by Karen Odden
But this woman wasn’t trouble. She raised her hands to cover her face and began to cry, with wracking sobs that shook her entire frame. Until then, her hands had been concealed by her cloak. Now I saw that her right hand was cut, and blood was dripping down toward her wrist.
“Your hand!” I exclaimed. “What happened?”
“I ’ad to get in,” she said between gasps.
Matthew grasped her gently by the arms, for she had swayed toward him as though she were about to faint. “Nell.”
I nodded and limped to the kitchen. By my candle’s light I could see the broken pane in the back door, and realized that the smashing of glass in my dream had been real. Even in the few minutes since she’d entered, the night air had turned the kitchen cold. Shivering in my wrap, I put the kettle to boil, and fetched bandages and some yarrow and calendula from the cabinet. While the tea was steeping, I ground the herbs together, adding a bit of water to make a paste that I put on a saucer. I stowed the bandages and tweezers in my pockets so I could still use my cane, and I returned to the study with the saucer and teacup.
She was slumped in a chair. Matthew was on his knees building a fire. Father’s gun was on the desk.
“Here, let’s get you out of that cloak,” I said briskly, setting the tea down. “It’s wet.” Obediently, she rose to her feet, untied the ribbons at her throat—they were damp and difficult to pull apart—and hung the garment next to Matthew’s coat in the hallway.
“How did you get in?” Matthew asked.
“I smashed the winda’ in the door.” She lifted her chin, and her expression was both defiant and ashamed. “I knocked, but no one came.”
“It’s no matter,” Matthew said, “but I’m going to get a board to cover it. Meanwhile, Nell will see to your hand.”
He left the room, and I picked up the gun, opened it, and checked the chambers. The first was empty, for safety, as he’d taught me; the others were full. The sight of the bullets made my chest tighten, but I left them in place, slid the gun into the desk drawer, and picked up the cup of tea, putting it into her good hand. “Here. Let’s start with this.”
She sipped at it. “Ach!” she said in surprise.
I looked up from the bandages I was unraveling. “Is it too hot?”
“No. Just I’m not used to ’avin’ sugar.”
Crouching beside her on a stool, I took her right hand in my own. “Do you feel any splinters from the glass?”
She moved her hand tentatively and winced. “There’s one ’ere. That’s all, I think.” She pointed, and I used the tweezers to remove it, then began applying the paste of herbs across the gash on her palm.
The sound of a hammer striking nails startled us both, and I paused in my bandaging. Her hand was shaking, and mine wasn’t quite steady, either. But I continued on and tucked in the ends. “Is that better?”
“Yes,” she said gratefully. “I’m much obliged. And sorry for breakin’ in. I just didn’t know what else to do, and I thought I ’eard someone comin’ in the alley.”
“What’s your name?” I asked as I began to wind the unused bandage.
“Nancy,” she said. “Nancy Kendrick.”
I concealed my surprise as I finished putting my supplies in a tidy pile. No wonder Matthew had been relieved, and the poor woman was desperate to get in. She was probably running for her life. I straightened and reached for my cane. “Matthew will be back in a minute. Would you like more tea?”
She shook her head. “I been enough trouble to you.”
“Not at all.” I smiled, wanting to reassure her.
I met Matthew in the hallway. “I’ve bandaged her hand. But she looks near starved. I’m getting her something to eat.”
A touch on my shoulder. “Thank you, Nell.”
“How did she know to come here?” I asked.
“I told her she could get me a message here, in an emergency.” He hesitated. “I probably shouldn’t have given her the address, but—”
“It’s all right,” I interrupted. “I don’t think she could hurt a flea, although she startled me half out of my wits just now.”
He pointed at the cane. “What’s wrong with your leg?”
“It’s nothing,” I said. “I just twisted my ankle a bit.”
Frowning, he opened his mouth to question me further, but just then Mrs. Kendrick coughed.
“Go on,” I said and gave him a push toward the study. “I’m fine. She’s not.”
Back in the kitchen, I hastily assembled a tray with bread and butter, some cheese, a plate, and a knife. I didn’t want to miss a word she said.
