Of Coppers and Cracksmen

by Katherine McIntyre

  White sails ruffled and the large metal barges puffed into the dock, crews loading and unloading shipments from overseas. Whether from the tea or raw materials they imported or the mechanical creations they shipped out, the constant flow of traffic around these docks kept the labor force busy.

  The Butcher had murdered someone on these docks, one of the seven bodies they’d uncovered. The sole connection he’d been able to gauge was the public location. Thus far, they hadn’t heard a whisper of the women dissected in tenements like Ellie’s or taverns and shopfronts. All on public streets.

  The back of his mind itched, but every errant thought he seized on failed to scratch it.

  Shouts echoed as the dock workers hauled crates from the freighters, but Bernard strode past them at a fast clip. The water smelled like oil and sewage, which would draw the rats aplenty—those that weren’t arriving from the boats themselves. He heaved a weary sigh as he followed the path to the opposite end of the docks. The past few days had begun to compound on him, enough that even a stiff cup of tea couldn’t curb the exhaustion.

  It wasn’t as though he ever truly indulged in a good night of sleep. Ever since his time in the naval guard, sleep had been an erratic and often elusive visitor. After he’d returned to civilian life, he should’ve spent more time making connections with the other officers through the city, frequenting the bars or attempting some façade to connect himself to humanity again.

  Instead, he tracked down serial killers, which distanced him further from the regular rabble throughout London. With every passing day, what little remained of his humanity slipped out of reach. The strain grew greater, and a subterranean coldness settled in his bones, as though he might one day forget how to feel. Bernard ran his hands through his thick hair, scanning the cobblestones before him as he strode forward.

  The normal chips didn’t leap out at him, but he watched for splotches of blood or any stray scraps that might not have been cleaned up from the body discovered a week ago. He reached one of the final docks and stopped along the street in front of it. Currently, burly men boomed orders to one another, the sweat gleaming on their faces. Today, the Queen’s weather offered sunlight beating down with a particular intensity.

  Bernard stopped in front of the spot, the bloodstains gummed into the cobblestones here despite the frequent foot traffic these docks received. He crouched to the ground and scanned the area from the different vantage point. The victim had been diced up like the others and left on display, but something felt off about the scene of the crime.

  Bernard’s gaze snagged on dark sludge between several of the cobblestones feet away. He pushed himself up to investigate the discoloration. When he knelt, he ignored the stares from the passing ladies and gents trotting by in their finery and took a sniff. Same coppery tone—more blood. He skimmed the stones farther ahead, catching a few more spots where hints of blood remained.

  The victim hadn’t been murdered and dissected on the spot the body was discarded. They’d been dragged, from somewhere—chances were, the Butcher’s lair.

  Bernard rose from his crouch and strode forward, following the splotches of blood he found gummed between the stones. He couldn’t guarantee they belonged to the victim, but he wouldn’t be caught shirking—he’d get that monster off the streets. Even as he focused in on the details beneath his feet, he couldn’t help but keep watch in his peripheral—constant vigilance had marked him ever since his days in the guard.

  He wove past an older woman who hobbled over to the fish merchants calling out their wares in loud, lusty tones, each trying to compete with the others. Two dock workers rushed past him, and he swerved to the side in time to avoid them even as his gaze remained on the subtle trail he followed.

  The cobblestones along the path in front of him stopped right around where the street intersected, so Bernard launched in that direction instead. It wasn’t as though he expected a clear trail to the killer’s lair, but after weeks of grasping at loose cogs, he would take any opportunity that surfaced.

  This narrower street held several run-down shopfronts, the glass tarnished and the faces inside dour. As he strolled along, he wove in and out from the crooked alleys, chancing a peek into the dark vacuums which could hold anything from shivering opium addicts to fresh corpses.

  Bernard ducked into the alley to the right of him. The moment he stepped into the shadows, his neck prickled. The impulse had saved his life far too many times. His hands moved before his mind registered the threat.

