“I know that sorrowful look, Budgie. Some things require a strong dose of rum. And there’s no way I’d give you one without giving one to granddad as well,” she said, patting Morris on the head.
Budgie. As a child, she called him Uncle Budgie. To her little ear, Ruddy sounded like Budgie. Over time the uncle dropped away but Budgie stayed. She was the only person who ever called him by anything that wasn’t his name or a variation of it.
Ruddy threw back the shot of rum and quickly chased it with a swallow of beer. He turned and raised his empty shot glass. “June dear.” When she looked over, he pointed and grinned broadly. “Better,” he asked.
“Much. I take it you want another.”
“Absolutely.” Winky had finished, polishing the sides and bottom of the bowl until they shined, then he jumped up, two paws hitting Ruddy’s sore ribs. Wincing, he made the dog sit. “Stay.”
The pain reminded him of Tony’s request, which he’d have forgotten with all the talk of Napier. Rubbing his ribs he said, “While we’re on the subject of fighting, the man I’m taking lessons from is interested in finding a steady job outside of the boxing world. He seems a good sort. He’s a veteran, fought in Afghanistan.”
“Afghanistan, nasty place.”
Ruddy nodded. “Have we ever fought anyplace that wasn’t?”
“Not very often and not in our time.”
“Anyway, I can’t blame him for wanting out of the seedy boxing world. He needs to make enough to pay for a steady room at night. If you hear of anything, let me know.”
Morris nodded. “Have you decided what you’ll do if you’re challenged?”
“Accept. If I lose, then I lose. At least I’ll get to thrash him some before he trounces me. I will get my pound of flesh first.” Ruddy smiled over the rim of his beer.
Chapter Eighteen
“I’ve never seen a gun up close, let alone held one.” Graciela stared down at the Derringer in her palm. “It’s almost toylike, but it weighs more than I’d expect based on the size.”
“What did you expect?” Addy asked.
“I don’t know. Something lighter I guess.” She didn’t have a logical answer for him. She’d only seen drawings of guns. Those were in the paper and accompanied adverts for Buffalo Bill’s Wild West show. The drawings showed Buffalo Bill with a much larger gun in his hand shooting at something in the distance. It didn’t matter. In her mind, guns and cowboys all meshed together. She just pictured a weighty weapon in spite of the smaller size.
“Is it loaded?” she asked and pointed it at Addy.
He pushed the gun barrel to the side. “Careful where you point that, loaded or not and no, it’s not.”
“Sorry.” Graciela tucked the gun inside her reticule. “I believe it is my turn to buy the drinks. Shall we?” Without waiting for him to answer, she headed for the rear entrance of the no name pub.
After they were served Graciela blurted, “Why do you continue to help me? You’ve worked off the five quid bail money I paid ages ago.”
“Curiosity.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re a runaway carriage with a brutal wreck the likely end. I should turn away but I can’t. I’ve coached you, which means I’ve an investment in you to a certain extent. That compels me to want to see the outcome.”
Addy had fatherly interest in her. Pleasantly surprised, she said, “I’m flattered. As your protégé, I won’t fail you. You’ll see.”
“You’re not my protégé. Far from it. I’ve given you some minor coaching specific to what your needs were. That’s all. I told you, you’re a wreck waiting to happen. What type of bad end you’re bound to suffer is the mystery.”
Anger surged at his ugly warning. What did he know? Nothing. The fool didn’t realize she could kill him in the blink of an eye. In a matter of seconds, she could taint his beer with enough arsenic to drop him like a stone. Maybe she would just to teach him a lesson. She shook off the thought. She was not a murderer.
Addy called the barmaid over and ordered a kipper wrapped in newspaper. “Is there nothing that will dissuade you from this quest?” he asked after the barmaid left.
Graciela’s surge of anger eased with the question. He’d always tried to talk her out of the nefarious plans she needed help with. “No.”
