But for tonight, she would cherish the warmth and kindness of this gracious and considerate gentleman.
Hollis walked down Fleet Street, having given his publisher the most recent installment of “Higglebottom’s School for the Dead.” The tale was doing well, though not on the level of Fletcher or Mr. King, but still, he was pleased.
His spirits were light, but not fully owing to his publishing successes. Ana had sat with him throughout the opera. They’d spoken in intimate whispers about their families and lives. She’d held his hand for hours.
She hadn’t done so on Saturday morning during their ride to and from Randolph’s house. But she had smiled at him in her soft and sincere way. That had done his heart good. The more he knew of her, the more he liked her. He did worry, though, what so soft-spoken and gentle a lady would think if she knew the roughness of his edges.
As he made his way along Fleet Street, he spied Fletcher. Hollis sometimes came across one of the Dreadfuls in this area of London, generally having just handed over manuscript pages. He checked quickly for carriages, then jaunted across the street.
Fletcher gave him a nod.
“Are you delivering your latest installment?” Hollis asked.
“No. Just wanderin’ about, assessing the weather.”
Ah. He was checking with his network of urchins.
“Will my being with you make the barometers more difficult to read?”
He gave a small shake of his head. “I don’t have a single barometer that don’t know you and I are chums. Likely, none of ’em can sort out why.”
“I can’t sort out why.”
Fletcher laughed. For all the misery he’d known in life, the man’s spirits never dropped permanently. Hollis tried to emulate that.
“Shine your shoes, guv?” A small bootblack—likely approaching eleven or twelve years old—called out as they approached.
“Could use a shine.” Fletcher stopped.
“I ain’t certain you have time, guv’nuh.” The boy flipped a penny around before tossing it to Fletcher.
Fletcher eyed it close. “This one’s Very Merry’s.”
“Li’l angel-face imp at Barton school?” the boy asked.
Fletcher nodded.
“She seems right anxious to see you.”
“Any inkling why?” Fletcher asked.
“Near as I’ve heard, she ain’t ill or injured.”
That was a relief.
“Fancy a trek to Barton school?” Fletcher asked Hollis.
“There’s nothing I’d rather spend my afternoon doing.”
Fletcher tossed the bootblack a farthing. “Ears to the ground, boy.”
“Always.” He pulled his cap. “And give my greetings to that cunning lady of yours. Still cain’t believe she gave me the slip.”
Fletcher grinned. “Never underestimate a woman, Henry.”
“Wise words,” Hollis tossed in.
As they walked away, heading toward the Barton school, Fletcher slid easily into the role of spy. So subtly most would miss it, his gaze turned alert and aware. Hollis was not quite as adept at hiding his scrutiny, so he tucked his efforts behind an air of aristocratic superiority. He didn’t particularly enjoy playing the arrogant gentleman, but it was the only ace he held at the moment.
“How do we mean to play this?” Hollis asked. “We can’t snatch the girl out of the school like kidnappers. Marching in and demanding they hand her over wouldn’t work much better.”
“I thought gentlemen of means could walk in anywhere and have their run of the place.” Fletcher’s humor could be dry as dirt at times.
“You have more ‘means’ than I do,” Hollis pointed out.
Fletcher nodded to a costermonger neglecting his cart of apples in favor of a spot of reading. “He’s reading one of Elizabeth’s.”
He was, indeed. “How is her—er, Mr. King’s—latest doing?”
“Better’n all of ours combined, likely.”
“The King reigns over the penny dreadfuls,” Hollis said, “and I’m, apparently, meant to walk into Barton school like the blasted queen and demand to see a little girl who’s probably been nipping off with everything in sight.”
“You ain’t dressed the part, mate.”
Hollis rubbed at his jaw. “Perhaps there’s something in the Wardrobe Room.”
“As much as I’d enjoy seeing you dressed as Ol’ Victoria, I think we’d best arrive at Barton school togged as we are.”
