by Zoë Archer
“Breaking rocks either wears a man down to a nub or builds him up,” he said, a hint of pride in his voice.
“Word was you got sent to the clink for trying to do in that toff.” Charlie used her thumb to tilt back her bowler hat. Eva would have thought the combination of men’s clothing with a woman’s skirt might appear silly, but Charlie looked raffish and daring, curse her. Eva never considered herself a particularly conventional woman, but standing next to Charlie made her feel like a vicar’s prim daughter.
“It was him that killed Edith,” Jack growled.
“So I heard,” Charlie said somberly, “and I’m right sorry about it. But I didn’t think they’d let you out of stir.”
“Let myself out,” Jack replied, and Charlie laughed again.
“’Course you did!” She punched him in the arm affably. “No sodding prison walls can hold Diamond Jack, the fighter with one of the best records in Bethnal Green.”
“His escape is not something we’d like to advertise,” Eva said through clenched teeth.
As if suddenly remembering that Eva stood watching the whole exchange, Charlie glanced at her. Taking in Eva’s deliberately drab cloak, Charlie said, “She don’t seem like your usual style of bird, Jack. Looks a bit frowzy.”
“I’m blending in with my surroundings,” Eva snapped. “And I’m not Jack’s bird.”
Charlie grinned. “Got a mouth on her, though.”
“Don’t I know it,” Jack said.
Eva fought to keep from ramming her knee into his groin. “The mouthy bird wants to know if Charlie’s going to help us or not.”
“That all depends,” Charlie answered. “What kind of help do you need?”
Jack stepped closer, and lowered his voice. “We need to steal a body.”
* * *
Charlie refused to leave until the boxing match had been concluded.
“There’s friendship and there’s business,” she said, watching the ring. “I got to earn my beer, too.”
Eva smothered her impatience as the pugilists fought. She’d never been to an underground boxing match, and if the circumstances weren’t so urgent, she could easily devote hours to studying the environment and the participants. London existed in countless variations at all times—a thousand cities that held the same space on the map. They lived side by side, and you could spend your whole life here without learning all the different Londons.
This London was brutal, vicious, yet pulsating with invisible energy. A masculine place, pared down to its elemental self, where men proved themselves by trouncing challengers in the most primal, unrefined way possible. It made perfect sense that this place, and others like it, had created Jack.
She’d no doubt that he could set foot in the ring right now and defeat anyone here. Including the other fighters—fierce-looking men lined up near the ring, shadowboxing or watching the current match. None of the fighters would make for pleasant company if encountered in a dark alley.
And Jack could thrash any of them.
Despite all her books, the many languages in which she could converse, her pride in her higher reasoning, the desire she felt for him was far from intellectual. Seeing him here, knowing that he once ruled this rough, wild place, kindled a hunger within her.
“None of these blighters could touch you,” Charlie said, echoing Eva’s thoughts. She shook her head mournfully as she watched the fighters swing at each other. “Wasn’t nobody better than Diamond Jack. Undefeated, you were. A bloody shame when you retired.”
“Couldn’t stay in the ring forever,” he answered. “The money was better being a bodyguard, and I didn’t get my nose broken every two weeks.”
“But you were the Leonardo da Vinci of brawling,” Charlie complained. “You don’t take da Vinci’s paintbrushes away just ’cos he hurts his pinkie finger.”
“Jack’s got more to offer than his fists,” Eva retorted.
Charlie sent her a cunning smirk. “Oh, I know that, darling.”
Would anyone notice if, in the middle of the fight, Eva hauled off and punched Charlie? Or would the crowd gather around and place bets?
“The match’s ending,” Jack said quickly.
He and Eva retreated to the edge of the building as Charlie settled with the bettors. Volumes of money changed hands with a speed that would shame the most experienced bank clerk. Despite the fact that Charlie was one woman amid a sea of men—some of them angry over the results of the fight—she looked comfortable, confident, laughing over bawdy jokes and shouting down anyone who complained about their bets. She seemed to know everyone, and they knew her. A woman like Charlie could be a valuable resource for Nemesis.
