Lay Down Your Hand

by Cherie Mitchell

  Lay Down Your Hand

  The Cinder Chronicles Book 1

  By Cherie Mitchell

  Lay Down Your Hand by Cherie Mitchell 2019 © All Rights Reserved

  Note From The Author

  I have had this trilogy on the backburner for some time and it’s finally reached the top of my-do pile. I fell in love with the cover for this book from the first moment I saw it, and I immediately wanted to sit down and write the story that lay behind the man I’ve named Elliot Cinder.

  Lay Down Your Hand is the first book in the three-book gas lamp fantasy / time travel series under the tagline of The Cinder Chronicles. I hope you enjoy it!

  Due to the location and plot of the story, this particular book is written in British English.

  Happy reading,

  Cherie

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter One

  London, September 1888

  There was someone following him, he was certain of it. Elliot Cinder did not break his stride as he cranked his already alert senses up yet another apprehensive notch. Any man, whether he be a rogue or a gentleman, needed to keep his wits about him when he walked the narrow streets and laneways of Whitechapel after dark.

  A shadowy figure stepped out in front of him and a dirty, hooked hand made a grab for his coat sleeves. “A shilling, sir. Only a shilling for a moment of pleasure.” He hurriedly shook the hag’s hand off and she melted back into the shadows as if she had never been. He kept walking, cursing the woman for the interruption as he strained his ears to listen. Was the echo of hobnail boots on the cobblestones the sound of his own feet or was it the footfall of whoever had determinedly trailed him since he left the house of his good friend Robert Hepworth?

  He reached the next small intersection and paused to listen again. His well-primed ears caught the faint sound of a whistle, a simple melody that undulated through the up-and-down notes of a popular tune. He stepped into the puddle of light beneath a gas-fired street lamp and waited as one of the Whitechapel bobbies turned the corner, whistling jauntily and swinging his lantern as if he hadn’t a care in the world.

  “Evening.” Elliot tipped his hat politely as the man stopped in front of him and eyed him with fierce suspicion.

  “Where are you off to at this hour of the night?”

  “I’ve been visiting a friend, sir. I’m on my way home.” Elliot strained his ears again, listening for the pound of hurrying feet, but there was no longer any sound from behind him.

  “Where’s home?” the man growled, finding no need to offer pleasantries or unnecessary courtesy. The bald light of the street lamp revealed the deep, tell-tale craters of smallpox in the man’s face, although he’d tried to hide the worst of them behind the expansive spread of his coarse whiskers.

  “Spitalfields, sir.” The stench of urine and faeces, both horse and human, was excruciatingly strong here. Elliot automatically pinched his nostrils together through force of habit and breathed through his mouth.

  The bobby lifted his lantern, master of the small, golden beam of light that chased the shadows away, and pointed it at the street ahead to show Elliot the way. “Get on with you then. There’s no need for anyone to dally in this area after midnight. Not in these treacherous times.”

  Elliot gave the policeman a terse smile and hurried away. He didn’t need reminding that the East End was a dangerous place and he’d be as happy as the next man once he was safely tucked up in his bed in his cramped tenement room. If he picked up his stride, he’d be home in less than ten minutes and soon after that, he could be happily dreaming of his lovely Annie. Annie Jones was the reason he was out so late tonight, seeking a favour from his friend in the hopes of borrowing enough money to buy his sweetheart a small engagement gift.

  Annie was a slender, elfin-faced girl with wide, aqua blue eyes of the sort that made him want to scoop her up into his arms and never let her go whenever she turned that solemn and beguiling gaze upon him. She was twenty-years-old and she worked a ten-hour day as a match girl at the Bryant & May match factory in Bow. She’d taken part in the big factory strike back in July and someone from the London Daily Post had snapped a photo of Annie and her friends. Elliot had never seen the photo but every day he stopped and asked the boy selling newspapers to show him the front page. He wanted to make sure he never missed seeing it if it was ever printed and he still held fond hopes that one day he would find it somewhere. He could understand why a photographer would want to take a picture of his beautiful Annie and it was one of his dearest wishes to find the image so he could tuck it into the lining of his overcoat and keep it close to his heart forever.

  As Elliot strode across the next street, he heard a sudden shout and the sound of running feet, causing him to break into a run himself. A simple chimney sweep had no business getting himself involved in circumstances that didn’t concern him. He ducked into a side alley, jumping across the legs of a drunkard laying sprawled across the cobblestones, and kept running. These streets were a labyrinth, impossible to navigate unless a person knew his way around, but Elliot had no doubts when it came to his own sense of direction. This route would take him via the docks, an area he generally avoided once the sun went down, but if he kept his speed up it was unlikely that anyone could catch him. Sweeping chimneys kept him lithe and fit, although he doubted that all that soot and grime was good for his lungs.

