by Karen Odden
A moment passed, but at last she nodded. “I need to think of someone.”
The anxiety was apparent on her pale face, and as if on cue, Nurse Aimes reappeared and assessed the situation at a glance. “That’s enough for today, Nell. You need your rest, little lamb.” She waved both her hands, as if to nudge me out.
“Come back tomorrow,” Marceline begged. “Won’t you?”
“Of course,” I said lightly, though inwardly I felt the urgency of the situation like a heavy weight in my stomach.
I left without saying goodbye to Dr. Everett and walked home slowly, turning over all that Marceline had said.
Chapter 9
My key turned too easily in the front door; the locking bolt hadn’t been engaged. Still, distracted as I was, it took me a moment to register the sight of Matthew’s untidy brown hair over the top of the chair in the study.
As I unbuttoned my coat, I called out, “Matthew, what are you doing home at this hour? You never come home for tea.”
He didn’t reply, and as I entered the room, I saw that he held a glass with an inch of whiskey in it balanced on the chair arm.
Alarmed, I touched his shoulder. “Matthew?”
“Mr. Kinsey was here,” he said, his voice subdued. “He fixed your piano.”
“Yes,” I said, puzzled. “The string was broken.”
He managed a strained smile. “Were you at the hospital? I saw Dr. Everett yesterday. He said you’ve been helping him with one of the patients.”
My heart jumped a bit. Surely that was not the reason he was home, to check on me. “Yes, I was.”
“He asked me to take her statement when she’s well enough to talk. She was attacked in Soho.”
I sat down on the chair nearest to him. “Is that what’s bothering you?”
He was silent for a long moment, contemplating the amber liquid in his glass.
I bent forward to catch his eye. “You can confide in me, you know,” I said offhandedly, to make it easy for him to refuse. “If you’ve no one else.”
Normally that would make him smile, even just a little. But his expression remained somber. “I think perhaps you’re the only one I can tell.”
His dejection tugged hard at me. I touched his arm. “Then I’m listening.”
“I’m worried there’s a snitch at the Yard.”
I sat back in my chair. “Oh, Matthew.” I knew how much he had come to trust his fellow detectives, and how much the idea of a traitor would hurt him.
“I know.” He rubbed a hand over his face, hard, as if he were scrubbing it. “I’ve only been there a little over a year. Who am I to question anybody?” His expression was pained. “But I don’t know how else to account for things that have happened. And I feel as though I should have realized before this.”
“Most of us don’t scrutinize the people close to us,” I said gently, “at least, not unless we’re overly suspicious by nature. But what’s happened?”
“Do you remember what I told you about Powell?”
I nodded.
“I assumed that the reason he’d been killed was because one of the men he owed got impatient with him. The fact that it happened before our second meeting was just a terrible coincidence.” He took a sip of his whiskey. “But now I’m beginning to wonder because it happened again, Nell—and I swear I took every precaution. In and out of doors, crossing alleys, turning back two and three times. There’s no way I could have been followed.”
“By ‘it happened again,’ do you mean the dead man—what was his name—Kendrick?”
“No. I never met the man. I mean his wife.” His voice was bleak. “I finally found her on Sunday, and she was willing to talk to me. But she also wanted passage out of London.”
“Of course. She must’ve been terrified that whoever killed her husband would come after her.”
He nodded. “We arranged to meet at a public house near Spitalfields Market yesterday afternoon. But she never appeared, and now she’s gone missing.”
“Maybe she left of her own free will. Maybe she was too afraid to wait for you.”
His eyes met mine. “I went to her home. There were dishes in the sink, and there was a packed suitcase beside the door, full of clothes and a few pictures.”
“You mean keepsakes that she’d take with her,” I said slowly, “if she were leaving for good. Except she was taken before she had the chance.”
He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “I’ve asked her neighbors, but they didn’t see anything. My guess is it happened Sunday night or very early yesterday morning.”
