Murder in St. Giles

by Jennifer Ashley

  And if he did accept the challenge, I’d kill him. I was a dead shot. Stanton would die, and I’d flee ahead of the law to France or Italy.

  For that reason, I did not call him out on the spot. I was loathe to make Anne the daughter of a fugitive because of such a man as Stanton. But I would definitely kill him if we dueled.

  Stanton shook off Bartholomew’s hold. “This is not Donata’s house. It is Breckenridge’s. She ought to be living in your broken-down pile in Norfolk, or your grimy rooms in Covent Garden. Or in a brothel.”

  I punched him. Stanton’s head snapped back satisfactorily and blood streamed from his nose.

  He recovered quickly and raised his fists in a practiced pugilist’s stance. We’d all had lessons at Gentleman Jackson’s salon.

  However, I had learned, not only in my ill-spent youth and in the army, but also from Brewster, how to fight dirty. I sidestepped, and when Stanton turned to meet me, I thrust my foot behind his ankle and pushed him hard. As he flailed for balance, I laid my fist into his gut.

  As Stanton bent double, Bartholomew and Jeremy caught him and spun him around. They shoved him from the dining room, across the foyer, and to the front door. He’d obviously thrown down his hat when he’d entered the house, and Barnstable picked it up off the floor and jammed it onto Stanton’s head.

  Bartholomew and Jeremy, with two other footmen, towed him out by his elbows and dropped him to the pavement. They skimmed back inside, and Barnstable slammed the door and turned the key in the lock.

  I remained in the dining room doorway, sword in hand, my knee smarting from my acrobatics, while the staff grinned at each other for a job well done.

  “Thank you, gentlemen,” I said. “I believe a spot of ale all ’round is in order.”

  I was not so foolish as to think we’d seen the last of Stanton. He could easily have me arrested for assaulting him, and my servants even more easily for daring to touch a gentleman of the upper classes.

  I would counter by bringing him to court for forcing his way into the house, and I believed a magistrate would be sympathetic to me. The house was legally Donata’s to live in, and a man had the right to defend his home.

  For the moment, I forced myself to push Stanton from my thoughts and follow the information Bartholomew and Matthias had turned up—the young woman Finch had stayed with before he’d met his death.

  I jotted a quick missive to Grenville telling him I’d gone to question the young lady, whose existence he’d have already heard of from Matthias. I also thanked him for the story Pierce Egan had told him and invited him to join me when I spoke to Mr. Egan about it.

  When I finished and gave the note to Bartholomew to deliver, I found Brewster outside, sipping coffee he’d purchased from a vendor’s cart. He drained the cup when I emerged and returned it to the cart and climbed into the hired carriage with me.

  The rain had cleared, and the clouds were puffy white in a sky of blue—when the sky occasionally showed itself above the smoke. The air was softer, promising spring.

  All hint of spring left us as we journeyed into the rookeries. The houses shut out the sky over the narrow streets, flapping linen creating a tent to further obscure it. I had a sudden fancy that the people here lived in deep crevices far from the surface of the earth.

  The house Bartholomew had given me the direction to smelled strongly of unwashed bodies, tobacco smoke, and un-emptied chamber pots. Brewster scowled as he led the way upstairs and banged his fist on a cracked wooden door.

  I heard swearing inside, and then a large young man wrenched open the door. He was tall and perhaps twenty summers or so, and wearing only a pair of homespun breeches. He took in Brewster, halted as though thinking better of attacking, folded his arms, and glared at us.

  “What ya want?”

  Behind him I saw a flurry of movement and heard the unmistakable sound of a sash going up.

  “Oi, she’s out the window,” Brewster growled. “I’ll run her down, guv.”

  So saying, he moved past me and raced down the stairs with remarkable speed.

  This left me facing the belligerent young man. The pale skin on his bare torso reddened from the chill breeze pouring through the house. He swept his gaze over my well-kept suit and crisply shaved face, and a look of cunning entered his eyes.

  “Apologies for disturbing you.” I tipped my hat and retreated to the stairs.

  “No, ya don’t.” The man grabbed me by the shoulders. “I need somefink for me trouble.”

