The Sign of the Raven

by L. C. Sharp

  Unfortunately this case was taking more of his time than he had at first allotted to it. Complications piled on the dead body of Lord Coddington, and what had begun as a simple robbery had changed into something else altogether.

  When the cab stopped outside the coffeehouse, Ash climbed down to the street and tossed a coin to the driver. He stepped back quickly so anything the wheels of the cab threw up would not hit him as the driver whipped up his horse to go in search of his next fare.

  As usual, the doors to King’s lay wide open. Only in the dead of winter did they close, when the heat from the roaring fire warmed the large room within to boiling point. Moll King’s coffeehouse did not deal in the comfortable medium.

  These days the painting above the fireplace, of a monk and a nun joyfully engaged in sins of the flesh, was somewhat obscured by the depredations of years of soot and pipe smoke. But everybody here knew that painting as well as they knew their own faces. It had endured.

  With Moll King recently dead and her husband long dead, the coffeehouse could be expected to dwindle and die, as these establishments tended to do, but for now, it survived, as buoyant as ever. Entering it meant walking into a wall of noise and smells, the enticing scent of coffee melding with the thicker aroma of beer, tobacco and the stink of humanity. For here, it was a stink. No scented ballroom, this, no fashionable coffeehouse where gentlemen met to discuss finance or politics. Here the discussions were of a more earthy and practical kind.

  Ash belonged here. The place wrapped around him like an old, comfortable glove. This was where he lived, where the people he understood lived. Sounds from above told him the “nonexistent” brothel was busy. Not that he had ever engaged in those activities. He valued his health more than that. But some did not.

  He’d half expected to see the Duke of Abercorn here. The man could be found all over London, and Ash had seen him here before. Abercorn frequented almost as many unusual places as Ash did. In fact, he had his suspicions that Abercorn was not half so sleepy or cynical as he claimed. But the duke was not here today. Only Cutty Jack, leaning against the wall by the fireplace as if holding up the whole structure.

  Ash made his way unhurriedly across the room, stopping to nod to this person or that, his presence deliberately downplayed. He knew this whore, that pickpocket, and they knew better than to take from him. And he understood the cant they spoke better than they knew.

  Cutty Jack knew. He’d had the rough edge of Ash’s tongue on more than one occasion.

  He reached the fireplace. Jack offered him a fresh clay pipe, and though Ash did not find smoking to his taste, he knew better than to refuse it. Better than the unsavory beverages offered here. The beer might smell good, the coffee piquant, but once tasted, never forgotten. And not in a good way.

  “Find anything?”

  Jack shrugged. “Bin a dommerer outside the ken for a day. Got a man watchin’ now. Don’t know why I ever gave up the job. Pays better than I remember.”

  “Perhaps you make a better link boy than a thief.”

  Jack grinned, a flash of yellowed teeth. “Mebbe. The ace left the place for an hour. All in black, a regular crow. Apart from that she stayed in.”

  By which Ash inferred that the person he’d engaged Jack to watch had left her house for an hour, dressed in heavy mourning. “Did anybody visit her?”

  Jack took a draw on his pipe. “Yep, but nobody you wouldn’t expect. Nobs, pettifoggers, all that.”

  Aristocrats and lawyers. Jack was right. Nobody unexpected. “You’d think they’d leave her to mourn.”

  Jack snorted. “What, that lot? They’re not all like your ball.”

  “My wife is anything but a ball and chain,” Ash replied, put out at hearing Juliana described in that way but gratified that Jack approved of her. Jack’s station in life didn’t lead Ash to underestimate him. Cutty Jack had a mind as sharp as any duke. If he didn’t spot anything unusual, then Ash knew he was right. The widow could have done something in that hour she was out, but she might have been visiting a relative, or simply shopping for more black cloth, or taking the air. He’d only had her watched as a precaution, but he would not let his guard down yet. “Here.”

  Gold subtly changed hands. Even to the practiced eyes watching them, the exchange would be almost impossible to spot. “Keep it up,” Ash said.