Eva would sooner chat with an adder than approach Charlie for information.
“Green’s a nice color on you,” Jack said, chuckling.
“I’m not jealous,” Eva answered at once. She had no right to that emotion, not where he was concerned. Yet acid seemed to be burning through her veins.
“A lot of time’s passed since me and Charlie.”
“You could take up with her again tomorrow and it wouldn’t matter,” she said airily.
His eyes narrowed as he gazed at her. “Didn’t figure you for a liar.”
The impulse to deny it gripped her. Yet he deserved far better than that. So did she, for that matter. “Perhaps I’m jealous,” she admitted, then added hastily, “But I’ve no right to be. It’s completely irrational.”
His gaze heated. “Nothing rational about you and me wanting each other. That don’t stop us, though.”
“No,” she said, “it doesn’t.” She wasn’t accustomed to feeling this strongly about anything besides her work—certainly no man ever engendered this kind of response. It was a strange vocabulary, this kind of emotion, one with no words, no logic or syntax. How could she make sense of it?
She couldn’t. The thought made her stomach clench.
Once her business concluded, Charlie drifted over toward Jack and Eva, meticulously counting a stack of pound notes. A family could live for a year on the money Charlie held, the take from a single night’s work. Compared to the wages she might make in a factory or some other drudge work, it was no surprise a woman as clever and ruthless as Charlie would turn to criminal employment.
Charlie stowed the wad of cash. She glanced toward the ring, where more fighters took their positions. A man with a scraggly mustache collected bets—where on earth did the spectators find so much money, when it was clear from their grimy, threadbare clothing that they hadn’t much to spare?
“You better be prepared to pay, and well,” Charlie said. She sighed, watching the mustached man collecting wagers. “I’m losing the best part of my night.”
“Can’t you consider it a favor to Jack?” Eva asked, irritated. “Being old friends.”
“Even old friends got to pay,” Charlie replied.
Eva’s mouth twisted. “Sentimentality doesn’t have a high value.”
“Not with me, it don’t.” Charlie peered at Jack. “You know how it is, don’t you, Diamond?”
He gave a fatalistic shrug. “Nothing’s changed around here. But I’m short on funds right now. I’ll have to owe you, Charlie.”
The bookmaker grinned in a way Eva didn’t like at all. “Owing me is a recipe for trouble.”
“I’ll be sure you’re amply compensated,” Eva said tightly. Nemesis didn’t have a large budget—they pooled their funds from their sundry other employment—but if paying Charlie out of her own pocket kept Jack out of the bookmaker’s debt, Eva would gladly shoulder the cost. “The night’s moving quickly, so let’s get to business.”
“Normally I take all payment in advance,” Charlie drawled. “Given that Jack’s an old chum of mine, I’m willing to wait for the sake of—what’s the word you used?—sentimentality.”
“What a sterling example of benevolence,” Eva growled under her breath as Charlie led them out of the building.
The bookmaker picked her way through the yar
d full of detritus and debris, with Jack and Eva following. Jack kept his gaze moving and vigilant.
“Can we trust her?” Eva asked in a low voice.
“No,” he said without hesitation. “But Charlie’s the best. Anything you want, she can get. No questions asked.”
What had Charlie procured for Jack? “That must come in handy.”
“I ain’t going to tell her about Nemesis,” he said, frowning, “if that’s what’s got you fretting.”
They left the yard and trailed after Charlie through thick shadows congealed between ramshackle structures.
Eva whispered. “It’s you I’m concerned about. She could turn you in for a reward.”
“Only thing Charlie won’t do is rat someone out. Murder’s out, too,” he added.
“Well, that’s a relief,” she said tartly.
Jack glanced at her from the corner of his eye. “So, you’re worried about me.”
She didn’t miss the faint, very faint, note of hope in his voice. How many people had ever felt genuine concern for him? He’d been alone, reliant on no one, for most of his life. For all her parents’ preoccupation with helping others, she’d always known that they cared for her. Loved her.
