A Matter of Grave Concern (24 page)

“I’m so glad you told me, Bran,” she said. “We have to get the police over there right away, before they destroy the evidence, if they haven’t already.”

“Yes, Miss.”

She also had to get some word to Max that Jack was indeed the murderer they suspected him of being.

Emmett was back. That was the first thing that registered. Jack heard his voice, knew he was standing in the bedroom before he could come fully awake and was instantly relieved. If he cared about anyone, it was Emmett. The young man was cunning and ruthless—someone Jack fancied to be a bit like himself. “Where the hell have you been these past few days?” he mumbled, trying to gather his senses.

“At a friend’s. Recovering.”

“That mob at the cemetery—they beat you?”

“Good enough to put me in bed for a few days. I’m only now able to move around, damn them to hell. We’ll get their bodies and sell them, too, when they die.”

“Aye.” Reluctant to be dragged completely out of the sleep that was finally giving him the rest he needed, Jack pulled the covers higher. “We’ve been lookin’ for you. Went to your house several times, the cemetery, asked around.”

“Why would I go to my house? There’s no one to look after me there.”

“You could’ve come here.”

“I’m not
that
stupid. You’re no nursemaid. I had a lady friend tend to my needs.”

Jack chuckled. “She take good care of you?”

“Aye. Especially where it matters most,” he joked. “What she did for me there didn’t help my injuries but it definitely made the recovery more enjoyable. I’m nearly good as new.”

Managing to open his heavy eyelids, Jack first focused on the lamp Emmett carried. His interest in seeing the damage that was done to Emmett had at last overcome the lure of sleep. But they weren’t alone, as he’d assumed. Emmett held a small boy by the collar—a young pickpocket or beggar, from the looks of him.

“What have you got there?” he muttered, shoving himself into a sitting position.

“From what I can tell, he’s a messenger.”

This didn’t make sense. Jack thought perhaps his mind was still a bit muddled. “What kind of messenger?”

“He just delivered a note to our good friend Max.”

Jack wondered if he was supposed to be alarmed by this. “What’d it say?”

“How should I know? I watched the boy go into the Forrester’s Arms, deliver it, and hurry out. That’s when I caught up with him.”

Jack blinked at the ragamuffin, who kept twisting and turning in an effort to escape.

“Let me go!” he cried, but there wasn’t as much fear in his voice as there should have been. This was a child who was accustomed to facing danger on a daily basis, and was ready and willing to fight back when necessary.

“What’d the note say?” Jack asked the boy.

“How should I know? I can’t read—can you?”

Jack didn’t want to answer that question. He’d never had the chance to go to school, but he prided himself on his intelligence so he found his inability to read and write embarrassing. That was one of the reasons he hated Max so much. He didn’t like how he stacked up by comparison.

“It was just a bunch of scribbling to me,” the boy added. “So let me go, you blimey bastards!”

Emmett gave him a hard shake, but that didn’t stop him from swinging his fists wildly in an effort to connect with something in return.

“Who gave it to you?” Jack asked.

The boy was tiring himself out. At this, he dropped his fists and sighed aloud. “Some man at St. Catherine’s.”

“I saw the exchange and followed the boy,” Emmett volunteered.

Jack covered a yawn. “What were you doing there?”

“Asking some questions. I’ve seen Max visit a particular warehouse on at least two different occasions. I wanted to know why.”

“You’ve never mentioned that.”

“I wasn’t sure it was of any importance until now.”

“And how do you know the man who gave you the note?” Jack asked the boy.

“Don’t. Just seen him ’round the docks. He works there.”

“You don’t know his name?”

“Why would I? He’s nothin’ to me. He stopped me, gave me a shilling to find his friend, and promised me another shilling—if I came back to let him know whether the message got through. That’s all I can tell you.”

Jack rubbed the beard growth on his chin. From the way Emmett was acting, he expected this to be revealing. But now Jack was asking himself why. They didn’t know enough to be alarmed. “So . . . what?” he asked Emmett.

