by Darcy Burke
“Tell me what you know about that night,” she said.
Daniel ran a hand through his hair. He’d practiced what to say—what details to reveal and what details to leave out because they weren’t suitable for a lady—but it didn’t make it easier.
“All I know is somehow I ended up in the North Quay, my head pounding and the taste of stale gin on my tongue. I stumbled into the alleyway and there was Dalton.”
“Was he dead when you arrived?”
It would have been easier if he had been. “No.”
“How are you sure you didn’t kill him? You said yourself you were in your cups.”
His jaw clenched. Had he been foolish to assume she believed in his innocence? He’d thought she knew him. “Because no matter how foxed I was, I would not have murdered a man.”
“I am merely asking you what the Peelers will, Daniel.” She gave him the smallest of smiles, a tiny hint that she did trust his word.
He relaxed. “Dalton’s throat had already been slit when I turned the corner.”
She nodded, apparently satisfied. “Did you see anyone else?”
He shook his head. In his dreams, he saw a cloaked man, tall and lean, flee the site. A faceless man, more phantom than corporeal, whom he didn’t trust was not an invention of his nocturnal mind.
The tea was steeped. He picked up the pot, strained out the leaves, and poured tea into the two cups provided by Madame Tousat. He kept the chipped one for himself and handed Kate the other.
“Thank you.” She held the mug close to her with two hands, relishing the warmth. “I can’t remember the last time I had tea.”
“If you take the blunt, you could buy yourself a case,” he suggested, regretting it when she frowned at him.
He chose a safer course and returned to her earlier question. “No, there was no one else present at the docks. It was simply Dalton and I, until that wretched scavenger of a woman showed up. I swear to you, I never saw her before she began to scream.”
But her voice haunted his nights. “You killed him! I saw you do it.”
“Evidence is like any other item. It can be bought and sold to the highest bidder,” Kate mused. “There are people who make their living selling affidavits.”
“I had Atlas look into the woman, but he could not find any evidence of Anne Turner. She simply does not exist.” Daniel sighed.
“I am not surprised. Names are tried on and dispensed with at random here, like hats or dresses.”
“Yet you never took up a false identity.” He had wanted to believe she’d kept her name as a signal to him. That maybe she wanted him to search her out and save her.
“Why should I?” Her tone didn’t allow him room to respond. “I won’t be ashamed of who I am, or who I come from. Lloyd’s may have tried to sully the Morgan name, but I know my father was a good man.”
He was distinctly aware that she had challenged him. His heart wrenched as he looked toward the broadsheet with Morgan’s declaration of his innocence. Emporia was the only link between his life and Dalton’s.
“It was a large company, Kate,” he stated delicately. “No man can be fully aware of the activities of that many employees. I am not suggesting your father was involved with the death of one of his warehouse workers, but you must recognize the connection between his company and the crime.”
She scowled at him but kept silent, and he considered that progress.
“How did you get away from the constable?” She asked.
“Atlas bribed the guards for my time of transport to Newgate. Once he knew the route and when they’d be at each stop, he was able to intersect the carriage with bruisers he’d hired and get me to safety. Then I left for Dorking.”
Where he had spent the next few years trying to erase her from his mind. But nothing could make it hurt less. He needed Kate far more than she needed him. Without her, he was nothing but a shell of a man.
He was damn tired of being broken.
***
It all sounded so simple.
Kate hated him for that, how easy he made his escape from London sound. Because it had been arranged by the Gentleman Thief, she knew the plan had accounted for every single thing that could have gone wrong in the transport. She wondered if Atlas Greer had developed a contingency for her involvement, or if she had been deemed so insignificant he didn’t need concern himself with the lover Daniel left behind.
She kept her hands on the teacup, the warmth against her gloves a reminder of what was real and tangible. Sitting in this small room across from the only man she’d ever loved was the present, and the whispers of old memories could not be relied upon for veracity.
