Secrets in Scarlet

by Erica Monroe

  The very family and friends she might have put in danger tonight by a bloody Peeler following her home.

  Daniel was so much happier now than he’d been in Surrey. He’d started a new life with Kate, and he’d remained sober. If something happened to take that bliss away from him…she couldn’t bear it.

  And then there was Jane Putnam, Kate’s best friend. She sat to Poppy’s right. Jane worked as a barmaid for the Three Boars, and she was the best damn cook Poppy had ever known, able to make even the toughest cuts of meat appetizing. An attractive raven-haired woman with a no-nonsense attitude, Poppy had quickly come to appreciate Jane’s undying loyalty to her friends.

  Though Jane was honest, she’d grown up with the Chapman Street thieving gang members. Her ties to them would make her a valuable capture for the Met.

  When there was a lull in the conversation, Kate turned to Poppy. “Are you all right, Poppy? You haven’t said anything since dinner was served.”

  Poppy set her spoon down, pursing her lips. “I don’t understand what happened outside.”

  “You and me both,” Jane agreed. “If Peelers are involved, this is bad for all of us. I don’t know about you, but I sure don’t intend to join Penn in Newgate.”

  Poppy sent Jane a sympathetic smile. Jane’s brother had been sent to Newgate Prison for housebreaking. While Chapman Street was able to keep him from execution, he remained in the miserable gaol until the gang could figure out a plan to break him free.

  “Why’s a Trap following you around, Poppy?” Jane asked.

  “Apparently he knows Kate?” Poppy turned in her chair, angling her body toward Kate. “I’ve never known you to like the Peelers, but your reception was almost pleasant.”

  Daniel grinned. “You should see what she does to people she doesn’t like.”

  “That was one time. I held you at gunpoint one time,” Kate protested. “I swear, I’m never going to live that down.”

  Daniel leaned down to give Moira a kiss on her cheek. “Your aunt wasn’t so fond of me then.”

  “Daniel, no one was fond of you then,” Jane said drolly. “You’re lucky you’ve shaped up, or I’d have fully supported Kate’s desire to shoot you.”

  “Balderdash, I won you over from the moment you saw me,” Daniel claimed, grinning at Jane.

  Ignoring Jane’s snort, Daniel gave Moira another bounce that sent her shrieking with giggles.

  There was nothing softer, more innocent, than a laughing child. Poppy gulped for air; her throat suddenly tight. What if Knight looked deeper into why she’d left Surrey? Daniel’s best friend, Atlas Greer, had crafted her story. Atlas was the cleverest thief in London, and he could make out patterns where others only saw disjointed clutter. Short of putting a record for Robert Corrigan’s faux death in the parish register for Dorking, they’d considered all possibilities.

  It was a slim possibility that Knight would look that deep, yes, but the idea of a Peeler knowing anything about her put her on edge.

  Poppy stood, gathering up her daughter from Daniel. Moira nuzzled close to her as Poppy sat back down. She was still talking, her soliloquy background noise to the adults’ conversation. “How do you know Sergeant Knight?” Poppy pressed.

  “He saved my life,” Daniel said.

  Poppy blinked, once, twice. “Pardon?” There was no way she’d heard him right.

  “Sergeant Knight is the officer who helped me find Daniel,” Kate explained, sitting down across from her.

  Shit.

  There was only one Peeler in all of bloody London that Poppy owed a debt of gratitude to: The man who had saved Daniel. When Jasper Finn took Daniel captive, Kate had stopped a patrolling policeman and begged for assistance. They’d arrived at the workhouse cemetery just in time—any longer, and Daniel would have died. Knight had fought off Finn’s associates, giving Atlas Greer time to free Daniel.

  Poppy’s throat tightened. “Now he knows the street I live on. In addition to knowing about your fencing.”

  “If Knight was going to turn me in, he would have done it months ago, right?” Kate said, looking at Daniel for reassurance. “I haven’t fenced anything since we got married. He’d have nothing current to use against me.”

  Daniel squeezed Kate’s hand. “Did Knight mention anything about us when he walked you home, Pop?”