“You’re not concerned?” Emmett asked. “I show up at the docks, asking questions, and this man immediately sends a note to Max, to warn him. That’s what it looked like to me.”

“But warn him about
what
? Max probably has a lot of friends we don’t know. What do we care if they send him a message?”

“He joined up with us for a reason, Jack—and it’s not to pay off his gambling debts.”

“I’ve wondered about that before. I’ve even said it. But the fact that some man from St. Catherine’s sent a messenger to Max doesn’t prove anything. We don’t even know who the note was from or what it said. Maybe it’s from one of the men Max owes. Maybe the bloke’s growing impatient.”

“No. Max has been asking about Madeline. I think he’s connected to her. Maybe he’s the one who put her up to stealing from you—and then she ran out on him, too.”

The mere mention of Madeline’s name brought the hackles up on Jack’s neck. “How do you know he’s been asking about Madeline?”

“Because I’ve followed him, talked to the people he’s talked to.”

This surprised Jack more than anything. “Why? I didn’t ask you to do that.”

“I haven’t trusted him, not from the start. And for good reason. He’s been to every tavern and brothel in the area, searching for Madeline.”

“Why didn’t you come to me before now?”

“It didn’t mean anything until Ebenezer Holmes told me Max even spoke to him. That’s when I realized that he suspects us of doing something to her, and I’m not about to let him drag me to meet the hangman.”

A chill ran up Jack’s spine. “When did you see Ebenezer?”

“This morning. It’s his daughter who’s been takin’ care of me.”

The anger inside of Jack began to build. “You think Madeline cuckolded me with Max?”

“Don’t know about that, but Ebenezer claims Max is trying to take your place as leader of this gang. And Madeline is attached to him in some way. No matter what he’s
really
doing, he hasn’t been honest with us.
She’s
the reason he’s here, not money.”

“Where is he now?”

“Having dinner at the Forrester’s Arms.”

“And Abby?”

“From what I can tell, she’s gone. She’s not in the room, and she wasn’t with him at the tavern.”

“Is she helping him?”

Emmett shrugged. “She’s certainly not doing
us
any favors.”

“That’s for damn sure.” After climbing out of bed, Jack bent over and grabbed a fistful of the gamin’s hair, holding his head at an angle. “Do you know where the lady is?”

“What lady?” he asked—and Jack finally saw the fear that should have been there from the start.

“Never mind. You’re going to take us to the man who gave you that shilling, and you’re going to do it now,” Jack said.

When Max emerged from the Forrester’s Arms, it was raining, and he felt the damp weather down to his bones. He wished he could send a note ahead of himself to have Mr. Hawley wait and meet him after nightfall. The thick fog that often rolled in from the Thames, especially this time of year, made it easier to move around undetected, and since he was fairly certain Jack wasn’t planning on having them work, he thought that might be safer.

But he didn’t dare wait. He had to learn the details of Emmett’s inquiry to know if it was still safe to remain in his current situation—and that meant he had to fall in with those who crowded the narrow streets on this wet, autumn afternoon and hope to go unnoticed by anyone who might suspect his returning to the docks so often.

Huddling deeper into his coat, he hurried past the alleys of Wapping—alleys with such unappealing names as Cats Hole, Shovel Alley, The Rookery and Dark Entry—to reach Ratcliffe Highway with its many taverns and shops and lodging houses.

Once he arrived at the wharf, the scent of damp wood and hemp overcame the cinnabar, ginger, tea and sandalwood of the various cargos, but the rain hadn’t slowed the frenetic activity. All the usual watermen rowed men back and forth. There were lightermen, too, with their twenty-foot oars, ferrying cargo and what seemed like an endless array of barges bobbing in the current. Farther out, he saw the forest of masts that never ceased to amaze him—where hundreds of massive seagoing vessels were lashed side by side.

He had always loved the docks, even as a boy, which was why he took a special interest in his shipping enterprise. He didn’t care that other members of the aristocracy chose not to “sully their hands” by getting involved in the daily running of their various businesses; he thrived on the constant challenge. But St. Catherine’s wasn’t always the safest place in the world. There was more theft at St. Catherine’s than anywhere else in London, so he had to be aware of his surroundings even when he wasn’t worried about being followed by the gang of resurrection men he had joined.

