The old bawd grinned at him as he passed, revealing the gaps between her rotting teeth. “Is it work or play you’re after with yon glimmery wench?”
“Work, as always, Mother Fusty Luggs.”
“Ooh, but can I watch?” She made an obscene gesture with her hands.
“Not tonight.”
“Single-o, eh? Suit yourself.” She cackled and blew him a kiss, and Dodger tugged at the brim of his top hat. He had to hand it to Faygie—her own mother might not have seen through her old tart’s disguise. It was an ingenious way for a young girl to keep herself safe from gropers and lechers and snatchers. A young woman, walking on her own, could attract all kinds of predators.
Like this one. He was keeping his distance, waiting for the best moment to approach, when she went and broke the rules. She hesitated a step, seemed uncertain. She looked back, revealing her uncertainty.
You didn’t want to do that in the rookeries. Of course, Dodger thought, watching as she hesitated, looking back was a mistake in other places, too. Look what it had done to Lot’s wife—pillar of salt. Look what it had done to Orpheus—lost his girl, then got him torn to bits by a bunch of frenzied virgins.
Hang on, Red was on the move again, shaking off the lethargy of confusion and setting off like she knew where she was going.
Where was she off to, with such determination? To visit her lover? Pay for the upkeep of a bastard child? Perhaps she was off to pawn some bauble or to purchase an hour’s oblivion.
She was mid-stride when Mad Stan jumped out at her from behind a wooden crate, grinning like a hideous jack-in-the-box. “Oh, the devil, the devil, the devil’s dam,” he sang tunelessly. She reared back; Mad Stan hadn’t bathed or changed his clothes in years, and the smell of piss and gin he gave off could make your eyes water.
She ducked her head down and tried to walk past him, but Mad Stan moved to block her way, waving his arms as if trying to conjure something. “Scarlet woman, dance with me?”
“I’ll kick you in the goolies, that’s what I’ll do. Let me pass.”
Clearly, this was no lavender-water miss. Back in whatever county she came from, she probably sent fellows packing, tails between their legs. Too bad her savvy wouldn’t help her much here.
“Give us a kiss first.” Mad Stan bobbed and bowed in front of her like a drunken courtier, and now the street urchins had caught the scent of prey. Scooping up their marbles, they scrambled around her. “Are you lost, miss?”
“Spare us a tuppence!”
“Whatcher got in that big leather bag?”
“I haven’t eaten in days, miss.”
“D’ye need a place to kip the night?”
Dodger hung back, wondering how she’d handle the children; you could tell a lot about a person by how they treated stray dogs and street urchins.
“No, thank you,” she said, firmly but not unkindly, in a teacherly sort of voice. She didn’t show by so much as a flicker of an eyelash that they were blocking her way, but Dodger would have wagered supper that she was perfectly well aware of it. “I’m looking for Miller’s Court. In Spitalfields. I don’t suppose one of you could direct me there?”
“But of course, miss,” said the oldest boy, who looked about eight but was probably closer to twelve. “For a shilling.”
“Do I look like the kind of person who has a shilling to spare?”
The boy was unfazed. “You look like the kind of person who don’t want to be wandering around these streets all night. And that’s the worst street in London, that is.”
Red hesitated, and the boy pressed his advantage. “Of course,” he said with a smile, “we can make another kind of arrangement, if you can’t afford the dosh.” More like thirteen then; East End children grew up fast, if at all.
“What’s that? I think your mother’s calling you,” she said, shouldering past the boy, who nodded to one of the smaller children, who darted in front of her. Time to make his move, thought Dodger, before she was tripped and sent sprawling while the gang made off with her belongings.
She was his mark.
“Evenin’, miss,” he said, slipping through the knot of children and giving the leader a level look: back off, this one’s mine. “I couldn’t help but hear you might be in need of some assistance.”
The children sidled off, throwing a few choice comments over their shoulders to save face. Dodger ignored them as the redhead sized him up.
“And who are you meant to be then?” Her accent was working class, from the north.
