by Erica Monroe
She studied him cagily.
If every employee of the Larkers was this forthcoming with information, he’d be back to Whiting empty-handed once the two weeks were up.
But damnation, he was getting closer. Certainty thrummed through his body. This woman was hiding something, and he’d bet a bottle of good whisky that it had something to do with the Larkers.
“Let me escort you to your destination.” He doffed his hat, sketching a bow. Was that a flicker of amusement in her eyes, hurriedly squelched? He couldn’t be sure.
She didn’t take his proffered arm. He turned to look behind them. Standing in the doorway of the public house were three men. None wore coats, taking advantage of the brief reprieve in rain. With checkered neckcloths and their hats pulled low across their brows, they were almost identical in appearance. Swarthy, dark-haired, and unkempt.
He raised the truncheon higher in preparation. No one else would be hurt on his watch.
However unpleasant this woman might be.
She followed his gaze, a deep frown setting upon her pouty lips.
“You know them.” He’d found that leading statements received better reactions than open-ended questions. “Do they work for the Larkers? I can protect you, madam.”
“I highly doubt that,” she spat. “If the men find fault with me, it’ll be because I was seen talking to you.”
Giddiness besieged him, that familiar delight at knowing he’d been right. “I knew you weren’t from Spitalfields. Madam, you have my interest. What’s a lady from—what is it? There’s a bit of Eastern in your voice, methinks—Sussex doing in these parts?”
“Surrey,” she grumbled. “And that’s none of your concern.”
He glanced back at the men. They had not budged from the doorway, observing the pair with rapt interest. “Madame Surrey then, allow me to walk with you. Standing here, I’m afraid we’re attracting extra attention.”
It was now a matter of principle. He’d requested her assistance politely, and he was a Metropolitan Police Sergeant. That ought to mean something.
“Unless you’d prefer that I continue to question you in the street, across from the factory, where everyone can see,” he said pointedly.
“Men,” she huffed. “Can’t leave well enough alone.” But with one last look toward the leering group, she stalked off down the road.
He trailed after her, quickly overtaking her. “Surely, your husband would want to know you’re protected.”
“He wants for nothing,” she said. “He’s dead. From the Portuguese war. ”
“Oh.” Thaddeus grimaced. “I’m terribly sorry for your loss. If I’d known—”
She held her hand up to stop him from continuing. “It’s fine. Thank you for saying so.”
Her face softened, and he wondered if this was what she looked like when with the child she’d mentioned. Gentle. Unperturbed.
They walked down Wheeler Street. Instead of turning left toward the market on Crispin Street, she crossed onto Lamb Street, where he’d never once seen an ewe. Their footfalls were muffled by the sounds of a reawakening London, ready for nocturnal ruckuses. Her lantern burned, wreathing the derelict surroundings in an ethereal glow. Somehow next to her, in that light, this place didn’t seem so forlorn.
Ducking underneath a doorway, she set her lantern down on the ground and faced him. “Since you won’t leave, you might as well know that I can’t help you with Anna’s murder. I knew her as you might know your fellow officers from different districts.”
He nodded. “What was her function in the factory? I find it odd that your factory is not located next to a water source. One would think that the Larkers would want to harness the new methods of powering.”
“I don’t see how that will help you.”
“If the factory has nothing to do with Miss Moseley’s death, what’s the harm in telling me?”
She let out an exasperated sigh. “We weave raw silk into fabric that will be used to produce clothing, ribbons and trims, linens, and so forth. We have Jacquard looms—that is, dobby looms fitted with a Jacquard head—but we also still have a few figured looms to work on the Ducapes.”
Pride shined in her eyes at every sentence. Weaving, he knew now, was the way to get her to talk.
“It sounds like you do grand work,” he responded.
“The work we do is the same as weavers have been doing in the top floors of their dingy cottages for years,” she said. “Some workers punch out the cards for the looms, others prepare the warp and weft. Still others pattern and thread the looms, and of course there is the actual weaving itself.”
