Secrets in Scarlet

by Erica Monroe

  “The most likely options are that Boz Larker either offered to pay Whiting something for his silence or cut him on the take of the counterfeiting. You know Whiting will do almost anything for a profit.”

  Strickland’s eyes narrowed. “That’s a leap, Thaddy, a leap you’d better be damned sure of before you make it. There could be severe consequences.”

  Shit. He’d been so angry he hadn’t thought about that. If Strickland knew he’d been involved with Poppy, was it really a stretch that Whiting would find out too? And then he’d tell the Larkers.

  The Larkers would find her, they’d go after her, they’d kill her, they’d kill her daughter...

  He couldn’t let that happen.

  Thaddeus spun on his heel, heading toward the front lobby. He had to find Poppy, lies be damned. They could sort that out later when he knew she was safe. Her truths didn’t matter if she wasn’t alive to tell them to him. Nothing was more important than protecting her.

  Strickland stopped him again, his grip heavy on Thaddeus’s arms. “Whiting’s not going to be docked for his involvement with the Larkers. If you try and take him on, it’ll be your word against his, and there’s no one who will be stupid enough to take your side.”

  Especially not me, Strickland might as well have said. Strickland had seen Effie Larker meet with Whiting, but he wasn’t about to put his name on the line for justice.

  “It’s the right thing to do,” Thaddeus said. “This place, what we do, it’s in the name of something bigger than us. How can I have faith in this system when our own ranks don’t follow the rules?”

  “You think too much.” Strickland shook his head. “Sometimes it’s nothing more than a job.”

  Anna Moseley meant nothing to Strickland, nothing more than a sheet of paper to be filed away with the rest of the closed cases.

  But Thaddeus had known Miss Moseley, felt her last breaths. He’d held the woman he knew as Poppy Corrigan—whoever she really was—against him and he’d memorized the curves of her body.

  Poppy was beautiful and she was vibrant, and above all else, she didn’t deserve to be a pawn in the Larkers’ game.

  Thaddeus pulled his arm away from Strickland. “I’ve got to get to Poppy.”

  “She’s one woman. One woman in a sea of thousands.” Strickland held up a single finger, as if that gesture alone would convince Thaddeus that Poppy was inconsequential. “You’re going to burn for this and you’re racing headlong into the fire. All for what, some strumpet’s cunny? Is one woman worth risking your career? Everything you’ve worked for? Because when this is through, you won’t work for the Met. Bow Street sure as hell won’t touch you.”

  Thaddeus glanced down at Beauregard’s letter. The tiny, quill-scrawled words hadn’t disappeared. The story, Poppy’s lies, all remained. Maybe, maybe he’d been wrong about her. Maybe he’d been wrong about everything between them, but he heard her laughter in his ears when he went to sleep. He’d never felt so at home, so right, with anyone else before.

  He knew, as Strickland peered at him in utter shock, that he’d accept the hurt offered by this love if it meant he could be with her. “She’s worth it.”

  The smell hit Poppy first. Rancid and ruddy, as if someone had left a box of old rusted metal lock picks in the sun-drenched window of the Vautille’s one-room flat. She couldn’t breathe clearly, for every time she tried to suck down clean air the musty stench met her.

  Poppy had smelled something like this once before, when a weaver’s apron had caught in the machinery. Pulled forward by the loom, the woman’s foot hooked on the pedal, causing it to move continuously. Her hair snagged on the beaters.

  It all happened so fast. When they were finally able to pull the woman free, her face had been permanently disfigured, her ribs smashed.

  But no prior experience could prepare Poppy for seeing Abigail like this. Upon entering, Bess had fled to the bedroom she shared with Abigail, unable to stomach the sight of her sister.

  Poppy was alone with Abigail.

  Alone with this horror.

  The curtains in the flat had been drawn back to let in the last bit of evening sunlight. Lord, how Poppy wished they were closed!

  Abigail sat by the fire with a blanket draped over her legs. Soiled bandages covered her right hand, stained thick with brownish red. A purple bruise disfigured her left temple, darkest where her puffy eyelid met muscle. The flesh was tumid underneath her eyelid, a bulbous flab where once creamily pale skin had been. A similar bloated circle had formed around her eye, swelling it shut. Dried blood dotted the edge of her bottom lip where it’d been split. Only her nose was unaffected, a perky contrast to the rest of the damage.

