by Tim Pratt
Now all she had to do was uncover the nature of that link. Despite her attempt to mimic a masculine stride, she found herself almost skipping as she walked. She should have been afraid, she supposed, but—oh, there was a story here. The spinster Eleanor Skyler might have been afraid… but the writer E. Skye loved nothing better than a good story.
Deductions
“A map,” Abel Value said, and then puffed his cigar with an air of thoughftulness. Pimm wasn’t thrilled at spending the morning in this man’s office, especially given the beastly headache he’d cultivated the night before, but it was better than having the criminal in his own home again. Abel’s lair of the moment was a room above a cobbler’s shop—cramped and crammed with tottering heaps of paper, except for the surface of the large desk, which was peculiarly clean. That neatness made Pimm wonder what papers had been hurriedly swept aside and hidden in advance of his arrival. Big Ben loomed in one corner, seeming to fill about a third of the room’s available space.
“I don’t know,” Value mused. “Someone could do me harm with that information. It’s not the sort of thing one does in my line of work. Drawing a map for a man with connections to the police.”
“You sought my assistance,” Pimm said. “I cannot help you without adequate information. If I don’t know where your… female employees… ply their trade, how can I hope to prevent more of them from being harmed?”
Value grunted, reached behind him, and found a rolled-up map of London. “This is Stanford’s map,” he said. “You’ve seen it? Indispensable for men of industry, shows every railway line, and every street.” He rolled out the map, which filled most of the table, and Pimm leaned forward, his interest piqued despite himself. At first the map seemed just a riot of lines and letters, but the twisting ribbon of the Thames allowed him to orient himself. “The city looks so much more orderly pinned down on paper, doesn’t it, than it does when you’re out walking the streets? Still a messy place, though, streets thrown down every which way, the present built on top of the past, and the future just lying in wait for its own turn. I do love it so. I have business interests south of the river, of course, in Southwark. I also have a few girls working in the West End, late—it can get positively raucous around Leicester Square, you know.” Pimm, who’d stumbled out of the music halls there with a bellyful of gin to join the merry-making crowds on more than one occasion himself, merely nodded. “None of the women have been killed in those areas, though. The one’s who’ve died have all been north of the river.” He tapped the map, indicating a portion of that far-from-respectable region known as Alsatia. Pimm was surprised. He’d heard the area was much improved since the installation of a police station in the vicinity some years previous—but he supposed such improvements were relative.
Value fished a shilling, a penny, and a few florins from his trouser pocket and scattered them on the map, then began arranging them with deliberate care, leaning close to the intricately-detailed map to read the street names. “Molly.” He put down a shilling. “Letitia.” A florin, perhaps an inch farther away. “Juliet.” Another florin. “Abigail, we called her ‘sweet Abi,’ you’d think she was a choir girl until she put her hands down your trousers.” The penny for her. “And the latest, Theodosia, you saw her remains today.” The final florin.
“When did the first one die?” Pimm asked.
Value glanced at Ben. The big man said, “Twenty-seven days ago, m’Lord.”
“Mr. Value. Five murders in a month? Someone is trying to make a point, and most forcefully.”
“I can’t say I care what that point might be. I just want the killings stopped. Can you do that?”
“Have you posted men to keep watch in the area?”
“Of course. But the girls go off with men, find a nice alley, and… well, we can’t watch all of them, all the time.”
“Where have you placed your watchmen?”
“Near the sites of the killings, of course.”
“Near the site of the last killing?” Pimm said. “Understandable enough, but attempting to stop a crime that has already occurred is a poor substitute for attempting to stop one that will happen in the future. We should place watchmen where the killer will strike next.”
Value snorted. “And how do we know that? Are you an occultist, too, sir? A gypsy fortune teller?”
“Hardly. But the killer has been proceeding east along the river through Alsatia, traveling approximately half a mile with each murder. I suspect he’s moving along just far enough to avoid your ever-expanding sphere of watchmen, sir.”
