by Erica Monroe
Dagobert Gottlieb was an odd-looking man, to say the least. Gottlieb’s skin seemed to stretch over his face, pockets of flesh with no muscles beneath. While the top of his head was bald, scraggly gray locks extended from his crown down to his shoulders. Matted hair sprouted from his chin in a beard that made up for lacking volume by having significant length.
Forgetting the close confines, Poppy took a step back, and collided into Knight.
“Oof,” Knight gasped.
“Sorry,” she murmured, righting herself.
Gottlieb was a person like any other, she scolded herself. How many thieves had she met in the past few months? Each had their own story. Half of Chapman Street were missing teeth, or even fingers, from bar brawls and jobs gone wrong.
“What’s a matter, girl?” Gottlieb’s bushy brows crumpled, reminding her of two lumps of silk tangled up in the loom.
“Nothing.” The simple word stuck in her throat.
Sensing her discomfort, Knight stepped out from behind her and took a seat at Gottlieb’s table. “Mrs. Corrigan, meet Dagobert Gottlieb, once Wurzburg’s finest receiver.”
“Poppy Corrigan.” She dropped a badly executed curtsy.
Gottlieb nodded at her. He took a seat next to Knight.
“Mrs. Corrigan recently relocated to London,” Knight said. “Gottlieb here has been in town since the ’19, is that right?”
“Aye. Vile hep-heps. Take my house but can’t catch me.” Gottlieb’s top lip pulled back in a sneer, his rheumatic eyes glistening. “Don’t understand that I, I will outlast them.”
Poppy sat down. A sad smile tinged at her lips, for if there was anything she understood, it was ridicule for being different. “I’m sorry you had to go through that. People...people astound me. They’re capable of wonderful generosity, but then they act with the utmost cruelty. I cannot fathom it.”
“I appreciate.” Gottlieb nodded decisively in agreement before turning his attention to Knight. “You don’t visit me so late, Sergeant. What have you been thinking, bringing the lady?”
Poppy frowned. She didn’t like being referred to as “the lady” any longer.
“Ah, that is not a cut.” Gottlieb held his palm up and made a sweeping motion to the left, as if he could erase his words from the air. “I mean, you are quality, and I’m not used to that. The Sergeant comes when he is confused, you see.”
Poppy relaxed back in the chair. “I see.” She wondered how “quality” Gottlieb would consider her if he knew her mistakes.
“There’s a problem I have to discuss with Mrs. Corrigan,” Knight explained. “For the Met. I need your famous discretion, Gottlieb.”
The man nodded again, pushing his chair back from the table. Slowly, he rose, weary bones clicking into place with much effort. Poppy had expected him to protest at the eviction from his own home, but Gottlieb seemed unconcerned as he bid adieu.
“What time you need, you take,” he told Knight.
“Thank you,” Knight said.
Gottlieb stuck out his hand, brushing Poppy’s shoulder, so quick she barely registered the touch. “You take care of her,” he ordered Knight, his tone giving no room for discussion.
Gottlieb left in a flurry of rags. Nothing on his outfit matched: he wore a green coat thrown over top of a dingy white shirt and a mustard vest. Fingerless gloves covered his dirty, cracked hands. He grabbed the cane resting against the chair and hobbled out the door.
Poppy watched him go, not sure what to think of him.
Knight took the seat Gottlieb had vacated, next to her. He cleared his throat, the sound echoing in the stuffy little room. “Gottlieb is a character, but he is a good man.”
“He’s Jewish.” Surprise tinted her voice, making her feel somehow less whole because she’d expected less from Knight.
“Yes,” Knight said uneasily. “Is that a problem?”
Poppy shook her head. “No. No, absolutely not. It’s more that every Met officer I’ve ever heard of has been staunchly Anglican. To the point that all other religions are unacceptable.”
“Well, I’m afraid I don’t fit that description.” His voice was unusually bland, and she knew she’d offended him.
