by Paula Guran
“Would it work?” Kit challenged.
Kelly shrugged. “It might, if this letter writer’s got any power of his own. If not, then probably not.”
“Well, Mary Jane Kelly, I don’t believe it will. I don’t believe he’s got any power or he wouldn’t be stealing your paltry share. I don’t believe he can offer me anything and, even if he could, I wouldn’t buy Lucius’ health in such a way—I may not know anything about witchcraft, but I do know that a price like this is too high. If I had all the wealth in the world I’d spend it on my brother, but I won’t offer one life for another. I just won’t. I’ve got enough deaths on my conscience to last a lifetime.” She rubbed her hands across her face. “And Ned Watkins is dead—did you know that?”
The expression on Kelly’s face said she didn’t. “Poor lamb. What happened?”
“He hung himself in the garden shed of his parents’ house. He said he was seeing them—seeing Dark Annie and Cathy Eddowes. He said they didn’t say anything, just stood beside his bed in the night and looked at him.”
Kelly sighed. “Sometimes they stay around, the dead. They attach themselves to the person who found them—sometimes to their killer, but sometimes they just look for the first kind heart that happens upon them after death. You don’t see Lizzie?”
Kit shook her head, wondering what that said about her heart, and leaned over to take the letter from Kelly’s fingers. “I am, as you’ve pointed out, completely untouched by any sort of magic.”
She waved the single sheet of thick cream-colored paper. “This is the only way I know how to help, Mary Jane, but I need your assistance.”
“You need me to be bait,” she sneered, and Kit nodded.
“Yes. Apparently no one else will do.”
“Does your Inspector know about this? About this letter?”
Kit shook her head, holding the other woman’s gaze.
Kelly gave a lopsided smile. “If you tell him it’s about witches and magic he’ll think you’re mad. If you show him this letter, addressed to Miss Katherine Caswell, he’ll work out that you’re not what you say you are. Too many questions asked and you with not enough lies to tell.”
“If he works out I’m female then my life goes back to what it was. I go back to scraping a living for three people. I won’t be that helpless again.”
“Find a rich husband, you’re pretty enough.”
“Where am I going to find a rich husband? If it was that easy, wouldn’t you have done it by now?”
The air between them was thick and bitter. Kit took a deep breath, struggled to stop her voice from shaking. “But this is what I can do. If you’ll help me, I can entice him out, and he will not survive, I promise you.”
They both shuddered to hear the steel in her tone, to hear her say what they both knew had to be done. “He’ll die for what he did to Polly and Annie and Elizabeth and Cathy. He’ll die for what he’d do to you. If he’s caught, he’ll go to the gallows without a doubt—but he’ll tell secrets and ruin lives before he does. Even if no one believes you’re a witch, Mary Jane, they’ll find out I’m a woman and my life will be over.”
“So you’ll be a murderer, too,” observed Kelly.
Kit shook her head, not denying the other’s words, simply not wanting to think about them. She folded the sheet of paper carefully and slid it back into the envelope as if it was the most important thing she had to do at this very moment. She stood and cleared her throat.
“I’ll do it,” said Kelly, voice flat. Kit froze. The other woman’s consent, for all it solved one problem, created a series of others.
“Are you sure?”
“Good God, Kit Caswell, you badger me into this mad plan and now you want to know if I’m sure?” Kelly laughed harshly. “I’m sure. It’s the only way I’ll walk the streets safely again—well, as safe as the streets ever get for my kind.”
Kit swallowed and nodded. She said, “I’ll put the advertisement in the Personals section of the paper just as he asks. We’ll need an address to send him to . . . ”
“Not here, for God’s sake.”
“ . . . somewhere private.”
“I’ve got just the place.”
X
Kit had only ever set foot in the store twice before. The first time was in response to a message from Mr. Wing, the week after her father’s death. One of the Chinese lads had come to the rectory and Louisa, barely sentient until called to the door by Kit, had shrieked at the boy to go away. He fled, dropping a rectangle of white card in his wake, which Kit pocketed. The address on the back, inked in a fair hand, led her to Limehouse and a shop that contained all manner of herbal restoratives.
