by Darcy Burke
He stopped, running his hand down the clapboard side of the warehouse. The wood was cool against his palm, smooth from a fresh coat of paint. No matter how many times workers tried to cover up the stains, the wood would always smell sickly sweet with spilled blood to him. He could still remember each splatter. He slapped the bully stick against the wall, the sound bringing him back to reality.
Kate came to a stop next to him. She slipped the flintlock back into her pocket. “If you were on your way home, you could have cut through here to get out.”
He glanced around. Nightingale Lane separated the London Docks from the newer St. Katherine’s Docks. He could have taken the same entrance they’d used, and from there gone to either East Smithfield or Upper East Smithfield.
“That would make sense. I’ve done that before.”
“What time did you leave Emporia?” Kate’s gaze was rapt, like she could read all the secrets his mind had repressed. Often, he had thought she could. “You were supposed to meet me at home at ten, after Papa had gone to sleep.”
He didn’t recall that conversation, but how he wished he had gone straight to her townhouse that night and lost himself in her embrace instead. “I don’t remember leaving at all. But that day Morgan had asked for us to catalogue some inventory before the next shipment arrived. I’ve often thought that maybe I stayed to finish those.” It was the only theory he had.
“It would fit the usual schedule.” Kate tapped at her chin with one finger. “The shipments always came in on a Tuesday, and it was Monday when Dalton was found. But it was two in the morning when the Watch got the tip about you. What were you doing between when you left Emporia and then? That is a large window of time to be unaccounted. Did you go to the public house?”
“Most likely.” He could not hide past failures if he wanted to learn the truth.
“I suspected as much. I think it would help if you closed your eyes,” Kate suggested. She reached for him, taking his hand in hers.
His fingers closed over her soft glove. In the darkness, the wounds of his past would be made fresh. He met her reassuring gaze and nodded.
“I’ll be here with you,” she murmured gently.
Daniel closed his eyes and let the blackness take over. He heard the gurgle of blood bubbling out of Dalton’s mouth. He saw the slick red liquid coat his chin. Dalton’s bruised, splitting nails were pressed to his neck in a desperate attempt to keep the blood in.
One stab wound would have been enough, if placed strategically, for Dalton to die instantly. The man’s death had been drawn so that he felt every cut of the knife to his tender chest. Four slices, each not deep enough to kill him on their own, yet combined were enough to end his life. Dalton’s hands were raw from fighting against his attackers, bits of the murderer’s flesh probably stuck under his fingernails.
Footsteps had echoed. A woman had screamed. Daniel remembered lifting his head to look as the patrolman scurried into the alley between the first warehouse and the second, flanked by a hysterical doxie. He was glad at first for her screams—for her agony meant that someone at least cared that a man had been murdered—but his face soon drained of what little color left as she extended her pointer finger toward him.
“That man,” she gasped. “I saw him do it.”
The portly officer had moved with greater speed than Daniel thought possible. In an instant, the patrolman had pulled Daniel up from the ground, hands locked behind his back and bound. The patrolman dragged him from the alley, leaving Dalton to rot in the coming sun of the morning. Cornered, brutalized, and drained of life.
Daniel’s breath now came in pants, jagged like the dagger that had severed Dalton’s larynx.
Kate squeezed his hand. He opened his eyes. Dusky grayness framed her face, giving her pale skin a ghoulish cast. Yet to him, she was everything he needed. He clung to her hand, pulling it up to his lips and placing a kiss on her knuckles.
She blinked back at him, a faint blush across her high cheekbones. All too quickly she wrenched her hand from his.
“Did you remember anything?” Her features schooled into flatness.
He wanted to tell her he’d remembered something that would solve the entire case. Something that would bring them back together, with no future impediments.
But he refused to lie to her again. “I have never forgotten.”
“Did you see anything new? Perhaps someone leaving as you knelt by Dalton?” She stepped closer to him, her mere presence buoying him.
“I entered the alley from the left, which does suggest that I was coming from the Prospect of Whitby.” He tried to separate himself from the vision, to look at it logically. “Sometimes, when I dream about it, I see a man in a black cloak leaving the alley. But that is all a blur. I remember nothing so clearly as Dalton’s body. I’ve no idea what brought me to that particular alley at that particular moment, when there are a dozen other ways I could have chosen to get home.”
Kate’s face grew thoughtful. “I once heard the Chapman Street Gang discussing a drug that could make you forget where you’d been. Mixed with alcohol, I expect the effect would be semi-permanent.”
His chest tightened. Drugging indicated a pre-meditation, with him being the intended target instead of a convenient drunkard. You’d best be prepared for this fight, Atlas had said.
He gulped, sucking in air that smelled of cooked meat and dank wood. “If that is true, then we must look further into the connections between Dalton and me. Not only do we ask who wanted Dalton dead, but who wanted me to take the blame for it?”
His gut tightened. She didn’t want to hear it, but it had to be something with Emporia. Perhaps something going on in the warehouses that Dalton worked in—Daniel had been responsible for overseeing all deliveries. Had Dalton seen something he shouldn’t have, and been hushed for it?
