Ashes To Ashes: A Ministry of Curiosities Novella (The Ministry of Curiosities Book 5)

by C. J. Archer

  A girl stumbled out of the shadows, a ragged shawl bunched at her chest instead of wrapped around her thin shoulders. Stringy brown hair fell from a cap that had probably once been white but was now gray and torn. Her face was mostly gray too. The only color came from the smudges of red under her sunken eyes and the sores on her lips.

  "Please, sirs. I'll do whatever you want for some ready." She let go of the shawl and held out her dirty palm. The shawl fell away to reveal a sleeping baby. The baby stirred with the sudden brush of cold air on soft skin. Unlike the girl, the baby looked healthy.

  Both Seth and Gus reached for their pockets but Lincoln stopped them with a raise of his hand. "Do you know where we can find Jack Daley?" he asked her.

  A spark of fear momentarily gave her eyes some life. She looked left and right, then backed away. She shook her head.

  Lincoln removed a pouch stuffed with coin from his inside coat pocket. "All of this and my coat if you tell me where to find him."

  For a moment, he thought her fear would override her desperation, but then she stepped forward. "He lives in the tall brown house on Flower and Dean," she whispered. "Two from the corner. Old Mrs. Fenton is the landlady." She blinked at Lincoln then tentatively held out her hand again.

  He gave her the pouch and she quickly tucked it back inside the shawl with the baby. "How old are you?" he asked.

  "Thirteen."

  Both Seth and Gus muttered under their breath. "The baby's father?" Seth asked.

  "Dead. Our mother too."

  "You're not the mother?"

  "He's me brother." She blinked dry eyes and kissed the top of the baby's head. "I'm all he's got now, and he's all I got."

  Lincoln shucked off his coat and draped it around her shoulders. He must remember to ask Doyle to get more made.

  "You don't want nothing else, sir?" she asked.

  Lincoln shook his head. He should walk away, but for some reason he couldn't. What was wrong with him?

  Gus laid a hand on the girl's shoulder. She shrank back. "Do you know how to get to Seven Dials from here?" he asked.

  She nodded quickly.

  "Find Broker Row and ask for Mary Sullivan. Tell her Gus sent you. She'll take care of you and your brother."

  "Thank you, sir." She clutched the baby tighter to her breast and hurried away.

  "We can't save them all," Seth said, as they moved off toward Flower and Dean Street.

  Lincoln made no comment. He found it easier not to dwell on such things, but it was difficult to dismiss the girl and her baby brother from his mind. Sending Gus to his great aunt's house later to see if the girl arrived safely was a pointless exercise, yet he resolved to do it.

  Old Mrs. Fenton's lodging house was a palace compared to the other terraces on Flower and Dean. It was a full story taller and the arched windows gave it a grandeur that not even the peeling paint and grimy stones destroyed. It even had a balcony on the second level. The rest of Flower and Dean was a confused collection of short and tall buildings, some brick, some wood, but few stone. Smoke drifted from the chimney of Mrs. Fenton's house, but not the others.

  Lincoln set Gus on watch out the front while he and Seth headed down the nearest lane and through an archway to the large courtyard at the back of the properties. The buildings surrounding the courtyard were in such poor state that a strong breeze might have knocked them over. The dense, still air reeked of feces and something rotting.

  A man exited from the back of Mrs. Fenton's house and pissed on the slick cobbles. He swayed on his feet and didn't look up. If he had, he would have spotted Seth and Lincoln.

  When the man tucked himself back into his trousers, his elbow nudged aside his coat to reveal the handle of a pistol.

  Lincoln signaled Seth to fetch Gus.

  "You're going to wait for us to return before you approach him, aren't you?" Seth whispered.

  "Yes."

  With a nod of approval, Seth returned down the lane. Not even that movement alerted the man to their presence. He rocked back on his heels, licked his fingers and dragged them through his greasy black hair.

  Lincoln stepped out of the shadows. He got to within four steps before the man looked up. "Jack Daley?"

  The man reached for his gun, but Lincoln was too fast. He snatched the pistol and pointed it at the man's temple.

  "Are you Jack Daley?" he asked again.

  "Who wants to know?"