Before ducking into his own warehouse, he turned, once again, to look behind him, but could see nothing that raised any suspicion. He was fairly certain he hadn’t been followed. With Bill at home and Jack asleep, he wasn’t sure who would follow him. But there was something odd going on—not only odd but dangerous. That became apparent when he called out for Mr. Hawley and, instead of receiving an answer, someone rushed up from behind and hit him over the head.

Chapter 26

Abby spent the early evening pacing in the parlor. Her father had missed dinner and was still not at home, which was unusual. She wanted to tell him what Bran had learned, but she had no idea where Edwin had gone after their last stop together. So she’d acted on her own and sent Bransby to Wapping, hoping that he would be able to find Madeline’s friend, Gertrude, and that Gertrude would pay Max a visit. Having a prostitute show up at Farmer’s Landing would be far less remarkable from Jack’s point of view than a servant, or Mr. Hawley. She could never risk giving Max away like that. But when Bran returned, she could tell by the expression on his face that he had not met with success.

“What happened?” she asked.

“I’m sorry, Miss. I managed to find the woman you sent me to find. And she went to Farmer’s Landing as you requested. But when she met up with me again, to tell me what happened, she said no one was home.”

It was early yet to be out harvesting corpses. Were Jack and Max at a public house, then? If so, which one?

“Did she look anywhere else?”

“She poked her head into a few of the closest taverns, but didn’t see him. She didn’t dare go to any greater lengths. She said if she drew too much attention to the fact that she was looking for Mr. Wilder, it would not serve His Grace well, and I had to agree.”

So did Abby. But she was nervous about Max’s well-being. Suspecting Jack was a murderer had been one thing; knowing was something else entirely. If Jack could so easily kill Tom, and sell his corpse to anatomists as if he were any stranger, he probably did the same to Madeline—and could do it to Max.

Max needed to get out while he could.

“Do you think we should notify his family? Or the police?”

“And risk giving him away when he hasn’t sanctioned it?”

Abby wrung her hands. “But what if he needs our help?”

“From what I overheard the night he came here with Big Jack, he is a very capable man. I say we have to trust him to make his own way, lest we be the cause of his downfall.”

“Of course, you’re right,” Abby said.

“Miss, er, Gertrude”—he seemed at a loss that they didn’t have a last name for her—“promised she would try again later.”

Abby moved closer to the fire. The damp and the cold chilled her from the outside; her concern for Max chilled her from within. “Thank you. That will be all for tonight, Bran.”

“You’re going to leave it at that, aren’t you?” he asked.

She could hear the suspicion in his voice.

“I mean . . . you wouldn’t go back there,” he went on, “knowing it’s even more dangerous than you believed before.”

She would if she thought it would save Max, but she wasn’t sure that was the case. The last thing she wanted was to make his situation worse by giving him someone he had to protect.

Max wiped the blood from his face and squinted in an attempt to correct his fuzzy vision. There was a lantern burning, but it was in the office in the corner of the building and couldn’t do much to illuminate the narrow walkways between the caddies, or barrels, of his latest tobacco shipment from Virginia. Still, he was able to identify the four men surrounding him: Jack, Bill, Emmett—who had a black eye but looked fairly fit after encountering that angry mob in the cemetery at St. George’s—and Ebenezer Holmes. Of the four, the undertaker seemed the most pleased with the situation.

“
Now
are you going to try to tell me how to run my business?” Ebenezer asked, his voice an octave higher than usual, charged with the rush of victory.

Max tried to think through the pain. His arm throbbed where he’d been stabbed, his hands had sustained some damage, since he had fought like the devil to preserve his own life, and his head ached. He’d also been kneed, kicked or slugged several times in the struggle. “If I remember right, I wouldn’t let you take your business from Jack.” He chuckled. “So isn’t this ironic.”