They turned down Long Acre. Barton school wasn’t far off.
“I came with Elizabeth when she brought Very Merry here,” Fletcher said. “The headmistress knows I’ve a connection to the little guttersnipe. She’ll allow me a visit with the girl.”
They reached the unassuming building that housed the Barton School for Girls. Most people passing it wouldn’t have the first idea what it truly was.
The click of the knocker was answered in due time by a girl of likely fourteen or fifteen in a plain dress and clean apron.
Fletcher offered his calling card with a flourish. “Fletcher Walker and Hollis Darby for the headmistress, please.”
The girl dropped a curtsey. “I’ll fetch—” She shook her head. Her lips moved silently a moment, then she curtseyed again. “If you will wait here, please, gentlemen.” Her accent wasn’t refined, but it wouldn’t cause an uproar in a finer household. She stepped away, but stopped and turned back, then bobbed a third curtsey. With that, the girl all but ran from the room and up the nearby staircase.
“That poor dearie is still in training,” Fletcher said. “She has a spot to learn yet.”
Hollis eyed the entryway, impressed at how clean and well-maintained it was, no matter that the furnishings were simple and clearly secondhand. The maids-in-training were likely charged with the upkeep of the school. An ingenious arrangement. What better way to learn a skill than by practicing it?
“Education works miracles. It changes lives. I’ll never stop fighting for more children to have that opportunity,” he said.
A stout woman with a rounded puff of silver hair trumped down the stairs. She eyed the both of them, her expression welcoming but her gaze sharp.
“Mr. Walker,” she said as she reached the bottom step and moved toward them. “What brings you around?”
“I’m wanting to look in on that little Major MacFluffer Miss Black and I brought to you a few days back. Just wishing to set my heart at ease over her.”
The woman nodded. “Merry is something of a disruption, but a joyful one.”
Merry. The headmistress, it seemed, was not calling the girl by the name she, herself, went by. Perhaps that was why Very Merry had sent for Fletcher. Being in an unfamiliar place and called by an unfamiliar name would be disconcerting for any child.
“Mrs. Hempstead, this here’s Hollis Darby.” Fletcher motioned to him. “He’s a friend and a champion of educational causes. He heard about your school and wished to see your good work for his own self. And he’s quite curious about your littlest student.”
A genuine smile twitched on Mrs. Hempstead’s face. “She’s a rare one, Mr. Darby.”
“That is my understanding.”
“Merry is receiving sewing instruction at the moment. If you step inside here”—Mrs. Hempstead indicated a doorway on the left—“I will bring her down to visit with you.”
Hollis offered a dip of his head, then followed Fletcher into a small sitting room, as tidy and simple as the entryway. He made a circuit of the room, impressed by what he saw. Girls trained to be maids here would do well in their eventual positions. Working in a household was far safer than working on the streets.
“We have to find people to help fund this school,” Hollis said. “We can’t allow this to simply disappear.”
“Heyup, Mr. Walker,” a little voice greeted.
<
br /> Hollis kept himself turned away. Until he knew they were alone with the little sneak thief, he didn’t dare let her know he was the other gentleman in the room. She might recognize him, and he was meant to not have ever met her.
He heard the door close and hazarded a peek. Only the three of them were in the room. Very Merry’s eyes opened wide when she saw him.
“You’re dressed quite fine,” she said. “An’ you look accustomed to it.”
“Nothing slips past you, Very Merry.”
“An’ you sound it, too.” Her mouth pursed, and her brows dipped. “Which are you, then? High or low?”
Hollis allowed a little shrug. “A bit of both, love.”
She smiled. “Whatever you need to be.”
He nodded.
Very Merry set her sights on Fletcher. “I sent my penny out to fetch you.”
Fletcher pulled it from his pocket. “That’s why I’m here, sweetie.” He flipped it to her, and she caught it in her quick little hands. “What’s tied you up in knots?”
