by Erica Monroe
The sudden stab of pain lasted a second, but it was long enough to pull her forth from this euphoria.
“Sorry.” He was quick to apologize, embarrassed by his slip. “It sounded like such a good idea in this pamphlet I read…”
Nothing about kissing him was a good idea.
Yet she couldn’t help but giggle at the absurdity of him sitting at home in his great library, surrounded by classics, combing over the pages of a tattered pornographic pamphlet.
“Really,” she drawled, the laughter bubbling up in her throat.
He caught her eye, his abashment fading as her chuckles grew more effusive. She loved this side of him, for it made him less intimidating. The sergeant she knew, intent on solving a crime, had a mind so clever it made her chary. But the boy in front of her, shoulders shaking with laughter because he wasn’t as practiced a seduction artist as he’d wanted to be, was endearing.
And even more dangerous, because that twenty-four-year-old lanky lad she could fall deeply in love with.
Perhaps she’d already fallen for him.
She raised a hand to her lip, touched where a drop of blood had formed.
That was enough to remind her that this was all madness. She readjusted her bodice, tugging it higher. His kisses had left marks upon her skin; she was forever branded. “Thaddeus, no, I can’t,” she murmured, wishing it could be anything different. That she could give herself to him. That she’d met him in other circumstances when their whole relationship wouldn’t be based on lies.
He carded a hand through his hair, his eyes wide at her refusal. “I’m sorry, Poppy. I didn’t mean to startle you. It’s just, after we kissed, I thought...”
“You didn’t startle me.” She shook her head, cutting him off. “It’s not that I don’t want to, but it’s too soon. All of this. I promised myself after Robert, that I’d move slowly.”
“Of course.” He smacked his forehead with his hand. “Can you believe I forgot about your husband? I’m the worst of rogues, Poppy. Please forgive me—of course I understand that you’d want to move at a certain pace. You’ve got Moira to consider, as well.”
She’d chosen the right lie. “Thank you for understanding.”
“Thank you for trusting me enough to tell me how you really feel.” He smiled, a radiant smile that sliced through her reserves. His smile could set the whole world on fire, and here she was, playing him for a fool.
“Of course.” She echoed him, for she had nothing left that was original. Nothing that was truly hers.
Each lie dug her in deeper, made it harder to catch her breath. A silver blade to her heart, stabbed in repeatedly, until the last shards of her identity were bloodied with falsehoods.
“I promise, I’ll take it slow.” He spoke with the raw earnestness of a man experiencing the blooms of first love.
His eyes lit up with the hope that they were building something together. A hope she’d have to crush brutally.
Someday.
Not today.
Today, she couldn’t bear to break him down. She smiled, and she said she’d meet him the next day, and she prayed to God for a rain that would wipe away her sins and the danger surrounding him.
13
Four days later, fatigue laced through Poppy’s bones, so constant that she’d almost forgotten what it was like to be wide-awake. She leaned against the back bar of the loom; her feet bruised from hours of tapping constantly on the wooden plank to move the shuttle. Her left arm ached from pulling the lever that would determine when the thread passed from one side of the loom to the other.
Practice and rhythm.
Aunt Molly had drilled this into her when she’d learned to use the old hand loom on the farm. While the automated loom sped up the production of woven silk, it still required her focus.
One and two, one and two, until her mind bled with the repetition. Poppy tugged on the lever of the loom again, but she imagined the lever was not a wire attached to a wooden baton but instead Thaddeus’s hand clasped around her own, strengthening her through the rough patches. He’d been the highlight of her past few days, coming by every night after she got home from work. He brought supper for her, Edna, and Moira. Edna left after dinner to visit with the neighbors, but Thaddeus stayed. He’d curl up on the blanket, his long limbs folded underneath him, reminding her of a gangly colt.
Moira had taken to him. “Tad,” she called him, the name usually followed by her reaching out for his coat. Last night, Thaddeus had delivered a rousing reenactment of Little Red Riding Hood using Poppy’s cloak and the stuffed sheep. Moira had laughed and laughed, until she eventually dozed off burrowed against Thaddeus’s hip.