  For his trouble, he got my walking stick across his face and a tumble down a flight of stairs to the landing. I lost my balance in the process and kept to my feet only by clinging to the stair railing.

  The man shook himself, started to rise, fell again, and decided to remain seated. I turned my back on him and stepped into the cluttered room, which boasted a pallet on the floor and one rickety chair.

  Snatching up the coat I saw on the chair, I carried it down to the young man and dropped it onto his bare chest.

  “Are these your rooms, or hers?” I asked him.

  “Hers,” came the grudging reply.

  “But you stay in them?”

  “You her toff?” The lad turned inquiring light green eyes up to me. “I know you ain’t her dad. He’s been and gone.”

  I stared. “Her dad?”

  “That’s right. At least he said he were.”

  “And what was that man’s name?” I asked, air barely filling my lungs.

  “Finch. The old fighter. Heard of him? I ain’t.”

  “Jack Finch is your young lady’s father?” I said in amazement.

  “Aye. So he said. She didn’t deny it.” He struggled to his feet, sliding his big arms into the coat. “If you’re her toff, you already know she’s a tart. Couldn’t see your way t’ handing me a shilling, could ye? For me breakfast.”

  “Out,” I said firmly.

  I stepped past him and continued down the stairs and out of the house. From the sounds of shrieking and scrambling I tracked Brewster around the corner to a dim passage.

  No one stopped me or offered to help. Most people took no notice of the commotion, as though reluctant to become involved.

  Brewster stood at the end of a muddy lane, very little light filtering down from above. He held a squirming, kicking young woman who appeared as a bundle of skirts and flailing limbs.

  “Stop before I give ye a good thrashing,” Brewster was shouting.

  The woman’s reply was foul, screeching, and filled with fear. I reached them and planted myself in front of her to block her escape.

  “No good fighting him,” I told her, resting my weight on my walking stick. “He’s very strong, and I also believe he’s your uncle.”

  Both Brewster and the lady stopped, two pairs of eyes fixing on me in astonishment.

  The young woman recovered first. “And who are you? Me grandad?”

  “Hardly,” I said. “If Jack Finch is your father, then Brewster here is your uncle by marriage. He’s married to Finch’s sister.”

  She gaped at me then switched her accusing glare to Brewster. “That true?”

  “Finch is your dad?” Brewster asked in shock.

  “For me sins, yeah.”

  Brewster regarded her skeptically. “Who are you, and why don’t we know about ye?”

  “I’m Charlotte, ain’t I?”

  Brewster released her, but warily. Charlotte pulled a quantity of thick brown hair from her face and peered at us with light brown eyes.

  She was very young—sixteen or seventeen at most. Her clear face and slender limbs told me that, as well as a beauty that hadn’t yet been marred by lack of decent food and living in squalor.

  “Charlotte Finch?” I ventured.

  “That’s what I call meself. Why you so interested?”

  Brewster looked her up and down, ready to grab her if she tried to run. “Who’s your mum then?”

  Charlotte shrugged. “She were a whore. Dead now these three years.�
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  I saw grief in her eyes before she quickly hid it.

  “But Finch acknowledged you?” I asked.

  Her face hardened. “If ye can call it that. More like he came ’round when he needed something, mostly money or a place to stay. But yeah, he admitted I was his daughter. Sometimes brought me little toys.” She trailed off wistfully.

  The idea that Finch had been thoughtful enough to bring his daughter a wooden doll or cloth animal or some such did not fit with the brute of a criminal others had painted him.

  “Most like he stole them,” Charlotte said. “But he brought ’em, didn’t he?”

  “What’d he bring you this time?” Brewster asked. “You know he’s dead, do ye?”

  I had not intended to say this directly, wishing to discover whether Charlotte knew of the death first, but Brewster was ever straightforward.

  The effect was sharp. Charlotte stared at Brewster, her eyes rounding, and all color left her face. She swayed, and I reached to steady her.

  Charlotte threw off my hand, her breath flowing back into her.

  “Oh, God, that devil killed ’im!”

  She whirled around, her drab skirt swinging, and tried to run, but Brewster easily caught her.

