by Erica Monroe
“The French looms, as if it wasn’t enough the Frog tried to invade our country.” Whiting sniffed. “How quickly people forget these things when money is to be involved.”
How quickly we forget the idea of justice when money is to be involved, Thaddeus should have said. Instead, Thaddeus stared blankly at Whiting, who held in his stupid, bloated hands the fate of far too many poor men and women in this district.
Whiting was a cancer, eating away at a system that had been meant to instill faith. Every day, Thaddeus saw people shivering in the doorways of their rundown tenement houses, barefoot and desperate in the streets, drunk off the penny drams sold in the gin palaces.
Those people had no one else to fight for them, and Thaddeus would rather be damned than give up on them. If that made him foolish and egotistical, so be it.
“That money’s coming from somewhere,” Thaddeus insisted.
Whiting let out a much-harassed sigh. “The Larkers have money, Knight. Maybe he’s funding the factory from his pocket.”
“You know as well as I do that people don’t run factories because they care for the workers. If there’s no profit, why is the factory still in business?” Thaddeus asked. “I want this case. I’ll work it in addition to my regular shifts. I’ll take those meetings you wanted me to with Superintendent Thomas. I’ll tell him it was your planning that set me up to get Trigger Jem.”
A calculating gleam shined in Whiting’s eyes. “If you’re willing to speak to Thomas, then I think we can get the younger Strickland to look into your route.”
Thaddeus winced. Michael Strickland was not only his competition for the inspector spot, but he was a rash imbecile. Strickland’s lone good trait was that he was less of an arse than his father—Claudius Strickland had arrested Daniel O’Reilly three years ago for a murder Jasper Finn had committed.
Finn couldn’t hurt anyone again. He’d hung in a widely attended execution that hearkened back to the days of Tyburn.
Yet there were still villains out there. If Strickland was what he had to endure to find Miss Moseley’s murderers, then Thaddeus would deal with Strickland.
He nodded.
“Very good,” Whiting agreed. “Two weeks.”
“That’s not enough time.” Thaddeus pointed to the beleaguered file on Whiting’s desk. “I believe there’s more at stake here than the girl’s death. I outlined some of my conclusions—”
“Fourteen days,” Whiting stated firmly. “Fourteen days and then you’re done. No more of this nonsense. You’ll do as I tell you, Knight, or so help me God, I’ll have you removed, genius or not.”
Fourteen days. A day for every year of the girl’s too-short life.
The Larker Textile Factory was not anything special. It was like everything else in Spitalfields, once beautiful but now moldering. The majority of the factory workers had seen their fortunes dwindle, as new machinery and the repeal of the weaving acts outlawing foreign imports made the hand loom weavers irrelevant.
Poppaea “Poppy” O’Reilly was neither Protestant nor French; nevertheless, she felt a kinship with the Huguenot weavers. Like them, she had come to London expecting to find sanctuary. An escape from her wicked past.
This April evening, a bell tolled portentously throughout the factory. Poppy glanced over toward the clock hanging on the wall. It was a quarter past five—there was no way the closing bell should have been ringing. The Larkers cared little for the diatribes of reformers. If they could force their workers to stay after the designated twelve-hour shift, they would.
“Come along, before they change their minds!” Abigail Vautille cried, skidding by. Her light blue dress was creased from where she’d been sitting at a loom all day, dust lining the hem, but no amount of dirt and grime could take away from Abigail’s beauty.
At nineteen, Abigail was the same age as Poppy. With almond-shaped blue eyes and a small nose, Abigail was everything that was fresh-faced and innocent.
Poppy was used and tarnished.
Abigail’s younger sister, Bess, trailed behind her. Bess offered her hand to Poppy shyly, a dingy ginger curl falling across her eye. Beige, ocher, and blue threads tangled with her unruly hair. Children as young as six quilled silk until their small hands were blistered and bleeding.
Leading Bess by the hand, Poppy kept walking through the factory. Abigail followed behind them.
“Why do you think they’re letting us go so early?” Abigail asked, careful to keep her voice low lest the Larkers overhear her.