He stayed silent, wanting her to talk, for her natural voice was sweet and powerful. It was music to his ears, more calming than the Anglican hymns his mother pressed on him.
“But doing it this way, in a factory, makes sense.” She wasn’t as guarded now. “I almost think the cloth turns out better then, that our combined minds make it so.”
“You develop a kinship with your fellow workers.” He felt similar for the sergeants and foot patrollers that served with him. “What role did Anna play in all of this?”
He’d returned too quickly to his original topic. She appraised him, as if weighing his motives for enquiring.
“You should do better research, sergeant, or you’d already know that answer.”
“Enlighten me.” He did know it, in fact, but he wanted to hear it from her.
“I have better things to do.” Picking up her lantern again, she pushed past him.
He hustled after her, catching her arm so she couldn’t retreat further. She glowered at his hand, thoroughly disgusted. He quickly let go of her, jumping back.
“For all you claim you can’t help, I think you did care for Miss Moseley. If anything happened to the other sergeants I work with, I’d want to do something.”
She frowned. “You’re insufferable. The other sergeants probably want to disappear around you.”
“Perhaps,” he agreed. They did run when they saw him—unless they wanted his help.
“You’d find this out anyhow, so if it will get you to leave me be…” She started down the path, not bothering to check and see if he was behind her. “Mr. Larker prefers to have three assistants upstairs in the assembly room. He hires young men strong enough to lift the inventory, and one woman who is small enough to maneuver easily in amongst the piles. The inventory is kept upstairs in locked rooms.”
Thaddeus stiffened, remembering how easily he’d been able to lift Miss Moseley up from the ground. A stack of thick woolen blankets would weigh more than she had.
“Is that standard procedure?” he asked.
Madame Surrey tilted her head toward him, paying him the first real sign of attention since he’d met her. Distractedly, she patted at her flaming red hair, checking that her bun was still in place underneath her straw hat.
For a second, he forgot about the coming nightfall. He forgot about remaining vigilant, about Whiting, about his career—he forgot everything in his eagerness to hear her response.
Such was the appeal of a new case.
It couldn’t have anything to do with the adorable smattering of freckles across her button nose, or the way her gingham dress encased her svelte frame.
“I can’t speak to other factories.” Her voice was melodic, her accent tinged with a hint of Irish. “But I believe Anna was to be moved back downstairs sometime soon.”
“Had Miss Moseley failed the Larkers in some way?”
“No.” She shook her head. Too quickly.
She was afraid of something. Perhaps the Larkers finding out she’d tattled to him, and that she’d become another victim like Anna? Or was it something darker that had nothing to do with the factory?
He kept his expression impassive. “What was the general opinion of Miss Moseley?”
“Everyone liked her.” She pursed her lips. Whatever had unnerved her had taken hold. “Officer, I don’t know anything more. I work all day at my loom on
the first floor. The one time I get up is when I go home for lunch. Most days, I only saw Anna at closing.”
His one lead was slipping away from him. He had remained on the street, out of the arch of the doorway. Now, he edged up on her. She’d turned her back to him to survey the scrawls splashed upon the disintegrating brick and stucco of the tenement house.
“And you never had any conversations with Miss Moseley? Please, madam, it’s important. Before she died, I promised Miss Moseley I’d find her killer.”
He towered over her petite frame. Close contact didn’t appeal to him usually. So why was he compelled to take this woman into his arms? To draw her body against his?
Madame Surrey spun around, almost colliding with him. He caught her, steadying her with one arm wrapped around the small of her back. She was everything fragile and delicate, her subtle curves molding to his touch. What was this strange sensation that took hold of him? His hands had become warm where he touched her.
He stole a quick look at her arms to confirm that she was not aflame. No, her dress bore no singe marks. He smelled no smoke. Nothing but honey and vanilla.