Value leaned forward, frowning. “But how would he know where we’re watching?”
“He’s obviously familiar with your business,” Pimm said. “How else can you explain the fact that, in the course of five murders, he has always managed to kill your whores? Not every girl or ponce in that area is in your employ, but only your interests have been impacted. He also knew where to find your houses of clockwork pleasure, though their locations are hardly advertised. Most men who know of such establishments know the location of one, or perhaps two, but this fellow knows of five—frankly I’m astonished there are so many—which implies a certain degree of intimate knowledge.”
“Betrayal,” Value murmured.
“Is there anyone in your organization you have reason to distrust?”
“Those who give me reason to distrust them do not remain long in my employ.” Value sucked at his cigar, brows beetling in a scowl. “My people are at your disposal, Halliday. Tell Ben where you want guards placed, and he’ll see that it’s done.”
“Perhaps you should tell your girls not to work this evening,” Pimm said. “For their own safety.”
Value shook his head. “If they do not earn me money, Halliday, I do not care about their safety.”
“You place your own wealth above the lives of these women?”
“Everyone puts personal gain above the interests of such common scum, Halliday.” Another puff of smoke. “I just don’t bother lying about it.”
Pimm tried to restrain his fury. Just talking to this man made him feel filthy. “I have reason to hope such callous views will become the exception, rather than the norm, soon. We are in a new world, Value, a world of progress and scientific advancement that promises a better life for all people—”
Value burst out laughing. “Ben,” he said. “Tell the lord about your cousin that worked in one of Sir Bertram Oswald’s factories.”
“Timothy, sir,” Ben said, voice impassive. “Ten years old, he was. Worked making alchemical lamps, you know the ones with the glass globes and the lovely yellow light inside? Timothy was really just helping out, sweeping up broken glass, fetching tools, and the like. Perhaps you don’t know, sir, but the substance that lights up those lamps is made of all manner of different chemicals, mixed together in a particular way. The chemical you get at the end isn’t so dangerous—you shouldn’t drink it, and it stinks a bit, but it can be sopped up with rags and thrown out if you happen to break one of the lamps. But one of the chemicals they use earlier in the process is an acid, terribly strong, and it so happened that one day Timothy was racing through the factory on an errand. It’s a dreadful loud place, and even though the man shouted ‘Watch out,’ Timothy didn’t hear him. Crashed right into the legs of a man about to pour a beaker of that acid into a vat, and the acid spilled on Timothy instead. Burned a hole right through his skull, it did. I hate to even think about it. He was a good boy.” Ben lapsed into silence.
“Progress is fine for those who get to enjoy its fruits, Halliday,” Value said. “Not so fine for those who tend the roots. Those often get their hands mangled by the machines, and their faces burned by the steam, and end up with more holes in their heads than they were born with. But you and I are blessed by God, aren’t we? My, but it’s good to be rich.”
Pimm rose stiffly. “I will attempt to apprehend this killer, Mr. Value,” he said. “After that, I wish to have no further involvement with you.”
“Then you had best hope I never need your services again,” Value replied.
“Call on me at home this afternoon, Benjamin,” Pimm said. “We’ll make our arrangements then.”
“Consider it done, sir,” Big Ben said.
Pimm went down the cramped stairs, nodded at the cobbler working at his bench, and stepped out onto the street. He walked briskly along through the warm spring afternoon… and a young woman hurried across the street to intercept him. She wore a dress of severe gray and rather dowdy cut, though her face was younger than her matronly garb would suggest, and she wore a rather fashionable little bonnet on the back of her head, just above a shower of curls. “Excuse me,” she said, and Pimm looked around for her escort. She seemed to be a woman on her own, which made her accosting him in the street even stranger.
“Miss? May I be of some assistance?”
