by Liana Lefey
“Headmistress?”
Ignoring the prompt, Jacqueline forced her hand to steady itself, and continued reading.
I was so pleased to learn of your good health and new position. Provided you follow my instructions, I am willing to keep your secret and allow you, your staff, and your brats to continue undisturbed. Fail to comply and none shall survive. If you doubt my resolve, look to my gift, a recent harvest from Covent Garden.
Looking up, Jacqueline stared in open-mouthed horror at the braid dangling from Mrs. Sloane’s fingers. The Covent Garden killings! That plait was comprised of hair taken from the victims. Blinking back sudden tears, she once again turned her gaze to the parchment.
A small favor from you can prevent another harvest. I want your associate, the one they call the Archangel. Write his name at the bottom of this letter and at seven o’ clock this evening give it to the man in the red waistcoat waiting outside Rutherford’s Emporium. Do not think to flee or seek help. My eyes are everywhere, and I am poised to act. If you require more proof, look to your lambs’ milk, and remember that their innocent lives are in your hands.
–B.
Her feet were already moving.
“What is it? What’s wrong?” asked a bewildered Mrs. Sloane, now following on her heels.
Inside, Jacqueline was screaming. Her voice when it came out, however, sounded calm and subdued. “The children—we must check on the children.”
Dear Lord, please let them be safe! Let this be a ruse to frighten only!
Mrs. Sloane interrupted her fervent prayer. “I’ll fetch Mr. Woodson an—”
“No!” Stopping, she turned and nearly collided with her friend. “I—I mean yes, but send for Dr. Horton first—immediately.” Panic clawed at her insides. “I’ve just received another threat, this one directed at the children. I fear poison.”
…
Will looked up at Jacqueline’s ashen face, marking how her hazel eyes appeared almost green against the pallor of her cheeks. Her hand rested atop the damp blonde curls of young Miss Reed, an eight-year-old who’d been at the school for a little more than a year. The girl lay motionless, her glassy-eyed stare indicative of the strong dose of paregoric she’d been given.
His gaze roved across the makeshift sick ward they’d set up in the dining hall. Rage filled him at the sight of the fifteen cots containing small bodies suffering either agony or the drug-induced stupor of its aftermath.
The girls had been stricken with severe stomach pains shortly after breakfast. Upon arriving, Horton had examined them. After questioning those able to speak, he’d determined the toxic juice of the mistletoe berry had been introduced into their morning milk—milk which had tasted sweet for the honey added to it, yet had left a bitter tang in the mouth.
Syrup of ipecac had been administered to induce vomiting and, once the poison had been ejected, followed by paregoric to ease suffering. Two girls, young Janet being one of them, weren’t responding well to the treatment and were still violently ill. Horton and Mrs. Sloane were attending them now.
If I ever lay hands on the one who did this…
Jacqueline’s voice cut into his vengeful thoughts. “She will never stop until she gets what she wants—or we are all dead,” she said dully. “I’ve no choice. I cannot put his life before all of these.”
“I’ll pretend to be the Archangel.”
Her gaze snapped up to meet his. “She will know it for a lie at once. The Archangel is rumored to be a man of wealth and power. You are—to all appearances, at least—a mathematics teacher.”
“What better disguise? I tell you she has but to dig a little to discover ‘Will Woodson’ is a fraud.” He forced a smile. “If I’m not the Archangel, then who am I?”
“If she finds out the truth, she will kill us all,” she hissed.
His inner debate lasted only a moment. “Woodson is not the first false identity I’ve ever used,” he confessed, wincing as her eyes widened. “Recently, I was known as Lord Harold Huxton, the wastrel son of a little-known—but quite wealthy—baron from upper Darlington. Give her the name Huxton, let her see ‘Mr. Woodson’ reassume that identity, and she’ll believe I’m your accomplice.” He lowered his voice yet more. “We’ll ‘let slip’ that we’re engaged in front of her spy, and she’ll think ‘Lord Huxton’ adopted this guise to be close to you.”
She shook her head. “No. I will not put you at risk.”
“Darling, I’m already at risk simply by being here. You cannot allow personal feelings to cloud your judgment in this. If you give her the real Archangel without first warning him—which I doubt she’ll allow—he’ll be completely unprepared when the attack comes. At least I’ll know to look for it and be ready.”