  He seized upon an arm, and with one quick pivot and twist, he pressed his assailant against the stone wall.

  “What do you want?” ripped from his throat in a growl.

  It wasn’t until he settled into place behind the attacker that he realized the arm he pinned back was slender, and the hips curvier than expected. Between the supposed assailant’s cinnamon skin and the wisps of raven hair peeking from the newsboy cap, the pieces clicked into place.

  “Well, I wanted to pay you a surprise visit, but I suppose I should’ve known better than to sneak up on a lawman,” Ellie drawled.

  At the sound of her voice, he grew all too aware of their proximity. The rich scent of her, all orange and clove oil, sparked his libido to attention. The warm body pressed against him fueled the fantasies stampeding through him with vigor, and far too easily he could imagine this dance between them in a more private place, sans attire. Sweat pricked along his forehead and he released her wrist.

  “My apologies,” he offered. “Reflexive habit.”

  Ellie turned to face him, leaning her back against the brick wall behind her. A grin played on her lips and her hooded eyes twinkled. She’d dressed for stealth today in a loose pair of trousers that failed to hide those gorgeous hips, and the shirt and suspenders combined with the newsboy cap made her blend with the errand boys and workers throughout London.

  “Apologies aren’t necessary if I enjoyed it,” she commented, fixing her alluring gaze on him. The throatiness in her tone and suggestion in her eyes sent a white-hot flare of desire through him. His trousers felt far snugger. His length thickened at the thought of pinning Eleanor Whitfield against a wall and coaxing passionate moans from those lush lips before he buried himself inside her.

  His mouth dried with want. Bernard coughed into his hand, as if he could save himself from his abject lack of response. This woman managed to upheave him every time he believed he’d gotten a read on her.

  “What are you doing seeking me out at midday? The patrols are roaming in droves, and your likeness is plastered all over the city,” Bernard asked, needing to divert his attention from the curve of her breasts beneath the suspenders and the desire pooling in her dark, intelligent eyes. “More importantly, how did you manage to track me down?”

  Ellie smirked, the confidence she swathed around her like a cloak one of her most appealing attributes. Even so, he had to admit he enjoyed the other glimpses of her even more, the slight slips of vulnerability when her guard lowered for an instant. The woman had fast become an obsession, a distraction and everything he shouldn’t indulge in.

  “Simple deduction. You don’t seem to follow the patrols, and the way you fixate on your cases means you’d be spending every idle second at the scenes of the crimes. One of my contacts caught a man of your description heading to the direction of the docks, so I drew a few fast conclusions.”

  Bernard shook his head, unable to resist his grin. “You’re remarkable, my dear.”

  Ellie’s shoulders tightened. “As for the reason I sought you out today…we have a distasteful development in this case.” Bernard drew his eyebrows together, but he didn’t interrupt. The air of hesitation buzzing around Ellie and the quick glance to meet his eyes all spelled true fear. Cold swept through him, an icy trickle.

  “Don’t tell me the Butcher’s taken an interest in you?” The words flew from him in a foregone conclusion. Of course the killer would have a fascination with the woman pinned for his murders—the public displays, th
e careful precision and the chosen victims all preached a lurid desire for attention.

  “Right, I won’t tell you then,” Ellie murmured, affecting a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. They’d both heard the witch’s proclamation last night, and they’d both seen the handiwork of this monster up close and personal. “Though,” she said, “you continue to impress me, detective.”

  “I’m thinking a stiff drink is in order,” Bernard muttered, trying to quell the surge of nerves sparked at the idea of something happening to this clever woman. Each nameless victim collected on his conscience, another person he had failed to save. Yet if the Butcher of Broad Street stole Ellie from this world, Bernard would snap. He caught her eye. “As much as I’m enjoying the scenic view of questionable liquids and discarded trash, I think we should have this conversation in a more civilized location.”

  Ellie placed a hand over her chest. “With a miscreant and alleged murderess like me? What would your fellow officers think?”