  Poppy thought for a moment. “No. In fact, I don’t think he knew who I was until he saw you two.”

  “I hid in the doorway,” Jane reminded them.

  Kate rolled her eyes at Jane, who smirked in return.

  Poppy cleaned off her spoon on a napkin and handed it down to Moira to play with. “Knight asked about the girl I worked with that was murdered a few days ago. He said he’s investigating her death and he wanted to know what I knew about the Larkers.”

  Jane leaned forward. “Why does Larker sound familiar? I swear I’ve heard that name before, and not just because of the factory. I work tomorrow, so I’ll ask the boys what they know.”

  Kate stepped toward the table, resting her hands on the upper rim of a chair. “Do you know anything about that girl’s murder?”

  “No, of course not.” Poppy shrugged. “I wish I had information for him, but I don’t.”

  “Good.” Jane stood, going to place her dish in the sink. “The less the Peelers know the better. Bunch of louts, the lot of them.”

  “I can’t resent Knight for being a Peeler when it’s his official capacity that sent Finn to trial,” Kate said.

  Daniel nodded. “I’d still be a fugitive if it wasn’t for Knight. He’d followed my case from the start before he joined the Met.”

  Kate squeezed Daniel’s hand. “Knight made sure that the charges against Daniel were dropped completely. The Superintendent wanted to try Daniel as part of Finn’s plot, but Knight convinced them that Daniel hadn’t been aware of what was going on at my father’s company.”

  “I don’t trust him,” Jane stated grudgingly. “How do you know he’s not working an angle? He could be gathering enough information on your family before he presents a case to his supervisors.”

  “I can’t know that for sure,” Kate admitted. “So, you’re right, it’s best to be careful.”

  As Poppy got up from the table to clean the dishes, the stew in her stomach churned. She kept a close eye on Moira, who had meandered over to her toy box. The babe picked up her favorite tin plate toy, and a cornhusk doll.

  With every passing day, Moira grew up a bit more. Poppy longed for those early days when Moira had just learned to crawl, viewing the world with wide-eyed glee. A few years from now, she’d know that the world wasn’t so wonderful after all. She’d experience hurt and prejudice.

  God, Poppy wanted to stop time, so that Moira never knew that pain.

  In the dead of the night, Poppy woke up in a cold sweat from dreaming that the townspeople of Dorking had risen up against her again. You and your bastard daughter are a scourge on this town and the good people in it, they’d said.

  But this was London, a sprawling metropolis of over a million people. She could remain anonymous here in this little corner of Spitalfields.

  Daniel came up behind Poppy, placing his arm around her shoulders. “She’ll be fine, Pop,” he assured her. “Moira’s a smart girl.”

  “It’s not just Moira I worry about,” Poppy reminded him gently, tilting her head to peer up at him. “I was there when you came home, Danny. I know what the police did to you, the life they stole from you. It almost ate you alive.”

  Daniel squeezed Poppy’s shoulder. “And you brought me back. You were there for me, like I should’ve been for you.”

  If Daniel had been sober, if he’d paid more attention to her whereabouts, maybe she wouldn’t have fallen so easily for Edward Claremont’s lies. But if all that had happened, she wouldn’t have her daughter.

  “I can’t let you blame yourself for my failings.” Her gaze never wavered from her Daniel’s face. They’d had this conversation many times, but still sh
e felt the necessity of absolving him from responsibility. “I believed Edward. I fell for him. I did those things, not you. Who’s to say I wouldn’t have chosen the same course if you’d been around?”

  “That son of a bitch should’ve been the one everyone judged, not you. He’s lucky he left town shortly after, or I would’ve strangled him with my bare hands. If I saw him now—”

  She sighed. “It wouldn’t solve anything.”

  Daniel frowned. “Doesn’t make me hate the bounder any less.”

  “You can hate him,” Poppy agreed. “Lord knows I certainly do.”

  Poppy leaned back against her brother. Family was everything. When it came down to it, that was the most important notion—family to support you, family to strengthen you. Moira would grow up with family who believed in her.

  Daniel was her family, and so were Kate, Jane, and Atlas now by extension.

  And Daniel was alive, thanks in part to Sergeant Knight.