“I do hope so, Lord Pembroke. Forgive me, but I recognize you, from the Argus, the coverage of the Trent case—”
Pimm nodded and forced a smile. His head still pounded, and meeting with Value had done nothing to improve his mood. “Ah, of course, they put my likeness in the newspaper. Silly, really, I was only assisting Detective Whistler—”
The woman covered her mouth. “Oh, dear me,” she said. “I have not made myself clear. I recognized you, not from a likeness, but from your visit to the offices of the Argus. My name is Eleanor Skyler. We did not meet on that occasion, but I was in my editor’s office, and he pointed you out to me.”
Pimm’s mind underwent a ferocious reorganization. “You are a journalist, Miss?” She couldn’t be more than twenty-five, half a dozen years his junior. Of course women did write, Freddy had taken a subscription to the English Women’s Journal until it ceased circulation earlier in the year, and now had a fondness for the Alexandra Magazine and English-woman’s Journal. (Freddy, whose interest in women had once been limited to whether they’d overlook his coarse manners in favor of his fortune, had become quite the advocate of women’s rights lately.) Pimm hadn’t realized the rather staid Argus had a woman reporter on the staff. But, wait, Eleanor Skyler—ah, yes. Mr. E. Skye. Mystery Skye? How droll.
“I am indeed a journalist,” she said. “Currently investigating a story that, to my surprise, appears to concern you.”
Pimm gave his most self-deprecating chuckle. “Miss Skyler, I am of course delighted to assist in any manner that I can, but I’m afraid the Trent case was my last endeavor into criminal matters—”
“Really, sir?” She blinked at him, and he couldn’t help but notice her long lashes, her eyes the dark blue of a still Scottish loch on a summer’s day, and so what if her nose was a bit long? It suited her face. She cocked her head, a gesture of innocent curiosity, and said, “Then may I ask why you were meeting with the notorious criminal Abel Value just moments ago?”
Pimm’s smile froze on his face. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean…”
“Please, Lord Pembroke. I mean you no harm. If I wished to embarrass you, I would have followed you clandestinely—”
“It seems that is precisely what you’ve done.”
She shook her head. “Not at all. I was watching Mr. Value. Imagine my surprise to see you, a man known to be a friend to the police, a man who recovered a baroness’s stolen black pearls, a man who proved the ghost of Hodgson Manor was no spirit but actually a madman who’d lived for all those years hidden in the walls of the house—what business does a man like that have with Abel Value?”
Pimm was glad he hadn’t allowed himself to drink this morning. Well, he’d had the one, but one hardly counted—it was practically medicinal. He needed his wits about him now. “Miss, I am going to pretend to give you directions, all right? And you should nod and thank me, and then walk away.”
“Value has men watching you, then?”
Pimm was impressed. He pointed along the street and gestured with his other hand. “Almost certainly. I don’t suppose you really will walk away?”
Her face took on a confused expression, and it took a moment for Pimm to realize it was false, for show. She pointed in the opposite direction, tilting her head in a questioning way, and said, “Now that I know there’s a story? Certainly not. Where and when shall we meet to discuss your situation?”
It was quite sophisticated of her, really, to let the threat remain merely implied, instead of stating it baldly. How crass it would have been if she’d insisted he meet with her, lest a story appear in tomorrow’s Argus linking Pimm to known criminal figures.
“Meet me in half an hour at St. James’ Park, near the Ornithological Society. We’ll sit and have a talk.”
“And you’ll tell me everything then?” Her eyes twinkled. She clearly enjoyed this. Pimm could sympathize—he never felt more alive than when he was on the hunt. But he wasn’t terribly pleased to be the hunted.
“I’ll tell you what I can,” he said.
“Oh, so it’s that direction,” Miss Skyler said loudly. “Oh, dear me, whenever I leave the confines of my own kitchen I become so frightfully disoriented.” She dropped him a curtsey, and then—shockingly—a wink, and went on her way.
Pimm watched her go. Oh dear, oh dear. He had enough on his mind without this.
He simply didn’t have time to be so intrigued by a woman.