“I—” His tongue was leaden in his mouth.
Her palms stretched out against his chest, yet she didn’t push against him to break free. That was surprising. Was she lost in this connection too?
No. He was becoming melodramatic. It was nothing more than a trick of physicality. He shook his head, reminding himself to focus.
Reluctantly, he released his grip on her. She didn’t move away from him. Her eyes bored into him, like emerald oceans at high tide. Her breath caught, held for a taut moment.
The world stopped before him.
She blinked, sliding from his arms. Though she had taken but a step back, the distance crashed upon him as though she’d run screaming down the street.
That didn’t make a damn bit of sense.
“You don’t have to tell me how important Anna’s death is,” she hissed through clenched teeth. “Six days out of the week, I’m at that factory. I’m watching men and women struggle to make enough to feed themselves and their families.”
His breath came out in uneven pants. It took him a second to realize she’d returned to his earlier question. “I didn’t mean—”
“Don’t you think I’d like to tell you exactly who murdered little Anna? But I. Don’t. Know.” Each word was punctuated with a jab of her index finger into his chest.
He retreated. “I’m doing my job, Madame Surrey.”
“Damn your job,” she jeered.
At least she’d stopped poking him.
She turned away, picked up her lantern, and headed down Cat and Wheel Alley. At the sound of his advancing footsteps, she stopped in her tracks and swung back around to face him.
“And damn you,” she avowed, with more venom than he’d thought a small woman could be capable of possessing.
“I’ve done nothing wrong.” He couldn’t match her vitriol. Their earlier moment had shaken him. Had he imagined the unsteadiness to her breathing? How her eyes had darkened with something akin to desire?
“You’re all alike.” She balled up her fist, the lantern shaking wildly in her other hand. “Every last lot of you. You claim you care and then you leave.”
He tilted his head to the side, surveying her quizzically. “You’ve had other run-ins with the Met?”
“No.”
Well, that made no sense. “Then who am I like?”
“Men.” She flung the word out as if she’d announced he was a traitor to the Crown.
“I’m not sure I understand.” He’d always believed it was wise to admit one’s lack of knowledge, but the derisive stare she sent him made him doubt that fact.
She didn’t clarify. She was moving again, every step quick, deliberate. He liked the urgency of her. So few people had real purpose nowadays. He suspected that once she made a plan, she’d stick to it.
Mulling her words, he continued after her. Her husband was deceased—but there had been something harder in her condemnation of all of mankind, something that hinted at a personal hurt. Had her husband been a rake?
They’d come to the Ten Bells public house on Red Lion Street. On the same corner was Christ Church, a shop devoted to van and cart works, and a school. He'd always found that an interesting combination: ale, God, transport, and children. Given the prevalence of child thieves, he supposed it had a certain logic.
He expected that she’d try to claim that all along she’d meant to go to the Ten Bells. The tramway was on Church Street, so she might choose that too.
But she strode past the bustling public house with little interest and onto Chick Lane. Closely, he shadowed her, holding the truncheon tight. Chick Lane was a popular place for thieves, yet this woman exhibited no fear for her safety.
She stopped in front of a row of cottages on Finch Street. “Well, this is it,” she said, waving nonchalantly at the houses. “You may go now, Sergeant.”
In the falling dusk, this portion of Finch Street appeared unoccupied. He doubted these houses had been lived in for years. Once whitewashed, the paint now flecked off in spots, like bits of fresh snowfall.
He gestured to the gate. “I’d like to see you inside.”
Was it his imagination, or did she shift nervously? Her nose scrunched up, which might indicate frustration. “Fine,” she said through gritted teeth. “Though I don’t see why that is necessary.”
She peered at the clasp on the gate, her fingers touching it lightly, as though checking for a lock. When the clasp slid back easily, her frame shuddered with relief.
There was absolutely no way in hell that she lived here.