Had Jack’s sister loved him? Had she fussed over his bruises from the boxing ring? Or had he sat wearily on the edge of his bed and held a compress to his battered body, because no one else had been there to do it for him?
“I…” She forced the words out, words she wanted to hold close for her own protection. Yet he needed them. “I am concerned about you.”
Even with the darkness heavy around them, she could see the look of wonderment on his face. A fissure spread through her heart. God, he’d had so little.
He stopped walking and turned to her, his expression turning fierce. “Eva—”
“Lively, you two!” Charlie called over her shoulder.
They continued their trek, leaving behind the twisted, gloomy streets of Bethnal Green and heading southwest, toward the river. The neighborhoods through which they passed were marginally better, with fewer people aimlessly wandering the streets, and stained brick buildings lit by gas lamps.
“Oi,” Charlie hissed as they hurried down a block. “Coppers patrolling.”
True to her word, patrolmen’s lamps appeared at the end of street. Charlie slipped into a narrow alley soundlessly. Eva did the same, forcing herself to ignore the stench of rotting cabbage wafting from the alley’s recesses. For a moment, Jack eyed the tight, dark space warily. Given his experience with dark, confining places, his reluctance was understandable. But the police neared.
Grabbing Jack’s hand, Eva tugged him into the alley. They pushed farther back into the alley and hunkered behind a pile of discarded mattresses. The smell emanating from the mattresses was even worse than rotting cabbage—and she didn’t want to know why.
She held her breath as she heard the patrolmen’s footsteps on the pavement. With his escape from prison, Jack was already a wanted man. Now that Rockley had framed Jack for Gilling’s murder, the Metropolitan Police would be eager for Jack’s arrest.
The patrolmen walked past the alley, their lamps sweeping across. Jack’s breathing became ragged. Crouched behind him, Eva placed her hand between his shoulder blades, silently willing him to be calm. A reminder that she was with him. Seconds later, tension lessened in his muscles and his breathing evened.
The beams of the police lanterns pierced the alley’s darkness. She kept her head down, praying that Charlie and Jack did the same. An eternity passed.
Finally, after she had aged fifty years, the police moved on.
She wouldn’t exhale, or breathe at all if she could help it, until the patrolmen were long gone. After their footsteps faded and several more minutes elapsed, she, Jack, and Charlie stumbled out of the alley, all of them gasping and coughing to clear their lungs.
Jack looked ashen, his knuckles white where he gripped the strap of his pack. The confined space had taken its toll on him.
Smiling, she took his hand and nodded toward the alley. “We ought to swap Simon’s mattress out for one of those.”
As she’d hoped, Jack chuckled, the pallor fading from his cheeks.
Turning, Eva discovered Charlie watching them curiously, as though they were a pair of cats who’d suddenly begun playing dice—entirely unexpected.
Eva tilted up her chin in wordless challenge. With a shrug, Charlie resumed striding down the street, and Eva and Jack followed.
The heavy smell of river water slunk through the air as they neared the Thames. A two-story official-looking building crouched a block from the Embankment, its columns and pediments streaked with soot. Spiked iron fencing encircled the structure, though the building itself was so gloomy and imposing, it seemed unlikely that anyone would fight to get inside. Only one light burned in an upper window.
Rather than lead them toward the main entrance, Charlie skirted around the building until she came to a side basement entry. She scraped her nails down the metal door.
Jack shifted restlessly beside Eva as they waited. She kept herself tense and waiting, alert should Charlie lead them into a trap.
Clanging like a knolling bell, the door opened and revealed a sallow man in a gray, baggy suit. His thin hair clung to his skull. He glanced first at Jack and Eva, wariness in his sunken eyes, then at Charlie with a dim flare of recognition.
“Charlie,” he intoned.
“Evening, Tiffield,” she answered briskly. “We’ve come to do a bit of shopping.”