  “What devil?” he demanded. “What you going on about?”

  Charlotte balled her fists, her words a hoarse shout. “The bloody bastard what sends me out of nights. Me dad beat him something terrible.”

  “Who?” I asked, my anger rising. “That pale varlet that was in your rooms?”

  “What?” Charlotte looked confused. “Naw, that’s Ned. He’s harmless, is Neddie. I mean Hobson. He has a hold of all the girls around here. Dad blacked his eye ever so fast.” Her face fell. “But ye say me dad is dead?” She struggled against Brewster’s hold. “I’ll kill him. You just let me at him.”

  “We don’t know what happened to your father,” I said quickly. “We have no idea who killed him. No witnesses or evidence.”

  “Ye don’t need witnesses or evidence! Ye shake Hobson until he tells ye what he did. Then ye drag him to the gallows, and the girls of St. Giles will sing your praises.”

  “Where can we find this Hobson?” I asked. The idea of pounding on the man who forced young women to sell themselves appealed to me.

  Brewster was shaking his head no, but Charlotte said, “In Hart Street, just ’round the corner. Come on, I’ll show ye.”

  Chapter 14

  Charlotte yanked herself from Brewster and ran down the lane, the holes in the bottoms of her slippers flashing.

  Brewster started after her, and I brought up the rear, my pace slower. I caught up to them when they’d reached a house whose mortar was green with mold and fungus, the wooden trim rotted and splintering.

  Charlotte slapped open the door and charged inside, Brewster a step behind her.

  By the time I reached the stairs in the house and began to climb them, Brewster had managed to get in front of Charlotte. He broke open a door above me.

  I heard a woman scream and a man curse, much as when we’d come to Charlotte’s lodgings. I reached the top of the stairs and caught Charlotte’s wrist in a firm hand.

  “Let him,” I said as she tried to jerk away. “He’s an expert.”

  A very young woman with a long fall of blond hair held a sheet to her naked body and screamed loud enough to shatter glass as Brewster hauled a man with a bruised face up by the throat. The fellow’s bare body dangled as he clawed at Brewster’s fingers.

  A knife flashed in the man’s hand—probably he’d dragged it out from under his pillow while Brewster was barreling inside. I cried a warning as he swung the blade at Brewster’s ribs, but Brewster already knew. He caught the hand in his great fist, and I heard the sound of bones crunching.

  The man wailed. The woman rushed at Brewster, but Charlotte wrested herself away from me and grabbed the woman in a competent wrestling hold.

  I looked to Brewster, ready to aid him, but I saw it wouldn’t be necessary. Brewster released Hobson, who fell back to the bed, cradling his hand and trying not to weep.

  “You killed me dad!” Charlotte yelled at him from where she still held the woman. “Ye rotten bastard, ye killed me dad!”

  Hobson rocked back and forth. He was a fleshy man, and the sight of him without a stitch was not pleasant.

  “Shut your gob, girl,” he snuffled. “I never did.”

  Brewster raised his fist to hit him again, but I waved him off. “You obviously know who her dad is,” I said to Hobson. “And that he is dead. Tell me how you know.”

  “You Runners?” Hobson eyed us dubiously. “I ain’t talking to no magistrate. I ain’t done nothing.”

  “Except exploited girls younger than my daughter and forced them into prostitution,” I said in a hard voice. “Being no better than a madam is a crime.”

  Hobson glared at me with bloodshot eyes. “You a solicitor? Drumming up business for your barrister?”

  I leaned closer, trying not to flinch at his foul breath. “I’m a man who likes punishing men who hurt ladies. Tell me all you know about Jack Finch.”

  “He be dead,” Hobson said.

  Charlotte screamed between her teeth. “I told ya. He killed ’im.”

  “I never did,” Hobson spluttered. “Found him like that, didn’t I? I never knew Finchie were her dad.”

  “You had better explain,” I said. “Or I will take you to a magistrate.”

