by Darcy Burke
He was outside.
But where? His head thumped so loud, he found it hard to believe the sound had not alerted his captors. Too groggy to compute the exact locale, he recognized the basest of sensations: cold bit at his joints with restored feeling. For a second, he wished he’d remained inert, for it would be far less painful to die of frost if one slept through it.
At least, he thought he was awake. That too was uncertain, and in a few seconds he might find himself at the London Docks once more with Kate plunging a dagger straight into his heart.
Kate. Her name startled his mind from his doldrums. Where was she? Had she been taken too? It could only be by foul play that he’d arrived here.
He hazarded to open his eyes, the blackness of nightfall offering little change. At first, he could not discern anything outside of gray outlines, indeterminate large shapes. He wiggled his hand. One finger responded, tap-tap-tapping against a wet leaf. Was he in a garden? Such spaces in the sprawling city were limited mostly to the bon ton. No, he reasoned, the smell was off for a garden in the wintertime, and no self-respecting gardener for the Upper Ten Thousand strewed leaves about a manicured path.
His vision began to focus. One man stood to his right, a lantern held high in his hand. The oil flame had burned halfway down, its meager light flickering over the tiny party. Three pairs of feet, he counted, recognizing the man with the lantern as the same who had attacked him in his flat.
Metal clanked against rock, dirt flung upward and fell back onto the ground. His eyesight continued to clear. Blood flow had returned to his neck and he moved his head to the side, biting his heavy tongue against the tight tingles. The man with the lantern swung forward, shining the light on his companions. He said something under his breath that Daniel could not make out, but in the glow Daniel saw all he needed to.
Finn and Ezekiel huddled together.
Damnation.
He was going to die tonight. Die without knowing if Kate had escaped their capture. Die without Poppy knowing what happened to him. Die without getting to make good on his promises.
At least he’d told Kate he loved her. That thought anchored him in the darkness. Kate knew his true feelings—she’d at least have that to comfort her when she mourned his death.
He should get up and fight. If only he could feel his legs. He could crawl away like a dog, to be hit on the back with the precariously long stick in Ezekiel’s hand. The ruffian leaned down, one hand clasped at the top of the stick, the other hand halfway down. The metal attached to the stick caught the light. It was a shovel. Ezekiel struck the ground once, twice, depositing the dirt onto the growing pile beside him. The hole was already quite deep.
Deep enough for a human body.
A scream waited on his chapped lips. But who would hear him, or more importantly, who would even care? No one would stop to investigate. No one would find him.
Hell, he didn’t even know where he was.
Finn turned away to say something to his lackey. Seizing the opportunity, Daniel propped himself up on his elbows to survey the area. Rocky terrain, overhanging trees with dew on the limbs, a few paths drawn between the different sections. They’d set him in seemingly the only spot that didn’t suffer from cragginess.
He made out faint outlines of grayed granite. Headstones. A graveyard. It all clicked at once: where they were, his gruesome fate, their eventual plans for him. Finn was too careful now to risk a murder that couldn’t be pinned on a scapegoat, and the surgeons were being watched. A body with obvious signs of struggle would alert them to foul play. A surgeon’s assistant might report the body to the Peelers, as had happened with the Italian Boy. It was too much of a risk to kill him the way they’d done Bartleby and Dalton—that had come back to haunt Finn.
Better to smother him, bury him, and resurrect him in a few days. Let the surgeons do their work disfiguring him, and then Finn could spread the rumor that he’d come back to town and disappeared again as the police started to investigate Bartleby’s murder. Bartleby would have appreciated the justice in that—his death would clinch it in the minds of the English that Daniel was just another Irish rogue with a fascination for blood and guts.
Daniel made another attempt to push himself up, hating how powerless he was over his own body. Finn would eat him alive in this weakened state. Down with the pain, he had to get away.
He pulled himself into a sitting position, back straight, knees hunched beneath him.
Finn’s spine stiffened and he grabbed the shovel from Ezekiel, whacking Ezekiel’s leg with it.
