappeared,” he said.
“So did you,” Hetty replied, thrusting her hands into her trouser pockets. “But you had questions to ask. Like how much money Charlie placed on your match on Sunday.”
“Did Quentin tell you, or did you guess?” Benjy asked with none of the shame he should have had.
“That doesn’t matter. You should have told me months ago!”
When he didn’t say anything, Hetty pressed on. “If Charlie hadn’t died, would you have told me at all?”
Benjy opened his mouth, but the words, whether they were an apology or explanation, never materialized.
Concern rippled through his features as his head jerked in the direction of the boardinghouse.
The Conductors Page 13