“No. It will only bring the danger closer.”
“It won’t if I leave. I’ll go to Huxton’s house in St. James. It’s one of several addresses secretly kept for use in our more elaborate schemes. I happen to know it’s currently unoccupied. Everything should still be there. Sir Gonson’s policy is to leave everything intact for several months after a case’s resolution to ensure no untidy ends remain.”
“And once you are there?”
“I lay an ambush and wait.”
Sighing, she pinched the bridge of her nose. “She will send her best men to kill you.”
“Let her. I’ll be ready.” He softened his tone. “I know what I’m doing, and I’ll have help—the moment I arrive, I’ll send word to my comrades.”
But the stubborn light in her eyes remained. “You think to lure her away from here, from me, but I know her. She will never let—”
“Headmistress?” called Horton from across the room.
Will stifled a curse.
“Yes?” answered Jacqueline. “Has the sickness stopped yet?”
The man’s face was grim. “You had best come.”
She rose so quickly it knocked over the stool she’d been sitting on. By the time Will had righted it, she was already across the room. When he caught up, the sight that greeted him wasn’t a happy one.
Jacqueline knelt beside Janet Fairfield, holding her hand. “All will be well soon, sweet one,” she was saying in a tear-clogged voice. “You’ll see. Just hold on, darling. Hold on a little longer, and it will get better.”
He turned to Horton. “What’s happening? Why is she so much worse than the others?”
“She drank more of the tainted milk,” answered Horton, passing a weary hand over his brow. “Almost twice as much as anyone else. Eleanor, the lightest case, told me she took only a few sips from her cup before offering Janet the rest because the child liked it so much. The ipecac did its work, but not quickly enough. Her pulse is erratic and her breathing shallow. She’s in a great deal of pain, but I dare not give her the paregoric lest I risk her falling into a sleep from which she might not awaken. Even so, I fear she may not survive.”
Will looked down at the child’s elfin face, now almost as pale as the sheet beside it. Bending, he brushed the hair back from her sweaty brow. “Janet?” There was no response. His throat tightened. “I’m going to find out who did this to you. I promise.”
Standing, he marched to the kitchen door and flung it open with a loud bang that startled a nearby maid into dropping the pot she was scrubbing. Going straight to Sally, he grabbed her by the collar and, without a word, dragged the squawking girl out into the dining hall.
“Do you see this?” he demanded, hauling her around and shoving her toward the makeshift beds. She stumbled, nearly upsetting a bucket of sick in their path. He steered her around it and over to where Janet lay. “Do you see what you’ve done? She’s dying!”
Sally tried to shy away. “M-me? I’ve done nothing!”
“Who poisoned the milk?” he accused from between clenched teeth, keeping hold.
“I—I don’t know!” Fat tears fell from her terrified eyes. “It weren’t me!”
“Then who did?” he growled. “You know, don’t you?” He cut off her pro
test with a shake. “We know about the signals you’ve been sending at night from your window.”
Eyes already wide with dread now showed whites all around.
“If you don’t tell me who is behind this and where I can find them, I’ll personally see to it that you hang at Tyburn,” he threatened, tightening his grip on the back of her collar to drive the message home. “The only chance you have of saving your worthless hide is to help us.”
A sob broke from the girl, and she again tried to turn her face away.
Will grabbed her shoulders and gave her a hard shake. “Tell me what you know!”
“I don’t know her name,” the girl choked out, her shoulders sagging. “She wanted me to f-find them!”
“Who? Who did she want you to find?”
“Abigail and Fanny,” she sobbed. “You call them Emma and Rose. She sent us out to the orphanages with their description and said the one as found them would be rewarded. She showed us gold!”
Jacqueline stood, fire in her eyes, and advanced on her. “You played on my sympathy,” she spat. “You begged me for shelter, and then betrayed not only me but every child here.”
Sally’s head drooped. “I thought it would end when I reported finding them. I thought she’d pay me and I’d go my way. But she refused to give me so much as a shilling unless I stayed to find out more.”
“What else did she want to know?” demanded Jacqueline.
“She wanted to know about you,” cried Sally. “When I first described you, she looked like she’d seen a ghost. She kept asking about you over and over.”
