“As long as I get what I deserve, I don’t care,” Ebenezer said. “Specimens are harder than ever to come by, and I am one of the few men left who can fill the pockets of any resurrectionist.”
He was growing arrogant, which only made him that much more insufferable. “Unless that resurrectionist gets himself caught,” Max said.
“At which point I will transfer my business to someone else.”
“Providing he can be relied upon to keep his mouth shut about you.”
Ebenezer shrugged. “Why would he talk? He wouldn’t be held long. And, if he’s smart, he has made arrangements with the various colleges to support his family while he is imprisoned.”
Max idly turned his hat. “The desperation your fellow Englishmen feel to protect their dead is already providing you with a comfortable living.” He indicated the new furnishings in the room.
“Indeed.”
“So why press your luck by trying to renegotiate? Jack told me when he met you, you barely had two halfpennies to rub together.”
He lifted a hand. “That was then. Unless you are prepared to offer me far more than you have paid in the past, I choose to discontinue our association.”
Max was determined to make sure this man got everything he deserved—but not by paying more. He would expose him. He just couldn’t do it too soon. Neither could he lose the business this man brought Jack, not after what had happened between them this morning. He had to prove his value.
Sitting back, he removed a speck of lint from his trousers. “How much are you asking?”
“Five guineas.”
Max chuckled under his breath. “Jack will never agree to such a sum.”
“Then he can find his corpses another way.” The tea arrived, but Ebenezer told the bony servant who carried the tray to take it up to his study. He obviously believed their meeting was over—but Max wasn’t finished quite yet.
“Are you sure you want to cross Jack?”
Ebenezer had gotten up and started for the door, but at this he froze. “Cross Jack? This is a business decision.”
Max came to his feet. “You and I both know he won’t see it that way. He feels you owe him a great deal. Without him, you would never have been able to start your coffin company. But I will pass the word along that you don’t appreciate what he has done, if that is truly what you would like me to tell him.”
The undertaker’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. “This has nothing to do with appreciation.”
“I can tell.”
His expression hardened. “And so what if you tell him? He may not like it, but what can he do?”
“You can’t answer that question yourself?”
They stared at each other for several seconds before Ebenezer wet his lips and ventured, “He wouldn’t—”
“You know he would,” Max broke in. “And should it become known that your burglar-proof vaults aren’t burglar proof at all, that almost every one you have sold is actually empty—something that would be easy to prove should anyone have half a mind to dig them up and put them on display—you would be ruined.”
He seemed to be having trouble breathing. “That-that’s blackmail,” he sputtered.
Max bowed. “Blackmail. Extortion. Call it what you will.”
Such a cavalier response made him even angrier. “How dare you threaten me! That’s against the law!”
“Believe me, Jack has committed far more heinous crimes.”
“Then perhaps I shall turn him in!”
“If you do, he will only take you down with him.”
He stood there, his chest rising and falling in conjunction with the flaring of his nostrils. “It was a mistake to get involved with him, to . . . to ever trust him.”
“Yes. Just as it is a mistake for your clients to trust you,” Max said. “I will convey to Jack the good news that we can expect twice as many corpses from you in the future. I predict he will be grateful.”
“What? I said nothing about supplying you with more!”
“You agreed that business was better than ever. I said something about your fellow Englishmen providing you with a comfortable living in their efforts to protect their dead, and you said, Indeed. Why would we allow you to sell access to your ‘burglar-proof coffins’ to someone else?”
The undertaker pursed his lips so tightly that it expunged all the color from them. “How dare you . . .”
Ignoring this retort, Max moved on. “Several days ago, you mentioned you would have something for us this week, likely tonight. If that’s the case, I should get the key while I’m here. Maybe it will ease Jack’s concern over your near defection.”
Ebenezer couldn’t seem to bring himself to respond right away. But eventually he straightened his waistcoat, gave Max a curt nod and left the room.
He returned a few moments later. “It’ll be at St. Andrew’s tonight,” he said as he handed over the key.
“That’s near the cemetery we went to last time, at St. George’s?”
“Yes. Off Gray’s Inn Road.”
“Fine. You will receive your guinea as soon as we have successfully squired off the brother, sister or other loved one of your latest client.” Settling his hat on his head, Max started out as though his business was done. But now that he had Mr. Holmes alone, for the first time, he had more to say. He just had to be careful how he said it.
“By the way.” He turned back as if a new thought had occurred to him. “There is one more thing.”
“And that is . . . ?” His mouth barely moved for the stiffness of his jaw.
“This squabble over money. It didn’t come up because you have been approached by someone else with a better offer . . .”
“No,” he said quickly. “No, of course not. I was hoping to work things out with Jack all along.”
At least the man was wise enough to be somewhat diplomatic in his defeat. “Then you haven’t heard from the redheaded woman who was to marry him?”
“Marry Jack? I never heard that she and Jack were planning to marry.”
Hope caused Max’s heart to pound in his chest. “But you have met her.”
“Once. Maybe . . . two months ago? She came by with Jack but hasn’t been back since. I swear it.”