  Elliot didn’t intend to remain in the role of a humble chimney sweep forever. As he’d often said to Annie, as soon as they were married he was going to find a way to move them to the country where they would live amidst green fields and frolicking lambs while they raised their clutch of pink-cheeked children. Annie would always giggle and push at his arm when he said that, but her reaction only encouraged him to make up wilder and more extravagant stories. He loved her even more when she laughed, when her slim shoulders shook with mirth and her eyes sparkled as if stars from the heavens above had found their home within her gaze.

  He slowed to a jog and skirted around the edge of the docks, alert for any strange sounds. The clouds that lay across the moon parted for a few seconds, lighting his way, and he made the most of it. He jumped over a low fence, rolled under the broken section of an old wooden bridge, most of which had rotted away long ago, and doubled back on himself to turn towards Spitalfields. Ten minutes later, he hurried down Goulston Street where the slum housing pressed up close and formidable against the kerbing. It wasn’t the best of areas but his tiny room was dry and relatively draught-free, which was better than could be said for most of the rooms here.

  A cat ran across the cobbles in front of him, startling him into a clumsy stumble and seconds later,
he heard the high-pitched squeal of its terrified prey. This area was rife with mice and rats, many of them larger than the cats and dogs that hunted them. Other vermin slithered through these dark streets too, vermin that walked on two legs and preyed on the weak and the innocent. He righted himself and continued on his way, acutely aware of the menaces that lurked and crawled in the shadows.

  The talk on the streets of late centred on the man that people called the Whitechapel Murderer. Two ill-fated and miserable ladies of the night had recently died grisly deaths at the violent hands of a man who was either a butcher or a monster, if not both. Elliot had warned Annie not to leave her parent’s tenement after the sun disappeared behind the grimy rooftops of London town. A modest woman would never venture out on her own at night anyway, and Annie’s modesty and virtue were sound. He smiled now as he imagined her face when he presented her with her gift, a plain betrothal band that he would buy on the morrow with the money Robert had loaned him. Of course she knew he wanted to marry her, but knowing it and hearing the words were two very different things. It was a man’s responsibility to lay down his intentions in a clear and true manner.

  He’d reached the door to his lodgings now and with one final dubious look behind him, he hurried up the rickety stairs to his room. The building was ripe with the smell of damp clothes, burnt cabbage soup, and human waste but he scarcely noticed the odours these days. Home was home and a man soon grew used to the stench of his own stomping ground.

  Elliot’s room was barely big enough to swing a ginger cat by the tail, as he would sometimes say to the urchins down on the street when they pulled at his coat tails and begged him to tell them a story. There was just enough room for his bed and his tools of trade but it wasn’t as if he spent much time here anyway, except when he was sleeping. He was a sociable man, fond of the entertainments provided by song and dance, and he preferred to put himself in places where people gathered rather than keep to himself.

  He sat down on his narrow cot and untied his boots. Tomorrow he would see his beloved Annie and everything would be right with his world. He reached under the thin mattress to take out his well-loved pack of playing cards and then he settled down for a quick game of solitaire while he waited for drowsiness to overtake him.

  Chapter Two

  Elliot grinned as he tucked the payment into the pocket of his woollen trousers. He’d learned at an early age that his grin brought a smile to the eyes and a blush to the cheeks of women both young and old and he made sure to use that talent to his advantage whenever the opportunity presented itself. Impertinent glances from the bolder women told him they liked the way he looked with his lean build, watchful eyes, narrow but never gaunt cheeks, and well-trimmed beard. “Thank you kindly, ma’am.”

  The woman, a blousy housewife with mousy, stringy hair pulled back into a tight bun and a grubby-faced toddler clinging to her skirts, hesitated for only a moment before offering more. “I have a loaf of bread out the back. I can spare a crust.”

  “And I’ll take you up on your very kind offer. Thank you again.” Elliot also knew that women appreciated manners in a man and for this reason, he always made sure he added pleases and thank yous to his conversations with the fairer sex.

  She beamed, giving him a prime view of her missing front teeth, before disappearing back inside to fetch his unexpected meal. It was nearly three in the afternoon and he usually skipped midday meals, and morning meals too on most days. He preferred to save his appetite and his pennies for dinner. Three meals a day were for the toffs, those haughty men with fat bellies and shiny trousers who were able to afford to plump out their guts with rich foods and fine liquor.

  He chewed on the crust, a generously yeasty morsel, as he made his way back to Spitalfields. He planned to leave his work tools there, wash his face and hands at the communal pump on the corner, and then make his way across to Bow to meet Annie when she clocked off from her shift at the match factory. He slipped down the laneways and alleys, each of them as familiar to him as the lines on his own palms, with his brushes slung over his shoulder and a spring in his step. If a man needed only the love of a good woman to be happy, then Elliot Cinder was surely the happiest man in all of London town.