  Poppy pursed her lips. She’d been outright rude to Knight. She’d made a snap judgment about him based solely on his blue uniform, as people in Dorking had done when they’d found out she was carrying a child out of wedlock.

  “I’ve been terribly hypocritical,” she murmured.

  “Hmm?” Daniel inquired.

  “Nothing,” Poppy assured him.

  She couldn’t shake the realization that she’d committed an injustice in her behavior to Sergeant Knight. Though she could no longer call herself honorable, she had her pride. The mistakes she’d made in the past could be justified by youth and inexperience.

  This time, she had no excuse.

  The second week of April had not been pleasant for Thaddeus. The Romans had declared that the Ides of March were perilous when they should have been focusing on April. But the Romans were known to be wrong about some things, like believing animal entrails could be used to predict the future.

  Thaddeus sighed, casting a glance around his cluttered library. He could have chosen to live with the rest of the single officers at the section house on Leman Street, but this space called to him. Encircled by his books, he felt more at home here than he’d ever felt in his family’s townhouse.

  He flipped open the book he’d left open on the end table. He hadn’t been able to focus on anything since he’d come home from Finch Street. Leaning his head back against his chair, Thaddeus closed his eyes—expecting that without the distraction of light, he’d be able to piece together these fragments of the case that bothered him so.

  But he didn’t think of burly Boz Larker. No, the vision that appeared before him was lovelier, a petite redhead with a trim waist and pert breasts straining at the confines of her gingham gown. And the small of her back, nestled against his hand as they’d stood in the alley tonight.

  He swallowed, shifting in his chair. For a second, he was tempted to root through his desk until he found a certain pamphlet he read in more amorous moments.

  But no. He had a job to do, damn it, and it certainly didn’t involve lusting after a woman who wanted nothing to do with him. Regardless of how intriguing she was.

  He opened his eyes. Focused on the book he’d been studying, Cesare Beccaria’s Dei delitti e delle pene, “On Crimes and Punishment.” It had helped little with his current case, yet Thaddeus found the Italian soothing. It was familiar, and he craved the familiar.

  Three days since his meeting with Whiting, he’d found himself in distinctly unfamiliar territory. The majority of arrests he made for the H-Division were for petty thievery and disorderly conduct. Though old case files were stacked on almost every discernible surface in this library, he had worked through those in his leisure, without the added pressure of a deadline. There had also been a distance to those cases: he had not seen any of those victims take their last breaths.

  When he’d found Elizabeth Stewart in that alley seven years ago, he hadn’t had the skills to solve her murder. But he’d kept checking back with the old magistrate to see how the case progressed. After the discovery that Miss Stewart was a prostitute in one of the most ill-reputed brothels in Whitechapel, the investigation had ceased. The assumption was made that a customer had become irate when Miss Stewart wouldn’t provide services at a reduced rate.

  But this time with Anna Moseley’s murder, Thaddeus was wiser. He knew what he was doing, or so he kept telling himself. If he was going to become an inspector, he needed to become more comfortable with working on a timetable.

  His brother, Joseph, was supposed to stop by his flat that night on his way home from work with information on the Larkers’ finances. That would at least give him something to pursue.

  Thaddeus knew Boz Larker was a factory owner with a reputation no more tarnished than usual. Since meeting with Whiting, Thaddeus had interviewed several dismissed employees, but none had any idea of underhanded dealings. One was dismissed because he’d arrived drunk, another had tried to unionize the workers, and the third had been found smuggling out yards of finished brocade.

  Each said they hadn’t seen what was kept in the locked room upstairs, so that would be Thaddeus’s first order of business when he went to the factory.

  Thaddeus closed the book in his lap with a resounding thud. Larker didn’t seem to have ties to the Chapman Street gang, so if he was dealing in stolen goods, he’d have to be using a different receiver. Thaddeus had his own contact, a retired fence by the name of Dagobert Gottlieb, looking into criminal connections within Spitalfields for the Larkers.

  Fences. Thaddeus tapped his finger to his chin, squinting at the orange flames that danced merrily behind the fire screen. Was Mrs. Corrigan using her sister-in-law’s fencing connections to move goods for the Larkers? It was a long shot, but at least it was something.