I bit my lip. “Who knew you were meeting with her yesterday?”
“The only person I told this time was William.”
I started.
No wonder Matthew was upset. I hated the thought, too.
“Did you ask him?”
He gave me an incredulous look. “You can’t exactly ask someone if he’s secretly working for a ring of thieves and betraying things you tell him in confidence. Might be a bit insulting, don’t you think?” He swallowed the rest of his whiskey.
“Well, yes, I suppose. But wouldn’t he prefer to have a chance to explain?”
“But what if he is the snitch, Nell? Then all I’ve done is alert him.” He stood and paced restlessly around the room. “Not to mention it feels like a rotten betrayal on my part, even thinking it—but then again, if it’s true, he’s not the person I’ve thought he was.”
“Nor I. But Matthew, are you sure no one else knew?”
He took a deep breath. “That’s the only reason I’m still giving him the benefit of the doubt. I wrote it in my notes, which I kept in a locking drawer in my desk. But I left it unlocked—briefly—yesterday when I stepped away.”
“Aren’t you supposed to turn the notes in?” I knew that a few months ago, that practice had become required as the detective divisions began centralizing their cases.
“Yes.”
“Where do you keep the key?”
He bit his lip. “It’s with me always. And if someone picked the lock, there’d be scratches on the brass. I looked for those.”
“Does anyone else have a copy? Barrow?”
“No. And he wouldn’t be involved in something like this. In his twenty years of service, there hasn’t been a whiff of scandal connected to the man.”
“Well, I think you owe it to William to ask him. You’ve been friends for five years. That has to count for something.”
He nodded and stared into his empty glass, his expression despondent. “People say this happens. That at some point in your career as a policeman, you will be forced to choose between your duty to the job and your loyalty to a friend, or a family member, or your own pocket.” He shook his head. “I just never thought it would be William.”
“Do you want to invite him here to talk? Would it be easier? For privacy, I mean.”
“And maybe he wouldn’t be quite so much on his guard.” He winced. “It seems an underhanded thing to do.”
“I’m sorry, Matthew. This is rotten.”
“And now Mrs. Kendrick.” His face was fixed in despair. As I knew he would, he was blaming himself. Under his breath, he said, “God only knows what they’ve done to her.”
I thought of Marceline, and I, too, feared for this woman I didn’t even know. For a moment we were both silent. Finally, I asked, “If it’s not William or Barrow, who do you think is likely? Which detective would be useful to an organization like this?”
Matthew poured himself another drink, albeit a smaller one. “There’s McFarr. He grew up near the docks, like William, and he still has friends there, so he knows a good deal about shipping and smuggling. And last week, the River Police found two ships carrying bilge plates with stolen goods.”
“What’s a bilge plate?” I asked. “It sounds like a special sort of dish.”
He smiled briefly, as I’d hoped he would. “Not that kind of plate, Nell. Bilge plates are large metal pieces that attach to the o
utside of the ship, below the water line. They create a sort of pocket against the hull, where goods can be transported secretly.”
“All right, so that’s McFarr. Who else?”
“O’Neill. He knows the rookeries of London—especially Seven Dials and St. Giles. He has connections to brothels, fences, and pawnshops.” He thought for a moment. “And there’s Bidwell. He’s in charge of finding counterfeiters and very diligent about it. He’s arrested twenty-four pairs of them in London in the past year.”
“Pairs?” I asked.
He shrugged. “Counterfeiting is much easier with two sets of hands. Most of the time a man brings in his wife because she can’t testify against him, and she can’t be charged. She can say she was working under his direction, so she’s protected.”
Another time I might have laughed at the vagaries of the law. “So you have three possibilities, aside from William. Do you have a feeling for which it might be?”
He shook his head and sipped the last of his second drink. “I’ve been wracking my brains, Nell. I can’t see how to navigate this.”
“And you don’t want to steer your boat onto the rocks.”
He glanced at the clock, dragged himself to his feet, and picked up his coat. “Not least because if I steer the wrong way, I may well be pitched out.”