  “Aye.”

  Ash stood back, and touched his lips to the pipe for appearance’s sake. He dipped his hand in his pocket openly this time, and came out with the item that was still puzzling him. “Have you seen this before?”

  Jack glanced down. He sucked in a breath, loud enough for Ash to hear over the cacophony. “Might ’ave. Could’ve. What’s it to you?”

  “The victim had it.”

  “Ahhh.” Jack let out the breath, long and low. “You’re not ’olding it right. Turn it over and around. What do you see?”

  Ash did as Jack bade him. And closed his eyes. “Why didn’t I see this before? It’s a bird, isn’t it?”

  “Aye. The bird you know.”

  The Raven. This token was connected to the Raven.

  “It’s a tin un, see? Not a gold un.”

  “He gives people gold coins in his image?”

  Jack snorted a laugh, spittle spraying. “Pinchbeck, more like.”

  “Are they gaming counters?”

  “Some are. But not that one. Throw it away, guv’nor. Get rid of it. It won’t do you no good.”

  Ash slipped it back in his pocket. “So what is this one?”

  “Never you mind.”

  Ash had never seen Jack so rattled before. He took things as they came and dealt with them, sauntering from one shady business to the next, rarely sliding out of it. But this little circle of tin had shaken him. “Will you tell me, or should I seek out its owner and ask him?”

  Was this innocuous thing, so trivial it was left in his pocket when everything else was taken or stored, the cause of Coddington’s death? He tried another tack. “How do you know it’s not a gaming counter?”

  Jack leaped on his words like a starving dog. “P’raps it is. P’raps I’m wrong. Wouldn’t be the first time. Giz another gander. Smoke getting into my peepers.”

  Ash shook his head. “Ah no, Jack. It’s gone home. Smoke or not, you saw it well enough before.” He wouldn’t put it past Jack to snatch the coin and run. But neither he, nor any of his friends, was getting to that token. Not now Ash knew it had more significance than he’d suspected.

  “You just keep doing your job, Jack, and I’ll do mine.”

  * * *

  “Cutty Jack thinks this thing is important.” Ash tossed the token into the air and snatched it away before his wife or his sister could get it. “Not a gaming piece, apparently. But the figure on it is a raven.”

  He opened his palm and put the article on the dining table. It gleamed dully against the crisp starched cloth.

  “It doesn’t look like much, does it?” Amelia commented. She picked it up and turned it over in her hand. “Yes, I see. A raven. And something else.” She brought it close to her eyes and peered at it closely. “It looks like a star.”

  “That’s what I thought,” he said.

  Juliana held out her hand, and Amelia placed the offending object in it. Juliana turned it over. “It’s been stamped out. The Raven has a raven stamp. How quaint.”

  She could always make him laugh. Sometimes she shocked him into it.

  When she handed the token back to him, she was smiling. Their eyes met, and his smile turned warm. He—Ash caught himself—liked her very much. Oh yes, he wanted more from her. But he would wait until she was ready, even if it killed him.

  “I enjoy these quiet family dinners.”

  Sitting next to Juliana, Gregory groaned. “We don’t have anything else. Are we having guests tomorrow?”

  “Not that I kno
w about,” Ash said, startled. He looked over at Juliana. “Are we?”

  “No. We won’t go out until later. Probably as late as ten.”

  “Why?”

  Realization rushed in. “Oh. The Newcastle ball.”

  “You sound like the voice of doom,” his sister said. “I can’t wait. Juliana and I went shopping today. I have the most beautiful fan. Juliana bought nothing.” She turned her reproachful gaze on to her sister-in-law. “We saw the hat that was made for her, and she said she had plenty of hats.”

  “While I enjoy shopping, it’s as much for the exercise as for the purchases. But I do enjoy it. In the old days, everything was bought for me. I’d open my drawer and find new clothes that I’d never seen before, and be told when I would wear them, and what jewelry I would have, and what fan, right down to my handkerchief. I’ve already chosen what I want to wear tomorrow. Right down to the handkerchief.”