Here was someone else who had seen a redheaded woman with Jack. “Maybe we’re not talking about the same person. Did you catch her name?”
“No.”
“Are you certain? Could it have been Madeline?”
“Perhaps. I don’t remember, but”—he paused and frowned—“now that you mention it, I do believe I heard him call her Maddy.” He lowered his voice in disbelief. “Don’t tell me she has gone out on her own. A woman in the resurrection business? Without a man? Where would she get the physical strength for such work? And the nerve?”
“It’s possible she has help.”
“Still! A female body snatcher! What’s this world coming to?”
Max knew he should let it go at that. He didn’t want Holmes mentioning his query to Jack when they next spoke, but the pressure he felt to return Abigail to the college, and to find Madeline before it was too late—if it wasn’t too late already—forced him to press a little harder. “Is there any chance you might know where I can find her?”
“No. But if she contacts me, I will be sure to send word straightaway.”
“It’s a bit of a sore subject with Jack, the way she jilted him.”
“He must have been furious!”
“Indeed, so if you happen to see or hear anything about Madeline, I would appreciate you alerting me and me only. I would even pay you a few guineas for your discretion.” He would have said he’d pay handsomely. He was willing to part with just about any sum. But it would not serve him well to let Mr. Holmes know how desperate he was.
When Ebenezer narrowed his gaze, Max fe
ared he had already revealed too much.
“You aren’t planning to oust Jack, to take over the London Supply Company by joining forces with this woman?”
“No.” Max breathed a sigh of relief that the undertaker hadn’t guessed the real reason for his interest. “I am too loyal for that.”
“Loyal? In this business? That won’t get you very far. You should take control. You are the stronger leader. Think of how much more you could make.”
“Greed often leads to trouble,” he warned and left.
Abby listened for any creak, rattle or footfall, any indication at all that Jack or Tom might be hovering outside the door, hoping to find some way into the room. She knew, without being told, that they would love nothing more than to prove Max wrong in his belief that he could keep her to himself. The challenge he had created, not to mention the insult, strengthened their desire and determination. But, other than a few settling noises, she heard nothing.
Before long, she became convinced that she was in the house alone, which made her almost as frustrated as she was relieved. This would have been the perfect time to escape! If only Max or Jack hadn’t tied Borax to the tree outside her window. Even if she was willing to risk breaking her neck by climbing out, the second she dropped to the ground, she would be eaten alive. Whenever she appeared at the window, Borax stared up at her as though salivating at the thought.
She was stuck stewing and washing Max Wilder’s clothes—or what was left of them.
Preening in the mirror, she admired the simple dress she had created by disassembling one of his coats, incorporating one of his shirts and using the fabric of a cravat and a pair of his trousers for trim. If she had to continue to share a room with him, at least now she had something better to wear than her gypsy rags.
She was proud of her resourcefulness. But, in her more reflective moments, she was also frightened as to how he would react when he saw the results of her day with a needle and thread. His clothing had been better quality than the average person’s; no doubt those garments had cost him a goodly sum. But he had every other advantage the situation could offer. He could hardly begrudge her a decent change of clothes.
A noise from downstairs brought her to the door. Someone was home.
Was it Max?
She pressed her ear to the wooden panel but, unable to hear anything else, crossed over to the window to look out. She couldn’t see the courtyard from her vantage point—only the dog. By the way Borax strained against his leash, however, something was going on.
Sure enough, a second later she heard Max, Jack or Tom rummaging around.
Or was it her father? Had he finally come?
Feeling a burst of claustrophobia and desperation, she was tempted to call out, but Max’s warning about her father’s safety kept her quiet. Her father didn’t need to become embroiled in the mess she had created. It would threaten everything he loved—cost him the school and maybe even his knighthood. Max had said he would return her to the college eventually, and since he had protected her on two occasions, she was beginning to believe he would keep that promise.
The question was . . . when?
The stairs creaked as someone climbed them. Then the knob on the door to her room turned and rattled when whoever it was realized it was locked.
She pressed a hand to her chest in a futile attempt to push down the fear that sprang up. “Who is it?”
“Where’s Max?” a terse voice replied.
Jack. Fear made her skin prickle. “I haven’t seen him since he locked me in this room.”
“If you’d rather be locked in my room, all you have to do is say so. We’ll figure it out, you and I. And I’ll make damn sure you get that elephant back—that and a lot more.”
As much as she longed for her beloved keepsake, he couldn’t bribe her, not even if he offered her the moon. She would rather die than let him lay a hand on her.
Laughing softly when she didn’t answer, he said, “What if I gave you a few shillings of the money we took and that fancy bauble?”
No doubt, to a common prostitute, that would sound like a generous offer. But she prayed he would just move on down the hall. “I want to go home.”
“I could arrange for that, too, in due time. How much is it worth to you? Would you spread your legs for me first?”
Afraid he might try to bust in, she cowered against the far wall, amid all the wet laundry she had draped on the furniture. Was he serious, or just trying to harass her? “Leave me alone.”
