A Gift for Guile (The Thief-takers) (28 page)

“Been waiting for you.” The voice in her ear was low and harsh. “Nice of the boy to forget to lock the door.”

Terror bloomed in her chest. She bit down on the hand and opened her mouth to scream, but got no further than an indrawn breath before something hard crashed against the side of her head.

The world revolved in a slow, sick circle. A wad of cloth was shoved in her mouth. It smelled of sweat and smoke. She threw an arm up, but it was a clumsy and useless gesture. Her arms and legs wouldn’t work properly. She nearly toppled over when she tried to kick backward. Something thick and rough slid over her head, blinding her, and then she was being dragged backward, out the door and into the garden.

* * *

Samuel piled coins on the scarred table at the Brook’s End tavern. Across from him, Chaunting Charlie sniffed through a nose that had been broken and left unset at least half a dozen times over the course of his fifty years. If the bruising under his eyes was any indication, the latest injury had occurred less than a week ago.

“I ain’t talking, Brass.” But of course he would. The refusal was merely a formality. His gaze was already locked on the money, adding up every coin.

Charlie wasn’t a professional informant, as such. His long-standing habit of talking to the authorities for a few coins meant no criminal in his right mind would trust the old man with a secret of any import. Charlie fell more along the lines of professional gossip. He was good for names, personal histories, and, if the coin was right, the occasional address.

One could always count on Charlie for the basics. Provided one could track the man down.

“I’ve been looking for you,” Samuel said. “Could have used your services two days ago.”

“I got my own troubles, don’t I?”

Samuel looked over the healing bruises across the man’s face. Professional gossips might not be worth the bother of murder, but neither were they popular. Men of Charlie’s ilk were often obliged to disappear for days or weeks at a time.

“Looks that way,” Samuel said. “Blown over, has it?”

“Aye. Well enough.” He threw a nervous glance over his shoulder. “Unless I’m seen here with you. What are you after?”

Samuel pushed one of the coins across the table into Charlie’s reach. “What do you know of a man named John Porter?”

“That’s a common enough name. What do you want with this fellow?”

Samuel offered another coin. “Runs with a Victor Norby and Danny Mapp. All I want is to talk to him.”

The older man eyed the money and scratched the underside of his chin with the back of his hands. “Well now, might be John could do with a discussion. His mum would be turning over in her grave to know he took up the resurrection business.”

Samuel slid another coin across the table for the information. “He didn’t take it up alone.”

Stealing bodies from their graves was a hard, nasty, filthy, and entirely nocturnal line of work. Edmund’s pale skin and sunken cheeks could easily mark him as a resurrection man.

“Got a few lads with him. Your Victor and Danny. But Edmund Smith as well.”

Samuel slid another coin. “What do you know of them?”

Charlie pocketed it with the others. “Victor’s a bludger. Nasty piece of work. His da’s doing a stretch for a pannie. Danny’s a quiet one, but they say he’ll do what needs doing. If he’s got family, I ain’t heard of ’em.”

“And Edmund?”

“Edmund’s a good lad, but gulpy. And a sap. Tell the boy a sad tale and he’ll lend you his arse and shite through his ribs, he will.”

“He’s gullible.”

Charlie waggled his fingers. “That’s what I said. Gulpy.”

Samuel passed over another coin. “What do you know of his parents?”

“George Smith were a gentleman sharper. None better from what I hears. His mum was a soft touch like her son. She worked at what she could find. If you’re looking to find him, I can’t help you. He stopped running with John and his friends a while back.”

Which meant finding Charlie earlier may have linked their mystery man to Esther’s father, but it wouldn’t have led Samuel to Edmund himself. Esther still would have gone to the station. “Where can I find John and his friends?”

“Can’t tell you where Edmund’s gone. The rest of that lot…” He jerked his chin at the remainder of the money. When Samuel shoved it across the table, Charlie grinned and gave up an address in the Old Nichol.

Deciding it would be wiser to visit the rookery tomorrow in the light of day, Samuel left Charlie to his earnings and rode home.