“Ay! What’re ye doin’?” Ezekiel yelped, jumping back. He rubbed at his leg.
“Dig, you fool. Do you think I stand here for my health?” Finn thrust the shovel back at him. “O’Reilly needs to be in the ground before anyone notices us here. Templeton,” Finn gestured toward the man with the lantern. “Remind me again why it was a good idea to leave the trollop alive?”
Kate was alive. Bless it all, she’d managed to fight them off. Relief flooded him, frantic, eager relief.
Templeton hung his head. “S’not a good idea. But ye wanted us back and she’s half-dead anyhow—”
Daniel needed something, anything he could lean on to stand.
Finn leaned forward. “Fuck it up again, and I’ll deposit you on the steps of Newgate with all your crimes tied ’round your neck. You think the Chapman Street Gang would like that?”
“Ye wouldn’t—” Templeton stepped back, eyes widened.
“Spare me your protests.” Finn rolled his eyes at Templeton.
Turning toward Daniel, a sneer spread over Finn’s lips at Daniel’s propped-up state. “So the potion is wearing off.”
Daniel wouldn’t be intimidated. That was his last vow: he’d go out like a man. A man who didn’t have control over all his extremities, but a man nonetheless. His voice was rough from lack of use. “Is that what you used on me before, Finn? What a coward you are, to have to resort to drugging me. You’d never be able to fight me while I was sober.”
“Sobriety is a rare state for you, is it not? You were so easy to get to, pathetically draped over your gin. I could have assassinated the old King and placed you at the scene, and you wouldn’t have known the difference.” Finn advanced on him, towering over him.
He tapped a long, double-barreled pistol at his side. If Daniel could snatch it from him, then lever himself up using it, he could maybe stand, maybe run away. It was an idiotic plan, he was sure, but he had to try.
In the meantime, he would keep Finn talking, for every moment that they were engaged in conversation was a moment where he was not in the ground.
“I highly doubt that,” Daniel scoffed. “If you’d crafted such a well-laid crime, you wouldn’t be here with me now. You’d have covered my escape, made sure I swung from the noose.”
Finn gritted his teeth. “An oversight that won’t happen again.”
Good. He was beginning to understand his captor’s weaknesses. “Are you so certain of that?”
“I have leverage this time. Do you think I don’t know where your whore is? That I can’t get to her at a moment’s notice?” Finn grinned. “I’m a reasonable man. If you can’t behave, I’ll take it out on her. Give me a reason to tup her, any reason, and I’ll be so deep within her they’ll never be able to pry me loose.”
Rage filled him, purged the looseness from his muscles until he could feel the blood pumping. He was alive, he was aware, and he’d kill Finn with his bare fingers for threatening Kate. “She has nothing to do with this.”
“She has everything to do with it.” Finn turned his head. “But I think planting you in the ground will be my real reward. You’ve been a pain in my arse since the day you joined Emporia, O’Reilly.”
“Terribly sorry my presence caused your criminal operations such trouble.”
“Templeton here—” Finn gestured to the second man. “He said we ought to kill you and drop your body in the Thames. But I said, why not have a little bit of
fun with it? All these years digging up bodies, we’ve never once unearthed a Thing we put there ourselves. You have to admire the poetry of it: you wanted to know more about our activities, and here you are, becoming a part of the resurrection game. Ezekiel, shall we show O’Reilly how we welcome guests?”
Daniel lunged forward, wresting the flintlock from Finn’s hand. He shoved it hard against the ground, leaning his weight against it. He was up on his two feet and he was about to go for Finn when his body lurched forward…
He smashed to the ground. Ezekiel had brought the shovel to his back. A rock split against his skull. Blood trickled down his brow, and then there was nothing.
Chapter Twenty-Five
The hackney stopped close to Cow Cross Street. The door swung open to the carriage and the driver extended his hand to help her out. She pushed the curtain back on the window and peered out. The brick walls of St. Sepulchre’s workhouse were nowhere to be seen.
