Fletcher let that hang on his mind a minute. Did Headley have gambling debts? That seemed the most likely explanation. While he couldn’t think of a connection between that and Hogg’s school, it did paint a picture of a man who might take on something as nefarious as arson.
“Keep an eye on that one,” he said. “But keep a distance.”
“Will do, sir.”
It was an odd thing, having come from a place far lower than this humble flower seller, to be called “sir” by her. Sometimes he forgot just how much life had changed for him.
“How’s this spot treating you, sweetie?” he asked. He worried about her, as he did all the street children he tried to save from the misery they’d been born into.
A look of relief crossed her features. “Much better. I don’t know how you managed it, but I thank you for it. ’Tis a fine thing, feeling safe.”
“You’ll tell me if ever you feel unsafe?”
“Aye.”
“You swear to it?” Too many of these children tried to face the impossible alone.
“Everyone knows you look after us gutter types. We trust you.” Her brow twisted in thought. “Why is it you’re fighting for this school? That ain’t a bone you usually gnaw.”
“Mr. Hogg helps ‘us gutter types.’ I’d like him to be able to keep on at that.”
She clearly suspected there was more to it. One couldn’t keep secrets from the street sellers. They were too clever by half. And they saw everything.
“The matter is important to someone who is important to me,” he said.
“What’s ’er name?”
Too, too clever.
“Never you mind, sweetie.” He tossed her another penny. “Send word if you need anything or hear anything.”
She nodded and tucked the coin away.
He wandered on, hearing from a few more of his ears on the street. Headley was identified by more than one of them as being connected to Four-Finger Mike as well as with another crooked character they referred to simply as the Mastiff.
By all appearances, the refined Alistair Headley was up to his eyebrows in shady dealings. Would the realization upset Elizabeth? Would it surprise her?
He was just stepping onto Fleet Street when he spotted the very woman he couldn’t seem to get off his mind.
The last time he’d seen her in this area, she’d been supposedly delivering manuscript pages, despite no silver-fork publishers having their offices nearby. She was carrying pages again. Odd, that.
“Want me to trail ’er?” The familiar voice of his favorite bootblack broke into his pondering. Apparently, he wasn’t the only one who’d taken note of Elizabeth.
“Weather’s treating me well today. I believe I’ll go for a stroll.” He nodded to the boy, who stood against the wall, glancing over the top of Stone’s latest penny dreadful.
“I wish you luck,” Henry said. “Slippery as a day-old eel pie, that one.”
Though most ladies would take exception to being described as “slippery,” Fletcher knew the observation was meant as a compliment. Not many people could outmaneuver the street children of London. Even fewer could outmaneuver Fletcher.
He held out his handful of posies to Henry. “Hold on to these. Unless you find a sweet lass to give them to.”
“Aye, sir.”
Fletcher slipped around a fruit cart, keeping a close eye on Elizabeth. She wove through the crowd, moving as one who had a destination in mind. He followed.
Just up the street was the building housing King’s publisher. Could she be meeting the mysterious author? Perhaps she read for him and was returning his manuscript. More likely still, she was his go-between with the publisher. Fletcher had previously inquired there and had been told even the publisher didn’t know King’s true identity.
How deeply involved was she with this mystery?
He, at a safe distance, followed her down streets and around corners. She moved quickly and agilely. He struggled to keep pace with her.
Up Fleet.
Right at Bouverie.
Back down Tudor Street.
She turned on to Temple Lane, which spilled back onto Bouverie. Behind her, Fletcher got caught in a tangle of carts. Fortunately, he knew where she’d gone. He’d simply be a little farther behind than he had been.
He finally wove around the clamoring crowd and followed the path she’d taken. But she was nowhere in sight. He peered around buildings and in window fronts. He retraced his steps.
Nothing.
Blimey. How had she managed it? His footsteps brought him back to Fleet Street, none the wiser as to Elizabeth’s motives or errands. She was clever and surprising. Was it any wonder he found her so irresistibly intriguing?
A vendor shouted to the crowd, “Eel pies!” bringing a smile to Fletcher’s face. Slippery as a day-old eel pie. She was, indeed.
Maybe he’d drop in at the Dread Penny headquarters, see if anyone was there and in the mood for a bout of boxing or a game of billiards. Not many steps later he came upon Henry, spinning his penny and grinning wickedly.
Fletcher stopped, inviting him by the lift of an eyebrow to explain.
“A regular gale kicked up while you was gone.” Henry hooked a thumb to his left. “Got here a minute ago, wanting to know why you was following ’er.”
There, tucked a bit out of the way, stood Elizabeth, little Gemma’s humble bouquet in her hand. Henry, the guttersnipe, had given the flowers to Elizabeth.
“How did you answer Miss Black’s question?” he asked Henry.
“With the truth.”
“And what would that be?”
“That she’s a mystery, and you never could resist a mystery.”
Well, that was as true as the day was long.
Elizabeth stepped closer to him.
“How is it you slipped past me?” he asked. “No one’s ever done that.”