He was eager to see Esther. He had a gift for her, and this one was perfect. It was made just for her. And he wanted to tell her about the letters. He’d opened them and read every damn word. He still wasn’t sure he cared for his mother. Her letters contained a shrewish, judgmental quality that set his teeth on edge. But she had apologized. She asked for a reconciliation, and she was sufficiently dedicated to have written three times a year despite Samuel’s silence.

He’d give it some thought.

Sarah was waiting for him in the foyer. The moment he stepped inside, the young girl rushed at him. “She’s gone, sir. Mrs. Ellison is gone.”

“Gone?” His heart made a quick, painful revolution in his chest. “What do you mean gone? She left?”

“I don’t know, sir. Her things are all upstairs. But… I’m sorry, sir, but someone left the kitchen door unlocked, and that’s where I saw her last. There was a stool tipped over and the door was wide open. The garden gate too—”

He didn’t hear anything else. He was already running for the door.

He thought he’d known fear before. In battle. At the park. When he’d taken Esther to Paddington station.

This was different. This was fear that teetered perilously close to panic. It tasted like acid in his mouth, cut his insides like razors, and ignited a fury unlike any he’d ever known.

* * *

Esther’s dizziness passed in stages. She was vaguely aware of being in some sort of conveyance, a carriage or cart. The rag in her mouth was loose. She spit it out and took in a deep breath to scream, but the sound died in her throat when she felt something the size and shape of a gun muzzle press against her temple.

“Behave.”

The next thing she knew she was being hauled outside, her hands tied behind her back. She couldn’t remember having her hands tied. Her legs were free, but it was difficult to keep her feet under her as she was dragged up a short set of steps. She heard a door open in front of her. Her captor shoved her forward a few feet, and the door shut behind her. More stumbling, down a hall or through rooms, up a long, long flight of steps.

The journey seemed endless, and she was grateful for it. With every step, every second that passed, her mind cleared, her coordination returned. But with that clarity came increased fear. Her heart raced wildly in her chest. Her lungs struggled to suck in air that felt scarce. She was shaking now, and she hated that, hated giving her captor the satisfaction of seeing her afraid.

At last they reached a landing, then a short walk, and finally a door opened in front of her. A few more steps, and then she was abruptly shoved to the floor.

Expecting her captor to immediately fall on top of her, she tensed and shifted, ready to roll away. But he moved off without a word.

She tried to follow his movements in the room, but it was difficult to make out sounds over the roar of blood in her ears. The mingled scents of dust, damp wood, and parlor matches filtered through the cloth over her face.

Her mind raced with questions, plans, and frantic grasps at hope. Did he really have a gun? Had he been bluffing? Could she reach the dagger under her skirts with her hands tied behind her back? Would it be better to scream and invite a swift death, or hold out and hope she could fight him off? Maybe she could talk to him, reason with him. Maybe she could scream and fight him off. Maybe Samuel would find her. Maybe…

Calm down. Calm down.

Forcing several hard breaths through her nose, she willed her mind away from the present and pictured herself holding her dagger in front of a target. She lifted it, aimed… And there it was. That moment of calm, of peace. She held on to it as long as she could, let it wash over her.

The roaring receded. The shaking eased into trembling, then shivers. Her thoughts quieted. Terror remained, but it no longer controlled her.

She was a Walker. She was
Esther Walker
. All she needed was her dagger, and she would show this man the meaning of fear.

She felt rather than heard the man come to stand behind her head. His hands were on her neck, and suddenly the cloth over her head was ripped away. She blinked up at a vaulted ceiling with exposed wood beams that looked half-rotted.

Her gaze darted about the room, quickly taking stock of every detail. She was in a large attic devoid of furniture except for a rickety old table and chair set in front of a dormered window. She saw no fireplace, no rugs, and no artwork, but there was plenty of light. A pair of wall lamps blazed brightly. Her parasol lay against the wall near the only door in the room.

Finally, the need to know who stood behind outrode the fear of tipping her head back and exposing her throat. She looked back and immediately recognized the blunt features, shaggy black hair, and sinister, nearly toothless grin.

“It’s you,” she gasped. “From the park.” The man who’d wrapped his hands around her neck and squeezed.

He sketched out a mocking bow. “John Porter, at your service.”

Still smiling, he walked around her to squat at her feet. Elbows resting on his knees, he absently twisted the gun in his hand while he studied her. “I’ve been trailing you for days,” he said conversationally. “Ever since Spitalfields.”