The anger rushed through her again. Who was he to nag her so? He wasn’t the one on the ground that day. He wasn’t the one being held down. He wasn’t the one that had his legs forced apart, undergarments ripped off as one after another man shoved himself into her tender body. He didn’t know the feel of their heavy bodies pressing on her, or their panting loud in her ear, their calloused hands rough from rowing harsh on her skin. He didn’t hear their horrible laughter as they stood smoothing their clothes and watching while the next one took her.
“What are you thinking?” Addy asked suddenly.
“Why?”
“Your face is beet red.”
“A bad memory.”
“The memory is the source of your quest?”
She nodded.
“I’ll say one more bit of advice and then I’ll drop the subject. To dwell on a dark memory is to dwell in a part of your world that essentially dead and gone. Let it go. Look to the future, to what your life can be.”
The barmaid set the kipper down and Addy paid her. He slid it over to Graciela. “Here. I saw you eyeing that skinny cat that hangs around the back of the pub. Make the wee thing’s day.”
Addy rose. “Think about what I said. Careful how you use the Derringer,” he warned and left.
****
Graciela spent an entire day off watching Skinner’s office to see how he spent his time. The clerk didn’t leave for lunch and neither did Skinner. The clerk arrived earlier in the morning but Skinner stayed later. That may or may not have been a regular occurrence, she couldn’t be sure.
The following Monday, her day off, she packed her tapestry bag with the newsboy clothes and headed to Skinner’s office. A block from the courthouse she snuck into the stable that housed the horses and carriages for the members of the court. She crept into an empty stall and changed into the newsboy outfit, tucking her hair up into the apple cap. Then, she made her way over to Skinner’s office. In the alley behind his office, she secreted the tapestry bag, hiding it in the corner of a pallet with delivery boxes.
Graciela waited until Skinner left for the courthouse. She strolled by the front of the office and verified the clerk was at his desk. While he was busy, she quietly pushed the drapery to the side and quickly cut a piece of glass out of Skinner’s window just large enough for her to fit her hand through to unlock it. As fast as she dared, she raised the window, crawled through, then shut it again. Addy had taught her well. The entire procedure had taken less than five minutes. She slipped Addy’s glass cutting tool back into her pocket and removed the flask with the arsenic. She was tempted to pour herself a short glass of whatever the decanter contained to see what it was exactly and to steady her nerves. It smelled like claret but she’d like to know for sure. She ignored the temptation fearing the clerk might come in and instead poured the entire contents of the flask into the decanter. Finished, she climbed inside the large armoire where Skinner kept his black robes and frock coats. She’d seen it when she visited the first time and got a glimpse of his inner office.
The wardrobe had a double-door front. The doors were narrow. She had to open both to climb inside. She tugged the first open without incident. She had the second open halfway when it let out the torturous and loud creaking of a hinge in bad need of oil.
No, no, no, Graciela hopped inside, silently swearing at the creaking armoire door. She immediately dropped into the far corner and made herself small as she could, knowing the clerk was bound to come and investigate the noise. He did. She heard him as he came to the desk area. He remained still there for a moment. She imagined he was looking under the desk in the foot well area. He moved toward the window. She cast a prayer heavenward t
hat he wouldn’t check behind the drapery and see where she’d cut the glass. He must not have since he came next to the armoire. She’d wrapped one of Skinner’s spare black robes around herself.
The robe smelled musty and she feared the dank odor would make her sneeze. The toes of her boots stuck out. She couldn’t pull her feet back any more than she already had. She put an extra pair of boots he had in the armoire in front of her feet and hoped that would work to disguise hers.
The clerk opened the armoire doors. She held her breath. She didn’t dare sneak a peek but could hear him ruffling through frock coats and top coats and everything hanging in the closet. She pressed her back harder into the wood frame of the armoire when he came to her side.
The clerk sighed, stopped looking, and closed the armoire. She let her breath out, pinched her nose stifling a sneeze, as his footsteps grew fainter as he left the room.
Thank you, thank you, thank you. It struck her that there was something of a mortal sin aspect attached to thanking a deity for helping save her so she could murder a man.