It had been a perfect night.
So perfect that Poppy couldn’t help but wonder when it was all going to disappear. She didn’t deserve Thaddeus. He was sweet and caring. In the end, she’d only break his heart. But selfishly, Poppy clung to these rare moments of bliss.
Those memories were all she’d have when it ended.
It was half past eight when the bell finally rang. In a giant wave, the weavers descended upon the front door, jostling for purchase. Poppy waited by her loom, not willing to risk being stepped on in the fray. Positioned on either side of the exit, Clowes and Jennings pulled open the heavy wooden doors.
Abigail and Bess stood by her side as the workers filtered out into the street.
Protocol dictated that both guards would remain outside by the doors until every weaver had left the building. She evaluated Clowes, lips pursed. He’s not a bad man, she’d said to Thaddeus.
Tonight, as Clowes propped open his side of the door and went toward Jennings, she started to reconsider that statement. Had Clowes been complicit in Anna’s murder? She didn’t want to think that the stocky youth could have been capable of such evil—but then, she’d been wrong before, taken in by a pair of arresting eyes and a sweet voice.
Poppy pulled Abigail and Bess back, sheltering them behind her loom.
Clowes leaned forward, muttering something to Jennings. The older guard faced their little party, and his eyebrows immediately shot up in response to Clowes’s statement. Clowes continued to speak, causing Jennings to frown. But Jennings moved back from the door.
Clowes strode toward them, giving no indication that he saw them hunched back against Poppy’s loom. The loom itself almost reached the ceiling, with the reams of punch cards looped together and held on another landing attached to the top of the loom.
Poppy knelt, and Abigail and Bess followed her motion. Abigail’s hand slid over Bess’ mouth so she wouldn’t question them. Abigail tilted her head to the side in inquiry, but Poppy simply held up her finger to her lips.
Something wasn’t right.
Her ears hummed, the sound of the looms still echoing despite the veritable silence over the room. Her muscles burned, taut and ready for something she couldn’t quite describe. All she knew was that Clowes hadn’t followed routine. She peeked out from behind the loom. Clowes passed by the office, motioning to someone inside. A few seconds later, Boz came out from the office. He took up the lead, Clowes following behind him as a puppy does his master.
They were heading toward the back room.
“What’s going on?” Abigail murmured, concern shadowing her usually vibrant blue eyes.
“I don’t know,” Poppy whispered back.
“I want to go home,” Bess whined.
“We will, sweetie,” Abigail murmured. “Can you be quiet for a minute longer?”
Bess pouted, flopping down on the floor. From the pocket of her apron, Abigail pulled out a long string of yarn. She tied the ends together, slipping it over her hand. She moved her right middle finger to the left, picking up the left palm string, and vice versa. With the design fully formed, Abigail held out her hands to Bess.
Abigail turned her head to Poppy. “It’s getting late. We shouldn’t be here after the factory’s closed.”
“A minute more.” Poppy laid her hand on Abigail’s shoul
der in a grip meant to both comfort and hold her in place.
The office door opened once more and out came Effie Larker. Imperiously, she scanned the well-lit floor, and Poppy’s breath died in her throat.
As Effie turned their way, Jennings closed the doors to the factory and went toward her.
“You’re late,” Effie huffed. “Do you think we pay you for dawdling? Where’s Clowes?”
Jennings stiffened, his weathered face coloring. “Clowes’s already inside with Boz.”
“Very good,” Effie sniffed. “That one, he’s clever. Enterprising.”
“What about the Moseley girl? That wasn’t clever.” Jennings’s eyes darted from one side of the factory to the other. He fisted his hands, arms hanging down at his sides.
Poppy could almost feel the anxiety flowing off of him as he followed Effie toward the back room.
Effie spun around, her royal blue skirt fluffing out around her as she moved. “The girl,” she said through gritted teeth. “The girl is dead. Boz saw to that.”
