by Erica Monroe
“I'm sorry, Miss Vautille.” Strickland stood, his long strides churning the space between them. He was at her side in a moment, his hand extended as if he wanted to touch her shoulder, to give her comfort, but he dare not after all that had already passed. “I received a note from Clowes.”
Her throat felt like it was closing. She fought to gasp out words. “What did it say?”
Strickland’s voice lowered, as if by being more placid, he could make this news less horrific. “He said he was coming for both of us. You can understand why I think it’s best you stay here under guard.”
While she was sheltered, what about Bess? What if Clowes came back to their flat looking for her and found Bess instead?
“My sister. You need to protect her,” she told him. “She’s staying with Mrs. Henderson next door.”
He nodded. “We believe the threat to her is minimal, given she isn’t in the age range that usually interests him. Nonetheless, I have assigned patrollers to the Baker’s Row lodging houses. We’re covering all the bases, I promise.”
That was somewhat reassuring. “What if he comes at her on her way to work?”
“One of the patrollers will follow her, discreetly of course, at all times. We have placed a man inside the factory on White Lion Street as well, in case Clowes decides to revisit his old haunts.”
“I still don’t like it.” She gnawed at her bottom lip, frowning. “Bess should be with me.”
“Clowes wants you,” he reminded her, his tone gentler than it had been before. “While he’s still at large, I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to be near your family. You run the risk of them being used as pawns.”
Abigail massaged her temples, trying to quiet her racing mind. She hated being away from her sister. But if Strickland's intelligence were right, she’d be risking Bess’s life if she went home.
Strickland reached for her palm, patting it mildly. His touch consoled her, even as she told herself that he granted no respite from her pain.
Her vision faded, the lines of his hand becoming blurred spots. She saw her loom, an imposing mess of machinery, wood, and steel. And she felt Clowes's hands on her back, shoving her forward into the loom, holding her down no matter how she struggled. She let out a breath, then another; short, inconsequential breaths because she'd never be free from this. Never exist in a world where she didn't see Clowes as though he were in front of her.
“He was supposed to pay.” She stared at Strickland's hand, so much larger than her own. At his fingers, robust fingers that weren't calloused like Clowes's had been. She shuddered. Hugged her dress tighter to her frame. It drooped around her without the shaping of her corset and petticoats.
Strickland watched her, his blue eyes flecked with concern. He must know very little about what had happened to her, since he’d dropped the reappearance of her tormentor upon her with such little preparation.
She shifted upon the bed so that she sat directly across from him. Pulled her hand from his, no longer wanting the relief of his contact. Her voice became stronger from rage, gritty and tight. “Don't you see? He was supposed to pay. Your people were supposed to make him pay, and you couldn't even do that.”
“I wish I had a better answer.” He didn't look her in the eye. Rather, he stared at the ceiling as though it might deliver the easy answers to him.
She wondered if this was the first time Inspector Strickland had ever been at loss for an easy solution. “Do you know what Frank Clowes did to me?”
“I am aware of the pertinent details, yes. Poppy Knight asked you to stand look-out for her while she went into Boz Larker’s office after hours and retrieved damning paperwork.”
Pertinent details. So official. She imagined she’d been nothing more than a name in a file to him. She was tired of being forgotten, pushed aside because her injury made her irrelevant.
“Poppy needed the paperwork to impress her sergeant paramour.” She sneered. “She used me, you understand?”
“Both Knights are my friends,” he countered. “I wasn’t involved in the early investigation, but I guarantee you neither Poppy nor Thaddeus had impure motives. They are good people.”
His earnestness clouded the room with untruths. How could she focus when his handsome face had scrunched up so in defense of the very villains she hated? She choked on her words. Failed to put her fury into competent sentences. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t fight. She was mired in his wrong information.
He took her silence as agreement. “They wanted to catch a killer, a killer who was going to strike again in the factory. I don’t know if you’re aware of it, but there was corruption in my department.” He had the grace to look properly chagrined at that, as if corruption in the Met was virtually unheard of instead of commonplace.
She found her voice. Watched him carefully, gauging how guarded she’d really be in this house. If he’d known about the Larkers from the start, yet done nothing to stop them, she wasn’t so certain she’d be better off with him. “What was your exact participation in the case?”
“I came in after the fact.” He didn’t flinch at her question or appear as if he was obfuscating. He spoke neither too quickly nor too slow, maintaining his natural speech rhythm. “Knight did all of the investigating, but Whiting dismissed him before the case was closed. I arrested Boz Larker and Frank Clowes and presented the evidence to the magistrate.”
“I see.” She knew all she needed to. The blame lay still on Knight and Poppy for involving her—Strickland had simply carried out what needed to be done.
She’d stay. The patrollers outside gave her some modicum of comfort. She’d never truly be secure while Clowes was alive, but Strickland provided her with a better sanctuary than she could get on her own.
Strickland ran a hand through his hair, ruffling his light brown locks. “While Knight shouldn’t have involved Poppy, he was fighting against a stacked deck. He was the one to find your friend Anna Moseley dead, and he wanted to avenge her.”
The weight of his words whipped across her face. Her cheeks flamed.