“That’s not true,” Ebenezer insisted to the rest of them. “When he came to me, he tried to set up a side agreement. He said he was going to join forces with Madeline and take over the London Supply Company.”

“Now that’s where your story loses all credibility.” Max didn’t try to convince them that that had actually been Ebenezer’s suggestion; he pointed out what they couldn’t refute. “How can I join forces with a woman who’s been missing for over a month?”

Ebenezer looked to the others. “That’s what he said; that was his plan.”

Jack stepped closer. “What are you to Madeline? Why have you been searching for her?”

Even in the dark, Max could tell that Jack was holding his knife at the ready—the same knife that had cut him once. “Who says I’ve been searching for her?”

“
I
do.” Emmett spoke up. “You’ve been all over Wapping, asking about her. Why?”

Max didn’t answer. “Where’s Mr. Hawley?” The blood from the wound in his arm had already soaked through the fabric of his coat—but at least he’d had the protection that coat provided. His injury would have been much worse otherwise. He was more worried about his clerk than himself. Max was younger and stronger and could probably withstand greater injury. Hobbs wasn’t a fighter. Was he lying dead behind his desk?

That thought turned Max’s stomach. He’d merely been hoping to find Madeline; he hadn’t wanted anyone else to get hurt.

“You should be a little more worried about yourself,” Jack said. “In case you haven’t noticed, you’re in a bit of a . . . what an educated bloke such as yourself might call a—”

“Precarious situation?” Ebenezer broke in.

“That’s it,” Jack said with a laugh. “You’re in a precarious situation, Max.”

Bill glanced toward the heavy sliding door, obviously afraid someone would come through it and catch them unawares. “Jack, whatever you’re going to do, get it done.”

Jack waved him off, seemingly unconcerned, while Max prayed his arrogance would be his undoing. “First, I want to know where Abby is. She’s not at home, and she’s not with you. Did you send her to the police? Or is she back at the college?”

Abby . . . Max tried to clear his head. After they finished with him, would they go for her?

He couldn’t bear the thought of her being frightened, let alone hurt. “I don’t know where she is. She ran away while we were gone last night. Ran away like Madeline.”

Jack’s voice took on a steel edge. “What do
you
know about Madeline?”

Had they figured out his true identity? According to Agnes, Madeline had never revealed the name of her family. And, so far, no one had mentioned his title. He was confident that would have come up immediately. So he could only suppose that they thought he was the gambler he had made himself out to be, but a gambler who’d been hoping to see them hang for the death of his sister. “That she went missing.”

“Where is she?”

Jack seemed intent on learning the answers—which meant he didn’t kill her. He spoke as if he thought she was still alive and out there, somewhere. Because he didn’t speak the same way about Tom, that seemed more significant than it would have been otherwise.

“If I could tell you that, I wouldn’t be here,” Max said wryly.

Jack pressed closer still, making Max nervous about that knife. He could have taken Jack but not with three others holding him back. And he was far less capable of defending himself now than he’d been a few minutes earlier.

“What interest do you have in her?” Jack demanded. “If you plan to take your next breath, you’d better speak up!”

Whatever Max said had to be believable. He knew that. So he went for the truth—or the part of it he dared to divulge. “I’m her brother.”

“I told you,” Jack said to the others. “I told you when you came to me at the house, Emmett. I know the other men she’s been with. Ain’t none of ’em have a Cambridge education.”

“But how could that be?” Bill asked. “She told us again and again that her family doesn’t care about her.”

Max felt that familiar twisting in his gut. “She was wrong about that.
I
care, even if I haven’t shown it as well as I should have.”

“You wouldn’t prance around Wapping, not with the likes of common body snatchers, using your real name,” Ebenezer said. “So who is this great family she’s associated with?”

“The Greensmiths.”

“And you are?”

“Winton.” Winton Greensmith was a good friend of Max’s. He owned the warehouse next door, but it was the only credible lie Max could come up with on the spot and amid the pain and the dizziness that were slowly getting the best of him.

“I’ve never heard of anyone by that name,” Jack said.

“My name isn’t important. I’m a merchant—that’s all.”