She liked the smell, incense and all the dried ingredients combined to a heady mix. Mr. Wing had seemed terribly old then as he explained his obligation to her family, and even older the second visit when Kit made the request that resulted in her being allocated space in the lock-up. This occasion, the third, she’d taken extra care with her appearance, ensuring her dress, bonnet, cape and bag were all black as a reminder of her grief—even though the mourning period was well and truly over—and the debt that was owed.
Nothing had changed, though the odor had a sickly sweet undertone—she wondered if the basement area was being used as an opium den, then shook her head. She didn’t want to know and she wasn’t in a position to judge anyone at this point. The light coming through windows covered in London grime was dim, the store was empty of customers, and it seemed none of the shelf contents had moved, but she knew that the Chinese apothecary did a brisk trade and Mr. Wing’s reputation was such that even Harley Street specialists directed their patients here for certain types of remedies. She’d once tried Lucius on some of the old gentleman’s concoctions, but the scent and taste had him refusing more than one swallow and in the end she tipped the mixture out.
Behind the counter sat the object of her search, perched on a high stool as if he was a manikin or a puppet, left as guardian. His round face showed no surprise at seeing her, although his trailing white moustaches twitched in greeting. His long robe was a curious green and she thought how well it helped him to blend in with the shadows of the interior.
“Miss Katherine,” he said, his voice smooth as oil, a young man’s voice. “Another social call so soon—should I be concerned?”
Kit smiled. “Hello, Mr. Wing.” She wasn’t entirely sure that was even his proper name, but it was the one he gave to his shop-front, to the Westerners who frequented this place, and the one his own people used at least in the presence of others. “I trust you are well.”
He nodded, but didn’t answer, merely waited to hear her purpose.
She hesitated, then spoke. “Mr. Wing, I must make a special request of you. I do not do this lightly, but I come to you because of our bond.”
He laughed. “You mean my debt, Miss Katherine.”
She half-nodded, half-shrugged.
“And what do you require of me?”
“I need a gun, sir.”
He was silent for long moments, stroking his moustaches, then he did the unthinkable and got down off his throne and came toward her. His motions were not those of an aged man, and she thought he moved slowly because he wanted to, not because he had to.
“This is a very big favor, Miss Caswell,” he said gravely as he came to a halt.
“You owe me a very big favour, Mr. Wing. You told me so,” she said equally gravely, holding his gaze.
“What makes you think I will be interested in helping you with such an illegal thing?”
“The same reason you sent the boy to me and to tell me about the dead woman.” He opened his mouth to deny it but she kept going, “Very little happens, sir, that you are not aware of—I know your runners gather information the way other boys pick berries. And I know it’s to keep your people safe—forewarned is forearmed. So trust me when I say this is something I need to keep my—all people—safe. I know you will understand that and you will want to help.”
She blinked. “Multiple would be best.”
“More than one chance, although I am told one should always make the first shot count. Do you know how to use it?”
She nodded. Her father had taught her to shoot at game birds; she’d had training in firearms when she’d joined the Met, but had not been deemed reliable enough to carry a weapon yet, being so new in the job.
“It will be with one of the boys at the lock-up.”
“When? I need it . . . ”
“These things are not easy to come by,” he said, then laughed. “The evening of the ninth.”
She thanked him and turned to go. At the door, his voice stopped her.
“Miss Katherine?”
“Yes?” She looked over her shoulder, eyebrows raised.
“Remember the steps you take cannot be taken back. Some actions are simply too serious to retreat from—this is what I always tell our young men when they must choose their paths. I think it applies to you, too. What you do next will change the direction of your life.”