“Not that anyone ever asks, but what I wanted,” she ground out, “was not to be the plaything for a vicious bullyback. Your so-called friends escaped unscathed, but I bear the scars of their mistakes. Me, Inspector.” She looped her thumb into the top of her right glove, giving it a yank.
He caught her hand before the glove could fully come off, alarm splashing across his attractive face. “I don’t think that’s necessary. I read the report.”
Not so beautiful now, was she? She was no fool. She’d seen his reaction before. Hell, anyone with eyes would’ve known how hard her nakedness made him. With this reminder of her imperfect physique, he no longer found her so striking. Would all men treat her like this? Emptiness sprawled out in her stomach, eclipsing any bit of feeling she’d had before. He watched her with idle curiosity, as men always did when they discovered she was no more than a traveling show aberration.
To hell with his curiosity. If he was so sure he knew exactly what happened to her, then this would all be mere recitation to him. But she suspected his little report hadn’t properly informed him.
“When Effie Larker wanted information from me, she ordered Clowes to torture me. For hours, until I fainted. Do you know what it feels like to have your blood stream down from your body, to watch it pool around your feet?” She leaned forward, her voice eerily calm. “Do you understand how a jacquard loom works?”
When he shook his head, she reached out, taking his hand in hers. She unfurled his fist, flattened his palm. “It’s a system of cards advancing in a predetermined rhythm. That is how patterns are woven into the silk, you see. It's a revolutionary invention, cutting the work of the weaver by at least half. I watched for years as my friends were forced to find new employment because of this jacquard loom.”
“I am sorry,” he repeated, but she highly doubted that.
“But that's far from the worst of it, Inspector.” She traced the lines of his palm
, memorized the contours. “You see, the loom can be used as a brilliant torture device, if you comprehend the interworking. Growing up around factories, Clowes certainly did. So, when Effie told him to make me talk, by any means necessary, he knew precisely what to do. First, he forced my hand beneath the frame, as though I were the silk to weave. Effie pumped the pedal, the shuttle surged forward and caught on my hand. Dug into the skin. But that wasn’t enough.”
She began to tap her fingers against his palm repeatedly. “He wasn’t pleased with the results. He had Boz hold me up, so that I could reach the top of the loom where the jacquard attachment is. Up there, toward the back of the loom, there are approximately a hundred or so needles. When the pedal is pumped, the needles fall into position in accordance with the punch card, much as the shuttle flies forward too.”
Strickland’s face reddened. She held onto his palm. Somehow, his fury on her behalf made it easier.
“Imagine your hand being slammed on those sharp needles. Not just once, but many times. Because once Clowes figures out he can make you scream out in pain, he's going to do it many more times, until the flesh rips from your hand and bone is exposed. Until you feel your knees giving out from underneath you. Until you fall and you slam your head against the cast iron of the loom. Until you slip from consciousness. Until you're brought back by a bucket of fresh urine, thrown on your face.”
She felt Strickland become rigid against her hold. He reminded her of a coiled-up tiger, waiting for the right time to strike a gazelle. For a minute at least, she’d allow herself the delusion he’d protect her.
“That is what people like Clowes do, Inspector. So, when you write your report, or whatever it is you worthless toffs do, you remember those pertinent details. You remember my name.” She pulled her hand from his, turned away.
“I have never forgotten your name, Abigail.”
It was the first time he'd used her Christian name. She ought to tell him she hadn't granted him that liberty. But somehow, from him, it sounded right. Rhythmic. Beautiful.
“I don't know yours.”
He sketched a bow to her. “Michael.”
She didn't curtsy. Her knees bent at abnormal angles; curtsying had never been easy. She didn't want to expose herself to him again, though he had seen her every curve of her body.
“I am more than an inspector, Abigail.” The smoothness to his voice had returned. He was comfortable again, sliding into the role of a Peeler reassuring a scared witness. “I'm also a man who wants to protect you. Because I'm sorry how we handled the Larker case. Because—” He stopped, shaking his head. “Because I don't want Frank Clowes to hurt you again.”
Somehow, she doubted that was what he'd been about to say originally. The stern set to his jaw, the stubborn press of his lips, told her not to question him. She'd catch him unaware later on, and she'd extract the information she needed.
He reached for her, his hand landing on her shoulder.
His firm grip, the weight of his palm against her knobby bones, was again oddly reassuring. She wouldn't think about that.
“Thank you, I think,” she ventured. “But I suppose I'll see if your sentiment holds muster. If I am not dead by the end of this, then I suppose I’ll owe you more than two hundred pounds.”
“You don’t owe me anything,” he stated firmly. “And perish the thought of death. You are far too spirited, Abigail, to die so young. Only the good are taken from us too soon.”
He winked, his devilish smirk back in full force. Her heart flip-flopped precariously. Oh, that wasn't good. That wouldn't do.
She focused in on the threat. In demanding absolutes, she could form a plan of attack. “Tell me how Clowes escaped.”