Ebenezer sniffed as if he wasn’t impressed. “And you think that makes you better than all of us?”

“He makes a hell of a lot more money,” Emmett piped up. “Madeline once told me her family could buy anything they wanted.”

Max lifted his good hand. The other was dripping blood onto the floor. “Don’t forget I’m the profligate son, always in debt. That aspect of my story is true.” He hoped he was playing his part well enough to be believed. He had nothing of any value on his person, so he had no worries of being robbed now. But he certainly didn’t want them to get it in their heads to find out where Winton lived and rob
him
.

“Jack, let’s go,” Bill said. “Max just wants his sister. That’s all. And he can’t find her any more than we could. He’s not out to bother us.”

“That true?” Jack demanded. “Is that all you want?”

Max leaned against the caddies behind him for support. “It is. Besides having a good use for the money, Madeline is the reason I joined up with you.”

Jack grabbed him by the shirtfront. “Then why didn’t you ask me where she was instead of making me so bloody nervous with your fine clothes and your fancy talk?”

“I thought maybe you would lead me to her.”

“No . . . you thought I murdered her and you were planning to see me swing for it.”

“If you had murdered her, I would be a fool to announce my true purpose. I did nothing more than you would have done in the same situation.”

“That doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

“Something has happened to her—and someone is responsible,” Max said.

Jack barked out a laugh. “But for once, it’s not me. I have no idea where she went. She took all my money and left me without a word.”

“No.” When Max shook his head, he had to grip the caddies to keep from falling. “That’s not like her. It
can’t
be true.”

“How do
you
know?” Jack asked. “You don’t know her as well as we do!”

“I know her well enough to be able to assure you that if she took any money, it would be for her son.”

“You’ll get no argument from me.” Jack’s voice and expression oozed bitterness. “She probably grabbed her boy from wherever he was staying right after she left my place and took off for Manchester or . . . or Liverpool. Used me the whole time.”

“That wasn’t her intention. She told me she was going to marry you. And she
didn’t
take her son.”

“How do you know?” Jack still sounded angry, but he lowered the hand with the knife.

“Because
I’ve
got him.”

“You’re lying . . .” He lifted the knife again as if he might try to finish what he had started simply to appease the emotion that had welled up.

“Jack, if you’re going to kill him, do it and let’s get out of here,” Bill cried. “Do you want to hang for this?”

Max ignored him. Fortunately, so did Jack. “It’s true.”

“Then where in the bloody hell did she go?”

He sounded desperate enough that, for the first time, Max
almost
liked him. He was obviously in love with Madeline. “That’s what I’ve been trying to find out.” Max stripped off his coat so he could wrap it around his wound. “But she didn’t take your money.”

“Then who did?” Jack asked.

“Who else knew where you kept it?”

“No one!”

Max concentrated on the pungent scent of the tobacco, doing all he could to hang on to consciousness. “Someone
had
to know.”

“Who’d dare?”

Unable to staunch the bleeding, Max gave up on that. “Anyone—if they thought they had a handy scapegoat.”

There was a moment of stunned silence. “You think someone else took the money and killed Madeline so I’d think she did it?” Jack asked.

Before Max could reply, Emmett entered the conversation again. “If that’s the case, it had to be Tom. He was living there, too.”

“Then we’ll never know,” Bill jumped in, “because Tom ain’t comin’ back. Jack already made sure of that.”

“Shut the bloody hell up,” Jack snapped. “It couldn’t have been Tom. Tom wasn’t half that clever. Besides, he adored Madeline. He would never have hurt her.”

The argument that ensued between them caused Max’s ears to ring: “Of course it was Tom . . . But we would’ve seen evidence of the money . . . Maybe he gave it to his brother . . . Then why would he steal it in the first place? And his brother doesn’t seem to be any better off than he was before.”

Max wanted to control the conversation as much as possible, to employ the diplomacy it would require to get out of the warehouse alive. He also had to find his clerk and send for help, if Hobbs needed it. The poor man had to be lying hurt somewhere, if they hadn’t killed him . . .