Every moment she dallied, Daniel’s chance of survival dimmed.
“Please, you’ve got to let me off closer to Sharp’s Alley,” Kate pleaded.
The driver shook his head. “Can’t, miss.” He extended his arm out, pointing down the street. “See that lot of traffic there? Backed up from here to West Smithfield. You’d be better off walking.”
She hopped out of the carriage, her boots landing in filth. The muck clung to the hem of her gown, making it difficult to move.
The coachman shrugged. “Cow Cross Cattle Market. It’s either them or the damned horses. No way to get a hack through that mess. Bloody nuisance, I say.” With a grimace, the coachman climbed back into the carriage and drove away.
Kate swallowed down her panic. With the activity of the cattle market, no one would notice as Jasper Finn crept into the workhouse cemetery. Even if they did, Finn probably had someone at St. Sepulchre’s on his payroll.
If Atlas hadn’t gotten her message, she’d be entering this cemetery blind with no one to help her. She sent up a silent prayer that she’d find a Peeler near the market.
She set off running, weaving in between the crowds. Sheep and pigs were packed into the marketplace in temporary pens, while cattle and oxen were tied up to posts. The animals awaited the butcher with feverish anxiety. Endlessly, the squeal of pigs met with the shouts of hawkers. Her head pounded.
The further she got into the market, the less hope she had that she’d reach Daniel in time.
“Yer head, lady,” a young boy called to her.
Kate reached up to her forehead, her gloves coming back bloody and wet. Shit. The injury didn’t matter; it couldn’t, not now. She kept on running, past public houses that teemed with people coming from the market.
Soon, she had reached Sharp’s Alley. The sickening smell of butchered meat and manure assailed her nostrils. Insects buzzed in the air around the shop doors of the carcass-butcher, next to the bladder vendor and the catgut vendor. Her hand on her stomach, she fought the urge to vomit.
Her ribs screamed in agony. Dark spots swam before her eyes. Daniel needed her, needed her to get to him…
The spire for St. Sepulchre’s-without rose high above the rest of Sharp’s Alley. In the distance, a tall flash of blue and black appeared. Her heart sped frantically, drum-pounding in her ears. Had she imagined one of the Metropolitan Police? She couldn’t be certain.
She cupped her hands around her mouth to project her yells for his attention. “Help! Help me, please!”
The Peeler turned around, his hands clasped around his truncheon. That wasn’t comforting—she’d forgotten the police didn’t carry guns. Finn’s men wouldn’t hesitate to shoot.
Taking off at a jog, the Peeler was soon at her side. Without the constant rush from running to drive her onwards, the effort of standing still became monumental. Her knees shook. She slid downwards. Her vision blackened.
Suddenly, she stood upright in the street, something sturdy supporting her weight. A glance upwards confirmed she was in the arms of a Peeler, the very place she’d spent two and a half years trying to avoid as a fence.
It was worth the risk of discovery if it meant Daniel’s safety.
“Miss, you’re going to be all right. I’m Sergeant Thaddeus Knight and I’m going to get help for you.” The Peeler’s deep baritone was filled with concern. “Can you tell me who attacked you?”
She sucked in a breath, tilting her head to look up at him. Her knees had steadied with his support. “Jasper Finn.”
“His name isn’t familiar to me. You can tell me what happened on the way to the doctor, miss.” Knight spoke in slow, calming tones designed to soothe her. Likely, he assumed she was another victim of robbery who needed to be coddled.
But she didn’t need reassuring. Daniel was hurt. She wrenched herself from Knight’s grip, forced herself to stand on her own feet. “Finn broke into our flat. Please, you have to help me find him. He’s got my betrothed and he’s going to kill him!”
A change shifted over the officer’s body. He stood up straighter, his gray eyes suddenly more alert. He ran a hand across his uniform, straightening it. The brass buttons gleamed.
“Where might they have gone?”