As I entered, I saw that Matthew had lit two additional lamps, so the room looked more cheerful. He had also pulled two chairs close to hers, so we could all be close to the fire. Mrs. Kendrick looked less anxious, but her face showed her exhaustion. She looked down at the teacup and spoke under her breath. “I’m sorry to be a bother.”
“Not at all,” Matthew said. “I thought you’d been taken. I went to your house and saw the suitcase.”
She nodded, her eyes large. “I did that so it’d look like I ’ad been. I knew ’twas the only way they’d stop lookin’ for me.”
Understanding and even admiration crossed Matthew’s face. “That was clever of you.”
“Oh, I ain’t clever.” She gave a small, bitter breath of a laugh. “I’ve just not got much left to lose. But you told me you’d ’elp me get away, if’n I told you what I know.”
I looked at Matthew in surprise. That sort of bargain didn’t sound like him.
“I said that I’d get you out of London in any case,” he corrected her gently. “But I’d appreciate anything you could tell me.”
She flushed and looked ashamed. “True,” she muttered. “I just thought you meant t’other.”
“Mrs. Kendrick, you can tell me nothing at all, and I’ll get you on a train tomorrow morning.”
Tears sprang to her eyes. “I ain’t used to people lettin’ me choose.”
“Why don’t you eat something,” I interjected.
She took up a piece of bread and nibbled at the crust before setting it back on the plate apologetically. “My stomach ain’t been right, but I’ll ’ave more by and by.”
I set the tray aside, and she settled back in her chair. Her bandaged hand lay in her lap, while her good hand held the cup.
“Well, you prob’ly know that the thievin’ ring’s near as big as London i’self. The man at the ’ead of it’s named Tierney. Leastwise, that’s what ’e calls ’i’self.”
Matthew nodded encouragingly.
“’E calls it ‘the Fleet,’” she continued, “and ’e’s divided it into districts called ‘ships.’ Each one ’as its own cap’ain and crew. The crews are trained, you see.”
“Who trains them?” he asked.
She averted her eyes, her expression unhappy. “Men like my ’usband, though it’s not ’ow ’e begun.”
“You said there are districts that he calls ‘ships.’ Do you have any idea how many?”
She shook her head. “Tierney keeps ’em all separate, so they cain’t talk to each other. But from what ’arry tol’ me, there’s at least seven, spread out from the Cut in Lambeth up to Euston Station.”
I felt my mouth go dry. That was an enormous portion of the city. Hundreds, if not thousands, of streets.
“And what do the ships handle?” Matthew asked.
“Most anything worth stealin’. Some go for shops, some for ’ouses. Each ship collects its own lot, and then it’s sorted and sent out for sellin’ or smugglin’ or meltin’ down, dependin’ on what it is. So all the jewelry goes one place, ’andkerchiefs and clothes another, silver, copper, porcelain, paintin’s and such, little bits o’ art, and trifles all have their own.”
“Trifles?” I asked.
“Cigar cases, snuffboxes,” she replied. “But there are new things all the time. Last month, ’twas fans. The boys were taught to look for ones made of bone and ostrich fe
athers. Soon it’ll be summat else.”
“How do they choose the houses?” Matthew asked. His voice was mild, even gentle, which told me how closely he was listening.
“It’s mostly the servants wot tells ’em.”
Matthew’s eyebrows rose.
“A servant from one place passes the word ’bout when a family’ll be gone, and where the valu’bles be,” she explained patiently. “They get ten or even twenty pounds back, depending on if’n they give the name of another servant at a different ’ouse who’ll do the same. D’you see?”
I stared, shocked by the level of organization such a plan would require. Matthew managed to reply, “I do, thank you.” He mulled everything for a moment. “But what about your husband? What did he do for the Fleet at first?”
Her eyes wandered to the fire, and it took her a minute to answer. “’E were a silversmith ’afore we came to London, so when he couldn’t get a job ’ere, bein’ Irish, ’e worked for a ship in Whitechapel that ’andled silver. Candlesticks, cutlery, pitchers, tea trays, them sorts of things. Some got smuggled ’cross the Channel, but a good bit was melted down and turned into ’alf crowns and sixpence.”