Only one thing could be relied upon: lour. She needed money to pay her rent. Owen had nothing new for her, and the Chapman Street Gang split their deals between multiple fences.
She set her teacup down on the table beside her, and stood up from the chair. In a few paces, she was at the desk again, overturning the purse. Three one-pound notes flew out. Six shillings clanked onto the table. Provided she was economical, that sum could set her up nicely.
All she had to do was spend a week or so in Daniel’s company to get it.
A week, and then would he leave again?
She grabbed onto the thumb of her right glove and pulled until the fabric slid from her fingers. The cold air stung her bare flesh as she grabbed a shilling, rubbing it between her forefinger and thumb. If she knew exactly what Daniel uncovered about Emporia’s involvement, she could keep her father’s name from the press.
Control the information. She dropped the coin onto the desk.
Kate pulled her glove back on and turned around to face him. “I think that it would be best if we went to the docks tomorrow. Perhaps seeing that particular spot will stir something suppressed in your mind.”
“So you’ll help me?”
She scooped the coins back into the bag and tucked them into her pocket. “I will help you find Dalton’s killer, but that is all. Do you understand? There is nothing more between us.”
Daniel’s brows arched, but he didn’t argue. He set down his mug on the arm of the chair and rose to collect the foolscap rolls from the bedside table. As he handed the papers to her, their hands brushed in subtle, aching familiarity.
The longer she spent with him, the more she wanted to lean into his touch. Kate snatched the papers away, spreading them out in front of her.
“I’ve spent the past few days trying to think of anyone who might have known Dalton,” Daniel said. “Atlas gleaned a few names from some of the logs from Emporia.”
“He was able to find old logs?” She shouldn’t have been surprised. The Gentleman Thief could filch or locate anything. “Do you still have them?”
“No, I left them with him for further examination.”
She stifled a sigh, longing to run her fingers over the aged parchment and trace the familiar invoice wording. For a second, it would be like she was back in the office, sifting through paperwork. She’d served as her father’s secretary since was sixteen, filing the company secrets he didn’t trust with his other employees.
That Kate didn’t exist anymore.
The first list identified eight individuals. Four of the names she didn’t immediately recognize, another she knew of through Jane, one was dead, and the last had moved away to become a sheep farmer shortly after Emporia’s collapse.
“I don’t recognize Jeremiah Farner or Ezekiel Barnes. As for Patrick Corrigan, unless you fancy making bah noises at sheep in Northumbria, we should look elsewhere first.” She handed the list back to him.
“If I wanted to see sheep, I could have stayed in Sussex.”
“I’ve never seen sheep,” Kate shrugged.
“You are not missing much.”
She had never been outside of London. Growing up on a farm like Daniel did seemed strange. What did one do without stucco townhouses, high-class phaetons, and tall ship masts? She preferred her countryside clearly marked, like Rotten Row
in Hyde Park where the Upper Ten Thousand rode.
“Why is this name starred?” She pointed at the last name, Jasper Finn, which was written in all capitals.
Daniel hesitated.
“I haven’t heard of him, if that is what concerns you. Who is he?”
Hesitantly, he rubbed his forefinger against his ginger side whiskers. That gesture was as familiar to her as the alleys in the East End that would keep her from the Bobbies’ notice.
“It is a tad unseemly.”
“I run with Chapman. Whatever you have to say, I assure you I’ve heard worse. Is this related to the resurrection men you spoke about at the Three Boars? They sell the corpse to the surgeons for anatomization, and the clothes of the dead to the pawn shops in Field Lane.”
To the very shops she bought her dresses from. She laid her hand against her stomach, willing the impending nausea down.
“According to Atlas, he is one of the most ruthless,” Daniel grimaced. “Perhaps Finn saw me before? Knew what I faced and figured I’d be a convenient foil. If you know what to look for, it’s not hard to spot someone in the thrall of gin.”
