Brentwood's Ward (14 page)

“I suppose I’ve the time to hunt down this captain,” Moore finally said.

Above them, a woman draped over a windowsill whistled for his attention. She pulled aside a tattered shawl, revealing skin the color and texture of porridge.

Nicholas averted his eyes, ignoring her ribald comments. He had to take two quick steps to catch back up with Moore.

“Scurvy smugglers. Blackjack and Charlie aren’t cooperating with my investigation. You’d think they’d packed up and moved shop. Though I shouldn’t be surprised if they heard it was me, the infamous Officer Moore, who’s the one looking for them.”

Nicholas rolled his eyes. “Your pride never ceases to amaze me.”

Moore shrugged. “I’m an amazing type of fellow.”

Moore stopped in front of a gloomy building, known simply as the Plank Street Dead House. The brick walls wept chunks of mortar to the ground. In the resulting pits, black mold grew in cancerous welts. High-set windows near the eaves, open for ventilation, added a noxious stench to the fetid air wafting in from the nearby muckyard. Add a few flames, and truly, the place could be hell on earth.

Moore shoved open the door. “After you.”

Nicholas swept past him into an office barely larger than a casket.

Randall, the clerk, smiled at their entrance. He sat behind a tall, narrow-legged desk, ink smudges marring his thin cheeks. Minus the smears, he’d be the same color as the bodies he housed. “G’day, guv’ners. Come to visit my little lovelies, ’ave you?”

“That we have.” Nicholas took the offered pen from the clerk. He dipped the nib in the ink and signed his name onto the ledger.

Moore sketched his name after him then lifted his sleeve to his nose. “How you stand the stench is beyond me.”

Randall inhaled deeply, his chest straining the single remaining button on his waistcoat. “Ahh. Why that’s a sweet perfume, it is. As long as you can smell it, you know yer still a-kickin’.”

Nicholas elbowed Moore. “He makes a good point, you know.”

Moore planted his coat sleeve against his nostrils ever tighter.

“Righty, then.” Randall slammed the ledger shut and pulled out a key ring from the top drawer of his desk. “This way.”

He jingled over to the door, and as he fumbled with the lock, Nicholas asked, “I’ve often wondered, Randall, is that really necessary? Are you keeping your ‘
lovelies’
in or the body snatchers out? Seems a bit pointless with you at the guard.”

“Policies, mostly. You know, big-wigged rules and all. We may be a dead house, but we ain’t no fleetin’ fly-by-night kind of joint. And don’t forget the effects. Sometimes a swell or two comes my way and you never know what’s in their pockets. Pays to keep it locked up.” With a final jiggle of his key, the bolt finally clicked. “ ’Ere you go then.”

The door swung open to a dimly lit room, chilled by a row of ice blocks lining two of the walls. Nicholas took care crossing the threshold. The stone floor slanted toward the farthest wall, the side facing the muckyard. At that end, melted ice and runoff funneled into a great drain. He frowned, resisting the urge to wipe his hands over his waistcoat.

“Identify as many as you can. Wouldn’t mind cleaning house a bit.” Randall’s voice was dull in the big space.

Moore lowered his sleeve, but only long enough to get out a rush of words. “I got a tip-off from one of my regulars that you took in a bloater day before yesterday. Come in from one of the Skerry warehouses down by the Wapping Wharves. Said the fellow was picked over pretty good. Stripped, actually. Likely was one of those swells you mentioned, but scavengers got to him before you. This ringing any bells?”

“I may not know my lovelies’ names, but I knows ’em intimate well, I do. Come along.” Randall darted forward, trotting down a long line of marble slabs. Apparently he didn’t house the same qualms about slipping.

Nicholas trailed behind Moore. Rarely did death make him flinch. Bodies were part of his job. Even the stench of putrefaction, while not pleasant, didn’t trigger his gag reflex. No…something deeper unsettled him. Something pregnant with hideous possibility. As Nicholas passed by sheet-covered corpses, he wondered where each soul had gone. It was here in this gallery of decay that he felt the enormity of eternity—and it stole his breath.