“Stupid girl,” she whispered as she sat huddled in the closet and the awkwardness of her plan became reality. In the plan she imagined, she’d step from the armoire, put the gun on Skinner, tell him to keep quiet and to sit and listen. She’d replay the rape for him so he knew why she sought revenge. She’d make him drink the arsenic, watch him die and sneak out the window. How smoothly it ran...in her imagination.
She burped up a small amount of bile, which she forced down again. “Ugh.” Unanticipated miscalculations had her stomach in a queasy knot. No time to dwell on stupidity. How the deuce was she going to get out of the armoire without the squeaky door bringing the clerk back to investigate?
Outside the Fleet Street tram rolled to a stop, its steel wheels squealing along the tracks as it slowed. “Thank you, again,” she whispered, “whoever is helping me, sinner or saint, don’t care which. More like saint turned sinner, again, don’t care.” The tram was her salvation. She’d wait for the next and use the noise from it to climb out of the armoire.
Minutes later another tram stopped in front of the office. Graciela hurried and opened the squeaky door only as far as she needed to get out, uncertain of how long the tram would be loading passengers. She used the short noisy seconds as it pulled away to close the armoire door.
She’d hide behind the drapery and wait for Skinner. The velvet curtain hung to the floor and offered ample coverage. “Should’ve used it to begin with, ninny.”
A velvet hotbox. A stifling, dust mote laden shroud that Graciela swore was alive with fleas. She’d begun to itch and sweat within minutes of hiding inside the heavy window cover. Perspiration trickled down from her hairline, stinging her eyes, and trickling down the back of her neck. She wiped the trails away as often as possible but still kept the action to a minimum. She feared moving too much and exposing some part of her without knowing.
It seemed like forever before Skinner finally returned. She heard the clerk greet him. After he did, Skinner immediately closed the door between his office and the reception area. He hung his robe in the armoire and as he was about to turn Graciela pushed the barrel of the Derringer into the base of his spine.
“Yell, say one word, scream, utter a sound and I’ll kill you and your clerk. Nod if you understand.”
He nodded.
“Turn around slowly. Go to the door and give your clerk some money and tell him to go to a café. Tea and biscuits are on you. If he starts to argue, convince him to leave. Insist you want to be alone. Remember it’s his life at stake too.”
She stood to the side of the door where the clerk couldn’t see and held the gun inches from Skinner’s right temple. “Mr. Button, come here. I had a good day in court. I thought why not share some of my good cheer with you. Here, take this.” He reached into his pocket, pulled a pound from his money clip and handed it to the clerk. “You don’t get out of the office enough. Go now and have a cup of tea on me.”
From the surprised response on the clerk’s part, Skinner didn’t often buy the man refreshment, if ever. “Sir, I don’t know what to say. This is very kind. Thank you.”
“Go and enjoy your tea.” The clerk was off in a matter of minutes.
Skinner closed the door. “Sit down,” she ordered.
He did as she told him. “Who are you and what do you want?” he asked, taking his chair. He looked her up and down, his nostrils flaring as though she was stinking up his office.
“I didn’t give you permission to speak. You don’t get to talk. I do.” She kept the gun pointed on him and set the poisoned decanter on the desk with her other hand and then a single glass. “Pour yourself a drink. Don’t be stingy.”
“See here—”
She raised the gun level with his eyes. A frisson of panic rifled through her at actually shooting someone. She tightened her grip afraid her hand might start to tremble. “Pour.”
His eyes widened and he poured with a shaky hand, much to her relief.
“Drink it down.”
He took a sip.
“All of it.”
While he drank, she removed her apple hat and shook her hair loose. “Recognize me? Just shake your head yes or no.”
He shook his head.
“I didn’t think you would. Sixteen years ago you and three of your Oxford friends raped a young village girl. She was alone walking by the side of the river and you three were drunk. Still don’t remember?”
“That’s an insane accusation.”
“Let me give you a hand in remembering. The other three were Bartholomew Cross, Harlan Lloyd-Birch, and Nesbit Finch.” She saw recognition light in his eyes. “Starting to come back to you now?”