She pictured her father’s round face, his fine clothes and his need to control his surroundings. He’d been a matn of principles, ruthless in company politics but devoted to her. “Then my father couldn’t be involved, if you think the culprit is a resurrection man.”
He reached for the list. “Outside of Finn, that leaves Charles Hester and Cyrus Mason. I liked Hester for it—it’s not much of a stretch to imagine him digging in the ground with a spade. Though I suppose I’m unduly biased, given that he never addressed me as anything other than ‘Bloody Irish.’”
“At least he never looked at you like dinner to be devoured. I asked Papa to teach me how to shoot after meeting him.” She cringed.
“Did he hurt you?” Daniel’s voice was sharp, protective.
“No.”
He hadn’t, but others had.
“Hester is dead, regardless. He fell from one of the ship decks into the water and drowned. I suppose no one told him it’d be wise to learn to swim.”
“Devilish bad luck, for him and us,” Daniel frowned.
Us. She hated that word, a temptingly succulent promise that they’d be something more than strangers passing in the night. Better to solve Dalton’s case as quickly as possible, so that when he moved on she would have fewer memories to torment her.
“What about Cyrus Mason?” Daniel pointed to his name. “He’s not connected to Emporia, so that’s one in his favor, don’t you think? Atlas told me he was Dalton’s closest friend at the docks. Used to work as a porter.”
“I am acquainted with him. He’s had ties with Chapman Street in the past. His brother runs a gaming hell. We won’t get anything from him there. Joaquin Mason has too many guards.” Kate pursed her lips. The King of Spades was notorious, not only for the games of chance that drew select members of the nobility into the darkest parts of the rookeries, but for the vice parties given by the proprietor.
“It would be easier to talk to Cyrus at the Red Fist,” she continued. “The boxing fancy turn out to drink there after the bouts. When East India figured out he was stiffing from their shipments, he fled. I believe he suckered some rattlepated aristocrat into sponsoring his mills. He’s a brute of a man.”
“How comforting.” Daniel’s tone was strained, his humor falling flat. Concern sprung into his eyes before he snuffed it, expression again neutral. He’d looked the same outside of the Three Boars, she recalled.
“You needn’t go.” Kate shrugged. “I’ve been to the Red Fist more times than I can count. I’m perfectly capable of extracting information from Cyrus without your help.”
“No way in hell.”
“This protective streak is misplaced and irritating, Daniel.”
“You’d best get used to it.” His jaw set, his green eyes focused solely on her. Fist at his side, shoulders back, determination was writ across his features.
The only person I need protection from is you. Her heart pitter-pattered against her chest, desperate to fly to him and his perfect words. What little sense she had left, she’d kept locked away, even to charming men like Owen Neal.
“We will meet Wednesday afternoon at the Red Fist.”
He nodded. “I’ll see you then.”
She felt the weight of his words, heavy on her gut. Another promise, another day together reliving what they had once been. “The docks tomorrow at sundown. Don’t be late.”
He blinked, likely surprised by her commanding tone. He opened and shut his mouth, then simply nodded again.
With no goodbye, Kate left him standing there, watching her retreating form disappear.
Chapter Five
As dusk descended upon the foggy sky, Daniel stood at the principal entrance of the London Docks. Strewn to both sides of the gates were empty carts and wagons, deposited by porters who had finished unloading the ships. Beyond him rose a seemingly never-ending confluence of masts and brightly colored flags flapping in the wind. Sailors streamed from all sides of the docks, dozens of nationalities represented in this relatively small part of the city.
Every gust of wind brought a new prick of attentiveness down his spine. These docks were the stuff of his nightmares. He dreamed of black masts, of ghost ships crewed by a thousand dead Tommy Daltons.
He looked to the right and then to the left, his eyes wide and his mind ever-vigilant. In one hand he grasped a truncheon. The vendors had mostly cleared up for the day, but the smell of roasting meat lingered and reminded him of barbecued flesh. Suddenly the savory fish pie purchased for Kate from one of the donkey-carts didn’t seem so appealing.
