Of Coppers and Cracksmen

by Katherine McIntyre

  “Here to arrest me, handsome?” the woman asked, a smirk on her lips as if she wasn’t staring down the end of a barrel.

  Bernard looked her in the eyes. The woman standing before him didn’t match up in the slightest with the killer he’d been tracking. The other policemen said they’d seen her hovering over the body, covered in blood, but those knives couldn’t cut with the precision the Butcher sliced. The belligerent dark eyes staring at him might not belong to someone who upheld the law, but he didn’t see any coldness lurking in the corners. And he’d faced more than his fair share of killers.

  “I suppose I should be turning you in for the murders of seven women by now,” Bernard murmured, his words dripping out slowly as he continued to assess. This slender woman wore trousers, a blouse and a waistcoat sodden from her dip in the canal. Her eyes sparked with a brazen challenge, and her wet black curls plastered along her neck, a few strands sticking to her cheeks.

  “Come now, doesn’t a gent like you have better ways to while the hours away than tromping through these districts?” She stared straight at him, unflinching. “We all know what manner of lawless crooks wander in the alleyways. Best to let us continue to fight, pilfer and murder each other while you folks tend to those fainting flowers with shillings to spare.”

  “Awfully mouthy for someone with a gun pointed to their head,” Bernard commented, though he fought the twitch of amusement. In the brief span of their conversation, he’d sorted a few things out about her. Her accent had the hard edge of someone born and bred in this neighborhood, she brandished her knives in the open like a woman used to roaming these streets at night and the pouch on her side hung heavy.

  “Well, if you lock me up, I’m sure to perish, so why fear a faster fate?” she countered, lifting a delicate eyebrow.

  Bernard shook his head. “Might be the case if I thought you were the one committing these murders.” The patrols seemed to be up to their usual podsnappery, jumping to conclusions before they ever assessed the scene.

  “Don’t think a woman’s capable of the task?” Ellie bared teeth with her grin. “You’ll find yourself dead in an alley with that logic.”

  This woman’s brazenness was like nothing he’d ever encountered before. Bernard blinked for a moment before he heaved a sigh.

  “I’ve met many a murderer, man and woman alike. I just don’t believe you’re one of them.”

  A frown creased her brow. “You’d be the first.”

  “The Butcher’s patterns are precise and too careful. You’re far too sloppy to fit the description, my dear.” His trigger finger began to relax. As long as she didn’t pull one of those knives on him, he didn’t plan on shooting. The patrolmen must’ve found her in the act of robbing the corpse and leaped to assumptions. All the details added up.

  Ellie clasped a hand to her chest. “I should be offended, good sir.”

  Bernard lifted his eyebrows and lowered his pistol. “Yet I’d surmise you’re not.” He didn’t let go of the grip, ready to lift his weapon again if she attempted to bolt. However, the woman’s clever eyes had already zeroed in on that, and she remained planted in her spot. The sliver of moonlight gleamed on the split cobblestones between them, highlighting the cracks and fragments. Out here in the open wasn’t the place to have this conversation.

  “I don’t suppose you’d prefer to palaver over a dram of gin?” the woman hazarded. She placed her hands on her hips. “Unless you want to continue this conversation in the shivering cold.”

  “I’d surmise you have a place in mind?” Bernard responded, relieved she’d made the suggestion. He never much liked mucking about with his back exposed.

  The woman waggled her eyebrows and offered a salacious grin. “The Drowned Rat,” she said before casting a cursory glance to her clothing. A bark of a laugh escaped her, and Bernard couldn’t help the curl of his lip. She continued, “But in all honesty, the tavern’s right up the street.”

  Bernard slipped his gun back into the holster at his side before offering his hand. “I’d best introduce myself then. I’m Detective Bernard Taylor.”

  She clapped her hand against his with a hearty smack. “I’m suspected serial killer and general miscreant, Eleanor Whitfield. Though you can call me Ellie. Now let’s backslang it to the tavern. I could use a fire to warm up after my jaunt through the canal.” Ellie took the first step forward, past the entrance of the abandoned house and onto the cobbled street.