  He stopped to speak to the smut-nosed urchin selling newspapers on the corner. “Hey boy. Is there a photo of my darling girl on the front page today?”

  “I don’t think you’d want to see her there today, mister.” The child sniffed throatily and flipped the top newspaper around so Elliot could see the headline. TRAGEDY IN WHITECHAPEL. MURDERER CLAIMS ANOTHER VICTIM. Beneath the glaring headline was an ink etching of a woman lying prone on the cobblestones while two bobbies bent over her.

  “Another lady dead,” the boy said conversationally, as his grubby finger found its way into his nostril. “She were stabbed 39 times.”

  Feeling uneasy, Elliot turned away without a word. He would warn Annie again when he saw her that she needed to do what she could to keep herself safe. There was a madman prowling the streets of London and until he was caught, all lone women remained under threat regardless of their lifestyle, status, or profession. He would marry her today if he could and carry her away, to make sure he could watch over her and protect her from scoundrels who wished to do her harm.

  By the time Elliot set off toward Bow, the sun was setting behind the chimney pots and the grey light of evening had begun to descend. He’d dallied longer than he’d meant to and he should have been on his way long before now. He quickened his step, aware that Annie would worry if he wasn’t there to meet her. She walked home with her friends most days but every Tuesday and every Friday evening he was there, waiting outside the factory gates to stroll slowly through the streets with her. They took their time walking home on Tuesdays and Fridays, savouring their time together before they reached the cramped rooms she shared with her parents and younger siblings. Elliot would join the family for dinner on these nights and then at 8.30pm, as the younger children prepared for bed, Annie would walk with him downstairs to say goodnight. This was his favorite part of the evening, those few precious minutes when the world seemed to belong only to them as they huddled together in the dark alcove at the base of the stairs. Not that anything untoward ever happened down there of course, but Annie’s nearness as she whispered her lengthy goodbyes came with unspoken promises of the delights that awaited them once they were finally married.

  He was about to step out onto the street when a man’s loud and urgent shouts caught his attention. He looked up to see a runaway horse, it’s eyes wild with fear as the carriage bounced and jostled behind it, pounding on frenzied hooves down the rutted street. A young woman with a tattered shawl over her shoulders and a babe in her arms appeared paralysed, frozen to the spot and unable to move from the middle of the thoroughfare as the uncontrolled horse bore down on her.

  “Watch out!” Elliot launched himself at the woman, tackling her around the waist and pulling her down on top of him as he rolled them out of the way of the flailing hooves and rumbling carriage wheels. The woman gasped but made no other sound as the horse and carriage clattered away and careened around the corner.

  In the silence that followed, Elliot gently eased the woman’s slight form to one side, enabling him to wriggle out from beneath her. The baby, probably no more than a few months’ old, regarded him gravely from within it’s nest of blankets. The infant had a small graze on one cheek, the injury not deep or jagged enough to draw blood, but otherwise the child seemed unharmed. “Are you alright, ma’am?”

  The woman stared at him without speaking. She was very young, probably younger than Annie was, and the pale skin of her face was ingrained with the tell-tale dirt and filth of the lower classes. Elliot pushed himself to his feet and held out his hand. “Up you get. You’re not doing anyone any good while you’re lying down there in the muck.”

  She blinked stupidly at his outstretched hand before finally allowing him to assist her to her feet. She muttered her thanks with downcast eyes
before bundling her baby close to her chest and hurrying away into the growing twilight. Elliot watched her go until she was out of sight before dusting himself off, his senses reeling. He’d once lived through another episode almost exactly like this, although that incident had ended in horrific tragedy. He took several minutes to compose himself, leaning up against a nearby lamppost as he steadied his breathing and pushed aside a rush of painful memories. He left the scene on unsteady legs, grateful that he’d been here at the right moment to save the woman and her child but saddened all over again by other chances that he’d lost in the past. The interlude had used up more of his precious time but Annie would wait for him. She knew he was coming and she would wait.

  Elliot finally turned into the street where the factory was located, searching the faces of the remaining few scurrying women for the dear and familiar features of Annie. He’d never come this late before and the streets and laneways were dark, save for the odd patch of weak and watery light thrown by the spindly and sparse street lamps that dotted this portion of town. Elliot shivered in the evening chill, wishing he’d remembered to bring his mittens. He’d give Annie his coat if she needed it to stave off the cold. He should never have left her waiting here this long.

  He passed the last small group of straggling women and reached the factory gates, only to see the gloomy night watchman looping the chain of his padlock through the bars. There was no sign of Annie. “Hey! I’m looking for a young lady.”

  The man snorted as he clicked the padlock into place. “Take your pick. The last of them have just left but if you hurry you might be in luck.” He turned away, making it clear he was uninterested in engaging in any further conversation.

  “Wait!” Elliot gripped the bars and shouted through them at the man’s uncaring back. “She always waits for me here.”