Abigail gasped.
Effie stepped back from Jennings. “What was that?”
Poppy shook her head frantically, praying Effie would forget the noise.
“I didn’t—didn’t hear nothing,” Jennings stammered.
Effie’s eyes narrowed. “These old buildings. Disgusting. I long for the time when we’re free of these ridiculous covers.”
“Won’t be long now, ma’am,” Jennings consoled her.
Effie drew herself up to her full height. “No, I suppose not. With men like Clowes, we’ll be fine. He takes care of problems.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Jennings agreed.
Boz emerged from the back room, scratching at his thick beard. “Are you coming, wench?”
Effie’s spine stiffened, her posture rigid at Boz’s voice. “It’d serve you right to wait, you old rotter,” she yelled back, yet she started after him.
“Should’ve left you in that damn brothel,” Boz retorted. “Miserable shrew.”
“I’m only miserable because you make me so.” Effie’s voice drifted back toward them as she went into the back room.
Jennings was hot on her heels. He did one last sweep of the room before closing the door behind him.
“Confound it,” Abigail murmured under her breath. “Boz killed Anna, didn’t he?”
Boz saw to that. A shudder shook Poppy’s body, tore at the very depths of her. Everything Thaddeus had suspected was correct.
She had to find Thaddeus, to tell him what she’d heard.
Bess scrambled up from behind the loom. “Someone killed Anna?”
“No, of course not,” Poppy whispered.
“But I heard them talk,” Bess protested. “I heard them, Abbie.”
Abigail shifted on the floor, reaching out to bring Bess back down to a sitting position with her. “Do you remember how I told you there are certain things you mustn’t ask about?”
Bess gave her an arch look. “I remember everything.”
“This is one of those things,” Abigail said quietly. “I need to talk with Poppy, understand?” Bess opened her mouth to object, and Abigail held up a hand. “Someday, when you’re older, you can tell me there’s things I can’t hear either.”
“But I’m hungry,” Bess objected.
Poppy hunted in her pockets, finally finding the penny pie she’d meant to bring home to Edna. The coster’s cart had been outside the factory as she entered after lunch. “You may have this if you sit here by the loom while your sister and I talk. Can you do that?”
Bess nodded, a frown etched into her wan cheeks.
Poppy dropped her voice low, so that Bess couldn’t hear her. “I’m helping to investigate Anna’s murder. The Peelers suspect that Boz Larker was involved.”
Abigail exhaled, the breath shaking her thin frame. “God’s balls, Poppy, do you know what you’re doing? This place, if you’re not careful, it’ll eat you alive.”
“If Anna died because of the Larkers, we owe it to her family to make sure they pay,” Poppy said. “Would you stand watch for me? I want to get into Larker’s office. If you hear or see anything, whisper.”
Abigail opened her mouth to protest, and then shut it. “For Anna. But only this once, do you hear me?”
Before Abigail could change her mind, Poppy scooted out from the loom. She edged toward the office and the possibility of this all ending. Once she found enough information to prove the Larkers were guilty, Thaddeus could take the case to his supervisors.
And after that, she’d never see him again.
Boz Larker’s office appeared significantly less intimidating without him present. One floor-to-ceiling cabinet was pushed up against the far wall, while a beat-up desk with deep scratches in the wood was positioned in the middle of the room. Pulled up to the desk were two rickety chairs lined in brash mustard yellow.
Poppy had sat in those chairs when she’d first applied for work. Three days fresh from Surrey, she’d been delighted to find a factory that was outfitted with the newer Jacquard looms, considered somewhat of a fable in the shops in Dorking. London would be different. Everything would line up so that in two years, she’d have enough money for Moira’s future schooling.
She should have known better.
Stepping over the threshold, Poppy carefully closed the door to the office behind her so that the noise wouldn’t travel. There were no windows in Larker’s office; she was safe, as long as no one came by and wondered why the door was shut. The lack of windows also meant she was separated from the twilight that lit the factory main floor. A lantern burned on the wall behind Larker’s desk. The light flickered, stuttering as the wick smoked.