Investigations
Lord Pembroke sat on a bench, watching ducks drift about on the surface of the water. Ellie sat on the bench behind his, so they were positioned back-to-back. She had a fine view of trees and of a slightly frog-faced statue of a man in military dress. “My lord,” she murmured. “I’m so pleased you kept our appointment.”
He stirred behind her. She couldn’t see him now, but when she’d looked at his face in the street, she’d been struck by the shrewdness of his gaze, and the darkness of his eyes, and the faint smile playing around the corners of his mouth. He had a reputation as an ingenious man, but it was hard to separate the real man from the stories—the nobleman detective, younger son of a Marquess, and, according to some rumors, an inveterate drinker who’d married a woman of no particular status for reasons that were unknown, but open to all sorts of speculation.
“Being a journalist is a bit like being a detective, I suppose,” Lord Pembroke mused. “Albeit with fewer rules.”
“And far less at stake. If I fail, some other paper will run the story, most likely. If a detective fails, the wicked go unpunished, and victims fail to receive justice.”
“Miss, Skyler—or shall I say Miss Skye, since you are here in a professional capacity?” Ellie didn’t answer, surprised and pleased that he knew her byline. “I have nothing but respect for journalists. As a gesture of that respect, I will be happy to give you an exclusive interview about my… current case… once it is concluded.”
“What case is that, sir?”
Lord Pembroke sighed. “In exchange for this interview, I ask only that you leave Mr. Value’s name out of any story you run.”
“Why would you want to protect him?”
“Ha. Oh, no, Miss Skye. You mistake me. I wish to protect myself, or rather, my family. My dear brother would be apoplectic to see our family name in connection with Mr. Value’s.”
“Then why are you connected with Value? And I repeat—what is the nature of your current case?”
“So many questions. I’ve never realized how troublesome it is, to be bombarded by inquiries. I now feel sympathy for all those I’ve interrogated over the years. Suffice to say that Mr. Value’s interests and my own align, temporarily, at this moment. It is an exceedingly rare alignment, akin to an unheard of syzygy of stars and planets, something that might come only once in an epoch. But I can tell you will not be put off without some specifics, so: a person unknown is killing women, Miss Skye. Five have been found so far, all slain within the past month. I mean to stop the killer, and Mr. Value is in possession of information that will enable me to do so. That is the whole reason for our current affiliation.”
“I’ve heard of n
o rash of murders,” she said. “The usual drunken mishaps, of course, but five women killed? Surely that would not go unnoticed.”
“Certain forces are making sure they do go unnoticed. I should say no more. I must save something for that exclusive interview, to be conducted once my investigation is concluded.”
“You have piqued my interest,” Ellie admitted. “You will contact me?”
“I will. After the killer is apprehended, you will be the first person to hear my story, after the police.”
“And when do you expect this business to be concluded?”
“In a few days, I hope—assuming he attempts to strike again. It is an uncomfortable position, to hope a murderer will try to kill again, but it is my best hope for finding him.”
“Just don’t forget me,” Ellie said.
“I do not believe it would be possible to forget you, Miss Skye.”
Ellie hesitated. “Lord Pembroke… is there anything I can do? To help? I am not without connections and contacts, made in the course of my business. If I may be of assistance…”
“I appreciate the offer.” Was that a hint of surprise in his voice? Pleasure? And why should Ellie care if he were pleased? He was handsome enough, and as interesting a man as she’d ever met, but what did that matter? The moon was lovely, too, but she would never have it on the shelf in her room, so why wish for it? “But I think I have matters well in hand. I will let you know if that changes, however. I trust I can contact you in care of the Argus?”
“That would be fine.”
“Then may I be excused? Killers to apprehend, and so on.”
“Certainly.”
He rose and strode off around the pond. Ellie turned on the bench and watched him go. Considering that she’d essentially extorted an interview from him, he’d been remarkably polite. As irritated by her meddling as he must have been, he’d never once called her “girl,” or told her journalism was no business for women, or treated her as anything other than a somewhat adversarial equal. That kind of respect was refreshing to the point of intoxication.