“St. Sepulchre’s-without. The workhouse’s cemetery.”
“I know the place.” The truncheon smacked against Knight’s leg once, twice. “Very odd indeed.”
“Please, please help me,” she begged. “Jasper Finn is a resurrectionist. He’s got ties to May and Bishop. He kidnapped Daniel. He plans to kill him!”
“Damnation, another exhumator. Didn’t expect one so soon.” Knight’s gaze darted up the road quickly and back to her, as if assessing the chance of success of their mission. “Superintendent Thomas will have my head if we lose a resurrectionist.”
Hope buoyed Kate. The ache of her head lessened, if only for a moment. “So you’ll help?”
The officer grabbed hold of her arm. “Let’s go!”
They took off running down the street, his hand on her arm to tow her along with him. He was lanky with lean, hard muscles and the ground-eating strides of an athlete. Without his help, she wouldn’t have made it to the church steps.
***
Absolute darkness clung to Daniel like a velvet noose, softly sucking out everything he knew and leaving black in its wake. Torn between the notion of cleaving at his throat and sliding back happily into oblivion, he stuck his hand out to test the boundaries of where he was. His fingers pressed against the wood, jagged and roughly made. A splinter pierced his skin, drawing forth a curse.
That quick jab of pain brought him to reality. Where the hell was he?
He spread out his arms, finding he could barely reach beyond his own chest. The space was rectangular. If he wiggled, his feet struck against the walls. Extending his arm upwards, he prayed he would not strike what he thought he would.
Christ.
His hand beat against wooden top, too. He was in a box, all sides closed up with no easy escape that he could ascertain. Stretched out on his back, he could not move more than six centimeters in either direction.
Giving in to the panic that welled in the pit of his stomach, he screamed. His voice came back to him hopelessly. Frenzied, he thrashed within the box, striking the sides with all his might. He slammed his fist on the ceiling, over and over again until he finally gave up.
Nothing had changed. Finn’s men had placed him in the box and had no intention of freeing him.
His wrist was bruised, his fingers bloody from scratching into the wood. He fell silent, holding his breath as he concentrated entirely on picking up any ambient noise. In the distance, well above him, he thought he could discern a shovel smacking against the ground.
The realization plowed into him like the back of Ezekiel’s shovel before. So this is how it would end for him, buried alive in a graveyard in the crux of the rookeries. Lost to Kate. Convicted in death for the murders of Tommy Dalton and Laurence Bartleby in the eyes of all.
All except for Kate, who at least
would know the truth.
It would go easier if he stopped fighting. If he gave in to the unconsciousness that seethed at the edge of his vision, calling to him like the siren gin. He wished for the pine needle bite one last time, because in his death he knew it would not matter what wrongs he’d committed. If he’d stayed away, if he’d remained in Dorking, none of this would have happened.
But he wouldn’t—couldn’t—trade his time with Kate. This could be the fate he deserved, avoided three years ago by Atlas’s quick engineering of an escape.
No. He was better than this, a stronger man who had paid for his sins. He was supposed to live a long life, to marry Kate and provide for her and their family.
Years ago, when he’d first come to London, Atlas had regaled him with the story of one of his greatest heists. He’d stowed away in the Duke of Cumberland’s townhouse closet for two hours, until the Duke had finally left. The closet was little bigger than the box Daniel was in now, and the air almost as tight. But Atlas had regulated his breathing, saved his strength and kept himself from panicking. In the end, he had made off with a great sum of jewels.
Daniel took in one last deep breath before he crossed his arms over his chest and relaxed his muscles. This might be a futile exercise, a prolonging of his death, but he owed it to Kate to attempt. To trust that she would find him and bring help.
His memories would keep him company until that time came.
***
St. Sepulchre’s-without was shaped like a rectangle and built in stone—if one did not think of the workhouse, it almost looked peaceful. Knight pushed open the wrought iron gate to the porch. Atlas leaned on a nearby tree, waiting for them.
“You brought help,” Atlas noted derisively.