  “They’ll think nothing due to your clever disguise, newsboy,” he commented, his lips turning up with the hint of a smile. “Though truly, no matter how you try to dress yourself down, a stunning woman like you stands out.”

  Ellie fanned herself with her hand as she took the first steps out from the alleyway. “Keep tossing compliments like that my way and I just might be smitten, darling.”

  Bernard slipped his hands into his pockets and followed her out. The sun winked overhead, and he tensed at the sight of a patrolman strolling their way. Lor, spending a few days in her company had him paranoid against his own lot—not that it took much. Before he made a mention to Ellie, the mad-as-hops woman diverted to the left, following another street down.

  The Golden Monocle stood out a block away, the door opening and closing with the steady stream of visitors even at this hour. They’d best be served by blending into a larger crowd where no one would notice them.

  “Up ahead,” Bernard mentioned.

  Ellie needed little guidance, though she slowed her steps to walk in line with him. Strolling side by side in the broad daylight with her felt foreign—they’d only met at night thus far. However, he could appreciate the way the sunlight made her bronzed skin gleam, how it brought out the midnight blue to her glossy locks. For the first time in a long while, he let himself imagine what it might be like to stroll about town with her on his arm, to bask in the presence of this woman for longer than their brief arrangement.

  Such fantasies were dangerous, though. For he’d sworn himself to upholding the law, a duty he wasn’t about to abandon, and Ellie seemed equally married to a life of crime.

  They reached the entrance to The Golden Monocle, the elegant chestnut door and carved copper handle standing out against the brick building. Unlike the bars they’d slummed through in Islington and the ilk, this waystation near the docks catered to all manner of clientele, from the poor to the rich, one of the few real melting pots in the city. Otherwise, the lines between the classes were sharp enough to slice and oftentimes ended with crimson splatters on the cobblestones.

  He held the door open before he followed her inside. The scents of dark porter, of fine whisky and of weak sherry filtered through the air, thickened by the steady stream from those smoking tobacco pipes. Ellie strode a little closer to his side the moment they entered, which wasn’t something he minded in the slightest.

  He approached the two stools open at the end of the bar, and they took a seat. All the polished wood in this place, from the stools to the tables, gleamed under the glow of the gas lamp fixtures. The exposed brick along the walls was even, unlike the cobblestones outside, and glasses hung from a mechanical contraption that moved them along in slow segments, like the tick of a clock’s hands.

  Two bartenders bustled around even at midday, dressed in chocolate trousers, matching vests and clean shirts. Even in his tailored waistcoat and a serviceable pair of slacks, Bernard felt underdressed compared to the neatness of these men. If all sorts hadn’t strolled through these doors, Ellie would’ve stuck out like a rooster among hens in her newsboy attire.

  Bernard leaned in along the polished surface of the bar, streaked with veins of deep green like the absinthe they served. He caught one of the barkeep’s eyes.

  “Two pints, if you please,” he said, lifting two fingers to assist.

  The bearded man offered a nod and grabbed for two glasses from the contraption. Once he took them off the rotation, the belt began to move again, inch by inch until new glasses lay within easy reach.

  Seconds later, the dark, creamy liquid poured from the taps, and the glasses settled in front of them. Bernard passed him coin and offered a nod of thanks before giving one of the pints to Ellie.

  She tipped it back with ease, and after she placed her pint down, she swiped a thumb across her upper lip to rid herself of the foam. “He sent me a clear message this morning—a rat, dissected in the same manner as the victims.”

  Bernard’s stomach bottomed out. He sipped from his glass, letting the heady liquid roll across his tongue as if it might banish the acrid taste in his mouth at the thought of this woman being a target. “Do you think that’s what your friend meant by his cryptic statement?”

  Ellie shook her head, tapping the side of the glass. Her gaze fixed on the surface of the porter. “He’s always delivered on answering the question asked, and I chose mine carefully. I’ve come to him for years—there’s a reason I’m still alive, despite my dangerous occupational choices.”