He waited then, as if expecting her to say something.

“No,” she ventured. If conversation kept him distracted from whatever plans he had for the gun, she would gladly talk all night. “Not this whole time. Not everywhere.” She’d been alone in the carriage while Samuel had gone house to house, seeking information about her father. John could have easily shot the driver and hauled her away.

“Can’t trail a man like Brass for long distances,” John replied with a small shrug. “He’ll notice. But I got close enough to take money right from your fingers, didn’t I?”

“Money?”

He dug his hand into a pocket and pulled out a single coin. “Don’t you recognize your own charity?”

Her eyes darted from the coin to his chin and landed on a small, indented scar. “Outside the tavern.” The false beggar. “That was you too.”

“I wanted to see if I could do it. Wanted to see just how close I could get to you.” He tossed the coin up a couple of inches, caught it midair, then shoved it back in his pocket. “And I trailed you to the park from your hotel. You lost me for a bit. Me and my friends. But then we saw your carriage and heard you laughing. Knew Brass would take you home after that. All I had to do then was wait.” He tapped the muzzle of the gun against her foot. “Did you like the presents I left you?”

“I don’t…” She shook her head, at a loss.

“I know you found ’em. Left ’em right at the door for you.”

It took her another moment to realize what he was talking about. “The rats?”

“Diseased rats. You weren’t worth the effort of a fresh one.” He tapped the gun again. Twice. “Diseased.”
Tap.
“Rats.”
Tap.
“Did they remind you of your friend Will? Did you recognize him?”

Friend. Not father. John Porter didn’t know who she was. Not really.

“Will who?” She knew she’d made a mistake playing innocent when his jovial facade slipped. “Will Walker, do you mean? I scarcely knew the man.”

“Ain’t she a pretty liar?” He moved the gun muzzle under the hem of her skirts and lifted. “What’s under here then, lovey?”

She kicked out at him, but her movements were hampered by the heavy material and fear of his gun.

Ignoring her struggles, he shoved his hand under her skirts and began pawing at her legs with his free hand. “Where is it? Eh? Where is it? Ah, here we are.” She felt the dagger at her ankle slide free of its sheath.

Clutching the knife in one hand and the gun in the other, he crawled over her on all fours, then leaned down close and held the dagger up to her face.

“Got your claws, Kitten.” He grinned at his own joke. “That’s what Walker called you, isn’t it? His kitten? Aye, you bloody well knew him. Me brother told me all about you. Pointed you out a time or two. Told me all about how you and him did work for Gage.” He leaned in even closer, forcing her to turn her head to escape his fetid breath. He didn’t seem to mind. He pressed the flat of her blade to her cheek and whispered into her ear. “So you tell me. You tell me why it were my brother Clarence what swung with Gage, and not Walker. You tell me where the son of a whore is hiding.”

“Hiding?” Because her voice shook, she covered it with a small laugh. “He’s dead. Will Walker has been dead for years. Gage killed him.”

“That’s what they says, all right. So how come ain’t no one ever saw a body? How come ain’t one person in London what knows where he’s buried?”

“The police saw. They know where he’s buried.”

“And they ain’t talking?” He snorted and pulled back a little. “Peelers see a man like Walker put down, they crow about it. Take credit for it, if they can.”

Unless Walker were working for those peelers, of course. Then they kept their mouths shut. But she couldn’t tell him that. Because if Walker had been working for the police, then
she
had been working for the police.

“I had nothing to do with your brother’s death.” She didn’t even remember a man named Clarence. Gage had dozens of men. “I’m not sure I ever met—”

“Shut your mouth. You—”

A door slammed shut somewhere downstairs, and masculine voices floated in through the open door.

John gained his feet and aimed the gun at her. “Not a word. Not one peep or it’ll be worse for you. You understand?”

She nodded and expelled a ragged breath of relief when he turned and left the room, closing the door behind him.

Now was her chance.

She eyed the chair in front of the table, then her parasol. If she could wedge the chair under the door before John returned, it might buy her enough time to get her hands free and possibly escape out of a window. But she’d have to move the chair without making a sound, an unlikely feat with her hands caught behind her back.