God should so bless everyone with a visit to the dead house.

“ ’Ere’s the one.” Randall stopped halfway down the row and peeled back the cloth. Though he professed great affection for his wards, Nicholas noticed the man took care not to let his sleeve come in contact with the sheet.

“This the chap yer lookin’ for?”

Moore stepped aside and inclined his head toward Nicholas, never once removing his arm from his nose. “You tell me.”

Nicholas closed in.

It was a man, distended to eye-popping proportions, though he’d probably not been a reed of a fellow to begin with. He wore the marbled color of one who’d died a fortnight ago, except for his legs. From midthigh on down, the skin was tar colored. The top half of his head was ragged, chewed to bits, probably by rats, judging from the bite sizes.

Bending, Nicholas studied the cadaver’s neck. A ligature mark cut deep, and if he cared to look closer—which he didn’t—he’d likely find a sliver or two of hemp. He glanced up at Randall. “Does the impression go all the way around, or is there a gap?”

“Gap at the back, guv’ner. Weren’t no strangulation. He were hanged.”

Nicholas nodded. “Then the only question that remains is was it self-imposed or not? Though I’m not quite sure why you needed me to confirm what you already knew.”

Randall shrugged, and Moore mumbled something. Hard to tell with a sleeve blocking his mouth. Nicholas cut him a lethal glance.

Slowly, Moore pulled his arm from his nose. “Fine. Have it your way. But if I lose my stomach all over your shoes, don’t complain.”

Nicholas frowned. “Go on.”

“About a fortnight ago,” Moore began, “one of my informants—goes by the name of Badger—bumped into this fellow down near the wharves. Badger’s always on the lookout for me, let’s me know when something’s out of place. Like this fellow.” He nodded toward the body. “Said the man looked nervous, and well he should. Dandy clothes ought not be worn in that nest, as you know. A week later, he found the fellow’s body hanging in an abandoned warehouse two piers south. He let me know about it early this morning as I left my flat.”

“Why didn’t he come to you right away?” Nicholas interrupted. “Why wait to tell you about it?”

“Badger feared he was being watched. That mob I’m hunting suspects his loose lips. Rightly so. Badger waited till it was safe. By then, the body was taken down, gone over by ragpickers and street waifs, and delivered here to Randall.”

Nicholas studied the body one more time. A fat dead man who may or may not have committed suicide. A mystery, but one he didn’t have time for at the moment. He shifted his gaze back to Moore. “I fail to see what this has to do with me.”

“Badger told me he caught the fellow’s name. Badger’s that good. Got a way about him that loosens—”

Moore continued talking, but Nicholas didn’t hear him anymore. His heart beat too loud in his ears. He snatched the soiled sheet from Randall’s hands and used a corner of it to shove aside the swelled tongue protruding from the corpse’s lips. Teeth stared back at him.

Large.

Overlarge.

Nicholas scowled, holding back the base response that rose to his lips. He’d been right. There wasn’t anything even remotely routine about the business trip Payne had taken.

Emily jerked awake then reached to massage the resulting kink in her neck from having dozed off on the settee. Her arm prickled as well, a sudden rush of blood stinging the sleeping flesh.

She frowned, realizing she was in the drawing room. Had she dozed off? La, she’d much rather have stayed in dreamland. Leaning her head back, she closed her eyes. If she concentrated on the soothing tick-tock of the corner clock, maybe she could pick up where she’d left off. Mr. Henley was sweeping her around a ballroom, eyes fixed only on her, whispering sweet—

“Hie yourself off!”

Mrs. Hunt’s outburst carried in from the front foyer, shattering her fantasy once and for all. Straightening, she turned an ear toward the open drawing-room door and caught another round of Mrs. Hunt’s warning volleys. What in the world?

Emily stood, wobbling momentarily on stiff legs, then crossed the room. An involuntary cringe tightened her shoulders as more of Mrs. Hunt’s words sliced through the air. A butcher’s cleaver couldn’t cut to the bone as deftly as her sharp tongue. The last hapless peddler that’d ventured upon their front stoop had lost his hat when he’d fled from her scolding.