“There ain’t nothing makin’ this school safe but a lock on the door.” She shook her head. “I’ve picked it eighteen times just since coming here. Cain’t expect me to stay in a place like this. It’d ruin m’ reputation.”
What a mischievous delight she was.
“What would you suggest?” Hollis asked. “A bar on the door? A guard?”
She popped her tiny fists on her hips. If not for her seven-year-old frame, she’d have passed for a fishwife. “Wouldn’t hurt, now would it?”
“You truly think it necessary?” Fletcher pressed.
Very Merry’s shoulders rose and fell with an impatient breath. “If the man finds out I’m here, that lock ain’t gonna keep him out. He’ll do me in for welchin’ on what I owe him.” She had mentioned something about the man she stole for when they’d first suggested she come to the Barton school. “All us children bring ’im what we nip every day. If we don’t, he’ll beat us or not let us eat or make us sleep on the street. And sometimes—” She paused a fraction of a moment, then pressed on. “Children disappear,” she whispered. “We don’t know where they go, but he knows.”
“He kidnaps them?”
Her mouth pulled in a slash. She didn’t answer, but she didn’t truly have to. Very Merry, it seemed, did not think this criminal ringleader was simply taking the children. Hollis would wager she and the other children believed the unnamed man was doing them in.
“Do you think he’s searching for you, sweetie?” Fletcher asked.
“He doesn’t want anyone sniffing out where he is. Those of us what know . . .”
It made sense. Horrible, heart-wrenching sense.
“This man wouldn’t necessarily look for you here, but if he happened to find you . . . ?” Hollis let the sentence dangle, allowing her to finish it.
“I can break in or out of here. It’d be nothin’ to him.”
Yes, but how likely was this man to find her? “Is it only children that he makes steal things for him?”
She shook her head.
“And are there lots of people?” Fletcher asked.
She nodded.
This wasn’t good at all.
“He had the dodos hot on him a couple months ago,” she said. “Barely got away, he did.”
“Dodos?” Hollis asked Fletcher under his breath.
“Police,” Fletcher explained.
Very Merry continued, not noting the side conversation. “He’s jumpy now, chivied. Rages at every little thing, thinking everyone’s turning on ’im. More of us’ve been disappearing. Coming here made me hope some of ’em just escaped, but I’d guess not many.”
A lowlife who had a vast group of people thieving on his behalf, who was dangerous and violent, and who had barely escaped arrest two months earlier. That was awfully familiar.
Hollis glanced at Fletcher, who held up four fingers. Four-Finger Mike was not the largest threat in London, but he wasn’t one to be taken lightly. And he was a known associate of the Mastiff, a criminal so brutal even the Metropolitan Police were afraid of him.
“If we step over a bit and leave you here,” Fletcher said to the little girl, “do you promise not to nip off with anything?”
She rolled her eyes. “I ain’t gonna filch nothing.”
Whether or not that was true, the girl climbed onto the threadbare settee to wait for them.
Fletcher and Hollis positioned themselves by the far wall.
“I hate to admit we’ve been outsmarted by a seven-year-old,” Fletcher said, “but she’s got the right of it. She cain’t stay here.”
“If we’d realized Four-Finger Mike was her taskmaster, we wouldn’t have brought her here to begin with.” Hollis rubbed at his mouth, thinking. “Could Elizabeth keep her at Thurloe? She has Ol’ Joe there, keeping watch. And that little Daniel of his doesn’t miss a thing.”
Fletcher shook his head. “She already has two girls on Four-Finger’s list. Three would be pushing our luck beyond reason.” His expression pinched. “I’d take her in myself, but I’ve only me and my manservant in the house. Adding a little girl would be uncomfortable for all of us, most of all her.”
“I can take her,” Hollis said. “I have Ambrose and Libby. They’d look after the girl. Being one-time criminals themselves, they’d not turn their noses up at her. And, seeing as they’ve been informants for the DPS for ages, they can be trusted to know what to do should things grow precarious.”