  Bernard shook his head, brushing a thumb across his chin to hide his smile. This woman had beguiled him from the moment she’d begun to speak. Lawbreaker she might be, but the more they talked, the more he confirmed his assessment that she was not the Butcher of Broad Street.

  “Lead the way,” he called behind her, though she’d already begun. Ellie made a rude gesture to the sky even as she continued along the street past the abandoned shacks in this district. With a few quick strides, he caught up with her to keep pace as they turned down the lane to the right.

  “I’m shocked a fancy gent like yourself would dare show his face in this neighborhood,” Ellie drawled, giving him a side glance.

  “Considering I didn’t grow up far from here, these streets don’t spook me like they do most of the patrolmen,” he murmured. His jaw hardened for a moment as the scent of iron bloomed in his peripheral, as it sometimes did. “Besides, after spending some time fighting in the naval guard, little in this city bothers me.”

  Ellie let out a low whistle, her hand resting on her hip as though she’d draw a blade at any moment. “So not only a copper, but a soldier? Are you searching for any other feathers to adorn your fancy cap? Big-hearted bloke for the poor lowlifes of London?”

  Bernard snorted at her attempt to rile him. Not much ruffled his sails. “Currently, I’m just searching to stop the cur who’s butchering innocents throughout the city.”

  At the end of the block, a dim gas lamp flickered outside a tavern, amber lights setting the windows aglow. The sign for the Drowned Rat had seen better years, was splintered and with faded paint, but Ellie hadn’t been toying with him.

  She cast him another cursory glance. “Do you have to look quite so prim and proper? You’ll find your purse nicked and a knife in your gut when you step inside.”

  Bernard let out a sigh and undid the buttons of his outer jacket, sliding his cravat off to stuff into his pocket. With a few deft motions, he slipped his cufflinks and anything else that might get skimmed off his person, placing them into his pockets as well. He dragged his finger and thumb down his moustache and beard on instinct. Bernard couldn’t help but note how Ellie’s eyes flickered to the motion. The woman seemed to absorb everything, particularly where he stored his niceties.

  “I have the feeling the biggest threat to my purse happens to be standing beside me,” he hazarded as they came to a halt in front of the Drowned Rat. A few chaps stood outside, taking a drag of whatever substance caused the yellowish smoke to filter into the sky before them. Bernard followed the protocol of these streets, keeping his gaze forward and his business to himself.

  Ellie grabbed for the handle and brought the door wide open before stepping in first. He strode in after, a wall of noise slamming into him upon arrival. The bar at this time of night was filled, most of the seats taken. The clamor compressed inside reminded him of being back on a ship. He spotted a corner table in the far back of the cramped quarters.

  “Why don’t you snag the table while I grab the gin?”

  “If you’re paying, Officer,” Ellie responded. Her mischievous grin made her umber eyes light up. He couldn’t help but watch as she sauntered away from him, her hips swinging with pendulum precision. Bernard approached the chipped mahogany bar, clouded by the splatters of prior spills of ale, and wedged himself between two men, half-rats and reeking of cheap gin.

  “What can I get for you?” The bartender approached with enough stiffness that Bernard could almost hear those joints creaking. The man glowered like he might spit in his face.

/>   Bernard lifted two fingers. “Drams of gin.”

  The bartender let out a grunt and grabbed an open bottle of gin from the counter in front of him. He sloshed the liquid into two glasses that had seen better days and shunted them forward. Bernard slipped coins across the counter and, in a liquid-fast motion, nabbed the glasses, making his way over to where Ellie waited. The woman crooked her seat back until it tapped against the wall and waggled her fingers in his direction.

  Lor, what have I gotten myself into?

  He took a seat across from her and slid the glass across the splintered table, bringing the other one to his lips. The gin had a harsh bite to it, the juniper scent filling his senses. He needed a stiff drink after the mad dash through London tonight in pursuit of this woman, if only to confirm his hunch. Now that he’d grown sure she hadn’t committed the murders, the search for the Butcher of Broad Street needed to continue.

  Seven victims so far, all of them diced with an unsettling precision. All of them women.