  “Oh, God, Abbie,” Poppy gasped, forcing herself forward. “What happened?”

  Please let it be an accident. Please, please tell me I didn’t cause this.

  “I can’t tell you,” Abigail croaked, her voice raspy.

  Poppy wobbled, her legs threatening to buckle underneath her. She dropped to her knees in front of Abigail, wanting to reach for the girl’s unbandaged hand to comfort her, but fearing she’d somehow injure her further. Instead, she crossed her arms over her chest. “The Larkers did this to you, didn’t they?”

  The slight inclination of Abigail’s head told her everything she needed to know. She’d failed Abigail. Failed her like she’d failed her Uncle Liam by bringing the vitriol of the town down upon him; failed her like she’d failed Daniel, unable to keep him sober; failed her like she’d failed Moira, not giving her a proper family.

  “I can help you,” she murmured, even though she knew the words were false. She hadn’t been able to save Abigail from this beating. She’d thrown the girl in danger, all because she’d thought she could play amateur inspector. “Please, Abigail, I know a man who can help you.”

  Thaddeus would know what to do. Poppy clung to that.

  Every day with Abigail had been a positive spot upon Poppy’s bitter existence. She’d thought Abigail possessed an indefatigable spirit because no matter how long they worked, how hard, Abigail had always been joyful.

  But the Abigail in front of her was a far cry from the bold girl who had declared that the Larkers didn’t scare her.

  “I don’t want your help.” Ire combined with the hollowness of Abigail’s tone, scraping her words against Poppy’s exposed hands. “You’re the reason this happened to me.”

  “No, no, I never meant for this to happen,” Poppy stammered, unable to look away from the bruise on Abigail’s face. Red dots littered the skin around her eye, becoming sick purplish-blue masses where the attacker had struck Abigail harder.

  “They grabbed me after work on Monday.” Tears cascaded down from her good eye, covering her cheeks and mixing with the dirt and gore. “They said they’d seen me leave. Because I was the last to leave.”

  It could have been me. If she’d been the one to exit the building last, if she’d left just a second later, she’d be the one battered and bloodied. Poppy fisted her hand, her nails digging into her palm. She couldn’t think clearly. Couldn’t form a plan when she urgently needed one.

  “Why, Poppy?” Abigail cried. “Why’d you have to go into Larker’s office? What was so important you risked my safety and my sister’s?”

  “Anna.” Poppy wasn’t sure if that was a lie too: initially, she’d wanted to avenge Anna’s death. It had become more about protecting her family and friends from future Peeler investigation, and then after that it had been...something else entirely. She saw Thaddeus’s face before her eyes, earnest and ready to love her.

  “Anna is dead,” Abigail cried. “Dead, Poppy, she’s dead. She’s not coming back.”

  Each word was a stab to Poppy’s heart. “Boz Larker killed her. I wanted to make him pay. That paperwork I got from his office, Thaddeus—Sergeant Knight—will make sure it goes to the right people.”

  “You love him.” Abigail made this a cut and dry statement, no question in her words.

  Her surety
forced Poppy forward, edging closer in a half-crawl, half-slog. This, this wasn’t the time to talk of her feelings for Thaddeus. Whatever she harbored for him, whatever she wanted between them was immaterial. Abigail had paid the price.

  “It won’t matter,” Abigail said. “The Larkers have paid off the Peelers. Effie told me so.”

  “Not Thaddeus,” Poppy insisted.

  She reached for Abigail’s uninjured hand, intending to help her up from the chair. “We’ve got to get you to a doctor. Your bruises, your cuts, they need medical attention.”

  Abigail winced, scooting back on the chair. “I won’t go with you. You weren’t born here. You don’t know what the doctors are like. Quacks, all of them, hawking their elixirs that aren’t more than water mixed with a spot of dirt. No, I’m going to stay here, where they can’t hurt me.”

  Poppy shook her head. “It’s not safe here. The Larkers know where you live. It’s on their employment records.”

  “They won’t hurt me if I’m not with you,” Abigail said, her voice deathly calm. “I’ve already told them everything I knew. They’re not going to come after me again, as long as I stay away from you.”