“Sergeant, please,” she pleaded. “You must understand me. Growing up Irish Catholic in this country steels you toward prejudice. We weren’t even able to sit in Parliament until a few years ago. You hope that people will change, but eventually you become hardened to the attacks.”
His expression softened. “I’ve got twenty books on religious theories from all over the world in my library, and I can’t begin to tell you which one is the correct one. They’re all devilishly similar, in a way.”
She smiled. “I thought I was the only one who thought that.”
“I have to believe that everyone is worth saving, Mrs. Corrigan, or I’d go mad in this job,” he said. “I can’t, I won’t, give credence to the theory that says we cannot be more than what we’ve been in the past.”
She broke eye contact between them because she couldn’t stop herself from wanting to rest her head on his shoulder. To lean into him, letting him shoulder her weight and her worries. In that moment, she’d feel like the odds weren’t stacked against her.
But that was a dangerous thought. Whatever serenity she gained would be temporary at best. Better to hold him at a distance, so that she’d never know the pain of truly loving him and losing him. It was easier that way. Hiding behind walls had become second nature.
“I must take a more fatalistic view.” She must, for if she didn’t remember who she was, she’d be doomed to make the same mistakes again.
“What about presenting a better world to Moira?” He sounded so innocent, baffled by her preconceptions.
The words hurt, regardless of his intent. She drew back, fixing him with a hard gaze. “What I want—what I’ll do—for my child isn’t your concern, Sergeant.”
Knight’s eyes were on her. She knew it without looking up, for she felt it in the tingle down her spine, in the way her nipples hardened underneath her corset.
“I’m sorry,” he said softly. “It was not my intention to hurt you. Or to say that you weren’t a good mother to your daughter.”
“It is of no matter,” she said, hating the way her voice came out strained. Were her cheeks flushed? She’d made a mistake coming to this place with him.
“Mrs. Corrigan,” Knight began, and that faux appellation suddenly held more raw appeal than her own surname. It held promise, unbroken at the moment.
Avoiding his gaze should have made this less painful, but there was that damned flower in her pocket. The red petals called to her, whispering the calm of the man across from her.
“You said before you wanted me to report back to you what goes on at the factory. Is that all, Sergeant?” She used his title purposefully, reminding herself of all those many reasons why she couldn’t form an association with him.
He nodded. “You’ve been at the factory three months, isn’t that correct?”
She swallowed; her throat suddenly dry. Tight. “You checked into me.”
What else had he discovered? Panic seized her. She sucked in one breath, then another, struggling to stay calm. Yet her heart banged against her chest, the beat filling her ears. She gripped the edge of the tabletop, nails digging in, steadying herself.
Don’t run. Don’t run. You’ll look guilty.
“I am an investigator,” Knight intoned. “I look into people’s histories. People lie, Madame, as much as I wish they didn’t.”
She was the worst of liars. If he’d discovered her secret, wouldn’t he be angry with her? He’d be openly confronting her. Perhaps then, he didn’t know.
“I didn’t devote much time to the research, if that’s what concerns you,” he said. “We needn’t discuss it. I was looking for any connections to the case, that’s all.”
“I see.” She breathed regularly again. Settling back into the chair, she schooled her features into civil disinterest. She swa
llowed down the last bit of dread. “I simply don’t like to talk about my past.”
“As a poppy doesn’t like to reveal its secrets,” he smiled.
She couldn’t help but smile at that.
“I think anything you see that isn’t normal would be helpful,” Knight said.
She remembered Anna as she'd been two weeks before, arm-in-arm with Abigail as they exited the factory after another long day. Poppy’s chest clenched every time she saw the girl who had taken Anna’s place upstairs. Would that girl meet the same fate?
And if Poppy could help save her fellow workers without endangering her own family, shouldn’t she do what she could?
Poppy folded her hands in her lap, an act that appeared submissive but really hid the fact that her thumb stroked against the soft petal of the flower in her pocket. “Why do you need my help?”
“My superior claims he’s solved the case.”