  Ash watched his wife, shared her enjoyment and the way she reveled in her freedom. She brought light into his life with the way she discovered the small liberties that he and his brothers and sisters took for granted these days. Their days of curtailment were long gone, but Juliana’s were almost yesterday, still fresh.

  Juliana said, “Amelia had a letter from Captain Ashendon today.”

  “I put it in your study,” Amelia said. “It’s for all of us. I read it aloud to Juliana and Gregory. William is enjoying himself.”

  “He’s seen strange creatures,” Gregory announced. “He sketched one. A huge bird with a bent bill. And he’s a good artist.”

  Ash sketched, too, but his sketches were of dead bodies, for the most part, and he’d never shown one to Gregory. His newest gruesome portrait, of Lord Coddington lying face down in the dirt, did not attempt to capture the man’s character, only to record how he had fallen, where, and the disposition of the blood pool.

  Anyone would think they were out to enjoy themselves tomorrow night, not to investigate a murder.

  He repeated that sentiment to Juliana much later that evening when they went up to bed. As always, he stopped outside her bedroom. After checking she was happy and relaxed, he brushed a kiss against her cheek. She smelled of roses—the sharp edge of a fresh blossom, not the sweet, anodyne scent of the distilled version. Her cheek was soft, inviting to the touch, and Ash drew back, smiling.

  He saw no fear, no withdrawal. The sight pleased him.

  “I intend to enjoy myself,” she said. “The only reason I did not buy anything today was that I have everything I need. I have new gowns, made from the old ones, stiff with gold and silver lace, as well as two I had made up a few months ago.”

  “Which one will you wear?”

  She laid her palm on her bedroom door and pushed it open. “You’ll have to wait and see.”

  * * *

  A scream woke Ash. He sat bolt upright in bed, his heart beating wildly. Had he dreamed? He didn’t have them very often these days.

  Had he made that sound, or was it part of his dream?

  No. Not him. Juliana. Gasping and sobs. A gentle thump on the connecting door. Not a knock, more like something had hit it.

  He swung out of bed, went to the door. Opened it.

  Juliana tumbled into his arms, clutching his shoulders. She’d lost her nightcap, and her neat braids were unraveling, red-brown strands falling over her face. He did what he’d been longing to do for some time now, and curved his arms around her. When he lifted her, she curled into him. Ash tried to suppress the heat he felt. Shameful when his wife was in such straits.

  “I’ll take you back to your room,” he murmured. He’d stay there until she settled, but he’d sit in the chair by the window. He was not sure if she wanted him to call her maid, but he would ask.

  Tears streaked her face, but she was not crying now. She stared at him, but he saw no expression there. With the curtains tightly closed and the candles snuffed, he could barely make out her features by the soft glow of the banked-down fire.

  Her linen night rail flowed down and made it difficult for him to get a secure hold, but he managed.

  “I don’t want to go back there on my own, not yet. Don’t leave me,” she murmured. “Could you hold me for a while?”

  Oh Lord. Still, he was a man, not a boy, and he could behave like one.

  Knowing his room as well as he did, he could take her confidently over to the bed and lay her gently on the sheets he had just vacated. Crossing to the mantelpiece, he found the tinderbox and lit a single candle. She gave one throbbing, heart-deep sob. Finding the branched candlestick set by the bed, he lit that candle, too. His hands were steady, he noted with satisfaction.

  She reached for him, hands outstretched.

  “You’re sure?” he asked.

  “Yes.” The single syllable reached deep inside him.

  He lost no more time in climbing in beside her.

  Immediately she flung herself into his arms, crying again. Shocked, the close contact more than anything he’d ever known with Juliana, he nevertheless tucked her in close.

  She felt too hot. Her tears wet his neck, and she cried softly. He let her weep. How could he do anything else? She needed to cry this out. Fumbling under the pillow, he located his handkerchief and dabbed her cheeks.

  He was here now, and he wouldn’t go away.

  Resting his chin on her head, the silky strands clinging to his nighttime stubble, Ash murmured soft, comforting words, like “there, there,” and “cry it out.”