  A shiver ran up Poppy’s spine, stopping at the back of her neck, a sudden unearthly rash of coldness. “What did you tell them, Abigail?”

  When her friend didn’t speak, Poppy leaned forward, until she was almost at eye level with the sitting Abigail. The thick fetor of dried blood clogged her nostrils until she coughed. Poppy spoke again, her voice a whip. “Did you tell them about my involvement?”

  “I told the Larkers you were looking into them.”

  As Poppy’s face fell and tears sprung at her eyes, Abigail crumpled before Poppy, her shoulders no longer so taut.

  Blood, dirt, and silk fibers streaked Abigail’s matted blond curls. “I didn’t want to, Poppy, please believe me.”

  “I know, I know,” Poppy repeated, resting her hand on Abigail’s knee. She intended the touch as comfort—to show that she believed Abigail—but the girl flinched.

  “Where else did they hurt you?” Poppy asked, forcing formality into her tone, for if she focused on the problem at hand, she’d be able to get Abigail help. “Tell me your injuries.”

  Abigail hesitated, watching her out of the corner of her one good eye. When Poppy didn’t flinch and instead repeated her question, Abigail began to unwrap her bandaged hand. In stages, Abigail revealed the gruesome effect. The skin where Abigail’s wrist met her hand was coated in crusted crimson, yet that was the least of the damage.

  Poppy closed her eyes, hoping to God above that when she reopened them Abigail’s right hand wouldn’t be crushed. That the fingers would extend normally, instead of twisting at abnormal, repellent angles.

  “What—what did they do to you?” The words tasted like copper on Poppy’s tongue, tasted like Abigail’s blood.

  Poppy reopened her eyes. She couldn’t look at Abigail’s face, for if she did, she’d see indescribable pain. Hatred, maybe. Blame.

  But Poppy’s eyes needed somewhere to rest, and rest they did on Abigail’s smashed hand. Her knuckles were red and raw, the skin torn off completely. Almost as though a flap had been made in her flesh. The surrounding skin was higher where it still existed, a blistering contrast between the bubbling of gore over Abigail’s exposed knucklebone.

  “Boz held me down,” Abigail whispered. “After they’d beaten my face, and I wouldn’t tell them why I’d been so late in the factory. They grabbed me, and Effie jammed my hand into the frame, near where the control device is.”

  Poppy nodded slowly. Abigail seemed to expect an answer, and she couldn’t think to form one with bile building up in the back of her throat. She swallowed, trying to keep control over her stomach.

  “They turned the square bar forward.” Abigail’s voice was tinny, like she was somehow far away, not in this room right next to Poppy with the smell of her rotten flesh clouding everything. “You know what happens next.”

  The bar held hundreds of tiny holes, all fitted to line up perfectly with the needles that controlled the warp threads. The needles were sharp, accounting for the tiny pinpricks all over Abigail’s hand. In theory, the needles were held in place by spiral springs, and whenever pressure was put on a certain point of those needles, they should have retracted. But Abigail’s hand smashed into the frame had made the needles surge forward in line with the punch card. And on and on the process must have gone, until the skin on Abigail’s hand had been wrenched clear off.

  Clamping a hand over her mouth, Poppy steeled against the urge to wretch. No one, especially not sweet Abigail, should have had to endure that torture.

  “I tried, Poppy, I tried,” Abigail breathed. “The pain...the pain was so bad I couldn’t bear it anymore.”

  “It’s fine,” Poppy told her.

  Nothing was fine. Nothing would ever be fine again. Abigail didn’t need to hear that, didn’t need to know Poppy had given up hope. That deep in her heart, Poppy knew that this was it—this was the end. Abigail’s hand wouldn’t heal completely. One look and Poppy had ascertained she’d never be able to weave again. What would Abigail do for blunt now? How would she support herself and Bess?

  A woman in the rookeries had very few options. A woman with knock-knees and a bum hand had one alternative: prostitution. Charming, innocent Abigail would be forced into the brothels. She’d become used up and tainted, like Poppy already was. Except Abigail didn’t deserve her fate.

  “We’ve got to get you help,” Poppy said again, mustering what little bit of sternness she still had. “Your hand is going to get infected sitting here.”