  "The person who holds this gun at your head and has no qualms about pulling the trigger."

  Daley had a high forehead and a moustache so thin that it looked like an outline of his top lip. His clothes were new and his jaw smooth. He'd recently come into money. He sized up Lincoln with a sneer. "You ain't got the bollocks."

  Lincoln shot him in the foot.

  Daley screamed and crumpled to the ground. A woman came to the door, gasped, and hurried back inside. The tumbling of the heavy lock was almost as loud as Daley's cries.

  "It's dangerous to keep your weapon loaded," Lincoln told him.

  Daley's only response was to change from screaming to whimpering. Lincoln aimed the pistol at his other foot.

  "Unless you want me to make you a cripple, you'll answer my questions. Are you Jack Daley?"

  "Aye! Bloody hell, man, what'd you shoot me for?"

  "I know what you've done to the people in these parts. I know they fear you. Perhaps now they'll hear you limping toward them in time to get away."

  Lincoln heard Seth and Gus's running footsteps before they entered the courtyard. "Jesus," Gus muttered, staring at Daley's bloodied boot. "Did you shoot him?"

  "He wasn't answering my questions."

  "Fair enough, then."

  Seth marched up to Lincoln. "You said you would wait."

  Lincoln watched his men grab Daley and haul him up to stand on his one good foot. "I lied."

  Seth rolled his eyes. "Has he confessed?"

  "To what?" Daley spat. He tried to pull away but Seth and Gus held him too tightly and his foot must have pained him. He gave up with a wince and whimper. "What do you want?"

  "I want to know who hired you to kill Patrick O'Neill," Lincoln said.

  Daley went even paler. "You the pigs?"

  "The police don't shoot suspects. They waste time with protocol. I prefer to get my answers quickly. Did you kill Patrick O'Neill?"

  "No."

  Lincoln cocked the pistol.

  "Don't shoot!" Daley squeezed his eyes shut. His moustache almost disappeared up his nostrils. When the gun didn't go off, he cracked open one eye. "Is it me you want or the man who hired me?"

  "You're not important to me."

  Daley blew out a breath and stood a little straighter. "It were a blood nut what paid me. He told me who to shoot and where to find him. I didn't know it was the circus strongman, did I? Are you with them? Are you one of them circus freaks?"

  "Do you know the redheaded man's name?"

  "No, but I know what he really looks like and he ain't no true blood nut. Nor a toff, neither." His lips curled into a vicious smile. "He wore a disguise. He's got short, brown hair and don't need the glasses he wore when I met him."

  "Where can I find him?"

  He shrugged.

  Lincoln pointed the gun at his head and Daley shut his eyes again and tried to shrink away. "You must have followed him to see him remove his disguise," Lincoln said. "Tell me where I can find him."

  Daley went to shift his weight only to receive a rude reminder of his injury. He grunted in pain. A waxy sheen covered his pale face.

  Lincoln pressed the barrel of the gun harder into Daley's temple. He was so close to victory he could taste it, but he had to be careful not to show how much he needed this information. "If you remain silent much longer, I'll kill you. If you tell me where to find this man, I'll let you go and you can leave London alive. That's your choice. You have three seconds in which to make it. One. Two."

  "All right!" Daley screwed up his face. Despite the cold, sweat beaded at
his hairline. "I saw how much ready he carried on him, so I thought I could relieve him of some of it. To give to the poor, see."

  Gus snorted. "We ain't stupid."

  Daley cleared his throat. "I followed his coach to Kensington. It left him at the Queens Arms, and he walked down the mews. I followed. When he thought no one was watching, he removed his wig, glasses and some padding round his middle under his clothes and stored them at the back of one of the stables. I was so surprised I forgot why I followed him. By the time I remembered, he were climbing the ladder to the rooms above."

  "Not the main house?"

  "No. I thought he'd come down again, but he didn't. His lamp went out and that were it. No one stirred again 'til morning."

  "You stayed the whole night?"

  "Aye. I were curious, see. I asked the stable lad who the cove was, and he said Mr. Thomas Rampling."

  "Is he a servant?"

  "No, just a cove that knows the coachman."

  "Did he have anything to do with the household?"

