damp.
Ginnie.
Henry battled his sorrow now as he looked at Mrs. Trotter dead on the floor. His one
consolation was the knowledge that Ginnie had gone to see to her sick mother tonight, that
she was nowhere near this hellish place.
Shivering now, and not from the cold, Henry battled the terrible nausea rolling deep in
his belly. He could scarcely bring himself to look at the horrific scene before him, let
HIS WICKED SINS
Page 36 of 103
alone crouch down and carefully look for clues. What had made him think he could do
the job of parish constable?
He had not signed on for this, to witness the aftermath of foul murder and desecration
of the dead. He had signed on at the Shadwell Police Office for a fine and honorable
living, to break up a fight or look into a theft. Not to stand in a pool of blood, to bear
witness to such heinous acts.
The stamp of heavy boots, male voices in the hallway, and the slam of the door against
those who hovered in the street warned Henry he was no longer alone. Other officers had
arrived. Glad he was of that.
Muffled exclamations echoed along the corridor, and the sound of approaching
footsteps.
"What have we here?" Sam Loder asked as he stepped up, shoulder to shoulder with
Henry. Sam was a seasoned officer, a man of experience. Still, Henry wondered at Sam's
casual tone and seeming indifference to the brutality of the scene.
Clenching his teeth so tight he thought they might crack, Henry fought the urge to howl.
A desperate animosity came over him; he barely managed to avoid snarling a reply to
Sam's question, a demand to know if Sam had eyes in his head.
"What have we here?" Murder. We have murder
Shamed by his thoughts, he scrubbed his palm over his face.
"We've sent men to seal off London Bridge, and the Bow Street Runners have been
called in. We'll find him," Sam said. "Just as we found John Williams when he did foul
murder at Timothy Marr's shop and again at the Kings Arms Tavern."
The murders Sam spoke of had occurred two years past, before Henry's time, but he'd
heard the terrible tales repeated, and he'd seen the place where Williams was buried at the
intersection with Cannon Street. 'Twas a place where four roads met. Some claimed that a
stake had been thrust through the murderer's black heart to ensure he did not rise again,
and that burial at the crossroad was meant to confuse and confound the evil ghost if he did
rise from the grave.
Henry had never given much thought to ghosts.
A heavy hand landed on his shoulder, making him jerk. Blinking against the
humiliating sting of tears, he willed himself to meet his duty as an officer. His gaze
dropped to Mrs. Trotter's crushed skull, her ruined face, her blood-soaked dress.
To Henry's mind, one thing was certain. No ghost had done this deed.
HIS WICKED SINS
Page 37 of 103
Chapter 6
Burndale, Yorkshire, September 4, 1828
T hat evening the storm let up and the sky cleared. Beth walked along the road that led to
Burndale Academy, following the curves and twists, having no solid destination in mind
save the next step and the next. Hers was no sedate stroll, but a focused task that freed a
measure of energy and emotion with each stride.
She had survived the first day of her employment without episode. No one had branded
her an imposter, and she was grateful for that.
Moments past, when she had paused in the doorway of the small parlor and mentioned
that she planned an evening stroll, the other teachers had looked at her askance and
declined to accompany her. It was a circumstance that caused her no distress. She had no
true wish for companionship, but good manners had led her to inquire if any would like to
join her.
Miss Browne and Miss Doyle and Mademoiselle Martine and the others had seemed
quite content to sit and sew and chatter amongst themselves, all lovely and worthy
pastimes, but Beth could not bear to be still, to be confined in the small parlor with the
four walls so close about
Ginnie.
Henry battled his sorrow now as he looked at Mrs. Trotter dead on the floor. His one
consolation was the knowledge that Ginnie had gone to see to her sick mother tonight, that
she was nowhere near this hellish place.
Shivering now, and not from the cold, Henry battled the terrible nausea rolling deep in
his belly. He could scarcely bring himself to look at the horrific scene before him, let
HIS WICKED SINS
Page 36 of 103
alone crouch down and carefully look for clues. What had made him think he could do
the job of parish constable?
He had not signed on for this, to witness the aftermath of foul murder and desecration
of the dead. He had signed on at the Shadwell Police Office for a fine and honorable
living, to break up a fight or look into a theft. Not to stand in a pool of blood, to bear
witness to such heinous acts.
The stamp of heavy boots, male voices in the hallway, and the slam of the door against
those who hovered in the street warned Henry he was no longer alone. Other officers had
arrived. Glad he was of that.
Muffled exclamations echoed along the corridor, and the sound of approaching
footsteps.
"What have we here?" Sam Loder asked as he stepped up, shoulder to shoulder with
Henry. Sam was a seasoned officer, a man of experience. Still, Henry wondered at Sam's
casual tone and seeming indifference to the brutality of the scene.
Clenching his teeth so tight he thought they might crack, Henry fought the urge to howl.
A desperate animosity came over him; he barely managed to avoid snarling a reply to
Sam's question, a demand to know if Sam had eyes in his head.
"What have we here?" Murder. We have murder
Shamed by his thoughts, he scrubbed his palm over his face.
"We've sent men to seal off London Bridge, and the Bow Street Runners have been
called in. We'll find him," Sam said. "Just as we found John Williams when he did foul
murder at Timothy Marr's shop and again at the Kings Arms Tavern."
The murders Sam spoke of had occurred two years past, before Henry's time, but he'd
heard the terrible tales repeated, and he'd seen the place where Williams was buried at the
intersection with Cannon Street. 'Twas a place where four roads met. Some claimed that a
stake had been thrust through the murderer's black heart to ensure he did not rise again,
and that burial at the crossroad was meant to confuse and confound the evil ghost if he did
rise from the grave.
Henry had never given much thought to ghosts.
A heavy hand landed on his shoulder, making him jerk. Blinking against the
humiliating sting of tears, he willed himself to meet his duty as an officer. His gaze
dropped to Mrs. Trotter's crushed skull, her ruined face, her blood-soaked dress.
To Henry's mind, one thing was certain. No ghost had done this deed.
HIS WICKED SINS
Page 37 of 103
Chapter 6
Burndale, Yorkshire, September 4, 1828
T hat evening the storm let up and the sky cleared. Beth walked along the road that led to
Burndale Academy, following the curves and twists, having no solid destination in mind
save the next step and the next. Hers was no sedate stroll, but a focused task that freed a
measure of energy and emotion with each stride.
She had survived the first day of her employment without episode. No one had branded
her an imposter, and she was grateful for that.
Moments past, when she had paused in the doorway of the small parlor and mentioned
that she planned an evening stroll, the other teachers had looked at her askance and
declined to accompany her. It was a circumstance that caused her no distress. She had no
true wish for companionship, but good manners had led her to inquire if any would like to
join her.
Miss Browne and Miss Doyle and Mademoiselle Martine and the others had seemed
quite content to sit and sew and chatter amongst themselves, all lovely and worthy
pastimes, but Beth could not bear to be still, to be confined in the small parlor with the
four walls so close about
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