by Darcy Burke
A decoded journal was not enough against a confirmed witness statement. Cyrus had claimed Dalton worked with the resurrectionists, and Sally had verified his connection to Finn. It was all speculation, lines drawn to connect one incident to another. Nothing incontestable to hold up against a corrupt magistrate’s decisions.
Sally stroked the dress in her lap, looking at it with rapt attention. “What are ye wantin’ to know? I already told ye what I recall. If Finn’s been ’ere, I ’aven’t seen ’im.”
Kate’s stomach clenched. “As much as I want to find Finn, I’m more interested in if you recall anything about my father.”
“I don’t know.” Sally’s expression was guarded. Always in expectation of a blow, for her luck to turn against her.
Kate brought the shreds of her father’s greatcoat out, cradling the burnt fabric. Her tone was gentle, firm in its intent and aimed at setting the girl at ease. “I’m trying to put the pieces together, Sally, and I can’t do that without you. The constable does not care who actually killed Dalton, as long as he can send a soul to Newgate.”
Sally looked up, her eyes locking on Kate with blistering outrage. “I want to stop Finn.”
Kate’s breath hitched. Sally had loved Dalton, understood his quirks and lived with his wrongdoings. That was what love was, an acceptance of one’s partner for all that they were and all they could be someday.
She and Daniel could never come to that raised comprehension, no matter how much she longed for him, or how soothed she was by his presence, because she’d failed him. Chosen the wrong side in his war because her damned memories had been more important.
She brought out the portrait of her father, reluctantly handing it over. One more memory gone, sold off in the name of veracity.
Sally held the paper gingerly, seemingly aware of its emotional importance. Her lips pressed together so tight her bottom lip disappeared almost entirely. She exhaled, her breath shaking the edge of the paper.
Sally recognized Papa.
Sally handed the paper back to Kate. “’E came by once or twice. They never let Tommy at the meets, but I saw Wilkes talkin’ to ’im. ’E gave that man some paper before Finn came ’round. Didn’t know ’e mattered before, ’cause Tommy never talked to ’im.”
“Did you hear what they said?” Kate folded the portrait back into her pocket.
“I didn’t get close. Wilkes don’t like it if ye come up on ’im discussin’ business. They ’ad a fight, I think, for that man—yer father—left lookin’ like ’e’d punch Wilkes.” Shyly, Sally looked up at her. “I ’oped ’e would. Wilkes deserves it.”
“If I ever run into him, I shall punch him for you myself,” Kate vowed, which made Sally smile. “Did he come by again?”
“Not that I saw. But we don’t get much time outside. ’E might ’ave come by and I missed it.”
Kate fished out her pocket watch. Time was nearly up, lest she want to alert the brothel-keeper to her presence by overstaying. “You’ve been very helpful, Sally, and I thank you.”
“’Tis nothing, miss,” Sally blushed prettily.
“Kate,” she corrected.
Sally smiled, gathering up the sack’s contents. When the girl relaxed, she appeared innocent. Kate swallowed, forcing herself to turn toward the door. The girl had a home here in this foul place, possibly the only home she’d ever known. If she tried to tear Sally from that, she couldn’t guarantee she’d live a better life somewhere else.
She couldn’t keep Sally from being hurt.
Sally stood, the sack held against her chest. She wore no coat, only a plaid cotton dress with short sleeves that hung awkwardly from her thin frame. The sack covered her jutting clavicle, and she rested her chin on the top. If Wilkes found out Sally had new things, he’d filch them from her to sell to the dolly shops, if he didn’t beat her bloody first for acquiring without his permission.
Kate’s hands fisted around the fabric of her greatcoat. With one long scratch running up the back seam and a dozen other rips, it was still more than Sally probably owned to keep warm. Mechanically, Kate unloaded the contents of her pockets. Load pouch, pocketknife, a roll of twine, and the portrait all went into the pockets of her skirt.
“You should take this. I don’t need it anymore.” She shoved the greatcoat toward Sally.
The girl readjusted the sack to fall on her hip, her brows furrowing, but she didn’t speak. Instead, she accepted the coat and nodded.