  "Don't know. I didn't ask."

  "Did you ask if he'd had contact with others aside from the stable staff?"

  "Why would I?"

  "Who did he pay you to kill next?"

  "A woman named Metzger. Lives at forty-four Brick Lane, Spitalfields."

  Lincoln lowered the gun. The name was familiar. She also had a file in the archives.

  Daley's tongue darted out and he licked his lips. "Who're you? Why'd you want to know all this?"

  Lincoln nodded at Seth and Gus to let Daley go then walked away. He didn't look back, but he heard Daley shout for Mrs. Fenton to unlock the door.

  "Gus, find a policeman and tell him Jack Daley shot Patrick O'Neill," he said. "If by any chance he's not caught, find the Metzger woman and get her to safety." He tucked the gun into the waistband of his trousers and covered it with his jacket. He might need it again.

  Chapter 7

  "I ain't seen him all day." The stable boy leaned on his broom and shrugged lanky shoulders, as if he wasn't surprised by this event. "He comes back late and sometimes goes out again at night."

  "Why is Rampling staying here?" Lincoln asked. "Does he know the master of the house?"

  "He's cousin to the coachman, also a Rampling. John Rampling." He nodded at the glossy black carriage, where a pair of boot soles could be seen in the window.

  Lincoln thanked the lad and opened the cabin door. The boots dropped, and the fellow wearing them sprang upright, his eyes wide. When he saw it wasn't his master, he yawned and lay down again.

  "What'd you want?" he growled.

  "I want to ask you about your cousin, Thomas Rampling," Lincoln said. "What business is he conducting?"

  "No business." The coachman folded his arms over his chest. "He's a drifter, just comes and goes."

  "Do you know when he'll be back?"

  "Nope."

  The rumble of wheels and click clack of hooves on cobbles announced the arrival of another vehicle. The stable lad went out to greet it, but John Rampling didn't stir. Lincoln was about to question him further, but a shout from the boy interrupted him.

  "Mr. Rampling! Mr. Rampling, come quick! It's your cousin."

  Rampling stretched and sat up again. "What is it now?"

  The boy swallowed. "He's dead."

  The coachman blinked. "Can't be. I only saw him last night."

  The lad glanced over his shoulder at the cart that had stopped behind Lincoln's coach. A police constable stood beside it, squinting into the shadows of the coach house.

  Lincoln felt everything inside him tighten into a ball. His heart sank. Every time he got closer to getting answers, the trail went cold. The two grave robbers, Captain Jasper, the man who'd killed Drinkwater and Brumley…all died after their identities and secrets were uncovered by the ministry. Their deaths weren't coincidences, and certainly weren't accidents. Someone was a step ahead of Lincoln—and that infuriated him.

  Seth was first out of the coach house, followed by Rampling and Lincoln. "This is John Rampling," Seth said when the coachman simply stood at the end of the cart and stared at the lump beneath the gray blanket.

  The constable nodded a greeting but got none in return. "He was pulled out of the river this morning," he said as he lifted the blanket.

  The bloated face of the dead man was clear evidence of how he'd died. If that wasn't enough, his clothes and hair were still wet.

  The coachman gagged then threw up on the cobbles. The policeman went to cover the deceased again, but Lincoln stopped him. He inspected the victim's face.

  "Are there any marks on him?" he asked.

  "A cut on the back of his head," the constable said. "He was probably standing on a pier when he lost his footing, hit his head and got knocked out." He shrugged. "Slipped into the water and drowned, is my guess."

  "Oh God," the coachman moaned. "I can't believe it. Tom's gone."

  "We found a note on him addressed to these mews so came here directly. Can you confirm that this is your cousin, Mr. Thomas Rampling?"

  John Rampling nodded. "Where are you taking him?"

  "Mortuary in Chelsea."

  "Who was the note from?" Lincoln asked.

  The constable settled his feet apart and glared at Lincoln. "Who're you in relation to the deceased?"

  Lincoln was still considering the most efficient method to relieve the constable of the note when Seth said, "Mr. Rampling would like to see it."