“Not pounds or threepence?” I asked, naming the other silver coins.
“Nay. Sometimes shop folks won’t take pounds from a stranger, and threepence are worth only ’alf o’ six and just as much work.” She was beginning to relax, warming to her subject. “Most anybody can pass ’alf crowns and sixpence, ’specially in ’otels and places where there’s foreign folks wot carry coins instead of notes. ’Nd the ships for copper make the pennies and farthin’s.”
The fire had begun to drop down, and Matthew rose to add more coal to it.
“How does one counterfeit a coin?” I asked, partly because I was curious and partly to keep her talking. “Do you know?”
“Well, I ain’t done it m’self, mind you, but ’arry’s tol’ me often enow.” She sipped at her tea. “First, ye take a true coin and grease it with tallow or suet. Then you make a mold round it, using plaster of paris, and clamp it together.” Her hands came together around the imaginary coin. “Once the plaster’s dry, you pour the silver into the collar, let it cool, and open the mold. Then you cut off the gat—the little bit that sticks out where the silver was poured—and file it down. Then you plate it, usin’ a batt’ry with acid and cyanide, and last, you rub it with some lampblack and oil.” She gave a small sniff. “If’n it’s too shiny, you can’t pass it.”
“Where are the ships set up?” Matthew asked as he returned to his seat.
The animation faded from her face, and her brows knitted together unhappily. “I dunno. ’Tis the one thing ’arry never told me. For my own good, ’e said. But I’ve often thought on it. Tierney sells to pawnshops all over London. Maybe some ships are above the shops or somewhere close. ’Twould make sense, wouldn’t it?”
“Yes, that’s a good thought.” Matthew nodded. “Is there anything else?”
She bit her lip and shook her head, her expression anxious. I thought I understood why, and Matthew was quick to reassure her.
“You’ve given me more help in this half hour than I’ve had in months,” he said kindly. “Now, why don’t you try to rest for a few hours. I’ll get you on the train first thing. You can tell me where you want to go when we get to the station.”
Relief came over her face, but I felt profoundly sad for her. With her husband dead, she might get out of London, but what then? Where would she find work? I hoped she had relations somewhere who would take her in.
With a look at Matthew, I rose and took a blanket from the cabinet. “Here, Nancy, why don’t you stay by the fire, where it’s warmest.”
She nodded, docile as a child, and let me tuck the wool around her.
I picked up her teacup, and Matthew followed me to the kitchen with the tray.
“Well, that was an earful,” I said quietly.
“Yes, rather.” He popped a hunk of bread in his mouth.
“Why did you have Father’s gun? Were you expecting her, or someone else tonight?”
He swallowed and met my gaze. “I didn’t expect anyone in particular—certainly not her. But there was a black mark on the bottom of our door yesterday. Didn’t you notice it?”
“No,” I said, puzzled. “What sort of mark?”
“About so long.” His hands sketched a length of about a foot. “It was used in Lambeth two years ago, as a warning to police. Two of the detectives looking into a contraband shipment at the customs house wouldn’t let it alone.”
I studied my brother. “What happened to them?”
“They were found dead in the river a week after the mark appeared on their doors.”
I felt the blood drain from my face, and I grasped his arm. “Matthew.” It came out hoarsely. “Do you think someone in the Fleet made the mark?”
The lines around his mouth deepened, and his hand gave mine a quick squeeze. “Maybe. I think it’s more likely that whoever did it knows I served in Lambeth, and that I know what a black mark means.” He paused. “Don’t you?”
Someone in the Metropolitan Police, and likely someone at the Yard, trying to frighten him.
Perhaps he saw how shaken I felt, for he led me to one of the stools and gently pushed me down. “Do you know who the snitch is yet?” I asked.
“No. But at least I’m certain it isn’t William.”
I let out an uneven breath. Thank goodness he could still trust his friend, if no one else. “What makes you sure?”