Kit nodded, but did not answer. Outside, she gasped and dragged the cold air into her lungs; the shop had become unaccountably stuffy and close. She closed her eyes and rubbed them until stars speckled the back of her lids. She had no choice, she told herself. Either she sat back and did nothing, pretended she was untouched by what had and might continue to happen; or she could explain everything to Makepeace and in doing so expose herself utterly and lose all that she’d fought so hard to gain; or she could do this, this last thing, finish it all and keep herself and her life intact.
“Where have you been?” asked Louisa as soon as Kit set foot in the door. She’d been particularly vigilant in the weeks since Mary Kelly’s social call, or at least while Kit was actually home, as if whatever she might be doing would be evident when she was under her mother’s watchful eye. Kit held up her purse and gave it a gentle shake so the tiny bottles clinked together, and dangled the larger bag that contained groceries.
“Medicine for Lucius and more laudanum, Mother, and food.” She kept her tone even as she took off her bonnet and hung it on the hallstand, although Louisa’s wariness was becoming wearying. “How is Lucius?”
“He’s still running such a temperature,” fussed Louisa.
Kit fished a small brown sack from the hold-all and offered it. “Boil some water and steep that in it. It’s feverfew and should help.”
Louisa nodded and disappeared into the kitchen. Kit made her way to her brother’s room and found Mrs. K reading to him from a battered Bible. Kit couldn’t tell if his expression was the result of febrile listlessness or boredom; he was staring out the pocket-sized window into the pocket-sized yard. Kit smiled. “Have a spell, Mrs. K, I’ll sit with him for a while.”
The older woman looked at her and nodded; she didn’t seem as suspicious of Kit as Louisa did, but rather just somewhat disapproving. As if the girl had let the side down. As she passed in the doorway, Mrs. K said in a low voice, “That friend of yours from the milliner’s?”
Kit tilted her head, waited for her to go on.
“I know her from somewhere, but I can’t remember where.”
Kit shrugged. “She lives close to Mistress Hazleton’s shop. I can’t think where else you might have seen her.”
Mrs. K shook her head, and handed Kit the Bible. When she could hear voices from the kitchen, she sat down beside the bed and put her hand on Lucius’ brow. He had a slight fever, but it was nothing like what she’d expected. “How are you feeling?”
“Fine,” he said, tone light, not looking at her. “Did you find her?”
Kit had stopped sharing her adventures with Lucius—or rather, she’d been heavily censoring what she told him, and he knew it. He’d been so worried before the double event and after Kit had returned home with her face grazed and shoulder injured, he’d not looked well since. When he asked for information, it was with an undertone of distress Kit had never heard before and it added to her guilt. She’d not told him about Watkins and she’d only told him the barest minimum about her search for Mary Kelly.
“Found her, a few days ago. She’s safe and well, Lucius, never fear. She’s not in danger and I think he may have gone.” She lied lightly.
“You said not. You said he wouldn’t go away. That he wasn’t going to stop until he got whatever it was he wanted.”
She cursed herself for telling him everything she had. She cursed him for poking at her fear—her knowledge—that the killer was simply waiting for Mary Jane to resurface, that her plan was too risky, too ill-conceived and desperate. She leaned forward and took his hand, and spoke quietly as the sounds of tea making and her mother riffling through the groceries continued from the kitchen. “Lucius, I promise you it will all be over soon. I promise you this man will never hurt anyone ever again. And I promise you I will be so careful.”
“You said that last time,” he pointed out, finally meeting her eyes.
“Yes, I did. And I underestimated him. Not this time, though, not again. I just need you to trust me. Will you do that?”
Before he could answer one way or another, Louisa appeared at the door. She bore a delicate porcelain teacup, from which a scent not unlike musty camphor wafted. Lucius’ nose wrinkled and he pulled a face.
“None of that, young man,” said Kit. “It’s for your own good and medicine isn’t meant to taste like sweeties. Sometimes we all have to do things we don’t want to.”
He fixed her with a look and said, “I know.”