  “The patrolmen got a good look at you, my dear,” Bernard said, setting his glass on the table with a thump. “Which means you’d be best off keeping low until the Butcher is found.”

  Ellie swilled her gin like water, and his gaze strayed to the gloss of the liquid on her lips as she set her glass down. Those eyes sparked with a fire that would set the timbers of the old abandoned buildings ablaze. The woman possessed an unearthly beauty, something wilder and more capricious than anything he’d encountered. Which, of course, guaranteed she was distilled trouble and he should avoid her like the scarlet fever.

  “If I’m hearing you proper, it sounds as if finding this Butcher would be in both our best interests,” Ellie said. “I’ve already made too many an enemy in this city—the last thing I need is the coppers marking my every step.”

  Bernard crooked an eyebrow. “Oh? Might you be engaged in activities you don’t want the lawmen aware of?”

  “Come now, I bargained a lawman like you would at least have an ounce of intelligence,” Ellie responded, even though her smile never faltered. “Though dimness could acquit you of whatever temporary insanity has you in its grips. After all, most of your lot wouldn’t excuse a cracksman simply because she was innocent of the crime of murder.”

  “I’d fast disabuse yourself of the notion that I’m anything like my colleagues,” Bernard responded. The truth she spoke scraped across his skin like gravel. He’d grown up in this squalor, and he’d seen how ugly these streets could be. Which was why, when he’d become a detective, he’d committed himself to tracking down the worst individuals of this city, not the ones struggling to survive.

  Ellie crossed her arms in front of her, eyeing him with an interest she didn’t bother hiding. “Bernard Taylor, you’re a maddening contradiction.”

  He coughed into his hand to hide his snort. “Only following the suit of my present company.”

  Ellie’s eyebrows drew together, and her jaw clenched as if she was chewing on an idea. “Fine, we’ll work together.”

  Bernard spluttered mid-sip of gin. “And what gave you the idea I need a partner? Particularly one with so many distasteful hobbies?” His chest thumped a little harder at the audacity of this woman. Meeting anyone this bold was a rare treat.

  “If your colleagues were of much use, this bloke wouldn’t have murdered seven women. And you clearly are steps behind. Whereas I know these streets better than any patrolman—every hidden alley, abandoned house turned black market and the scorched corners where the worst of the city dwell.” Ellie’s tone didn’t waver as she stared at him with a confidence he found he liked.

  Bernard pressed his lips together as if mulling over the statement. Truth be told, he’d been circling over the same facts for weeks now. If she could offer even the slightest whiff of a new direction, he’d seize the chance.

  “We’d have to work covertly,” he said, casting her a glance. “Only at night and the such.”

  Ellie tugged on the end of her ponytail and passed him an incredulous look. “As if I’d prefer to be caught rubbing elbows with the enemy.”

  “Truer words,” he trailed off, raising his glass of gin. She lifted her own to clink against his. “Then it’s a deal.”

  “Ellie Whitfield,” a voice boomed from the other end of the bar. “What are you doing on this side of the street?” A sandpaper-rough bloke missing a few teeth approached with a scowl on his mug and nothing pleasant burning in those eyes. Bernard’s shoulders stiffened, the old disciplines ready at his summons.

  “Damn and double damn,” Ellie cursed, her feet landing on the ground with a clap. “Look lively, Taylor. We’ve found ourselves privy to one of the most pigeon-livered men you’ll ever meet.” She slammed her empty glass of gin onto the table and rose to her feet. Her hand slipped to her side, guaranteed for her knives. Bernard already followed suit, drifting his hand for his pistol.

  Ellie called out, “Don’t you have anyone else to make miserable tonight, James?”

  He strolled closer, a few men who’d followed him in through the door trailing behind. Based on their vapid expressions and the swing of their large limbs, her acquaintance had brought bashers with him.

  Ellie pursed her lips and winked in Bernard’s direction. “You can always flee now if you’ve caught the vapors. I promise to withhold my derision.”

  A grin tilted his lips, a motion he’d forgotten himself capable of. He shook his head and whipped out his pistol. “And miss out on this riotous good time? I think not.”