And he’d never returned to reclaim it.

With a quick pat of her hair to tuck up any strays, Emily slipped into the foyer. “Is there a problem, Mrs.—”

The door burst wide open. The housekeeper stumbled backward, tripped on her skirt hem, and crashed to the floor.

A brute of a man shoved his way in. His oilskin cloak smelled of whiskey and salt and danger. Emily held her breath when, for one heart-stopping moment, he shoved his face into hers.

“There’s no problem as long as I see Payne.” His voice was low and discordant, like an unresined bow skidding across a cello string. “Where is he?”

Emily stiffened, fear clouding her thoughts. She couldn’t piece two words together if her life depended on it—which it might.

“Stupid English wench.” The man’s greatcoat whapped against her as he wheeled about. He stalked over to the sitting room, stuck his head in the door, then stomped down the corridor and repeated the process at each room he passed.

Emily spun to Mrs. Hunt. By now she’d propped herself up against the entry table, face pale as washed parchment.

“Quick,” Emily ordered, “go get Mr. Brentwood.”

“He’s not returned yet.” Mrs. Hunt nodded toward the open front door. “Run! Get yourself to safety.”

Emily hoisted her skirts, eyeing the door. She took two steps then hesitated. This was her home. Before she could form another thought, boot heels thumped back into the foyer behind her.

She turned, straightening her shoulders, and willed courage into her voice. “As you’ve seen, my father is not here. Now leave.”

The man tramped toward her, a dark light in his gaze. Cold perspiration dotted the tender skin between her shoulder blades. This was entirely too much like what happened to her and Wren last summer…but in a different way.

A murderous way.

“Where is he?” The man stepped so close that his breath coated her forehead and slid over cheeks. If she inhaled, he’d be part of her.

“Gone. On business.” Each word was a chore.

A muscle jumped in the man’s jaw. His eyes bore down hard, the blue-black color of rage. “His business was with me.”

Emily lifted her chin, hoping confidence would follow.

It didn’t.

He pressed closer, his cloak rustling the muslin of her day dress. “Maybe I should switch who I do business with, hmm?”

She ought say something, anything, but her mouth had dried to dead leaves. Could he feel her body trembling?

Mrs. Hunt sprang forward, heaving her shoulder against the stranger’s arm. “Leave her be!”

Only the fabric of his sleeve moved.

Emily’s heart thumped in her chest, pulsing a sickening beat in her temples. “My father will return in a fortnight. I suggest you call back then.”

The man’s lips pulled into a hard-edged smile. Mouse-colored teeth flashed beneath his moustache. “Perhaps I’ll stay and wait for him here.”

“Perhaps you won’t.” Behind him, Mrs. Hunt advanced, a brass candlestick wielded high over her head.

He turned. She swung. Metal cracked against bone.

The man staggered, the growl of a wounded bear ripping from his throat. The candlestick clattered to the tiles.

Without missing a step, Mrs. Hunt shoved him in the chest with both hands. As he toppled backward out the open door, the housekeeper grabbed Emily’s arm and yanked her aside then slammed shut the door and drove home the bolt.

They both stood motionless, breathing hard, blinking. The maid Betsy gaped from the stairway landing. Even Mary had hobbled to join her side. Cook tromped down the corridor, rolling pin in hand. “What’s the ruckus?”

Though surrounded by familiar faces, Emily felt eerily isolated.

“I’ll be back!” The man shouted through the door. “You hear me! I’m coming back!”

His curses leached through the front door, pinning her in place. But only for a moment. Hiking her skirts, she bolted up the stairs, shoving past Betsy and bumping into Mary. She ought to stop and apologize for Mary’s grunt of pain, but her steps didn’t slow. She ran to her room and slammed the door shut, turning the lock into place.

Across the room, the looking glass reflected her image. Pale. Shaken. And the longer she stared, the more she saw Wren’s face overlaying hers. Last summer’s wretched scene replayed in her head until she leaned back against the door and closed her eyes to escape.

But that didn’t stop her from seeing the stranger’s savage smile—a leer that would visit her in nightmares and linger even in daylight.