For a man who had helped to bring a murderer to justice, he didn’t sound happy. He ought to be overjoyed. At least Anna’s family would have some peace, knowing her killer had been caught.
“I don’t understand,” she said. “If the murderer has been caught, why are you still investigating? It’s not the Larkers.”
“That’s the thing,” Knight replied. “I don’t think Whiting has the right man. Before Miss Moseley died, she kept tracing an ‘L’ with her fingers. Whiting’s suspect doesn’t have an ‘L’ in his name, and I can’t find any prior relationship between Miss Moseley and him. There’s no motivation for the crime.”
“People do horrible things with little justification.” She knew this firsthand—Edward had seduced her simply to win a bet, not caring what happened to her afterwards.
“Perhaps,” Knight hedged, unconvinced. “I spoke to Mrs. Moseley. She said Anna had been worried these last two weeks, as if she’d seen something she shouldn’t have.”
“It’s Spitalfields,” she reminded him. “She could have witnessed any number of crimes, none of which had anything to do with the factory. Anna was probably killed outside of the factory because it was convenient. They knew she’d be there.”
Knight pursed his lips, considering her suggestion for a moment before discounting it. “When I found her, it was after closing by several hours.”
“You can’t expect me to agree based solely on your intuition.” Her protest was half-hearted. She couldn’t explain it, but she did trust his gut. She’d seen the way his mind worked. He was balanced, forthright. She imagined him sitting in his library, weighing each alternative.
“There was another murder.”
She sat up straighter. “At the factory?”
He ran his thumb across his folded hands. He didn’t look her in the eye. “No. It has no bearing on this case, except that I found them both. The first murder happened seven years ago, after I graduated from Eton. She was already dead by the time I found her in an alley in Whitechapel. I was too late.”
“I’m sorry, Sergeant Knight. That’s horrible.” She shouldn’t want to bring his hands to her lips, planting a kiss where he rubbed so diligently. But she did.
He swallowed, still not meeting her gaze. “I vowed then I was going to seek justice for people like Miss Stewart. I didn’t realize at the time it’d be so damn hard.”
Acrimony stained his tone. It was the first time she’d heard him sound unsure of himself. She thought of him as a young boy, coming across the dead girl after a night of carousing with his mates. Had he been a rough lad? Maybe the shock of finding Miss Stewart had made him into the steadfast sergeant he was today.
He brought his index finger up, tapping at the cleft in his chin. That cleft, which made his face appear slightly off kilter, the left side a smidgen higher than the right...her heart skipped a beat at that cleft because it made him achingly real. An imperfect creature like her.
He leaned forward, closing the distance between them until he was a hair’s breadth away from her. His eyes locked on hers, nose to nose. “I wouldn’t ask for your help if I didn’t need it, Mrs. Corrigan. I’ve got no other alternatives.”
She couldn’t tear her gaze away. She was captured by him, stupidly transfixed. She didn’t dare take a breath, for fear that if she did, he’d scoot that last bit toward her and kiss her.
A little voice inside her kept saying, it wouldn’t be so bad. God help her, it’d probably be fantastic. He was an educated man, who probably knew all sorts of ways to make her insides tumble. They must write about things like that in books, didn’t they? Maybe he had a whole shelf of dirty pamphlets in that library, and he’d practice all of the techniques on her...
His voice was so low, almost a rumble. “But I don’t want you to do anything that’s going to put your safety in jeopardy. If it seems like people are noticing, I want you to stop what you’re doing. I will not—I cannot—have another woman’s death on my head. Especially not yours.”
She was important to him.
She hadn’t been important to someone outside of her family in a long time.
Not trusting herself to speak, she nodded.
“And I know you’ve got a daughter who’s depending on you.” His brown eyes turned warmer, not full of pity, as she’d seen from most people when they found out she was a “widow.” This was instead something powerful. “I won’t let her grow up without a parent. You must see that. If you do this for me, I’ll protect you.”
She was nodding again. She wanted to do what he said. To buy into his promises of safety, security, and someone to give a damn if she died.