Kate tapped her chin. “Who hated you enough to want to send you to the hangman’s noose? Even I didn’t want that after you left.”
For a moment they both stood there, staring back at the alley that had changed everything between them.
***
She should not have held his hand. It was a sign of feebleness and it would give him hope that things could go back to the way they were before.
His kiss burned her knuckles. Surreptitiously, she looked down at her hand. The tan leather of her glove had not been obliterated by the gentle brush of his lips, but it might as well have been, for all that her body was enflamed.
She slipped the offending hand into her pocket, her fingers wrapping around the two shillings. She had stowed away the rest of Daniel’s money in the secret recess in the wall of her flat with the rest of her received goods, but these two shillings she kept as a reminder she was doing this for the blunt and for the blunt alone.
As Daniel leaned back against the warehouse, strong arms crossed over his muscular chest, she had a distinct notion she’d already failed. Intensity flared in his green eyes, his ginger brows furrowed, and worry lines were etched into his wide forehead. She missed the scratch across her skin from the hint of stubble on his sharp chin, longed to run her hands through his short red hair until portions of it stuck out at awkward slants.
She couldn’t think clearly when he looked so much like the man she’d loved before.
Three years without a single note.
She started to walk, forcing herself to move away from him. Closeness was hazardous—she needed to remember that. She moved toward the entrance to the docks, toward the road that would take her back to her flat and her normal life and everything that wasn’t him. She advanced about five paces before he jogged after her, closing the distance in a minute with his long strides.
“Kate, wait.” He grabbed for her arm.
She spun to the left just in time, for if he touched her again, she didn’t know what she would do. His hand fell uselessly to his side. A frown darkened his face.
He could have taken another route, one that would leave him closer to Madame Tousat’s. In
stead, he followed her. She would not interpret that as a sign he would not leave this time. One hour made no difference, when he had the rest of his life to change his mind.
They continued on in silence until they broached the far side of the West Quay. Tall warehouses bordered the basin, housing everything from wine to wool. From a distance, she heard footsteps.
She thought nothing of it at first. Dockworkers skittered by, finishing up last-minute jobs before heading off to the Prospect of Whitby public house. When she stopped to let a porter with a full cart of goods pass in front of her, so did the footsteps.
Something was definitely wrong.
Her hand slipped to the flintlock in her pocket. She darted a glance over her shoulder. From the shadows of another warehouse a man watched them intently. He was average-sized, yet he was built like a bruiser. In the dimming light of dusk she could not clearly make out his features.
She frowned. Earlier when Daniel had heard something, she should have trusted her instincts.
She quickened her pace. “Daniel,” she said through gritted teeth. “I think we are being followed.”
“Damnation,” he cursed.
They continued on for a few more paces at a brisk walk. Neither looked behind them. The footsteps echoed still. She was almost at a jog, but the man continued to come after them. At this rate, he would catch them out in the street, where the crowds were fiercer and the lay of the land had changed somewhat since she’d been here last.
“He has not stopped,” Daniel murmured.
“I think that I can lose him,” she whispered.
He reached for her hand, wrapping his strong fingers around her own. This time, she didn’t fight his hold. He doubled the odds of their survival—that was the only reason she wanted him near to help her fight.
It could not be that she felt safer with him around.
Some girls grew up watching the fireworks in Vauxhall Gardens and taking trips to Hatchard’s Booksellers. Kate’s upbringing had been confined largely to these docks, playing in the various quays and touring the warehouses while her father worked. She knew every passage like others would know the flavors of ices at Gunther’s.
She set off at a full-fledged run, cutting in front of another porter. Down this alley, across this street, past the wine warehouses until they reached Warehouse No. 5 and the wine quay. Emporia’s warehouses had been located close to here.
A glance over her shoulder confirmed that the man had kept pace with them. At his side was an angular object, vaguely resembling a cocked pistol.
She had to be quicker, smarter.
With one final squeeze to Daniel’s hand, she stole to the left, rounding the side of the wine quay. To the south was the gigantic tobacco warehouse, but to the north-east were the wool warehouses. Emporia’s old warehouses weren’t close enough—she’d have to take a chance with the wool weavers.
If the patrol was the same, then she knew the north entrance of this warehouse would be unlocked. The Thames River Police’s officer chatted up a pretty doxy on Pennington Street at this time of night. She ran toward the warehouse, Daniel two steps behind her.
Please God, let the door be open.
The door was propped open by a chunk of old barrel. She let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding as Daniel thrust the door open. They skidded inside, slamming it behind them.
“We must find somewhere to hide.” Daniel struck a match, illuminating a small circle of the warehouse.
For as far as she could see, bales of wool lined the floor. She wrinkled her nose. The warehouse stank of shorn wool, four stories high and spanning a courtyard. The walls and roof of the upper floors were made of glass to allow for better visibility of the many bales. They stood knee-deep in discarded wool, which had been drawn for inspection and then discarded. A public sale must have occurred recently, and in the morning the workers would return to clean up for the next showing.
The door slammed.
“Quickly!” Kate pointed to a nearby bale.