  Chapter Three

  James Donovan was a backstabbing ratbag of the highest order. Ellie had last seen him at the job they were meant to work together at some rich gent’s house on the opposite end of the city. At the slightest hint of trouble, he’d abandoned her and the other bloke they’d worked with and wailed up a storm when he hadn’t gotten his cut of the take. Instead of blaming them both, James had decided to place the weight on her shoulders alone.

  And of course, he’d happened upon her now. All Ellie wanted was to tip back some gin and step inside for a spell to dry after her riveting night of running from the coppers. Yet no matter how far she traveled through this rotting city, trouble lay a cobblestone away.

  Bernard Taylor launched from his seat beside her, a readiness to his stance suggesting he’d seen his fair share of fights. Not like the waistcoat and slacks did much to hide his muscular figure, which she’d noticed mere minutes after he’d cocked a loaded gun at her temple. The man looked more like a brawler than a detective.

  “Ellie, where do you think you’re going?” James asked, his lackeys clamoring beside him. The meatbag crossed his arms over his chest and tried on a glower for good size, like it might stand a chance at quaking her boots. “I believe you owe me a bit more than a drink.” The suggestion dripping from his voice made her internally gag.

  “I well know what you’re owed, Donovan, and it’s nothing pleasant,” Ellie said, striding to close the distance between them. The patrons of the bar who weren’t half-rats paused to stare between the two of them, no one daring to get involved. Ellie’s grip tightened around her blades. She didn’t miss the way James slipped his hands down. Guaranteed, the bastard would pull a pistol.

  Ellie caught the flash of copper from behind his back. Not a pistol, or a blade.

  Oh no.

  She met Bernard’s eyes. “When I say the word, we need to run.”

  Because James Donovan was a fool of a coward who’d brought a copperhead to a bar filled with innocent blokes. The shrapnel from the bomb would obliterate most of the crowd inside here. Donovan stepped closer, his cronies flanking out behind him to block their escape.

  No way out but up.

  “Run,” Ellie called out as she dove to the left, toward the bar. One quick hoist and she climbed atop to begin racing across the surface. Shouts followed in her wake as she hopped over the pints of ale and glasses of sallow whisky rattling around her. She risked a single glance back.

  Bernard hadn�
�t followed her traipse overtop of the bar. Instead, the man squared his broad shoulders, lowered his forehead and charged.

  With Donovan’s attention slipped to her, he didn’t notice Bernard rush in until it was too late.

  Ellie hopped over another pint, her footsteps clattering to the rafters of the tavern. A couple of drunks tried to swipe for her ankles, but she’d always been lighter on her feet than the average lady.

  The end of the bar loomed in sight, feet away. Already, more shouts broke out, the coarse sounds echoing behind her.

  Ellie didn’t pause at the end of the bar—she launched off the edge. Her feet slammed into the hardwood floor. She whipped around in time to spot every chap she’d raced past glaring her way. New friends, all around.

  The grizzled old man at the end of the bar lunged for her, his brittle fingers grabbing for purchase. She dodged out of the way with ease, far less inebriated than the majority of the denizens here.

  Bernard dodged by James Donovan, but the other two meaters tried to step in his way. Ellie brought her gaze his way right when he struck with deadly speed. Bernard slung his fist under one man’s jaw, and a moment later he pivoted on his heel, bringing his elbow up to greet the other man’s nose. Bernard Taylor possessed hidden depths, to say the least.

  “Stop,” James called out, lifting the copperhead in his hand, a device the size of a fist. “Or this entire bar goes down with you.”

  He’d throw it. She knew he would.

  “Lads, do you want to go down in flames with this bar?” Ellie called over the crowd. “If not, I’d suggest stopping the fool with the bomb. Either that or run.”

  Bernard burst past the meaters and bolted toward her. Ellie had been shifting from foot to foot. The moment he reached her side, she flew.

  Several blokes at the bar surged from their stools, which clattered to the ground. A few of the others took her recommendation to approach James. Unfortunately for the lot of them, Donovan swung his arm, and the copperhead flew from his grasp.