  The constable glanced at the coachman who simply stared at his cousin's body, oblivious to the attention. The constable waited. After a nudge from Seth, Lincoln handed the policeman three shillings. The constable removed the note from the deceased's pocket. He handed it to Rampling, but when he didn't move to take it, passed it to Lincoln.

  The soggy card was thick, like a gentleman's calling card. It bore no signature or indication as to who'd sent it. The barely legible words read: "Shadwell Dock Stairs. Midnight." Lincoln passed it back to the constable.

  The policeman leapt onto the back of the cart and ordered the driver to exit the mews. Once he was out of sight, Rampling crouched down and ran both hands through his hair. Lincoln felt like doing the same.

  "Do you know who wrote that note?" Lincoln asked him.

  Rampling wiped the back of his hand across his eyes and stood. "Tom never told me his business. I knew he was doing some work for someone that involved wearing disguises from time to time, but I never asked what he was doing. God," he moaned. "I have to write to his mother."

  Seth clapped him on the shoulder. "What was his middle name?"

  Lincoln sucked in a breath. He glared at Seth, but Seth wasn't looking his way.

  "James," Rampling said. "Why?"

  "No particular reason."

  Rampling looked up. "You didn't tell me why you came looking for Thomas."

  "It no longer matters," Seth said, far more cheerfully than was appropriate considering the circumstances. He gathered the reins for Lincoln's horse and climbed onto the driver's seat. Instead of sitting in the cabin, Lincoln got up beside him.

  "Aren't you going to say something?" Seth asked as they passed the Queen’s Arms.

  "No," Lincoln said.

  "Not even to tell me there was no point getting the dead man's middle name because Charlie's not here to call his spirit back?"

  Lincoln didn't respond. Hopefully his lack of communication would shut Seth up. Unfortunately, it seemed to have the opposite effect.

  "If she was here, she could summon the spirit and find out who hired Rampling to hire Jack Daley," he went on. "You do know that Rampling was most likely killed because he could identify the man who hired him, don't you?"

  Captain Jasper too, although Lincoln hadn't connected his death to the current murders until recently. He could have asked her to raise Jasper, but using her necromancy like that had felt wrong, particularly when he was warning her not to use it.

  The whip of the icy wind slapped Lincoln's cheeks, and it began rai
ning as they passed through Camden Town. Each drop pelted down from the dense mass of cloud overhead like sharp shards of glass. Seth flipped up his hood but Lincoln had given his coat to the girl in Flower and Dean Street. He took over the reins and urged the horse to go faster.

  "Careful!" Seth grabbed onto the side rail as they took a sharp corner without slowing.

  Lincoln didn't slow down until they reached Lichfield's coach house. Gus was already waiting.

  "Did the police catch Daley?" Seth asked as he jumped down.

  Gus nodded. "Got him before he even left the lodgin' house. He was screamin' at them about gettin' his foot seen by a doctor."

  Lincoln helped Gus unharness the coach then Seth led the horse to the stables. Lincoln and Gus joined him a few minutes later. While they all worked, Seth told Gus about Rampling's demise, including the fact that they could have discovered who'd hired him by now if Charlie was with them.

  That was Lincoln's cue to return inside, but Gus stopped him with a growled, "If you don't want her back for your own good, then what about the greater good? She's useful."

  "She's not a tool." Lincoln had snapped out the words before he could check himself.

  "She ain't a parcel to be sent across the country neither!"

  Seth laid a hand on Gus's shoulder. He half-raised his other hand in a calming gesture, as if he were approaching a wild horse. "Let me handle this," he muttered.

  Had they discussed this between them? It wouldn't surprise Lincoln if they had. They'd taken Charlie's departure badly and neither seemed the same since. They'd certainly changed their attitude toward Lincoln. Sometimes he was surprised they still worked for him. Part of him wondered if they remained because they expected him to fetch Charlie back, or if they thought they could manipulate him into doing so.

  He wasn't going to let them push him. In fact, why discuss it at all? He'd made his decision. He didn't care what they thought.

  He strode out of the coach house. The rain pummeled him again and formed puddles in the low lying corner of the courtyard. He was already wet through to the bone and a few more drops didn't matter.

  "You have to bring her home," Seth shouted. He was closer than Lincoln expected.