The sallow man held the door open, and their party trooped inside. They found themselves standing in a long, tiled hallway, a few lamps burning dimly. The night had been chill, but within the building, it was even colder. A sweet, rank smell combined with the acrid scent of chemicals.
Tiffield unlocked another metal door and waved them in. Silently, they entered a dark, windowless chamber, and here the smell became stronger. Tiffield turned on the lamps.
No mistaking the contents—or rather, occupants—of the chamber. Rows of tables were covered with heavy waxed cloth, human bodies forming distinctive shapes beneath the fabric. There had to be at least three dozen corpses in here.
A morgue. Charlie had taken them “shopping” at the morgue.
“Looking for something in particular?” Tiffield asked with the same bored intonation as a shop clerk.
Charlie looked expectantly at Jack. Eva half expected the bookmaker to say, “Tell the man what you want, Jack.”
“A bloke about my size,” he answered. “Even better if he’s got dark hair and eyes.”
Scratching the skin behind his ear, the morgue attendant considered this for a moment. “May have a few who fit the bill.” Tiffield muttered to himself as he walked between the rows of cadavers.
“You all right?” Jack asked Eva quietly as they trailed after the morgue attendant.
“Perfectly,” she said. Though that wasn’t entirely true. She was no stranger to death, but she’d never been surrounded by its presence like this.
He looked concerned, yet didn’t press, for which she was grateful. He seemed to have an instinctive understanding of what she needed. The more someone coddled her, the more she struggled, their concern feeling like a pair of hands closing around her neck. But Jack let her breathe.
Tiffield stopped beside a table and, without preamble, flipped back the covering to reveal a body. “How about this one?”
“Seems a bit scrawny to me,” Charlie said critically.
“Hair color’s not right, either,” Jack noted.
“That can be dyed,” the morgue attendant suggested.
Eva pressed her fingertips to her mouth to hold back an inappropriate giggle. A dead man—someone with a whole history, a life now gone—lay in front of them, and they spoke as if discussing the suitability of a sofa. She’d thought herself hardened by her work with Nemesis, but clearly there was more for her to learn.
“Got anything else?” Charlie asked.
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br /> Tiffield flicked the cover back over the corpse and moved farther through the rows of bodies. The procedure was repeated as he uncovered another cadaver, and Charlie and Jack debated over its merits.
“This one’s throat is all torn up,” Jack complained.
“Got it cut over a woman,” Tiffield explained. “She didn’t come to claim ’im, though.”
“We need something with not too many visible wounds,” said Jack.
The morgue attendant heaved a sigh. “Sure got a lot of requirements.”
“It’s important,” Eva said dryly.
Tiffield covered the body and moved on to another. He pulled back the cloth, revealing the corpse beneath. “This here chap might suit. Come in earlier tonight. Was a bully for a bawdy house who got pushed down some stairs by a customer that argued the price. Snapped the bully’s neck. Think of it, a big bruiser like this gets done in by a man half his size.” Tiffield shook his head. “Ain’t no logic.”
The dead man had no argument for the morgue attendant. Whoever he was, whatever his name, he did closely match Jack’s size and build. It made Eva shiver, to see someone so like Jack stretched out in the indifference of death, his strength now utterly gone. To reassure herself that Jack was very much alive and strong as ever, she glanced up at him as he studied the body. He must have been entertaining similar thoughts, for his gaze was shadowed.
“Dark hair,” Charlie noted. “That’s good. But the mustache’s got to go.”
“Think there’s a razor somewhere about,” Tiffield said.
Without inflection, Jack said, “Go get it.”
The morgue attendant took a step, then asked, “You sure this is the one you want?”
“He’ll do,” Jack answered.
Tiffield scurried away, presumably to find shaving implements.
“Won’t someone notice if a body’s missing?” Eva asked.
“Not these lads.” Charlie waved an unconcerned hand at the rows of covered corpses. “No one comes to claim ’em, and the police don’t care about some dead—what’s the word?—reprobate. They’re unwanted.”
It seemed London was full of superfluous men.