“He was bound for transport to Australia. One of the guards working was ill—he shouldn't have even been working, but you know what people are willing to do to make the rent.” He frowned, his hand gripping her shoulder a little tighter. “The man was doubled over in pain. Clowes saw an opportunity. Somehow, he'd managed to craft a blade while in Newgate, and he had it on him. He stabbed the sick guard and managed to harm the other two.”
She nodded. That sounded like Clowes. Quick thinking, cruel, and opportunistically violent.
“I take responsibility for this, since it was my staff at work.” He let go of her, taking a step back. “We failed you once more. The H-Division will be auditing all prisoner transport policies, on my watch. We will not let this happen again.”
She knew she shouldn’t believe him, but the fact that he’d admitted his failure comforted her. Before, when the Met had interviewed her, they hadn’t acknowledged the department was partially to blame for her torment. They’d apologized, yes, but it’d been without meaning. I’m sorry this happened to you was not the same as I’m sorry we failed you.
“You make a lot of promises, Michael,” she said.
“Let me make one more. I solemnly promise to protect you from harm while you are under my charge.” He crossed his heart, raising two fingers to his lips and kissing them.
He touched those two fingers to her brow, and she felt his touch as if he had really kissed her again. Heat burned through her, seared her.
She shook her head, trying to rid herself of the sensation. “Very well. I suppose there are worse things I could be doing for two weeks.”
He grinned. “It's a grudging enthusiasm, but I'll accept it.”
“Take what you can get,” she retorted.
He strode toward the armoire next to the window, and flung the doors open. She tilted her head quixotically. Several brightly colored garments hung from a metal rod at the top of the wardrobe. Women's dresses, from what she could tell.
“These are for you,” he said. “I had my sister deliver them. She is about your size, I think.”
“I can't possibly accept…” But oh, how the fabrics looked gorgeous. Expensive. Better than she'd ever had.
He shrugged sheepishly. “Don't get too excited. They are apparently all from two seasons ago. She was going to give them to her servants. I simply swooped in at the right time.”
“Oh, but I can't take something from them—”
He cut her off. “Frances is a bored woman with little else to do but shop. I guarantee you those same servants receive ten other gowns in a year.”
“Oh.” She didn't have a reason to deny beyond that, other than the fact that she didn't want to be further indebted to him.
“I should like you to have clean clothes while you're here,” he said. “Warm clothes. It is the least I can do.”
There was that phrase again: the least he could do. She'd have to examine that later.
“I will wear them,” she agreed.
She was tired of being respectful to everyone else. Tired of adhering to their picture of what a victim should be. No one ever remembered her plight, unless they wanted to prop up their position in society by giving charity to the less fortunate. Poppy had come to her shortly after the accident, accompanied by her new husband. She'd offered Abigail enough money to last her a few months, but that money had come with strings.
If Abigail had accepted that money, she would have had to forgive Poppy. To pretend that the one person she'd trusted above all else hadn't betrayed her.
And so, for tonight instead, she'd accept generosity from a relative stranger.
7
Abigail awoke to birds chirping outside the window. Bloody happy birds, with their cheerful cheeps and their incessant singing. Resting her weight on her elbows, she rose up from the mountain of pillows Strickland's housekeeper had piled around her, and glared at the offending avians outside, some ridiculously bright yellow bird with wings spread wide, and another with mottled feathers.
How did anyone sleep in this environment? When Strickland left her room last night, it had been half past eleven. Yet not a sound echoed through his house until these damn birds. The mattress was too soft. The hot coals tucked in the warming pan underneath the sheets created a soothing lull of heat, sating
the rancorous wind of winter.
Everything was too soft, too quiet, too gentle for a girl used to hardness and savagery. She couldn't breathe freely here.
Life in Whitechapel was a cacophony of clangs, bangs, and curses, each competing to be the loudest. At this time of morning back home, Mrs. Delgado would already have had three fights with her husband about blunt and one about the children being unruly. Her other neighbors would be preparing to work in the factories.
She never thought she'd miss the pleas of the false mendicants who haunted the corners, begging for pence so they could totter off to the dram houses. Never thought she’d miss the outraged shrieks of pedestrians when a hack driver took a turn too fast and almost ran them over. Whitechapel might be hell to the rich, but it was her home and she’d fight tooth and nail to protect it.
Men like Clowes wanted to ruin Whitechapel with their coldblooded cruelty. Before Clowes, she’d always felt comfortable. She knew the land and she knew the people.
She burrowed deeper in the sheets, as though the yards of fabric could keep her protected.
Downstairs, the servants began to shuffle about, preparing the house for their master. In addition to Smithers, who served as Michael’s butler, valet, and footman, there was also a housekeeper and a cook. The inspector was but one man—yet he needed a staff of three simply to exist. It was absurd. Yet it was modest, compared to toffs.
The noise the servants made as they went about their duties was welcome, for it was a reminder that she was not alone in this vast house.
But the birds were another matter entirely. She groaned, covering her ears with a pillow. In the rookeries, the birds dared not make such outrageous hullabaloo, lest they become dinner to the urchins who couldn't afford a proper meal. Hell, Abigail herself had once served a carriage-crushed pigeon for dinner. Very little usable meat on the bones, barely worth the effort it had taken to pluck, but at least it had fed Bess for a night.