  Behave like a brother, he told himself. Even though brothers and sisters did not share a bed, she was at least wrapped in linen nightwear. Although he could feel the heat of her skin, smell the scent she liked to use, faint, barely there, a whisper.

  Her soft weeping subsided. She brought the handkerchief to her face, scrubbing at her eyes. With a jerk, she pushed away and sat up, leaned on one elbow. Ash felt the loss of her in his arms, but he could hardly pull her back.

  Now he could see her better. He smiled up at her. “Better now?”

  “Yes. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to...” She waved her hand helplessly. “It was just a dream.”

  “I’ve heard you before. I should have come to you then.”

  “Like that?” She glanced down at him, then away, staring at a spot above his head.

  For the first time, Ash recalled that he was naked. His nightshirt lay where he’d tossed it on the floor. He sometimes overheated in the night, and didn’t think twice about stripping off the garment. Why hadn’t he put it back on when he was lighting the candles? Instinctively he pulled the sheet up.

  She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. I’ll go back to bed now.”

  But she trembled as she turned away, making to draw back the bedclothes on her side. Ash touched her arm. “No, don’t. Stay awhile.”

  His wife turned back to him and relief flooded him. This time she did not slide her arm around his waist, only lay on her side next to him, her head propped on her hand. “Thank you. The dreams are getting better. I’m sure they’ll go in a little while.”

  She was trying to sound matter-of-fact. It wouldn’t work now. His wife was too good at covering up her true feelings; she’d had years of practice. They were not returning to that place, not now.

  “How often do you get the nightmares?”

  “I used to have them two or three times a night. Then it became one vivid dream a night. Sometimes I’d get up and read rather than go back to sleep. Now it’s occasionally, perhaps once a week.”

  “They’re always about that night?”

  “My wedding night, yes, mostly. With variations.”

  No need to go into details. They both knew what she’d seen, and the horror after.

  “Sometimes I dream about the gallows, what it must be like to climb the ladder at Tyburn Tree and wait for the noose to tighten. Why don’t they run
?”

  “Some try,” he said. “They don’t get very far.”

  “You go there?”

  He made a face, but he would answer her honestly. “I don’t make a habit of going to Tyburn, but I have been there. I felt I needed to see the consequences of my work. I watched, and witnessed.”

  “Do you dream about that?”

  “No.” He did not. If he sent anyone to the gallows, he was convinced of that person’s guilt beyond doubt. He couldn’t tax his conscience with that. He paused. “I dream about my failures.”

  “You?” She pulled at the remnants of her braid, then ran her fingers through it, untangling it. “You don’t fail.”

  “Oh but I do. And I have. But I try to learn from them.”

  They fell into a silence. Juliana rolled to her back, and fiddled with her hair, wrapping strands around her fingers. She stopped and closed her eyes. After ten minutes, marking Juliana’s regular breathing, Ash moved a little. Then a little more until he could get out of bed without disturbing her.

  * * *

  Juliana watched her husband climb out of bed. She kept her eyes nearly shut, but she couldn’t resist a peep. Would his naked body remind her of that terrible night, bring her terrors back? She wouldn’t know if she didn’t look.

  Instead of the terrors she half expected, a sense of peace invaded her. Peace and something else she vaguely recognized as pleasure, enjoyment—and desire.

  His slender but strong body limned by golden candlelight, he bent and picked up his nightshirt.

  Ash wasn’t bulky and stocky like her first husband, the only other man she’d seen naked. Oh, Ash had muscles enough, but not showy ones. He’d picked her up effortlessly when she’d come to him in distress, but he would have stood a head taller than Godfrey, so his bulk was distributed more evenly. And sleeker, like a runner rather than a boxer.

  She trusted Ash. He wouldn’t...do anything she didn’t want him to, even now.

  He turned as he threw the nightshirt over his head, bringing his groin into view. To her fascination, he appeared to be partially aroused. She had not noticed because he’d kept that part of himself away from her in bed.