  Hobson spluttered a sob, holding his useless hand. “I caught him at Charlotte’s. I went at him, thinking he was sampling without paying, and he gave me this.” Hobson pointed to a black bruise on his temple that spread below his eye. “Finchie laughs at me, tells me to give him any blunt I made off Charlotte. I said I didn’t have it on me, and he says he’ll come back tomorrow, and off he goes. Next morning, I see him being carried into a house down the lane and left there. I thought he were drunk—didn’t see who was the man what dragged him. I go in to tell him I ain’t sharing the spoils of my business, don’t matter he’s Charlotte’s family. I picked the lock easy enough and find him on the floor. Cold and dead.”

  “Liar!” Charlotte yelled. “When he came here, you turned tail and ran off to get the money then and there. You were going to give him all your blunt. You weren’t brave enough to stand up to him.”

  “Already dead?” I asked, making my voice loud enough to break through Charlotte’s railing. “Are you certain?”

  “He weren’t breathing and he had a knife stuck into him,” Hobson said. “Face were gray, eyes staring. Dead as a fish.”

  “And what did you do?”

  “Legged it, didn’t I? I wasn’t going to be found with a man’s dead body. I shut the door, locked it again, and ran off.”

  “Did you take the knife?”

  “What you think I am, a fool? There’s a dead body and I’m carrying around the bloody knife what killed him? I’d be swinging for the murder by Monday.”

  “What did the knife look like?” I asked.

  “A knife. What’d you think?”

  Brewster shook Hobson, just hard enough to jostle the man’s broken hand and make him cry out again.

  “Answer the man,” he commanded.

  Hobson shrugged, trembling. “Ordinary knife. What blokes brought back from the war. Hilt about as long as me hand. Leather-wrapped handle. Blade about an inch wide.”

  He knew much about it to have left it. I highly suspected he’d stolen the thing, but by now he might have sold it, and unless it was still covered with Finch’s blood, it wouldn’t tell us much. A good many men discharged from the army with nowhere to go ended up in London’s slums. There must be a number of men in St. Giles and Seven Dials who owned such a knife.

  “Did you know Finch?” I continued. “I mean, before you saw him in Charlotte’s rooms?”

  “Yeah, I knew ’im. Not well, thank the Lord. Didn’t cross him, if you were smart. I hadn’t seen him in years, and I’m glad he’s dead now.”

 
; “He’s me dad.” Charlotte thrust the woman away from her and lunged for Hobson. “Don’t you say you’re glad he’s dead. Coward. Bastard.”

  She spat at him before Brewster caught her around the waist and lifted her away. The other young woman collapsed to the floor, pulling the sheet around herself and weeping.

  “None of that,” Brewster snapped at Charlotte. “You go on home. I’ll speak to Mr. Hobson.”

  “Are you going to kill him?” She asked with terrible eagerness.

  “Haven’t decided.” Brewster set Charlotte on her feet. “Let the captain see you home.”

  I held out my hand. “Best come with me.”

  Charlotte looked from Brewster to me and finally deigned to clasp my arm.

  “You shall escort me, sir,” Charlotte said with false hauteur. She squeezed my elbow. “You’re a fine one, ain’t ya?”

  “None of that,” I said sternly.

  I took her out and down the stairs. Behind us we heard Hobson cry out again, and Charlotte laughed, a vicious sound.

  Then she sobered. “It don’t matter if Hobson gets roughed up. He’ll just beat the joy out of me when he feels better.”

  “Possibly not,” I said. “I believe Mr. Brewster is explaining that you are now under his protection.”

  “I don’t want to be under any man’s protection,” Charlotte growled. “Why don’t you all just leave me alone?”

  She made to jerk away from me, but I pressed her hand, holding her gently in place. She was little more than a child, fine-boned and delicate, though I knew that if she’d been a daughter of the ton, she’d likely be wed by now.

  “It is not the way of the world,” I said. “A young lady needs a strong protector, be he husband or brother, father or uncle. The world is unkind to young women on their own.”

  “The world be blowed,” Charlotte said decidedly. “But I know you’re right. Me dad were a bad man, yeah, but he were me dad.”

  I had no answer for her. When we reached her doorstep, the young man called Ned, dressed now in a tattered linen shirt and frock coat too small for him, came loping out of the shadows. “You all right lass? Where’s the big man?”