Boz Larker’s office door was closed. It’d been closed since four that afternoon, though little sound carried from the office when the looms were in motion. Larker closed the door when he didn’t want the workers to know who was visiting him.
Poppy nibbled on her bottom lip. “I don’t know.”
Bess peeked up at her. One look at Bess was enough to convince Poppy that she was doing the right thing. She might not be able to save Bess from a hard life, but devil take it, she’d sell her body before she allowed her own daughter to work in one of these factories. Every shift brought money home to support Moira.
“Let’s not question their generosity, shall we?” Poppy quickened her pace, and Bess trotted after her.
Abigail nodded, lifting her skirts up so that she’d not trip on them as she walked. Though Poppy was shorter than her, Abigail’s strides were never regular. As a child, Abigail had worked as a piecer, sliding underneath the machinery and resting on her right side to mend the broken threads. Her right knee bent inward, giving her an awkward, almost waddling walk, but if she was careful, she could move at an almost parallel speed to Poppy.
They fell into step with the rest of the workers. What had once been an orderly line at the first toll of the bell had quickly descended into a mob. No one wanted to be present should the Larkers change their minds about the early exodus. Poppy kept one hand on her lantern and the other on Bess, shielding her as people pushed to and fro in their attempts to fit through the slim doorway. Abigail stumbled as a man slammed into her but caught herself on an iron stand used to hold gingham bags, scrapers, and netting.
Finally, it was their turn to leave.
Cool, crisp air washed over Poppy’s face as they stepped outside. She let out a deep breath, readjusting to the new smells of the outdoors. The factory was all iron and rust, silk and fibers, but here in the open the scents varied. Down the street someone was baking bread, while the odor of juniper lay finely over everything from the several open dram palaces.
She could place gin within a five-meter radius, thanks to her brother, Daniel.
The first traces of nightfall had descended over Spitalfields. Poppy stopped for a moment to allow Abigail to catch her breath and lit the lantern with a lucifer match. She leaned back against the wall. As soon as the crumbling brick side met with the thin cotton of her dress, she sprung forward as if stung.
Not more than a week ago, Anna Moseley had been found against this wall, beaten and stabbed. Some fool Peeler had lifted her up from the spot, probably worsening her injuries.
The Met didn’t give a whit about Anna’s death. They hadn’t cared when they arrested Daniel for a murder he didn’t commit. He’d been in the wrong place at the wrong time, a victim of circumstances. The bloody Peelers didn’t care about victims.
But Poppy cared, damn it, and Anna had been a good person. A sweet girl with her whole life ahead of her.
“I miss her too,” Abigail remarked.
Poppy sighed. “It isn’t fair.”
Bess blinked. She looked from Poppy to her sister and back again, her brows furrowing with consternation.
Pulling Bess to her, Abigail covered the girl’s ears with her hands. “There’s no sign that the Larkers had anything to do with Anna’s murder,” she whispered.
“And no sign that they didn’t,” Poppy murmured.
“You could go somewhere else,” Abigail suggested, unclasping Bess’ ears. “The way you fix up the clothes you find in the rag and bone sh
ops...I’d be lucky to ever be half as good, and I’ve been at this my whole life. You could easily make twice as much in the pretty shops on Bond Street.”
“No.” Poppy shook her head. She didn’t tell Abigail she’d worked as a dressmaker’s assistant until she’d been dismissed from that post. She didn’t tell Abigail anything that remotely resembled the truth because she knew better.
Some lies had to be upheld.
“Besides, what would you do without me?” Poppy forced a grin. Abigail meant well.
“Oh, I’d moan and groan, but I’d muddle through,” Abigail smiled back.
They continued walking. The street was empty. It was too early for the gin crowd. The rest of Spitalfields was either at work in another one of the factories, sitting down to supper with their family, or sleeping off last night’s bout.
“What are you going to do with the extra blunt you earned from weaving the most silk in a week?” Abigail asked.