“The Artful Dodger, successful man of business, at your service.” He held out his arms, displaying his tailcoat, the fine embroidery on his waistcoat and the silver watch fob.
Her eyes swept over him. “Sorry, luv,” she said as she started to walk away. “I’m not buying whatever you’re selling, and I’m not giving away anything you might want.”
He fell into step beside her. “Perhaps I’m just a Good Samaritan wanting to help a maiden in distress.”
She gave him a sidelong look. “Do I look distressed?”
“You look delectable, but these streets are a right maze if you don’t know them.”
She made an exasperated noise. “I can figure it out on my own.” Looking at the alley, she hesitated, then chose to keep walking straight ahead, avoiding Mad Stan.
Dodger ambled along beside her, thumbs in his waistcoat pocket, trying to look as innocuous as he could. “Independent. I like that. Good thing you’re not in a hurry, though.”
Ah, that brought her up short. “Here,” she said, holding a coin out in her gloved hand. “I’ll give you sixpence for taking me there. And leaving directly after.”
Oh, this was almost too easy. Anyone who showed sixpence had something better stashed away. Closing his hand around hers, he said, “Keep your coin, lovely. You can pay me when you’re safe back home, if you like.”
She faced him, and he knew he had won. She trusted him—a little, at least. “We need to get there the quickest way possible. Can you do that?”
“Just follow me.” Dodger led her back through the alley, but this time, he whistled the first few bars of “Greensleeves,” and Stan knew to keep himself to himself. She was a quick walker, the heels of her shoes ringing out on the cobblestones, and he could feel the tension in her. “What’s your name, lovely? Or should I just keep calling you that?”
“Agatha DeLacey.”
He glanced over his shoulder. “You don’t look like an Agatha. Bet your friends call you Aggie.”
She gave him a look that was not without humor. “But you and I,” she said pointedly, “are not friends.”
“Acquaintances, then,” he said as they walked side by side. “Hang on,” he said, grabbing her elbow and nudging her aside. “Puddle.”
She gave him a wary look. “Is it much farther?”
“Almost there.” Without breaking stride, he lifted her purse from inside her cloak, transferred it to his other hand and stashed it in his jacket pocket. “And what brings you out so late tonight? Secret meeting of the saucy redheads’ society?”
She yanked her elbow away. “Touch me again and you’ll have a black eye.”
“Just trying to be a gentleman.” No bracelets, but she was guarding the bag she was carrying closely, so it must have something valuable in it. He just needed to find a suitable counterweight, so she wouldn’t notice when he had lifted it. “Oh, wait, I’ve got it. Attending a séance so you can handle a dispute over your grandmother’s will.”
“Will you just stop? A young girl might be dying right now. Could you please just shut up and take me where I’m going?”
He was quiet after that.
* * *
“This here’s Dorset Street,” said the young man with the unlikely name. It was a dark street of tall buildings, with huddled shapes clustered in doorways. At the sound of th
eir footsteps, a feral cat that had been eating refuse froze, then bolted. “Miller’s Court is just through this alley.” Dodger, as he styled himself, seemed subdued as he led her through the narrow passageway. “What number?”
“Fifteen. Do you see a number?” It was difficult to tell with only the dim light from the building’s windows to go by, but she thought the painted house number had peeled off or was now covered dirt.
“This is fifteen.” He indicated a dilapidated building with smudged windows.
She hesitated. “How can you be sure?”
He shrugged. “Crossingham’s common lodging house? Everyone knows it.” Something in his tone made her think that Crossingham’s reputation was not a good one, but that was hardly a surprise. She had already guessed that Jenny’s family was poor, even by East End standards. Aggie reached into her pocket for her change purse and then frowned.
“That’s embarrassing,” she said, patting her cloak pockets. “I was going to pay you for your trouble, but I don’t seem to have my change purse with me. I was sure I brought it.”
“No hard feelings,” said Dodger. “Look, I’ll even see you into the building.”