“Where do you truly live?” He tried to sound patient when he felt nothing of the sort. Above all else, he abhorred liars. His profession surrounded him with falsehoods; he couldn’t bear them in his personal encounters. And something about this woman made him classify this meeting as distinctly personal.
Further down Finch Street, there was another grouping of cottages. Lights burned in those windows, and smoke puffed from the chimneys. From that direction, a man and a woman approached, a baby held in the woman’s arms.
“Poppy!” The woman’s voice echoed from the street. In response, the babe in her arms cried out.
A myriad of emotions flashed across his pretty companion’s face: dismay at the call, concern at the cry of the baby, and finally, fear.
He stepped close to Madame Surrey instinctively, the gate almost smacking into him as she opened it wide and stepped out. He squinted as the willowy brunette woman approached, accompanied by a man with hair as red as Madame Surrey’s. He knew them both.
Kate Morgan had led him to a vile ring of resurrection men and the arrest of Jasper Finn.
“Miss Morgan,” he smiled, waving at her.
“Sergeant Knight.” She did not greet him with equal jubilation, but rather caution.
He understood that, for when he’d last encountered her, he had threatened to turn her into his superiors at H-Division if she continued to fence stolen goods. Madame Surrey looked from him to the newcomers and back again, confusion flickering in her eyes.
Daniel O’Reilly placed a protective arm around Kate, drawing her close. “She’s Mrs. O’Reilly now.”
“My felicitations.” Thaddeus nodded, slightly bemused by her husband’s reaction.
Another woman lingered further down the road; her profile half-shadowed by the light of a lantern in a neighboring cottage on Finch Street. She watched their gathering with interest but did not approach. Shorter than Kate and almost as thin, her posture was stiff. Frigid. The kind of woman that probably strapped a knife on her ankle, in addition to the pocket pistol she carried with her.
There was something peculiar about this family.
Daniel’s voice drew Thaddeus’s attention back. “So, you’ve met my sister?”
Madame Surrey nodded, a quick signal to her brother to cease speaking, but Thaddeus jumped in. He didn’t want
to miss the opportunity to know her name. “I wanted to make sure she arrived home safely when I saw her walking alone, but no, we have not been introduced,” he said.
“Poppy Corrigan, may I present Sergeant Knight,” Daniel said.
Poppy Corrigan. The name was somehow fitting to her. A strange name for a strange woman.
She didn’t curtsy, as women were wont to do, or even acknowledge him. Instead, she lifted the child from Kate’s arms. She held the girl so naturally, cooing to her and rocking back and forth. The babe gurgled approval, a wide smile on her lips. He knew immediately that the babe was hers, even without the matching red hair.
His heart went out to Mrs. Corrigan and the babe. No child deserved to grow up without a father.
He bid them adieu, unable to think of a reason why he should further intrude. As he strode away down the street, he looked back once at the O’Reilly clan. Clustered together, smiling at the babe in Mrs. Corrigan’s arms, they were everything that Thaddeus’s family was not. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d attended a gathering where his father hadn’t pulled him aside to discuss a “proper” occupation for him.
But if he wanted to make a difference, sacrifices had to be made.
3
That night, Poppy sat at the circular wooden table in the middle of her kitchen with her family. Once Knight had left, everyone had gone back to her cottage on Finch Street for dinner. The savory aroma of beef stew and vegetables saturated the room. The stew was as delicious as it smelled, and Poppy ate with relish.
Poppy snuck a glance across the table at Kate and Daniel. They were immersed in conversation about Daniel’s new job with the East India Trading Company. Daniel held Moira on his lap, maneuvering around her each time he took a bite of soup. She babbled out garbled words and random sounds, as her tiny fingers wrapped around his thumb.
For the first few months of Moira’s life, when they’d still lived in Surrey, she’d cried daily. Here in London, she had blossomed into a cheerful girl, delighted by all. Some of that was her age—Moira was now fifteen months—but the rest, Poppy believed was the added influence of family and friends.