“I haven’t thought about it.” Another lie, for Poppy knew exactly what she’d do with the bonus: it would go in the fund for Moira to attend a finishing school someday.
“You must have a plan,” Abigail teased. “I’d buy more books, of course. I finished The Italian last night. Thank you for loaning it to me.”
“You’re welcome.” Poppy smoothed her skirt with aching fingers, tingling from too many hours spent at the loom. “I suppose Moira would like some fruit.”
“Fruit?” Abigail repeated, her button nose wrinkling. “Ack. You’re so practical. I long for adventure, something scandalous.”
Poppy had been scandalous once, and she’d paid the price.
“Eventually, of course, I’d like to marry,” Abigail continued. “It seems lovely to be married.”
“It was lovely,” Poppy lied. Wincing, Abigail reached for Poppy’s hand, covering it with her own. “I’m sorry, love, how insensitive of me. Rambling on about my problems when the loss of your Robert is still fresh with you.”
Abigail’s soft blue eyes shone with sympathy for the supposed demise of a man she thought had meant the world to Poppy. If Abigail knew that the picture of her supposed husband Poppy carried with her had been purchased at a pawn shop, would she still feel such pains of sadness for her friend? Unlikely. So, the fictional Lieutenant Robert Corrigan, of His Majesty’s Royal Navy, must remain Moira’s purported father.
Abigail stopped in front of a public house on Wheeler Street. In a few hours, this area would be alive with music, scoundrels, and the fancy crowd back from the most recent mill. She held the door open for Bess. The little girl darted inside, waiting by the bar for Abigail to enter.
Abigail turned back to Poppy. “Join us? After I drop off Bess back home, I’m going to the Ten Bells. I heard there’s a band tonight.”
“Afraid not.” Poppy shook her head. “Must be getting back to Moira.” The last rays from the sun were disappearing quickly. She’d have an hour or two after Moira ate dinner before the babe needed to sleep.
“See you tomorrow,” Abigail called.
Poppy moved away from the public house, eager to get home. Daniel and his wife, Kate, had agreed to watch Moira. Poppy’s companion, Edna Daubenmire, was out running errands.
The lamps faded at this point, giving way to the barely lit crevices of back alleys and battered-window tenement houses. Staying close to the public houses would give her enough light to see by on her way home, provided she didn’t dally any longer. She had memorized which roads she should avoid at what times, taking a different way out in the morning than she did when returning in the evening. Poppy carried a knife and a pair of scissors in her apron pocket, just in case.
She set off, her pace swift and determined.
Footsteps echoed behind her.
She spun around to confront the person, the lantern high in her grasp. In the shadows, the tall, lanky build of the man was visible, a square hat atop his head.
“Wot ye want?” she snapped, dropping her voice into the cutting dialect of the East End like Kate had taught her.
The man came closer, the lamp’s glow hitting him. Clothed in a blue uniform, a regulation truncheon at his side, that damn hat—he was a Peeler, if she ever saw one.
Bollocks and the balls that came with them.
Poppy had three core beliefs: protect family, be loyal, and avoid officers of the law at all costs.
“Scurry on now, guv, I don’t be wantin’ your type,” she commanded, gesturing toward the other end of the street. “Ain’t nothin’ ’ere for ye to see.”
The man’s eyes narrowed, and all too quickly Poppy realized she’d overplayed her hand. He’d think her a whore, angling for paying bedfellows.
She shook her head quickly, a stray red curl slipping free from underneath her cap at the franticness of the motion. “Oy, I got a family to tend to, and I ain’t done nothin’ wrong.”
“Steady, Miss,” he cautioned, one brow quirking with amusement.
He thought her amusing. The wretched man, accosting her on the street.
She steeled herself, gripping the lantern tightly. “Mrs.”
He nodded stiffly. “My apologies.”
She sniffed. Let him believe she had a man at home to protect her, if it meant he’d leave her alone faster. While she’d delivered a stirring performance of guttersnipe worthy of Covent Garden, there was a flash in the officer’s eyes that left her distinctly unsettled.
As if he knew something about her that he shouldn’t.