Chapter 10
On Wednesday morning, Marceline was sitting up bolstered by pillows. The bruises on her face were beginning to fade, and she had some sparkle in her eyes. Her hands were still bandaged in gauze, but she seemed more cheerful. She even managed a lopsided smile.
Nurse Aimes put me in charge of helping Marceline drink some tea and eat a soft-boiled egg, which I began to do, carefully.
“How are things at the Octavian?” she asked between sips.
“Much the same,” I said. “The piano is finally in tune. Jack did it.”
“Jack? Well, good. That thing was dreadful.” She gave me a keen look. “Does he know you’re a woman?”
I hesitated. “He might. But he hasn’t said so.”
“Jack’s a good sort.” Her expression softened. “He’s always been kind to us, even the first time, when we made mistakes.”
My hand paused with the spoon. “That’s right. I’d forgotten this was your second engagement there.”
She nodded. “The first time was last August.”
My mind jumped to Stephen’s story about Jack. I wondered if Marceline knew anything about it.
“What’s the matter?” she asked.
“Well—it’s just . . .” I paused. “I heard a rather nasty bit of gossip about Jack, and it seemed out of character. You might know the truth about it.” Briefly I relayed what Stephen had said.
She brushed the idea aside with a bandaged hand. “Oh, that wasn’t Jack. It was Mr. Williams.”
I felt a surge of relief at her words. “Are you certain?”
She nodded. “Her name was Rosalie. She’s Amalie’s cousin, I think. But she didn’t want anything to do with old Williams. So he tossed her out, and told everyone it was because she was a drunk and unreliable, just so she’d have a hard time finding another position.” She wrinkled her nose. “He’s a disgusting pig of a man.”
I shook my head, equally appalled. But I was thinking that this would go a long way toward explaining why Amalie loathed him so. And while this wasn’t proof that Jack had never injured a woman in such a way, it made me feel a little better.
“He’s quite unlike your Dr. Everett,” she observed. “I don’t remember ever meeting a man who was so proper and dignified. Although he’s also . . .” She hesitated. “We have a word in French, excentrique. It means—”
I laughed. “I know what you mean. We have it in English, too. Eccentric.”
She smiled and shook her head to refuse the last bit of egg. “When he came to see me yesterday, he told me that he was a close friend of your family, but when I asked how you met, he said I would have to speak to you.”
“Well, he is a friend, that much is true.” I set the egg cup down on the tray and reached for my tea. “Do you remember I told you that my mother left when I was very young?”
“Yes, to pursue her music.”
“What I didn’t tell you,” I said slowly, “is that she’d had a mental disease for several years beforehand. Dr. Everett tried to treat her, but he wasn’t very successful. He still feels guilty about it. It’s why he’s quite watchful and protective of me.”
Her expression became understanding. “To make up for her leaving.”
“Well, yes. But he’s also afraid I may have inherited the tendency for her illness. And the fact that I play the piano like she did . . .”
“Oh! I see.” She gave me a probing look. “And you? Are you afraid?”
“Yes, sometimes.”
Her eyes were full of sympathy. “That would be frightening. Not to be sure of your own mind.”
“I suppose it’s rather like you working without a net,” I said, trying to make light of it. “That first night, I couldn’t even watch you two, though I got used to it.”
“Ah, that’s not frightening.” She shook her head dismissively. “It was just play for Sebastian and me as children. The only difference now is we’re paid.”
It was the best opening I was likely to get. I offered her some more tea and asked, “Did you think any more about sending a message to him?”
Her eyes lowered, and her bandaged hands lay still on the blanket. “I did think of someone.” Her voice dropped to a whisper, so I had to lean forward to hear. “His name is Jeremy. If you could tell him that I’m all right, he’ll let Sebastian know. Sebastian trusts him.”
“Where can I find him?”
“He works at the Falcon.”
“The newspaper?” I asked, surprised.