Seventy years earlier, the lodging house might have been home to a decent family. Now it sheltered a constantly shifting cast of indigent strangers, and the entranceway stank of cabbage and piss. There was no light on in the landing and a bundle of rags in the corner shifted, revealing itself to be alive and the source of at least one of the odors.
Aggie stood at the bottom of the rickety stairs and peered up. “Jenny?” She paused, then called again. “Jen?”
Dodger came up behind her, which was a surprise. She wouldn’t have thought he’d stick around. “You don’t know which floor your friend lives on?”
She shook her head. “I just have the address. The girl who gave it to me had to get home to her kids.”
“All right, then.” Dodger knocked on the first door.
“What the hell do you want?” The man opening the door a crack looked as though he had just been disturbed in the midst of some unspeakable act. His eyes were red, and there was a glisten of grease on his lips and mouth.
“We’re looking for—” Dodger began, but was cut short by a wrenching moan from upstairs.
“Jenny!” Aggie darted around him and raced up the rickety stairs, her boots pounding the old wood.
A woman with long gray hair opened her door halfway. “If it’s the noise you’re complaining about, you can go stuff it.”
“No, no, I’m Agatha DeLacey—Aggie. I’m a nursing student at the hospital.”
The woman chewed on the inside of her cheeks a moment. “Oh, yeah—I know your name.” She opened her door wider. “Come in, then.”
The flat was as tiny and bleak as a prison cell, with soot-streaked walls from the coal-burning stove and no decoration except the wrapping from a package of Bird’s Crystal Jelly Powder, hung on the wall like a picture.
“How long since she was attacked?” Aggie removed her cloak and hat and rested them on the back of a chair. The flat didn’t have much in the way of furniture. Three children were curled up on a pile of blankets in the corner, asleep, and the family’s only table was covered with loose pink and purple cloth petals, bits of wire and a small pot of glue. There was precious little money in making artificial flowers to adorn ladies’ hats, and these children probably helped their parents from early in the morning until it was bedtime.
“Attacked?” Jenny’s mother frowned. “Who told you she was attacked?”
“Jenny’s friend Clara.” Except now that she thought about it, maybe Clara had said something else, and Aggie had assumed she’d been attacked.
“Huh.” Jenny’s mother went over to one of her sleeping children and plucked a wire stem out of his hands. “Well, Jenny wasn’t attacked. She went to see a doctor about a complaint she was having.” She placed the wire stem on the table.
Aggie flashed on what Jenny had said to her, earlier that same day: There’s a doctor what says he can help me, only he charges an arm and a leg.
“What happened with the doctor?”
“Ask her yourself.” Jenny’s mother indicated the other end of the flat, where a privacy screen had been pulled up, partly concealing the bed and its occupant. “No anesthetic, and he left her to walk home on her own, still bleeding.” The woman gave Dodger a dark look. “That’s what comes from trusting men.” It reminded Aggie of what she had told Jenny: Don’t put your trust in white coats.
“Maybe I should wait downstairs,” said Dodger, his elfin face looking a bit pale.
“Wait!” Aggie hated to show weakness, but she had to admit that she was likely to get lost trying to find the way back on her own. “Can you wait to walk me back?”
“I didn’t say I was going to leave,” he said, holding his hat in his hands. “I’ll wait for you below. I just can’t bear the smell of blood.”
She gave him a searching look. “All right.” She fought the urge to tell him how grateful she was. Either he would be there when she was done, and she would tell him then, or he wouldn’t.
Aggie asked for a pitcher of water and a basin to wash her hands, then walked over to the back of the flat. She pulled aside the privacy screen and then replaced it so she and her patient were shielded from view.
“Hello, Jenny,” she said, sitting down on a stool beside the bed. “How are you feeling?”
“Like death, twice warmed over.” Jenny’s face was chalky, and there was a dark stain on the gray woolen blanket covering her. “Guess you’re going to say I told you so.”
“Of course not. But I do need to examine you.”
Jenny turned her head away, as if she could separate herself from the rest of her body. “I don’t care what you do.”