Blue-green veins popped out at his temples. “What do you want? Money? Of course, you want money. You think to come here now and make something of an old story. You can’t prove any of what you say. I won’t be blackmailed.” He looked her up and down again and waved a dismissive hand in her direction. “This threat won’t go anywhere. Get out. If you pursue this, I’ll file a crime report and all you get is jail time. I’ll...” Skinner suddenly paled and rocked in his chair. “What...what was in the drink?”
“Arsenic. You see, money isn’t what I want.”
“What?” He laid his head in his hand. He straightened and pushed away from the desk and tried to stand.
Graciela hurried to his side and shoved him back down in the chair—hard. “Just stay where you are.”
“Take my money.” He reached for the money clip in his pocket.
She slapped his hand away. “I don’t want your money.”
He looked momentarily baffled before puzzlement turned to a grimace of pain.
“Do you remember what you said to me that day? Of course not. You don’t remember me.”
He groaned and doubled over.
“Painful, isn’t it? I’ll tell you what else is painful—having tender virgin flesh torn and stretched by brute force—having that same tender bleeding, flesh bruised again and again by fellow attackers. Do you know what you were doing while I cried and begged for Cross and your friends to stop? You held me down. When they finished, you took your turn.”
“You’re here. You suffer no permanent injury. What do you want?”
“For you to die.”
He looked at her and she didn’t think eyes could grow that wide. “I don’t deserve to die.”
“I was only fourteen.”
“So, I soiled you a bit.”
“That little speech you made a few minutes ago about reporting me to the police, you said something similar then too. I curled into a ball on the ground, weeping as you stood and straightened your clothes. I threatened to tell the police the four of you raped me. You laughed. You waffled on and asked who do I think they’ll believe, a little nothing of a village girl or you four? Oxford men. The sons and grandsons of Oxford men from influential families, or me?”
She spit in his face. “I knew in that mome
nt, you were right. You’re still right. They won’t believe me now. Or, even if they do, too much time has passed. They won’t care. Justice is left to me.” She pulled out the watch she’d pinned to the inside of the newsboy’s knickers. “You’ve not much time left. Tell me where Finch lives.”
“Go to hell.”
“You’re morally bankrupt Daniel. A rapist. Bravado from you is a hollow effort and we both know it. Tell me where Finch lives.”
“Go to hell.”
Graciela bounced on the balls of her feet. Anticipation coursing through her. Now he’d beg. Like she did. He might even cry. Like she did. “I wanted to avoid playing this nasty card but I see I must.” That was a lie. This was her high card. Of course she planned all along on playing it. “I know where you live in Belgravia Square. I know the comings and goings of your lovely daughter. The man who gave me the gun has several friends with a criminal bent. I’m sure rape is among their talents. Tell me about Finch or I’ll see your daughter ruined.”
“No!” He tried to stand but collapsed on his knees to the floor.
“Yes, Daniel. What kind of life will she have when society learns she has been raped by four men? None of the young bloods of the Ton will have her. You might find a husband for her on the continent but no decent Englishman will want her. Whispers about the incident will follow her for the rest of her life. Is Finch worth more to you than her?”
How she was enjoying the moment. She desperately wanted to stretch the moment out, but had to hurry. The clerk would return soon.
“Haven’t stayed in touch. Don’t know where he lives. His club is Abercrombie’s.” Skinner crawled to where Graciela stood with the gun pointed on him. “Promise you’ll leave my daughter alone.”
Her promise would give him peace of mind.
“I promise you nothing.”
He lay on his side, his legs thrashing as though climbing imaginary stairs. After what seemed forever, he flopped over onto his back, his eyes rolled into the back of his head and he died.
Two down, two to go.
Graciela put the gun in her reticule and then checked for a pulse. Satisfied he was dead, she left by the window so there’d be less chance of being seen. As she closed the window she heard the clerk return and call out to Skinner. She took off running. She ran to the end of that alley, grabbed her tapestry bag, and then ran down another and another before she stopped and hid behind a barrel. She wasn’t even sure where she was when she finally stopped.
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