“Because someone is trying to throw suspicion on him.” He leaned against the table and crossed his arms over his chest. “Yesterday afternoon, a woman came into the Yard looking for him. A rather beautiful prostitute.” He grimaced. “She told the sergeant that William owed her money for services.”
“A prostitute came to the Yard, wanting to be paid?” I asked, incredulous.
He let out a snort. “She didn’t say she was a prostitute. She claimed she had done some sewing for him—said that Mr. Crewe owed her for three pairs of pants, and he wouldn’t be welcome back in her shop until he paid up. But it was clear enough what she meant.”
“And you’re supposed to suspect that William is in debt and might be selling police information to pay what he owes her?”
“It looks that way.” He unfolded his arms and reached for a piece of cheese. “But her photograph is in one of the books we have of known prostitutes, and I know William well enough to know that there’s no way he’d betray Mary. They’re engaged, and he adores her. I said as much to several of the men, and it was passed off with a good chuckle.”
“What did William say when he heard about it?”
“He was alarmed and angry, naturally. But it gave me the opening I needed.”
“How did he take you asking?”
His smile was both rueful and relieved. “Like a friend. He understood why I asked. In fact, he thanked me for it, as you thought he might. And at least now he’s on guard.” He sighed and turned to stare at the boarded window. “I wish you could stay somewhere else, at least until this is over.”
“Oh, Matthew. Where would I stay? Besides, I don’t want to leave you here alone.”
“I know,” he said wearily. “I’m just saying I wish you didn’t have to be here.”
I swallowed. “I’ll be careful.”
He picked up Father’s revolver. “You should go back to bed. I’ll have her out before dawn. But I want to let her sleep for a few hours. She looks done in.”
“So do you,” I said. “In fact, I could stay up—”
“Please don’t argue, Nell.”
The strain in his voice made something inside my chest twist. “All right, Matthew, if that’s what you want.” I rose and gave him a kiss on the cheek, the way I used to when I was young.
Back in bed, I lay still, my nerves on edge. But after an hour of silence—broken only by the church’s chimes on the quarter hours—I climbed out and went downstairs to peer
into the study. Mrs. Kendrick was fast asleep, her feet on a footstool. Matthew lolled in a chair, the pistol across his thigh.
Silently, I wrapped myself in a blanket and kept watch for all of us, until five o’clock, when I heard the first rumble of carts across the cobbles. I woke them, then, and they were gone minutes later, out the back door, into the gloom.
Chapter 14
When Peggy arrived at half past seven, I was alone and sitting in the study. Naturally, she wanted to know both what I’d done to my ankle and what had become of her window. I told her an approximate version of all that had happened, including the reasons for Matthew’s worry, and it seemed that afterward the pots rattled around the kitchen more vehemently than usual. Shortly after nine o’clock, the glaziers arrived to measure the opening, announcing that Matthew had sent for them.
By the time they left, my exhaustion had taken hold, and I was heading upstairs to snatch a few hours of sleep when Peggy found me. “Nell?”
“Yes?” I said, stifling my yawn.
“Come with me, child,” she said abruptly, and swallowing a sigh, I followed her back to the kitchen.
“Black marks and broken windows and strange women appearing in the night! For mercy’s sake, we might as well be in Belfast, with spies all round and the bloody Catholics murthering people in their beds.” Peggy took a towel off a bowl and took out four potatoes. She pursed her mouth. “And then we have you, sneaking out at night in men’s clothes.”
It took a moment for her words to penetrate my tired brain.
She snorted. “Well, at least you’ve the decency not to deny it. Is that the truth about how you hurt your ankle?”
“How long have you known?” I managed.
“Since two Wednesdays past. I came back because I forgot my umbrella. And there you were, crossing Cork Street.” She found a knife in the drawer. “Frightened me at first.”
“Frightened you,” I repeated. “Why?”
She merely looked at me as if I were being purposefully obtuse.
“You mean, you thought I might be leaving?” I asked incredulously.
She shrugged. “I admit, it didn’t seem likely. For one thing, you warn’t carrying so much as a satchel. And for another, I remembered how you’d had those smudges under your eyes some mornings, and I guessed it warn’t just the one time. I thought on it, and figured you’d be back.”
