knows how many more, before Lucien.”
“Excellent,” Henry approved wryly. “A little sleep, and then we shall begin again. That is, if you are all still willing? I would be extremely grateful for your help.”
“Course,” Bessie said immediately.
“Yer’d help anyone on two legs, fer a piece o’ toast an’ jam,” Squeaky said with disgust.
She gave him a radiant smile. “ ’E don’t ’ave ter ’ave two legs,” she corrected him.
Henry and Crow both laughed aloud. Henry patted her gently on the shoulder. “I suggest we find somewhere with a place to sleep, reconvene at dusk for something to eat, and then continue on our way.”
Crow turned to Bessie. “I’ll find you somewhere.” He stood up. “Come on.”
She rose also and followed him obediently, leaving Squeaky feeling oddly alone. Crow wasout of line: Squeaky was the one looking after her, not him. He did not notice Henry Rathbone’s smile.
T hey spent the greater part of the following night asking discreet questions of pimps, tavern-keepers, barmen, and other prostitutes. Again they bribed, flattered, and threatened. No one admitted to having seen Sadie, and it began to look more and more likely that she, and not Lucien, had been the victim. Unless there had been two corpses, and that was still unclear.
Some time toward morning the four of them sat in the corner of a public house in an alley off St. Martin’s Lane, eating steak and kidney pudding with a thick suet crust and plenty of gravy. Outside the sleet was falling more heavily. Hailstones rattled on the window behind them. In the yellow circle of the lamplight on the pavement they could see the white drift of them filling the cracks between the cobbles.
“Cor! Sadie were a blinder, eh?” Bessie said with growing respect at what they had learned of her. “That Shadow Man must be ready ter tear thethroat out o’ ’ooever done ’er in.” She shivered. “I’m glad I in’t ’im. I reckon as ’e’s goin’ ter die ’orrible.”
“I’m afraid you are right,” Henry agreed. “But if it is she who was killed, it is hard to have much pity for him. If he were caught he would most certainly be hanged.”
Bessie looked at Henry with a sudden gentleness. “It’s a shame, ’cause Lucien were nice. I ’ope it weren’t ’im. But if it were, ’e’ll get worse, yer know. They always do.”
“Yes, I imagine they do,” he conceded softly.
Squeaky felt a sudden and overwhelming rage take hold of him. Damn Lucien Wentworth, and all the other idle, idiotic, self-absorbed young men who betrayed the love and privilege that was theirs and broke people’s hearts by throwing away their lives. They had been given far more than most people in the world, and they had destroyed it, smeared filth over it until there was nothing left. It was a kind of blasphemy. He saw that for the first time, and it overwhelmed him. The whole idea of anything being holy had never occurred to him before.
“Do we agree that it is almost certainly Shadwell who owned her?” Crow asked, eating the very last of his pudding.
“Accounts conflict,” Henry answered. “But at least some of the lies are clear enough to weed out. Shadwell seems to inspire a great deal of fear in people, which would suggest that he is the ultimate power in this particular world. Whoever is responsible for Sadie’s death will be running from him, and he will be pursuing them.” Without asking he refilled everyone’s glass with fresh ale.
“But is it Lucien who killed her, or not?” Crow asked, directing his question at no one in particular.
“We will take Bessie’s advice,” Henry asserted. “We will look for whoever else is seeking the killer, because Shadwell will need to have vengeance for her death, even if only to preserve his own status. His resources will be immeasurably better than ours.”
Squeaky sighed, his mind searching for an excuse to end this futile chase. Whatever they discovered, it wasn’t
“Excellent,” Henry approved wryly. “A little sleep, and then we shall begin again. That is, if you are all still willing? I would be extremely grateful for your help.”
“Course,” Bessie said immediately.
“Yer’d help anyone on two legs, fer a piece o’ toast an’ jam,” Squeaky said with disgust.
She gave him a radiant smile. “ ’E don’t ’ave ter ’ave two legs,” she corrected him.
Henry and Crow both laughed aloud. Henry patted her gently on the shoulder. “I suggest we find somewhere with a place to sleep, reconvene at dusk for something to eat, and then continue on our way.”
Crow turned to Bessie. “I’ll find you somewhere.” He stood up. “Come on.”
She rose also and followed him obediently, leaving Squeaky feeling oddly alone. Crow wasout of line: Squeaky was the one looking after her, not him. He did not notice Henry Rathbone’s smile.
T hey spent the greater part of the following night asking discreet questions of pimps, tavern-keepers, barmen, and other prostitutes. Again they bribed, flattered, and threatened. No one admitted to having seen Sadie, and it began to look more and more likely that she, and not Lucien, had been the victim. Unless there had been two corpses, and that was still unclear.
Some time toward morning the four of them sat in the corner of a public house in an alley off St. Martin’s Lane, eating steak and kidney pudding with a thick suet crust and plenty of gravy. Outside the sleet was falling more heavily. Hailstones rattled on the window behind them. In the yellow circle of the lamplight on the pavement they could see the white drift of them filling the cracks between the cobbles.
“Cor! Sadie were a blinder, eh?” Bessie said with growing respect at what they had learned of her. “That Shadow Man must be ready ter tear thethroat out o’ ’ooever done ’er in.” She shivered. “I’m glad I in’t ’im. I reckon as ’e’s goin’ ter die ’orrible.”
“I’m afraid you are right,” Henry agreed. “But if it is she who was killed, it is hard to have much pity for him. If he were caught he would most certainly be hanged.”
Bessie looked at Henry with a sudden gentleness. “It’s a shame, ’cause Lucien were nice. I ’ope it weren’t ’im. But if it were, ’e’ll get worse, yer know. They always do.”
“Yes, I imagine they do,” he conceded softly.
Squeaky felt a sudden and overwhelming rage take hold of him. Damn Lucien Wentworth, and all the other idle, idiotic, self-absorbed young men who betrayed the love and privilege that was theirs and broke people’s hearts by throwing away their lives. They had been given far more than most people in the world, and they had destroyed it, smeared filth over it until there was nothing left. It was a kind of blasphemy. He saw that for the first time, and it overwhelmed him. The whole idea of anything being holy had never occurred to him before.
“Do we agree that it is almost certainly Shadwell who owned her?” Crow asked, eating the very last of his pudding.
“Accounts conflict,” Henry answered. “But at least some of the lies are clear enough to weed out. Shadwell seems to inspire a great deal of fear in people, which would suggest that he is the ultimate power in this particular world. Whoever is responsible for Sadie’s death will be running from him, and he will be pursuing them.” Without asking he refilled everyone’s glass with fresh ale.
“But is it Lucien who killed her, or not?” Crow asked, directing his question at no one in particular.
“We will take Bessie’s advice,” Henry asserted. “We will look for whoever else is seeking the killer, because Shadwell will need to have vengeance for her death, even if only to preserve his own status. His resources will be immeasurably better than ours.”
Squeaky sighed, his mind searching for an excuse to end this futile chase. Whatever they discovered, it wasn’t
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