The light wouldn’t last more than a few minutes.
In the dark, she fumbled in her apron pocket for her tinder box and pulled it out. Three matches remained. Striking a lucifer, she held the match out. Her nose wrinkled at the near-suffocating stench of sulfur. Stomach churning, she sucked in a breath, a hard-won inhale that was as shaky as her hands. Boz had killed Anna. If Poppy was found, he wouldn’t hesitate to dispose of her in the same way.
What would Thaddeus do?
He’d check the cabinet first.
Poppy nodded. She could do that—the cabinet had four drawers of equal depth and width. She held the lucifer up, grasping the bottom between her thumb and forefinger. The first drawer contained invoices for new silk, while the second housed the purchase orders for the woven fabric. She opened the second drawer. The files weren’t labeled; rather, the papers were haphazardly thrown into the drawers. She rifled through the papers with the hand not holding the match, checking for anything that looked like an overall report of the year’s accounts.
“Got it!” She whispered, tugging on a page in the third stack from the bottom. The paper didn’t budge. She readjusted her hold on it and gave another tug. The foolscap slid out, leaving the stack more lopsided but otherwise intact. She tugged out a listing of payroll and a report on suppliers from the stack beneath.
“Are you almost done?” Abigail’s hiss made Poppy start.
The flames lapped at the tip of Poppy’s fingers. She blew on the match frantically, her fingers singed.
“Shit,” Poppy hissed. She’d almost dropped the match on the pile of papers. Setting the paper on top of the cabinet, she looked toward the door. “Is anyone coming? I need a few more minutes.”
“No one yet but do hurry.”
Poppy didn’t need to see Abigail to know she was ringing her hands as she crouched behind the nearest loom.
One more match.
The third drawer was marked “weaver records.” Careful to keep the match away from the drawer, Poppy tugged it open with one hand. This drawer was the antithesis of the others: tidily marked folders slotted into the drawer, some stuffed thick and others with a lone sheet of parchment. Poppy squinted, holding the match closer.
There was a file for every employee that had passed through the Larker factory. Including he
r.
Bloody, bloody hell.
She flipped through the “C’s” until she got to Corrigan. “Poppy Corrigan,” the top sheet read. “Irish immigrant from Surrey. War widow with a daughter. Past weaving history.” Poppy’s breaths became more regular. Nothing of concern so far.
Her heart slammed against her chest at the next sheet. “Robert Corrigan – no record of him in Dorking? Real? Daughter possibly a bye-blow.” And in big letters, underlined, “leverage.”
She couldn’t breathe. Black spots appeared before her eyes. No, no, no! She’d been so sure they suspected nothing.
Snatching up the paper, she deposited it on top of the other reports. The second match was about to burn out. Grabbing the stack of reports and the sheet about Robert, she blew out the lucifer and made her way in the almost-darkness to the door. “Is it clear?”
“Come quickly,” Abigail bid her.
She looked back at the lantern, the last sputters of light frantic.
Now or never.
Poppy gave the door a pull and slipped out onto the main floor. The sun had dipped down, leaving the factory cloaked in the gray of a new night. She nodded at Abigail, and they made their way toward the door, ducking behind the nearest loom when the door to the back opened.
The Larkers and the guards came out of Boz’s office. Effie stood at the entrance to the door and in the dim light Poppy couldn’t clearly make out her expression. But her body remained alert, spine stiff and chin high. Effie advanced toward the middle of the floor, surveying her domain.
“You’re mad, bitch,” Boz barked. “Ain’t no one here.”
“I thought I smelled something,” Effie said. “Something like sulfur.”
“The lantern burnin’ out,” Boz replied. “Think I left it lit.”
“Shall we?” Clowes came forward, holding his arm out for Effie to take. The sight of him, his boyish face splashed with pride at escorting her, made Poppy’s stomach wrench. The blackguard.
Everything was silent, still for what seemed like hours as Effie remained fixed to that point in the center of the room.