“What about her education?” Fletcher asked.
“Oh, I’m fully confident she’ll receive a thorough education,” he answered dryly.
Fletcher grinned. “You might be creating an unbeatable team with those three.”
“I’m willing to take that chance if it’ll keep our little Phantom Fox safe. She steals hearts as easily as everything else.”
Fletcher sent a fond look in the girl’s direction. “The urchins have a way of doing that. They fight hard to survive; a person can’t help admirin’ that.”
“All us Dreadfuls are survivors,” Hollis said. “She’ll be one of us in no time.”
“More likely, she’ll be running us all ragged. Probably could even manage to sniff out the Dread Master and unthrone him.”
“If having her wreak havoc in my house means I’ll finally know the identity of our mysterious leader, then my only question is why didn’t I bring her home ages ago?”
Fletcher mimicked Very Merry’s theatrical eye roll. “I’m not tellin’ you the Dread Master’s identity.”
“I know. I’m pinning my hopes on that little one.”
Fletcher slapped him on the shoulder. “I wish you luck, my friend. I suspect life is about to get mighty chaotic.”
by Mr. King
Installment III,
in which our Hero finds himself in a most uncomfortable Situation!
Wellington rushed in the direction of Tillie’s terrified scream. The room was dim but not dark to the point of blackness. Thank the heavens he could see her. He ran directly to her, putting his arms around her and tucking her behind him. His eyes scanned the room, searching for the threat.
“It was over there.” Her voice shook.
“What was?” The room was empty—not even a stick of furniture.
“A flame. A bl—blue flame.”
“The room was on fire?”
She clutched his arm, trembling. “No. It was floating in the air. Away from the walls. Away from the floor. No candle. No torch. Just a flame.”
His gaze turned from the room to her. “Floating?”
“Don’t look at me like I’m mad.” She pointed near the window. “A floating flame. It was there, and then, poof, it blew out. But there was no one who’d been holdin’ it. There was just . . . nothing.”
She still held his arm, like it was a
lifeline in a raging sea. Wellington didn’t know what she’d seen, perhaps something outside that, when glimpsed through the high, dingy window, had seemed to be inside.
He stepped toward the window, meaning to see if he couldn’t solve the mystery. She didn’t release her white-knuckle grip on his arm. “You are well and truly frightened.”
“You’d be as well if you’d seen what I did.”
“A flame? The flicker of a candle?”
“It was too large for a candle.” Her voice still shook. “It moved about all on its own. Nothin’ to explain how it could possibly be there.”
He unwrapped her fingers from his forearm and took her hand in his instead. He saw no singe marks on the walls, no indication that anything had been aflame. He spied nothing outside the high window that might have been mistaken for a flame. Would the mysteries never cease?
“I cannot explain it, Tillie.” He looked to her. “Are you certain you didn’t—”
“It weren’t my imagination.” Her eyes filled with growing panic.
Wellington tugged her toward the door. “Let us go back to the cottage. We can save our search efforts for another day.”
She nodded, still shaken. “I think that’d be best.”
Hardly another word was spoken as they crossed the estate grounds. She was pale, bless her, and very quiet, a rarity for Tillie Combs.
Her father took note of her condition immediately. “What’s happened?”
Tillie dropped onto a spindle-back chair, apparently not able or ready to answer. Wellington did so instead.
“During our search for the missing things, she saw something she cannot explain.”
“What?” Mr. Combs looked from one of them to the other.
“A blue flame,” Wellington said. “It floated with no explanation.”
“A blue flame?” He repeated the description in a tone of awe, his wide eyes falling fully on his daughter. “Moved about, did it?”
Tillie took a shaking breath. “It was unnerving, Papa. Cold and . . .” She shook her head. “I didn’t like it.”
The Gentleman and the Thief Page 9