She stopped mere inches from him. “I would tell you, but then it wouldn’t be a mystery.”
It was all she said before moving saucily past him. He grinned, his pulse pounding in his neck. She did that to him more and more often.
“I like her,” Henry said.
“So do I.”
“There’s one thing I can’t sort out, though.”
“What’s that?” Fletcher asked.
“What did she do with her papers?”
He hadn’t realized. Somewhere in it all, she’d handed them off, and he hadn’t seen a thing.
Miss Elizabeth Black was more than a mere mystery. She was a wonder. A wonder he didn’t intend to let get away again.
He hurried after her, careful not to let her get too far ahead of him. This time, he caught up to her.
“I’ve heard you compared to an eel pie, Miss Black. I find myself inclined to agree.” His sudden observation didn’t surprise her at all. Apparently, his approach hadn’t escaped her notice.
“I find myself inclined to be offended.” The upward tilt of one corner of her mouth brought an answering smile to his.
“It were a compliment,” he assured her.
To his surprise—pleasant surprise—she threaded her arm through his, her other hand still holding the flowers.
“Do you mean to tell me how you gave me the slip so easily?” he asked.
“Of course not.”
“What about how you managed to deliver them papers you was carrying without me so much as glimpsing the exchange?”
“What do you take me for, a spring lamb?”
“Would you identify Mr. King, by chance?”
“Definitely not.”
“Even if I begged?” he asked.
“Especially if you begged.”
Blimey, he was enjoying this. “I’ll eventually sort out that mystery, you realize.”
“T
he same way your earlier pursuit eventually led you to successfully spy on me undetected?” Her arm wrapped more cozily around his, tucking her up even closer.
“That were impressive, I’ll admit,” he said.
“How unfortunate the Dread Penny Society isn’t eager for new members.”
He would look forward to their meetings even more if she were part of them. “The society might very well be on the hunt for new recruits.”
“Yes, and you told me the requirements: first, be a writer.” She motioned to herself with her flowers.
“A writer of penny dreadfuls,” he clarified.
“I’m certain that could be overlooked.” She waved it off. “Requirement two: a willingness to work on behalf of the less fortunate. I believe our combined efforts to save Mr. Hogg’s school prove that point.”
He couldn’t argue with that.
“And—”
Whatever she meant to say next was interrupted by the sudden arrival of Joe from the York Place mews. His shallow breathing and pale face spoke of near-panic.
“Danny’s gone.”
“Did he not tell you where he was going?” Fletcher asked.
“He weren’t planning on going anywhere. And that chimbler he’d worked for has been seen near the place.”
“You think the boy was taken?” Fletcher was quickly coming to that conclusion himself.
“That no-good weren’t happy about Danny getting away.”
“Beyond unhappy—I’ve heard he was livid,” Elizabeth said. “Perhaps he was angry enough to take the boy back.”
Joe pulled out a penny, holding it up directly in front of Fletcher. “Find him.”
He’d seldom seen Joe anything but cool and collected. The snap of his eyes and heat in his voice promised retribution for the thief in sweep’s clothing.
“We will,” Fletcher vowed. “You know how to get word to the others.”
Joe was gone on the instant.
“Am I to be precluded, then?” Elizabeth asked. “I don’t belong to the society, but I can still help.”
He had no intention of refusing her help. “Tell Janey and Fanny to keep an ear to the ground. Send word if they hear anything. You know how?”
“Janey’s penny,” she said.
He nodded. “I have to go.”
He wished he could stay, spend more time with her. But a young boy’s safety was at stake. There was no time for hesitation, not even for the woman of his very dreams.
by Fletcher Walker
Chapter V
Below them on the steps, heavy footfalls. Above, the crying they’d heard in the crypt, growing louder and clearer. It was children; Morris knew it was. He hadn’t the foggiest how they’d get back out, but Jimmy’d been right: they never abandoned the people they’d vowed to help, no matter the danger.
Up and up, around and around. The footsteps below grew faster, louder. There wasn’t much time.
The spiral stairwell led, not to a door, but to a landing. A stone floor spread far. Light spilled from a distant window, falling on a group of children huddled beneath it.
“Morris!” Little George pulled from the group and ran to him.
Jimmy grabbed hold of the boy and carried him toward the others. Morris kept beside them, searching for familiar faces. Sally was there. John-John stood guard in front of a group of smaller children who’d also made their homes at the Inn. There were others there Morris didn’t know, but they had the look of urchins.
“How’d you find us?” Sally asked. “We’ve been here ages, and no one’s found us.”
“No time for tales,” Jimmy said. “Someone’s on our heels.”
Their already pale faces turned ashen, eyes darting immediately to the stairwell.
“He’s comin’,” Sally whispered.
John-John pulled the tiny ones closer. “Might be he’s still sleepwalkin’.”
“You know who it is?” Morris turned to face the stairwell, placing himself in front of the children. A poor shield, to be sure, but it was all he had to offer.
“He’s a vampire,” Sally whispered. “The man who brought us here said so.”
George clung tighter to Jimmy, though his fear-filled eyes were on Morris.