“Good luck to you, Sally.” Kate stepped to the door, hand on the knob.
“Kate? Don’t be givin’ up on Mr. O’Reilly. Love is worth fightin’ for.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Wrapped in a cloth sack, the thin-necked bottle of gin fit as though it was made for his grip. The voluptuous middle and plump bottom hung in motion as he walked, tempting him like the well-rounded curves of a woman.
His hands didn’t shake. He caught his reflection in the butcher shop glass as he passed: ginger brows arched, lips flat in grim determination. His neckcloth wrinkled from where he’d tugged upon it on the walk to the boarding house. His red locks were mussed from his fingers. With his black greatcoat swathed around him, he was man on his way to a funeral, the bereavement of his blighted self-ambitions.
No one was in the hall when he returned to Madame Tousat’s. As he passed by the doors, the muted discussions of families flitted to him. Thousands of poor men lived in the rookeries across London. If one of those men went missing, their wives, their whores, their children would mark their absence.
He wondered if anyone would remember him when he was gone.
He heard a violin as he rounded the corner to his flat. This place had begun to feel like home, but it was home for a few weeks and no more. Now that Kate had left him he’d be gone soon.
The music grew louder as he came closer. He put his hand up to his door. It vibrated with the violin’s melody. He knew the song, a pithy country tune about John the Fiddler and his bonnie lass. It was Atlas’s favorite.
Opening the flap of his greatcoat, Daniel slid the bottle inside and buttoned up the coat again. The music stopped as he opened the door.
“You might have sent word, Danny.” Atlas’s crisp accent was as good as any peer. Violin in his hands, he reclined back on Daniel’s bed as though he hadn’t a care in the world.
The very bed Daniel had shared with Kate, arms curled around her bare body, legs intertwined with hers. In feigned nonchalance Daniel slouched against the door, head and shoulders back, using the heavy wood to hold himself up. He folded his hands at the waist to keep the bottle from falling to the ground.
He couldn’t face the concern in his friend’s eyes. He looked instead at the violin next to him on the bed, to the bow propped up against his headboard.
My failure is mine and mine alone.
“The last note I received from you said you were going to Bethnal Green.” Atlas cocked his head to the side, his usually merry features concerned. “Then I hear a bomb was set off at Friggard’s and the place was completely demolished. I thought you were dead, Danny, until your landlady said you stayed in last night.”
“Finn tried to kill me, but he didn’t succeed.”
Atlas reached behind him, plumping the pillow. He lay with his legs outstretched, his shoes polished to a shine on the top of Daniel’s elderdown. “Sound a bit happy about it then. Not many men can say they’ve avoided death’s hand so many times.”
“Get your feet off the bed, would you?”
Atlas sighed melodramatically. He pulled off his shoes slowly and dropped them to the floor.
Daniel rolled his eyes. “Now that you’ve seen I’m alive, you can leave me to sleep in peace.”
“I fear it may be more complicated than that.” Atlas moved the violin over, snatching up a piece of paper. He didn’t need to look at the contents; he had likely memorized it upon first reading. “Laurence Bartleby is dead.”
Daniel stiffened, posture no longer loose. His mouth fell open
dumbly; only after a moment did he think to close it. He should feel something, anything other than the overwhelming emptiness.
“According to whom? I went to his townhouse two days ago. You were right, he was living in Westminster.”
“According to several very good sources who expect anonymity.”
“This is no time for your thieving code, Atlas, if there even is such a thing.” Daniel clenched his hands together, right thumbnail digging into his flesh. Balanced on his folded hands, the bottle underneath his greatcoat moved slightly.
Atlas’s eyes narrowed in on his hands. Daniel gulped. If he didn’t distract Atlas soon, he’d discover the gin.
He’ll take the bottle away, and I need it to survive.
“Did they say how he died?”
“What do you have underneath your greatcoat, Danny?”
“Nothing.”