Aggie gently pulled the blanket up. “Can you tell me anything about the procedure?”
“I would think you could use your imagination.”
Aggie rubbed her hands together to warm them. “Can you tell me anything about the doctor or his practice? Was he from the Royal Victoria?” On closer examination, there was some bleeding, but that was to be expected.
“Not there,” said Jenny, her voice tight with pain. “At the other place you was. Ingold.”
Aggie frowned. “What was his name?”
Jenny closed her eyes. “Don’t remember.”
“What did he look like?”
“His hair was ginger—what was left of it. Googly-eyed bugger, but he spoke all posh.”
That sounded like Henry Clerval. Like Victor, Henry had been a third-year student when he had left school, but unlike Victor, Henry’s ambitions had outstretched his abilities. She wondered if he had been stealing supplies when she spotted him leaving the hospital earlier.
“I knew it was a mistake the minute I walked into his office,” said Jenny. “He had these jars filled with hearts and livers and such, and an amputated arm swimming in some sort of chemical bath. Thought he was going to chop me up for parts.”
That was certainly a peculiar choice in medical office decoration, but perhaps Clerval thought it made him stand out from the other quacks. “All right,” she said, pulling down Jenny’s skirt. “I think the bleeding is going to stop and you’re going to be just fine, but as a precaution, I’ll leave you with some styptic powder to encourage blood clotting.”
A little while later, Aggie stepped out from behind the screen. Jenny’s mother was sitting nearby, slumped over in a chair. “I’ve done everything I could,” she said. “If you don’t mind, I need to wash my hands again.” There was no response. “Ma’am?” It took her a moment to realize that the older woman’s chin was resting on her chest. She had fallen asleep.
“She was nipping at the gin to steady her nerves,” said Dodger, startling Aggie as he unfolded himself from the floor where he had been sitting. “Not that I blame
her. She left out the pitcher and basin, though, and a sliver of soap.” He walked over to the table and picked up the pitcher of water. “Here. Put your hands out.”
“Thanks,” she said as he poured water over her hands. She lathered her hands with the soap and then held them out to be rinsed. “Thought you were going to wait downstairs.”
He shrugged, handing her a towel. “Sometimes I surprise myself.” He glanced over at the decorative screen shielding Jenny and the bed. “She going to be all right?”
“It’s difficult to say. I hope so.” In cases like these, death didn’t always arrive in a dramatic torrent of blood. Sometimes, it sneaked catlike into the room and toyed with the patient, seizing them and releasing them again and again before finally taking the killing bite.
Don’t think like that. Jenny will be fine.
Dodger held out her gloves and cloak. “You ready to head back now?”
She was too tired to guess why he was being so kind to her, or figure out what he expected in return. “Dear God, yes,” she said. If there was a price to be paid, she’d deal with that later.
8
The gleam of a street vendor’s lantern shone through the darkness. Aggie wasn’t sure what he was selling, but the rich, nutty smell of roasting beans was wonderful.
A small crowd of customers was standing around, sipping from chipped mugs and nibbling thin slices of bread spread with butter. Two plump women wearing thin, shiny gowns and rouged cheeks were chatting with each other, while two younger girls sat nearby, pale and thin from factory work. A drover on his way to the meat market leaned on his cow as he chewed on a piece of bread.
“I’m surprised so many people are still awake,” Aggie said. It was a little after five in the morning.
“Some are still awake,” agreed Dodger. “Others are just getting started.”
She paused as she watched the vendor put a mug under the brass tap of a large tin pot and hand it to a man with a wheelbarrow full of turnips and parsnips.
“That’s not tea,” she said.
“Nah, it’s coffee. Want a cup?” Dodger reached into his pocket and gave the coffee seller a penny. After glancing at a young boy standing in his bare feet beside him, Dodger tossed the seller a second penny. He handed the boy a cup of coffee and a buttered slice of bread first, and then handed the next one to Aggie. He brought her over to a low bench that had just been vacated by two other customers and watched as she tasted coffee for the first time.
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