“You haughty bitch!” he snapped. “You seem content enough to let Wilder have a go!”
If she had her guess, the fact that he believed his rival had taken liberties bothered him more than anything. He wanted to be able to compete with Max, wanted to compare favorably. But he stood no chance. As far as Abby was concerned, it didn’t matter that they were both criminals of a sort. Jack wasn’t a fraction of the man Max was. Whenever she let her mind wander, her thoughts invariably turned to Max and the comfort he had provided when she finally crawled into bed with him the night before. The more she considered him, the more she began to look forward to seeing him again—ironic, given he was partly to blame for her predicament.
“You’re taken with that pretty face of his, eh?” Jack said.
Max’s physical attributes were certainly appealing, and seemed to be growing more so the longer she was around him. “I don’t know where he is. But he should be home soon,” she said. Please let that be the case.
“He better be,” Jack responded. “Because if he doesn’t come back, there will be no more asking you nicely. I’ll lift your skirts whenever and wherever I decide.”
Feeling sick, Abigail slid down the wall. As far as she knew, her father hadn’t come looking for her as expected. She had never felt more alone, and she had felt alone for most of her life.
Where was Max? Why would Jack suggest that he might not come back? Did he know something she didn’t?
“You . . . you wouldn’t seriously hurt a member of your own gang, would you?” She hated the tremor in her voice, but she knew he would. He had already pulled a knife on Max once.
“A man like that is going to get what’s comin’ to him eventually. That’s all I’m sayin’. And maybe it’ll be sooner rather than later.” He rattled the doorknob again. “Maybe it’ll even be tonight,” he said and whistled while he walked away.
Chapter 11
Someone was following him. This time, Max felt sure. He didn’t recognize any of the faces he saw when he turned to look, but the hair stood up on the back of his neck. It was almost as if he could hear footsteps that fell in stride with his own. Every time he walked, someone else did, too.
He stopped in an alcove and waited, hoping to take whomever it was by surprise.
No one suspicious passed by.
Leaning out, he gazed down the narrow street. But it was raining and far too dark in the warrens off Whitechapel Road to distinguish one individual from the next. It could be Jack who was trailing him, or another member of the London Supply Company. Or it could be nothing more than a desperate or greedy pickpocket hoping to lift his purse.
Pulling his coat tightly closed to avoid the wet, he shoved off the grimy brick building, hurried around a small bend and ducked into a dimly lit brothel on Berners Street.
A stout woman, dressed in a red velvet, low-cut gown—the procuress, no doubt—introduced herself as Jane Davenport and offered him an eager smile. He had seen similar smiles—far more shrewd than they were meant to appear—on a hundred women or more as he combed through the seediest parts of Wapping, Covent Garden and Whitechapel.
“What can I do for you tonight?” She got up from her desk and came around to meet him. There was a sitting room to one side, where a cat lounged on a chaise next to a table bearing tea and cakes. “Would you like to start with something hot to drink?”
“No, thank you.” He preferred to get right to the point, to ask if she had seen Madeline and describe his half sister while studying her face for any hint of recognition. But if he had been followed, he dared not make his purpose so obvious lest someone from the London Supply Company question her after he left. As anxious as he was, as cognizant of the passing days and the fruitlessness of what he had accomplished so far, he could not grow careless. He had to be prudent—and not just for his own sake. Abby was at Farmer’s Landing. She was depending on him, too.
“I’m looking for a young woman.”
“Most of the men who come in here are,” she responded, batting her eyelashes. “Have we met before?”
He feared maybe they had, in his wilder days. To his parents’ dismay, he and his best friend, Ethan, hadn’t always kept the best company while they were getting an education at Cambridge, and she looked vaguely familiar. But it was important she not recognize him.
“No, I’m sure we haven’t. I’m new to Whitechapel,” he said and scowled in concentration, pretending to study the handbill posted on a sign next to her desk. This handbill gave a physical description of the prostitutes within her establishment, including each woman’s sexual specialties. It reminded him of the notorious gentleman’s guide to the current brothels and prostitutes in London—Harris’s List of Covent Garden Ladies—even though it hadn’t been published in some years, since The Proclamation Society brought the publisher up on charges in an effort to stop the dispersing of “poison” to the young and unwary. He’d barely been born when that happened, but he’d seen a copy while he was at Cambridge.
“Then let me be one of the first to welcome you and to assure you that you will receive nothing but pleasure here—all my girls are clean.”
Judging by the smell of the brothel, that was nothing Max could ever take for granted. He pitied the fools who did. But this establishment was definitely a cut above the competition, especially for these parts. He could see why so many recommended Madame Davenport’s.
She slipped her arm through his as she guided him across the room to a high-backed chair. “Here, sit. Let me get you a handbill you can study more closely.” She stepped back, making him uncomfortable again by eyeing him carefully. “Although . . . maybe I can make the decision an easy one. I have recently acquired a new girl, a virgin of only fifteen. I’m guessing a man as virile as you might enjoy the taking of such innocence, yes?”
A Matter of Grave Concern Page 11