“Dishonesty I can abide by and even praise, when it is executed flawlessly. You, on the other hand, are a bloody bad dissembler and an even worse thief. The Runners would mark you upon first glance.” Atlas shook his head in barely suppressed disgust. “Doff the coat, or I’ll embarrass you with a lift.”
He had no doubt the thief could filch and pocket the bottle, all without him being the wiser. He reached up underneath his greatcoat and pulled out the cloth sack to protect the gin: not because he wanted, in some unrecognized part of him, to be caught with it.
“Again, I see.” Atlas’s gaze flipped from the sack in Daniel’s hands to his face and back to the bottle.
“Just this once.” Daniel yanked the sack off the Lady’s Delight, placing the bottle on the table by the door.
“And when it leads to another?” Atlas swung his legs over the side of the bed, both feet landing on the floor. He pushed himself up and off the bed.
Protectively, Daniel stood in front of the bottle to hide it from the thief’s vision. “I haven’t been sleeping. Kate’s gone. I’ve got nothing else.”
“So you tupped her.” Atlas’s voice held no note of inflection.
The thief had predicted all along that the state of affairs between Daniel and Kate would lead to this. All-seeing Atlas had made his own rules as an orphan in St. Giles and succeeded because of it. He did not need gin to succeed—Atlas had no limitations.
Anger flooded Daniel. He welcomed it because it made him feel alive, something more than a burned-out soul responsible for the ruination of everything he’d ever wanted. Conceivably, it’d be easier to believe that the bond between him and Kate had been nothing more than two bodies rutting.
But it had been real and true in those moments with her. He could no more deny that than deny his nationality. “I won’t let you make this into something vulgar.”
The edge to his words provoked a raised brow from his friend. No apology, for Atlas didn’t believe in apologies. “I warned you about getting involved with her for precisely this reason.”
“What would you have had me do? I love her, Atlas, I love her and I bloody need her.” He scraped his hands through his hair, gripping the base of his skull and holding on as if the motion could bring clarity to his overwrought mind.
He’d never have clarity, not now.
“This is why I only bed whores. Far easier when it’s a business transaction and both parties are well-informed.” Atlas shook his head. “When you dally with the civilized sort, it ends badly.”
“I’ve tried that. It’s not the same. It’s not Kate.”
Atlas came to stand next to him, laying a hand on his arm. Daniel stiffened at the touch, an intrusion on his space when all he wanted was to be left alone with the gin to his degradation.
“You can’t go back to the ruin.” Atlas didn’t step back, ignoring Daniel’s reproachful grimace. The thief made a move toward the Lady’s Delight and Daniel shifted, blocking him. Daniel had at least a head and a half on the thief and twice the bulk.
Grabbing the bottle up, he held it up above Atlas’s head. “One drink. I’ll have one drink.”
“And if anyone else said that, I’d believe that. Gin is good for the soul, I’d say, because it’s the rookeries and it passes the time. The sixth is a way of life, but it can’t be yours.” Atlas’s eyes narrowed as he stared up at the bottle, examining all the angles to identify the best way to steal it. “You don’t function properly, mate. When I met you down by the docks years ago, you were dependable. Then you took that job at Emporia and you met that dimber mort Kate and everything changed.”
Daniel sighed, bringing the bottle down to level again. His hands still clenched around it, but he was too tired to keep up the fight, too tired to defend himself. “It doesn’t matter. She chose her father’s good name over our future. Morgan was involved all along.”
“As I told you before,” Atlas shrugged. “You need to take the freedom you’ve got and run again, Danny, because it will be common knowledge soon that Laurence Bartleby had his throat slit.”
“I shouldn’t have to run—Christ.” Daniel stopped, rubbed at his eye with his free hand. “His throat was slit? Nobody deserves that, not even that horse’s arse.”
Atlas nodded. “The Met will think you did it, if they hear you are back in town. Look, it’s not that I want you to leave. I like having you around again, but not if it means your life. Go now, go back to Dorking.”
Daniel held the gin in his hand, taunting him with its presence. He couldn’t think when it was near; couldn’t think without it. Depositing the bottle back on the table, he ran a hand over his scruffy chin, index finger curled underneath and thumb pressed into the middle.