Once he had moved through these crowds with ease, certain of his place as a shipping assistant to one of the most powerful companies. He’d let his guard down because he’d believed he belonged.
He would never be so careless again.
“Daniel.”
He turned to meet Kate, almost slamming into her. She’d sneaked up behind him, her gait soundless. That was a new skill, perhaps taught to her by the man he’d found her with. His chest tightened with jealousy.
“For you.” He thrust the hot pie into her hands awkwardly. Everything he did around her these days seemed awkward. “I thought you’d want it.”
“Thank you.” She looked at it suspiciously for a second. “What do I owe you?”
“What? Nothing.” He shook his head. “I was hungry before and I thought you’d like dinner too. Consider it part of your working wage.”
She bit her bottom lip. Her desire for the pastry won out of over her pride. Biting into the pastry, her expression changed to clear relish of the food. “Mmm. Did you buy this from James the Penny Pieman at the lower loading docks?”
He nodded. “Of course I did. You always loved them.”
“It’s lovely.” She devoured the pastry; eel, parsley, and sauce oozed out of the doughy bread. “I haven’t eaten one of these in…bless it, I don’t know how long.”
“I’m glad you like it.” He was rewarded by her smile as she took another large bite. This was how it should be between them, him taking care of her. If only she’d let him.
She ran a hand across her mouth when finished with the puffed pastry, getting the crumbs that dotted the lines of her lips. Flawless lips that he ached to kiss, reading their language with his own.
“Shall we go?” Kate turned back to him, her hands stuffed in the pockets of that absurdly large greatcoat.
If he looked closely, he thought he recognized the buttons on the coat: rounded with an anchor etched into the gold enamel. Morgan’s coat, like Morgan’s pistol.
He didn’t want to set foot on these docks, and he certainly didn’t want to go further toward the North Quay. It defied logic to think Dalton would somehow appear again, but he could not shake the notion.
Kate was here, and he had to be strong for her. He steeled himself up, took her arm in his, and started down the way. Th
e bully stick remained in his other hand, poised and waiting. He cut a sharp left through the Crescent, past a two-story warehouse with barred windows. Empty barrels scattered the courtyard, to be removed by the next shift of workers.
He was ready for anything—or anyone—that might jump out from behind the many barrels containing used wine corks, sulfur, and ore. He rested his hand on her arm as they walked, ignoring how she became rigid under his hold. They were in the bowels of hell, and he would keep her safe if it was the last thing he did.
“I can’t help but be on edge here,” she muttered.
He nodded. This had been her second home too, before it had been ripped away from her by Emporia’s debts.
A loud crash echoed in the quay. Daniel pivoted to place himself in front of Kate, breaking contact with her arm. He missed the solidness of her flesh, even as his eyes darted across the path.
“Sounds as if a barrel has been knocked over,” he muttered. “But not close enough to here.”
Kate thrust her hand into her pocket and pulled out her pistol, a cloth-wrapped load pouch, and a rod. Quickly, she loaded the pistol and switched it to half-cocked with a self-satisfied grin. “Better to be prepared, Papa always said.”
His grip tightened against his bully stick. He preferred the truncheon to a gun, for it could be used at a moment’s notice. “Let it never be said that Kate Morgan was not a wise woman.” He winked at her.
They walked on, past more wine facilities that housed great vaults underneath the streets for the storage of the tested spirits. At last their path converged where the North Quay met the West. To their right were the warehouse complexes, numbered one through five, while to their left and a few paces over was the Superintendent’s Office. A lone lamp shone from the nearby warehouse and the light spilled out into the alleyway in dim rays.
When the wind changed direction, he swore he heard the hollers of foxed sailors. What had happened to the men he used to drink with? Had they met their demise too soon, succumbing to the effects of gin? Or had they finally sailed back to Ireland, fighting a war against the very nation they’d found work in?