Daniel extinguished his match and crawled in after her. Without her legs tucked up against her chest, there would have been no room for him. As it was, sandwiched nearly on top of each other, there was little room in between the back of the bale and the wall.
Darkness surrounded them, all light from the glass ceiling blocked out behind the bale. So close together, she breathed in the scent of bergamot and cloves. She leaned her head against his shoulder, convinced she was conserving space and not giving in to temptation. The warmth of his body against hers felt so good, so safe.
It was not folly if he offered decent protection against an attacker.
Never mind that their current position blocked access to her gun. Out of the hundred or so bales on this floor, she doubted that the man following them would choose this exact bale to search behind. They simply had to remain here long enough for him to think they’d left the warehouse completely and go about his way. In the grand scheme of her adult life, this would be the least difficult of all nefarious activities.
She clutched Daniel’s hand as the man walked through the warehouse, making a circle of the floor. His lamp swung back and forth. Finding nothing, he stopped in the middle of the warehouse and listened.
She could not breathe.
The man frowned. He strode toward the entrance. The door slammed shut.
She dropped Daniel’s hand. Her breathing was ragged, overwhelmed with relief. Until Daniel’s hand brushed against her leg. Lower at first, content to move along her ankle before scooting upwards. His thumb nudged at her thigh, traced the fold of her kneecap before moving upward to land on her hip.
Oh, but it felt so devilishly good to be stroked by him. It took off the edge of all this, but it was a new danger in itself.
Kate pulled back from him suddenly, upsetting her balance. She toppled over into a pile of castoff wool.
“What’s wrong?” Daniel asked, as he crawled out from behind the bale. Concern clouded his face and he struck another match. “Why are you blushing?”
“You—” She blinked. “Your hand—”
“Was on your waist.” He nodded, not in the least bit ashamed. “You seemed frightened.”
Her jaw fell slack. “And so your normal response is to stroke fear from people?”
“Not people. Just you.” He blinked.
She looked away from him, for his confused expression made her stomach flip-flop dangerously. She’d always thought him adorable when perplexed, for his nose scrunched up just so and he’d blink rapidly. He had hated the idea of problems he couldn’t solve, but together, they’d been able to change Emporia’s shipment intake procedures to greatly increase productivity.
He did not speak. That perhaps was worse, for in the silence she heard his earlier words. But most of all, I know that you’re the only woman I’ve ever loved. Her body craved his touch, the coiled-up tension within her begging to be released. It’d be deliriously perfect, until she crashed back down to reality.
She glowered. Stepping back, Kate turned toward the door. “I have to go.”
“I’ll walk you back.” He closed the distance between them.
She started. “No. Absolutely not.”
“But I’ll see you at the Red Fist?” He was puzzled by her reaction.
She could only nod before she fled. If she never saw another bale of wool in her life, it would be too soon.
Chapter Six
The Red Fist was located in the midst of a small but crowded area known to residents as Mid-Shadwell. To Daniel, it was simply another circle of hell in Dante’s Inferno, meant to torment and remind him of his flaws.
He could smell gin as soon as he turned from Shadwell Highway onto Fox Lane, where the pugilist’s public house loomed high above the crumbling houses. Juniper and coriander, a fragrant bouquet marginally fascinating to the casual drinker, but to him it was the most wonderful scent in the world. His feet moved forward without his consent, advancing toward the front of the publi
c house to seek his ruination in the form of a stubby glass.
The once-white brick Red Fist filled the first story of the towering building, the top floor being used for tenement housing. The fancy crowd was out in full force tonight, though he’d heard no rumors of a mill. They came to discuss the latest bouts, to exchange strategy and bets, and they came to drink. In his darker days, he’d been like them. Two men bleeding each other had appealed to him on a basic level, the part of him that wanted vengeance for the mess of his life.
He didn’t go through the front doors. Too much exposure. An easy excuse, a lie he could tell himself when he was well aware of the real reason he didn’t want to enter. Crossing into the back alley, he stood outside the kitchen. Even here wasn’t far enough for him.
Off to the side was a rubbish bin. A burly beggar hunted for scraps, bent so far over the bin that only his backside, legs, and split-soled shoes were visible. Daniel leaned against the wall, watching as the man gave up rooting, righted himself, and turned around.
“What’re ye lookin’ at, cub?” The beggar’s nose wrinkled, as if Daniel was the one gripping a burnt shank of mutton and a crusty, half-eaten roll in his grime-soaked hands.
“Kill the Bogger! Down with Popery!” The shouts echoed from inside the public house, followed by rousing agreement.
The beggar squinted, looked at Daniel’s red hair peeking out from underneath his low-brow hat, and snickered.
Daniel swallowed. The winter air was stifling, full of spiced mutton and gin. He tapped his truncheon against his leg, fingers clenched harder around the handle. He half-expected the back doors of the public house to swing open, unleashing a torrent of men upon him. Fueled by vitriol from the debates over the Catholic Question, they’d hate him for nothing more than his nationality and religion. It didn’t matter that he’d lived in England for most of his damned life, or that his memories of Ireland faded with each passing day.