  “So he plucked one of those bountiful rats from his locale and decided to wrap it up and have it delivered?” Bernard clutched the glass in his hand a little tighter, to the point it might break. No matter the minor indiscretions this woman committed, she didn’t deserve the torment—none of these women did.

  “Apparently the idler has no better way to while his time,” Ellie drawled, tipping back more of her porter. The confidence had returned, but he was beginning to notice the difference between her genuine assuredness and the moments where she bluffed with bravado. A small, but distinct shift in the tone of her voice and the careful way she carried herself.

  Bernard reached out to rest a hand on her shoulder. “I’m going to find this man and lock him up before he ever lays a hand on you. I won’t let you end up like the others.”

  “Sweet sentiments, but he seems to be a clever bastard,” Ellie responded, a sad look in her eyes that struck him like a physical blow. “After all, you heard the Scarlet Crone.”

  Marked for death.

  Even though Ellie didn’t repeat the statement, the hesitance in her gaze made it clear they were both traveling to that destination. She looked up to meet his eyes and didn’t glance away. Something dark and tragic swept through her gaze, and the look pierced through the numbness he’d floated on for a long time. That pain reached inside his chest and gripped tight. He restrained the gasp at feeling anything, anything beyond the endless sea of coldness he’d lost himself in.

  Bernard shook his head, resolve filtering through his veins. “He’s chosen the wrong woman to target, because we’re closing in on him, and soon that monster will be off the streets for good.”

  Ellie opened her mouth as if she might respond, when her gaze transfixed on the door.

  Three patrolmen swaggered in.

  “You’re in disguise, and this is a busy bar,” Bernard murmured in reassurance.

  Ellie shook her head. “I recognize one of those mutton shunters from the scene of the crime I didn’t commit.” Her shoulders tensed and she glanced at the back of the bar.

  A rough shout sounded through the crowd, one that sent Bernard’s warning bells clanging—the patrolmen were coming their way.

  Chapter Seven

  The moment the coppers strolled into the bar, Ellie Whitfield knew she’d have to leave her pint behind, which pained her more than anything. As much as she was always ready for a scrap, too many people gathered here to swing fists and shake a flannin.

  She slipped her ha
nds to her knives and trailed her leg off the side of the stool.

  The recognition she’d been waiting for dawned in one of the bloke’s eyes, and his shout cut across the nanty-narking throughout the bar. Ellie met Bernard’s eyes, willing him to stay behind—no need to implicate himself in her mess. She didn’t entertain guilt often, but that would do it. She launched from the barstool, letting it spin around behind her until it clattered on the ground.

  She dove into the crowd gathering around the back of the bar. From the second they’d entered this facility, Ellie had already marked out the exits and entrances in case she would have to backslang it. Public places like this always set her nerves afire. She needled her elbows into sides, causing blokes to spill their beer or shift askance. None of that mattered so long as they got out of her way.

  Distractions faded to the background. Ellie vaulted through the bar, her focus on the back door, which swung open and shut from the occasional patron. Her calves pumped and she flew forward, ladies and gents alike skidding out of her way. Lazy disguise or no, the copper had recognized her, which meant she needed to escape.

  Ellie burst past the gents crowding around the back door and seized the handle. She clapped her hand on the cool metal and gave a mighty tug, flinging the door back. The crisp air slammed into her as she rushed out.

  An alley stretched out before her, and one intersected.

  The coppers could burst out here any moment now, and they’d spot her. Fewer places to hide under all the dratted sunlight.

  A drainpipe trailed down the side of the building, and a low-hanging roof offered cover out back. Ellie swallowed. Decision made.

  She bolted for the drainpipe and wrapped her palms around it, getting a solid grip to start hoisting herself up the side. Ellie had climbed more difficult spots before—part of thieving required a dexterity she’d honed over the years. And with all of this ‘serial killer after her life’ rubbish, she’d become sorely behind on picking pockets and burgling houses.