XI
Waiting in the overgrown garden next to the lock-up was the lad who’d come to warn her about Liz Stride’s untimely demise. She’d not seen him since then, though she’d searched. Wordlessly, he handed her a calico-wrapped package. As he made to leave, she grabbed his hand.
“How did you know? About the woman in Duffield’s Yard?”
She didn’t think he’d answer but she was determined not to let him go; he struggled but found her grip unbreakable. At last he went limp and said, “I saw her. Saw her body.”
She let him go, knowing she’d get nothing else. He faded into the mist.
The shed was cold inside and its atmosphere seemed vaguely hostile—as if it had decided she didn’t belong there anymore. Or perhaps, thought Kit, it was just her imagination. It was what she was here to do that had changed, not the space that had been her closest confidant all these months, the place that had helped her change her life and herself. The four walls that had kept her secrets hidden and safe.
She perched on the lid of her steamer trunk and stared anywhere but at the parcel in her lap. At the splinters on the walls; at the muddy footprints with an obvious void where a chunk of the thick sole of the right shoe had been taken out; at the peaked ceiling and its beams that looked too thin. Her fingers picked at the edge of the fabric wrapping and her hands shook as she took a deep breath and folded back the cloth. The revolver was a British Bull Dog—the model she’d trained with but not been issued—with six cylinders and a wooden grip. It gleamed dully at her.
Kit cracked the barrel and was greeted by the sight of bullets sleeping inside. She ran her fingers over the engraving Philip Webley & Son of Birmingham, that told her who had made it and where, then over the hammer. It was an older model but she didn’t care about its age, just as long as it did what she needed it to.
She still could not quite believe she was going to point this thing at someone—even someone who’d done what the killer had—and fire with the intent of taking a life.
Kit closed her eyes and leaned back against the wall. The advertisement had appeared in the Personals column, stating the time and the place for the assignation, couched in terms that suggested romance was involved. She wondered if it was too late—if he’d grown bored waiting and stopped looking for a sign of contact, of agreement from her—if this was all for naught.
She had been careful each and every night sin
ce she’d first read the letter; even in the daylight hours she was wary, glancing over her shoulder, making sure she knew the number and locations of exits wherever she went, ensuring the truncheon was easily and quickly accessible, and she had developed the habit of slipping the brass knuckles on as soon as she’d taken a few steps away from the Leman Street station.
Kit had been so focused on the perceived threat that she’d ceased hearing Airedale when he sneered at her, ceased to pay attention to him at all; hadn’t even really noticed when he’d quietened down these past weeks, as if there was no fun in tormenting someone who wasn’t paying any mind. Wright had jokingly asked her what magic she’d worked.
Kit didn’t know how long she examined the back of her eyelids, but when she felt the cold creep into her bones, she knew it had been too long. She stood and swiftly changed into her uniform, shivering. She settled her helmet on her hair, buttoned up her winter overcoat and slid the pistol gingerly into its deep pockets, praying hard that she wouldn’t shoot herself in the foot.
As she passed the fence around Christ Church, she slowed, pretending to adjust her boots. She listened hard, but heard nothing until Kelly’s voice swarmed out of the shadows inside the churchyard, low and clear.
“Cold night for a stroll, PC Caswell.”
“Are you ready?” Kit asked, ignoring the pretend pleasantries. “Are you all right?”
“I’ll take care of my part of the bargain as long as you observe yours. Just don’t bloody well be late.”
“I swear I won’t,” said Kit and Kelly’s footsteps quietly crunched away on the frostbitten grass.
Kit was grateful for the warmth inside Leman Street, but didn’t take her coat off as she waited impatiently through the briefing delivered by the recently promoted Sergeant Thomas Wright; neither inspector was to be seen. Wright looked harried, and when the room cleared, Kit waited behind.
“You right there, Sarge?” Kit asked.
“All the nutters are out tonight and it’s not even a bloody full moon.” He collected a thick ledger from the table beside him and they moved towards the door, slowing to a halt at the booking desk in the entrance hall.