It would be so simple to run. Gathering up what little he had brought with him would take a matter of minutes. He sank into the chair by the door, closing his eyes. Dalton’s blood-drenched corpse lay in that alley again, killed by Finn’s men. Bartleby had faced the same fate and Kate had almost died in the explosion. If he fled, he was a coward.
Better a coward than dead.
“I don’t know. I’ll take a drink and I’ll sort this all out with a clear mind.”
“What about Poppy?” Atlas’s question surprised him.
Poppy, set up as a seamstress back home, raising an illegitimate child. Poppy, who had stuck by his side despite his abandoning her. He’d find a way to make it up to his sister, when he could think through the pain.
“It’s not necessary for her to know. By the time I go back to Dorking, I’ll be off the drink again. Now, I need it.” His fingers snaked around the lips of the bottle.
“Do you truly believe that?” Atlas asked. “Because those sound like the words of a man laboring hard to convince himself of something he knows is wrong.”
“It doesn’t matter what’s wrong,” Daniel shrugged. “I shouldn’t have to remind the Gentleman Thief that—how many laws have you broken, Atlas? How many losses have you profited from over the years?”
Atlas frowned. “It’s not the same matter, and you know it. But I can’t change your mind, old boy. If you do decide to go back to the drink, then I’ll support you, because you are my friend and that is what one does.”
“I’ll manage it.” He sounded more confident than he felt, intent on convincing himself.
“No, you won’t,” Atlas said quietly. “But when you give it up, it’ll have to be for you and you alone.”
***
Almost out the door without incident, Kate breathed a sigh of relief. If she could get through this last stretch of the bordello, she could slip out into the night unnoticed. The flintlock pistol remained in her pocket, loaded and half-cocked. She no longer felt solace in the ability to defend herself. Violence bred violence until nothing was left but the decaying flesh and filthy scalpels.
Sally had seen Papa. Kate repeated that, beating it into her mind in hopes it’d sink in and she’d find some sort of peace with it. All this time, Daniel had been right.
“He’s a good man, Katiebelle,” Papa had said, when she told him Daniel had asked for her hand. It shouldn’t matter if his
defense of Daniel was genuine, not after all he’d apparently done, but deep down she knew it did. He’d become sick shortly after Daniel’s escape, and once the consumption had hit him he wasn’t coherent.
“Certain I saw ’er, Finn.” A man’s voice sounded at the end of the hall.
Her throat clenched. Finn was here! She turned the knob to the closest door and ended up in a narrow hall. Underneath the one lantern, mold spun up the walls, filled in the cracks in the sealant. The lantern’s reach extended only to this corner of the tunnel, leaving the rest in darkness.
With Finn and the other man present, she couldn’t go back to the hall. The exit she had taken with Daniel before was now blocked. She had no idea how long the tunnel was or if it ended up in the street. If she could see further, she might be able to ascertain if it was worth it to proceed or wait for people to leave the room she’d come from.
Kate reached up to the lantern, attempting to pry it loose. The fixture had rusted over and could not be broken from the wall. The top of the lantern was cracked, so that the flame was accessible. Quickly, she tried to think of what she had left that would provide light when burnt.
She’d given up the greatcoat, and she couldn’t afford to ruin another dress by ripping off the hem. The lead bullets would do no good, unless she wanted to draw attention to herself with another explosion, and she couldn’t hold the twine easily when it was lit. That left only the portrait.
“No,” Kate mouthed.
“Aye, she left from there. Been with Sally.” Again the man’s voice penetrated the door.
“I’ve already dealt with the whore. She doesn’t know where the bitch is going.” The malice in the second man’s tone sent a shiver down Kate’s spine.
She knew that voice, once so bright and flirtatious. Owen, or Finn as she knew him now. How had he “dealt” with Sally? Was the girl still alive? Fear gripped Kate’s throat, dropped down to her stomach and seized her internal organs. She was suddenly cold, stricken.
“Been askin’ questions. We can’t be ’avin’ that.” The other man’s voice was closer now, like he’d taken another step toward her hiding place.