“You came from the factory,” he stated. His voice was smooth, baritone, striking at something within her that shouldn’t have resonated.
“So, wot if I did?” She didn’t have to feign the agitation in her voice. Her free hand fell to her hip. “Is that a crime now, guv? I’m an ’onest one.”
She had been honest, once.
“I doubt that,” the man replied. “But I’m unconcerned about your true vocation. I care more about the girl who was murdered at the Larker factory last week.”
Anna. Poppy swallowed down her discomfort. An investigation into Anna’s death was highly unlikely. No piggish Peeler cared for a simple fourteen-year-old girl who couldn’t read or write. He must have another reason for stopping her, and it couldn’t be a good one.
Poppy’s stomach tightened. He’d want to know more about her. Atlas had given her a false history strong enough to hold up to casual observance, but under careful examination...
She couldn’t risk this Peeler finding out and revealing Moira’s true parentage.
“I don’t know anythin’ about that, and even if I did, I wouldn’t be tellin’ ye,” Poppy declared. “Go on yer merry way, ye bleedin’ blighter. My babe calls.”
2
Thaddeus had stood outside the factory as it closed. The workers streamed out in clumps, men conversing with women in boisterous tones. Children skipped down the path, singing at the tops of their lungs. He scanned the crowd, cataloging each worker in his mind as someone he might speak to later.
Then he saw her.
A woman with fiery red hair, creamy pale skin and green eyes that shimmered as she laughed. She’d stopped at a public house on the corner of Wheeler and White Lion Street.
He didn’t know why out of all the people he was drawn to this particular woman, but he felt it in his gut, and he’d learned to trust his instincts. While he believed that the wisest decisions came from thorough introspection, in patrolling there wasn’t often time for such deep thought. When it came to solving crimes, he was certain of his own prowess.
Women were another matter entirely.
Women were baffling, especially when they lobbed barbs at him in stilted Cockney that reminded him of a cross between an off-tune fiddle and a street hawker. From the way she spoke, he’d originally guessed she was a prostitute, born and bred in the heart of the rookeries. They were somewhat close to the market on Crispin Street, a popular hunting ground for lightskirts.
But he doubted a prostitute would insist on being referred to as
a married woman.
“You say you didn’t know the girl who died, but your posture stiffened when I mentioned the murder,” he observed. “‘Blighter’ though I may be, I’m not a liar, madam. I’ve no concern over what you do for your blunt, but I do care about Anna Moseley.”
She flinched at his words. He found that peculiar, for he hadn’t said anything that should have invoked fear.
As quickly as she had pulled back from him, she recovered, fixing him with a lethal glare. “Are ye calling me a liar?”
“Your accent is slipping. Judging from your prior speech rhythms, you should have asked me if I was callin’ you a liar.” With a wave of his hand, he rocked back on his feet. “Oh, don’t misunderstand me, I quite like the improvements. Too often in these parts, one finds our sovereign language brutally maligned.”
“I don’t know wot ye yammer on ’bout.” She’d slipped back into grating speech. “Yer a bit of a bounder, aren’t ye? Thinkin’ ye know everythin’?”
He nodded. “It is not the first time that claim has been made.”
In this case, however, he knew he was correct: whoever she was, she wasn’t originally from Spitalfields. Her words were too crisp. Real speech had slips and stops, a casual flow.
“Then ye best take ’eed,” she cautioned solemnly.
Under the weight of her stare, he attempted to transform his chortle into another misplaced cough and failed miserably. She stood across from him, chin raised, brandishing her lantern as though it was a more effective weapon than his own truncheon. Her chin was not overly sharp, softened by sweet features better suited to laughter than this blatant distrust.
“Walk with me, Mrs. —” He let the summons trail off, hoping she’d supply her name.
She didn’t. Nor did she follow him.
“I don’t have improper motives, madam.” He tapped the truncheon against his leg idly, surveying her pale, oval face. “I value my position. My supervisor would take me to task if I accosted you. I’d be without work. I need to work. You understand that, of course, for you work at the Larker factory.”