  He frowned. None of this added up. He needed evidence. Something better than a witness statement. Those could be bought. He’d learned that from the O’Reilly case.

  Thaddeus reached over the arm of his chair for the half-full glass of whisky on the table. He sipped it slowly, letting the amber liquid splash down his throat. Joseph had bought it, and he had decent taste in liquor. That was all Joseph had good taste in—he’d become a banker and married a woman who resembled a rotting fish. The knock on his front door resonated throughout the room. Thaddeus knew it was his brother before going to the door. Joseph always announced his presence in the most infuriatingly autocratic manner possible, as if he were the Trojan horse himself set upon the shores.

  “Let me in,” Joseph hollered. “Put down your confounded book and let me in!”

  Thaddeus sighed, pushing himself up and out of the chair. He did not bother to put his boots back on, for damn it all, Joseph didn’t warrant boots. Or a jacket.

  Flinging open the door, Thaddeus skipped the preliminary greeting. “Did you bring the information?”

  Joseph pushed past Thaddeus into the house. He was a larger man than Thaddeus or their middle brother, Nathan, but he was not as tall. Joseph had the frame of a pugilist, thick in the shoulders and square-jawed. His face was elongated, his nose straight and bulbous.

  “I hope you’re happy,” Joseph reproached him. “I had to miss dinner at the club. Why couldn’t this have waited until Sunday?”

  The second Sunday of every month, Thaddeus joined his family for breakfast, motivated by the desire to get his mother off of his back and not a real need to see his family. Visiting with them meant listening to their diatribes on his profession. At least Nathan was relatively silent, but Nathan lived in Derbyshire and only visited London during the holidays.

  Joseph’s dark eyes settled on the contents of the room with displeasure. Thaddeus had added another collection of books on criminal deduction, and a cleaned human skull sat atop the ramshackle ladder, but other than that little had changed in the room since Joseph had last visited.

  “Don’t know why you choose to live in such sparse conditions,” Joseph remarked. “Nathan’s house isn’t so sparse and he’s a bloody rector.”

  Thaddeus
shrugged. “I live alone. What do I need with more space?”

  “You ought to think of the future,” Joseph cautioned with the bravado of one who’d been married for six years and thus knew everything about the world. “What shall you do when you find a wife?”

  Thaddeus crossed his arms over his chest, fixing Joseph with what he hoped was his best intimidating expression, but probably came off as mildly peevish. “I have no imminent plans to marry.”

  He hadn’t met anyone who intrigued him for more than one night. No one but Poppy Corrigan.

  And that was merely work.

  “You’re not getting any younger.” Joseph searched the room for the whisky he’d brought, snatching the bottle up from the table by the fire. He made his way to the side bar, sloshing a generous portion into a shot glass.

  Bloody hell. With that much whisky, Joseph intended to stay for longer than the ten minutes Thaddeus had allocated. He’d be completely off schedule.

  Intrinsically, he knew that Joseph and the rest of his family meant well. He’d spent most of his childhood observing them with the detachment of one who has failed to find a true equal in modern society.

  “I am twenty-four years old,” Thaddeus reminded him. “Plenty of time to be had should I decide to take a wife. I highly doubt I’ve got one foot in the grave.”

  “Again, you go with the graves.” Joseph grunted in disgust. “Take my advice, Thad, don’t talk about work with Father again. He raged for days about you helping to put those resurrectionists in gaol. Claimed the law cares more about how a corpse is obtained than scientific discovery. It was dreadfully uncomfortable for me.”

  How do you think it was for me?

  Thaddeus suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. There was no time for Joseph’s tirades, not if he planned to finish making notes on the rest of Larker’s known associates tonight. “Did you get the information on the account I asked you to look into?”

  Joseph pulled out a bundled package from a pocket in his jacket. He passed it to Thaddeus.

  Eagerly, Thaddeus unwound the twine connecting the package and spread the paper out across the liquor cabinet. He hadn’t expected to receive so thorough of a report from Joseph—it had been a slim chance that the Larkers held an account at Barclay’s.