She nodded. “Jeremy helps one of the newspapermen, Mr. Flynn. And if he’s not there, Mr. Flynn will know where he is. But you can’t tell Mr. Flynn anything—”
“No, of course not,” I agreed. “I’ll only talk to Jeremy.”
Her eyes were anxious. “Just tell him I’m all right. Don’t tell him where I am. Promise me. I don’t want Sebastian coming here. I want him to stay hidden.”
I laid my fingers on her arm. “I promise.”
I TOOK A HANSOM CAB INTO WHITECHAPEL, grateful that the driver knew precisely where the offices were, for the journey took us through some dodgy areas and a tangle of alleys. I could tell we were approaching the Thames, for the stench of the river grew stronger.
In Prescott Street, the cab drew up at a tall, square building, all of brick. At the roofline perched an iron sculpture of a large black bird, its wings outstretched. From where I stood it looked more like a crow than a falcon, but so be it.
I climbed the few stairs to the front door and hammered with the knocker. The door was opened promptly by a man carrying a package under his arm. “Hullo,” he said in some surprise. “Be ye the girl from Mason’s?”
“No. I’ve come to see a boy named Jeremy. I have a message for him.”
“Jeremy? Jeremy Marcus?”
“I suppose so. Does he work with Mr. Flynn?”
“Shore. ’E works with Flynn.” He jerked his head over his shoulder. “Upstairs. Just ask anybody. ’E’s been in the archives all day.”
“Thank you.”
I started up the wooden steps. The entire building seemed to rumble with a myriad of noises plaited together—clunking, banging, shouting, clicking. I reached the landing and peered into a long room. At a dozen canted wooden tables, men stood laying metal type for what must be the evening’s paper. There was a good deal of banter and cursing and calling back and forth, until one of the men caught sight of me.
“What ho! Who’s this?”
Several men turned toward me. I had a vague impression of mustaches and grins and, as I stepped all the way into the room, the pungent smell of men’s sweat.
“I’m looking for Jeremy Marcus,” I announced to the group.
&nb
sp; “Jeremy? What’d he do to deserve you?” shouted one.
Another told him to shut his yawp and smiled pleasantly at me. “Upstairs, Miss. Mr. Flynn’s up thar. He’ll know where Jeremy’ll be.” He beckoned to a boy at the end of the bench. “Sam! Show the lady.”
The boy shambled toward me with a lopsided smile. “This way, Miss.”
I stepped carefully in Sam’s footsteps, as the stairs to the upper floors were even more decrepit than those at the Octavian, with several treads missing altogether. Finally, we reached the landing, and he took me down a hall, past several rooms where men sat engaged in conversation or paging through old issues of the paper. The air smelled of decay, and the light coming through the windows illuminated the dust hanging in the air.
He stopped when we reached a windowless room, where the only light came from two bright lanterns on either corner of a large desk. Behind it stood a man, bent over some pages that were spread in front of him, so my first impression of Mr. Flynn was the top of a head with dark brown hair thinning in an oval pattern.
Wordlessly, Sam gestured for me to go in, and then he vanished.
I cleared my throat. “Excuse me. Are you Mr. Flynn?”
He looked up. A round face, intelligent in expression, with a small turned-up nose and eyes of an unusual olive green. They swept me up and down, not lecherously but impersonally, as if to catalog my appearance and any odd details, before he answered, “Yes, I’m Flynn. Who are you?”
“I’m looking for Jeremy.”
His mouth twitched in acknowledgment that I hadn’t answered his question. “Well, he’s out. Can I help you?”
“I’m afraid I need to speak to him directly.”
He shrugged and gestured with the end of his pencil to a chair by the wall. “You can wait if you like. Shouldn’t be long.”
He returned to his task and ignored me. His eyes darted from paper to paper, his right hand making notes. I noticed that he was missing the tip of his index finger. Not that it seemed to slow his progress any, but I couldn’t help wondering how it had happened.