  “I won’t go,” Abigail repeated.

  “I’ll make sure you’re taken to a proper hospital,” Poppy assured her. One that isn’t a prison disguised as a medical facility.

  Abigail shifted in the chair, starting to rewrap her hand. “If I go, who’s to stop them from going after Bess?”

  “I will. I know I haven’t given you a lot of reason to trust me, Abbie, but I’ll kill them if they hurt Bess. I’ll kill them, do you hear?” Every ounce of determination Poppy had she poured into that vow, until her voice was rife with it, this maddening need to seek vengeance on the blackguards who had hurt those she loved. “I know people. I know people who’ll protect Bess, protect you. And I’m not going to stop until you’re safe.”

  There must have been something in her eyes. Or maybe it was the way she knelt before Abigail, her spine straight, her mouth smashed into the thinnest of lines. Whatever it was, Abigail stiffened, stopped winding the bandage around her hands. Her blue eyes met Poppy’s green in silent agreement.

  As soon as she left here, she’d send a message to Atlas through one of his couriers. Moira and Edna would need protection. She’d go to Thaddeus to get help for Abigail, but Atlas would be better for keeping her family safe. If Abigail’s claim that the silence of the police had been bought, then Poppy couldn’t take that chance.

  But Thaddeus was sound. His father had been a surgeon—surely, he must know of a hospital that could help Abigail. If she asked him to, he wouldn’t tell anyone where Abigail was.

  She trusted him. She had to.

  Poppy rose to her feet, clutching onto the arm of Abigail’s chair to steady herself. “I’ll be back with someone who can help you.”

  16

  Thaddeus found Poppy sitting on the stoop outside his townhouse that evening. A lump formed in his throat at the sight of her, her red hair unbound, her blue dress streaked with a dark crimson that bore an unsettling resemblance to blood.

  But she was here. She was in one piece.

  Releasing Poppy’s hand, Thaddeus stood back, his gaze sweeping down her body. Yes, that strange stain upon her gown was most definitely dried blood.

  He squinted. She appeared unharmed. No bruises or obvious wounds. Just the smattering of blood, and the wildness of her hair to indicate something had happened.

  “Poppy? Is everything all right?” He half-expe
cted her not to answer, to fade away into the constant London fog.

  “I’m fine,” she assured him. “But I need you to come with me.”

  “Come with you where?” He wasn’t going to follow her, not until he had an explanation.

  Confusion scrawled over her face. “To Abigail’s.”

  “Your friend’s?” He blinked, jolted by the non sequitur. “Has something happened to her?”

  She grabbed for his hand, towing him forward. “The Larkers beat up Abigail. She needs help.”

  They ran down the street. As they moved, Poppy informed him of Abigail’s injuries. A crushed hand was concerning. He doubted it would fully recover. Still, if Miss Vautille wasn’t bleeding out, recovery was possible. “We’ll take her to the London Hospital. My father was a surgeon there for years. I know the staff.”

  Poppy breathed a sigh of relief.

  “Where is her flat located?” He focused on that concrete fact because he understood facts. Street addresses, family histories, all those little entries in his color-coded case file were familiar and calming. He knew how to process that.

  “Baker’s Row, north of Whitechapel Road. It meets with Church Street.”

  He nodded. “Ah, yes, I do know the place.” Church Street housed both the Ten Bells public house and Hawksmoor’s Christchurch. The small graveyard next to the church was “Itchy Park,” a known haunt for vagrants, prostitutes, and thieves.

  Abigail would be safe at the London Hospital. But after? How could he arrest the Larkers if Whiting was working with them? It’d be his word against Whiting’s unless he could get Abigail to speak out against her attackers. And even then, he wasn’t sure that’d be enough to go against a respected inspector like Whiting.

  Poppy stopped in front of one of the tenement houses on Baker’s Row. The street was narrow, debris cluttering the drains, spilling out into the cobbled stone courtyard. The remains of a brick wall, once marking a garden for residents, stood two layers deep. The cobblestones had dissolved halfway through the courtyard, and he almost tripped on one of the sharp stones. Two children played in the courtyard, one with a ball in his hand and the other with a slat of wood. Neither had shoes.