“The vampire’s come up here before?” Morris asked.
They nodded.
“And he didn’t hurt anyone?”
Heads shook.
They likely had mere moments before the monster would appear at the top of the stairs.
“Did you learn anything about him?” Jimmy asked.
John-John answered. “He stays away from the window. It’s why we keep close to it.”
A figure appeared at the stairs. Morris had never seen anything like it. This monster had the shape of a human, but it was bent and curled. Its head hung forward, eyes glaring at them from beneath its misshapen forehead. The shadows made it difficult to be certain, but its skin was green. A grayed shade of green.
Behind Morris, the children cried out, panic in their voices. He looked to Jimmy. “It ain’t a redcap.”
“And I ain’t runnin’.”
The creature floated toward them. Actually floated.
Someone screamed behind them.
“Keep close to the window,” Morris said. It might not be enough, but it was what they could do.
“Any weapons to speak of?” Jimmy asked John-John.
“The man that brought us here made sure we didn’t have any,” John-John’s voice shook. “If the vampire’s awake, we’re done for.”
“How will we know if he’s awake?” Morris asked, heart racing as the monster drew closer.
“He’ll eat us,” Sally said.
Blimey.
The creature was close now, near enough for the icy air drafting off it to send shivers over them all.
They backed up, pressed into a tight ball of urchins, tucked under the window, brightened by the spill of light.
The vampire abruptly stopped, hovering before them, still glaring. Its lips curled backward, revealing sharp, dagger-like teeth. He’ll eat us. Sally hadn’t been telling a clanker.
Jimmy set George on the floor next to Sally. “John-John. Sally. Keep the children as near the window as you can. We’ll try to bait it.”
“We will?” Morris hadn’t been part of the planning.
“I owe you for that redcap,” Jimmy said, not looking away from the vampire. “We’ll do this’n a proper, the two of us.”
Morris nodded. “If we lure it away,” he said to the group behind them, “you lot run for the stairs. It’ll take you to the crypt, where this fellow was. Empty now. Search for the door that lets you out.”
Jimmy stepped a bit to the side. Morris followed. Two bites to eat would be more tempting than one.
But the vampire didn’t look away from the huddled mass of urchins
Jimmy and Morris moved a bit farther. Then farther. They stepped clear of the group, away from the window and into the dimness beyond.
The vampire’s head snapped toward them. Without warning, it flew toward them.
“Run!” Morris shouted.
He and Jimmy took off at lightning speed, moving away from the stairs. They’d led monsters on chases before. This was nothing they didn’t know how to do. But this monster was fast. Their running and weaving and moving about didn’t work like it should.
Its claws swiped at Jimmy, tearing at his coat. Morris whistled, pulling the creature’s attention. It moved toward him. This time Jimmy whistled, and the vampire turned again. It never made a single noise. Not any noise.
A horrible realization occurred to Morris. The vampire made no noise. It floated off the ground.
Why, then, had they heard footsteps?
Fletcher stood shoulder to shoulder with Hollis, Stone, and Brogan in the back c
orner of a pub near Bow Street, all facing a man they’d worked with often. Parkington was employed by the Metropolitan Police, and he’d been invaluable during any number of their rescue efforts, offering information, warnings, advice. If he ever pursued his oft-repeated goal of writing crime-focused penny dreadfuls himself, the man would likely be all but forced into membership among the Dreadfuls.
“Allen has a record of petty thefts,” Parkington said, “and we suspect he’s been involved in other crimes. He has some connection to Mrs. George, which don’t speak well for him.”
“Are we nicked in the head, though,” Brogan asked, “thinkin’ he might be the one who made off with the lad?”
Parkington shook his head. “I’d wager a stack of fivers on it, if I had that much money to rub together. Mrs. George isn’t his only questionable associate. He and Four-Finger Mike work together often. If Four-Finger’s breathing down his neck, wanting more loot to fence, he’d likely retrieve his climbing boy so he can get back to it.”
Four-Finger Mike. The same man Gemma and the others had tied to Headley.
“How do we get the boy back?” Fletcher asked.
“You have to find Allen, which even the Metropolitan Police hasn’t consistently managed to do. Flexible as a snake, that one. Finds his way out of most anything. Impossible to get our hands on.”
Fletcher folded his arms across his chest. “We ain’t the police. We’ve fewer rules.”
Hollis was by far the most genteel of them all, yet he didn’t so much as flinch at the heavy hint that they might employ questionable means of achieving their ends.
“The law is still a stumbling block, though,” Parkington warned. “The boy is legally bound to his master as apprentice. The law lets Allen claim him on a level nearing ownership.”
Stone broke his characteristic silence. “That ain’t right, no matter what the law says.”
Each of the Dreadfuls had a cause of particular personal importance. For Stone, it was freedom, not on the level of a country or a society, but on a personal and individual level. Had he not already been dedicated to assisting in the rescue of Daniel, Parkington’s explanation of the law’s demands would’ve secured his support.
The Lady and the Highwayman Page 16