She thought of Kate and Daniel, of Atlas and Jane and everyone they associated with. Knight would be privy to parts of her life if they worked together—continued interaction with him put the people she loved in danger. But if she could keep them safe while making sure that the Larkers got what they deserved...
If she knew anything about Knight, it was that he’d be true to his word. If he made her a promise, he’d keep it.
“I’ll do it,” she said. “On one condition.”
“One condition?” Thaddeus held the door to Gottlieb’s house open for Poppy. Nothing was ever as simple as he wanted it to be. He’d read thousands upon thousands of books, but he couldn’t condense relationships. There was always some unpredictable element.
And he’d never met anyone like Poppy Corrigan.
Outside, she took off her hat to refasten it upon her head. Her simple chignon had not fared well after a day of hard labor in the factory. The poppy blossom peeked out of her apron pocket. In his library, she’d become less reserved, but here on the street her appearance matched that buoyancy. He liked her better this way, wanted to write some bloody awful sonnets to her beauty, because in that moment she was wild and free.
She turned back to him. “I want the people I care for to be safe. You said you’d turn in my sister if you found her fencing again. Then you said you’d have to arrest Atlas if you found him stealing.”
“That’s my job, Mrs. Corrigan,” he said mildly, knowing that his words weren’t what she wanted to hear.
She didn’t flinch. “And it’s also your job to find out who really killed Anna Moseley.”
He nodded.
“So, if you want my help, you’ll leave my friends and family alone.” Poppy drew herself up to her full height, her green eyes dark. “If you hear anything about them, you’ll turn a blind eye. You won’t pursue them. You won’t look into their crimes. You won’t take any interest in them.”
Thaddeus considered this. Atlas Greer had avoided police capture for years. The Gentleman Thief didn’t have a history of being violent; rather, he had a made a name for himself through his ability to carry out a caper without injury to those around him. Kate O’Reilly had been a fence, but she’d dealt mostly in low-end items. He had more information on Gottlieb than he did Kate, and he’d let Gottlieb go free. Daniel had never been a criminal to begin with—he’d simply been a scapegoat for Jasper Finn.
And he had to admit, Poppy’s
shrewdness impressed him. She bargained well, hitting his weaknesses yet not asking for something so outlandish he couldn’t fulfill it. Her logic was clever.
“Atlas, Kate, and Daniel.” He ticked off each name on his fingers. “Is that all?”
“Jane Putnam.”
“I don’t recognize the name.”
“She works as a barmaid at the Three Boars in Ratcliffe. She’s honest…”
Thaddeus suspected Poppy had been about to explain further but feared how he’d react. He knew how the system worked. The repeal of the Bloody Code had reduced the amount of crimes that sent a man to death, leaving the prisons overcrowded. Could he in good conscience commit one of Mrs. Corrigan’s loved ones to death, or perhaps worse, the wretched halls of Newgate? No, he didn’t think he could.
Thaddeus let his eyes rove down her body. That fierce face made for light but hardened by whatever had happened in her past. Her threadbare dress, hugging breasts full enough to make any man’s cock harden. Drawing in a long breath, he shoved his hands into the pockets in his coat to keep from reaching from her. From telling her that he’d protect her and her family.
“I accept your request,” he said. “With the condition that if they’re involved in violent altercations, I will proceed as the law sees fit. There’s a difference between petty theft and brutal acts, Mrs. Corrigan.”
Her chin rose in challenge. “I don’t befriend brutal people, Sergeant.”
“Then we have a deal.” He stuck out his hand to her.
She accepted his hand, shaking it firmly. “Partners.”
Reluctantly, he released her hand. “Partners.”
And if luck stuck with him, he’d make sure they were partners in far more than fact-finding work.
10
When Poppy showed up on his doorstep the next evening after her work at the factory, Thaddeus couldn’t help but be surprised. Though they’d agreed on the meeting before parting at Gottlieb’s, he’d almost expected her to stand him up. For her, their alliance had been an uneasy one, and self-preservation usually topped all other notions in Spitalfields.