“What were her instructions?” Will prompted when the girl looked as if she might start blubbering again. “Speak!”
She flinched and let out a frightened squeak. “She said I was to look for information about the man what brought Rose and Emma here! She called him the Archangel.” The girl turned her watery gaze to Jacqueline. “She said you and him were the ones what started all her troubles. Please, ma’am, you must believe me—I never wanted to hurt any—”
“Taisez-vous!” hissed Jacqueline. “If such was true, you would not have helped her poison these children!”
“But I tell you—I did no such thing!” wailed the girl. “I swear I was told nothing of it—I knew nothing! I drank from the same delivery! Ask Cook!”
Agnes, who had come out behind them, spoke up. “It’s true. I brought in this morning’s milk delivery myself and poured it with my own hands. She was scrubbing pots the whole time. She had no opportunity to do aught to it.”
His grip on the girl didn’t loosen. “Even so, you are responsible,” he said at her ear. “You could have told us what you knew, warned us something was to happen.” The trembling girl tried to collapse, but he held her up. “You’ll not get out of this. You’re going to tell me everything you know, down to the last detail.”
“I cannot!” gasped Sally. “She vowed to have me tossed in the Thames in a weighted sack if I went against her. She’ll know I’ve helped you. Her spies are everywhere. She’ll know!”
“Unless you tell me what I want to know, a trip to the bottom of the Thames will be bliss compared to what you’ll be made to endure.” But her sobs grew only louder. “By all that’s holy, woman, I’ll get it out of you one way or another, even if I have to—”
“Will.” It was Jacqueline. “Stop. Look at her.”
He paused, his wrath ebbing not at all. “Don’t let her fool you. You said it yourself, she’s a talented little actress—”
“No, I mean look at her,” she insisted, grabbing the crying girl’s hand and shoving back the cuff. Bruises marched up Sally’s forearm. The thumbs and fingers that must have caused the fading, greenish-yellow marks were those of a huge brute of a man.
His heart constricted with remorse, and he loosened his hold a little. “Who did this to you?”
Silence.
Jacqueline stepped in. “Sally, you never have to go back. We will protect you. Just tell us what you know. Help us.”
“I have to go back,” whispered the girl, lifting eyes filled with despair. “She has my sister.”
Suspicion warred with anger. “What is her name?” he asked, trying to sound gentle in spite of his mounting fury.
“M-Marian.” Fresh sobs accompanied her answer so that it was nearly unintelligible. “If I don’t give her what she wants, she said she’ll put Marian to work in her bawdy house—my sister is only eleven. But if I do as she says, she’s promised to let us both go. I don’t even care about the money—I just want to take Marian and leave London!”
Jacqueline’s eyes met his. “Sally, I know this woman,” she said softly. “Her name is Boucher, and she will never let either of you go free. You know too much. It’s too great a risk for her.”
Her words sapped the remainder of the girl’s resistance. “Is there no hope for Mari, then?”
The scent of a trap was too strong not to take note. But it was also exactly what Will needed. Letting out a long sigh, he pinched the bridge of his nose as though pained. “There is always hope, Sally,” he said grimly. “Tell me where Marian is. No, Jacqueline,” he said, holding up a hand to forestall the retort he saw forming behind her eyes. “I cannot in good conscience allow innocent blood to be spilled for my sake. A life is more important by far than my secret.”
Sally’s eyes widened, and her mouth formed a little O of surprise as his words sank in. “You’re the Archangel?”
The look on Jacqueline’s face was murderous as he nodded gravely. “I’d hoped to leave that name behind and live a simpler life here, but it seems I’m not to be granted such peace.”
There was a long silence, and then Sally spoke, her voice small and full of doubt. “Do you really think you can save her?”
“I do. And I can ensure that Madame Boucher will never again threaten you or anyone else. But I must know everything you know, down to the last detail.”
Words began to flow from Sally like a river in flood.
Nodding to Jacqueline to follow, Will led the chattering girl away from the sick ward and into an empty room. There, they questioned her and learned that Boucher had several bolt-holes and rotated between them every few days. One was near the docks in The Feather and Thistle. Another was above the Golden Bird public house at the southeast corner of Cross and St. Martin’s.
Will was familiar with the establishments. Both catered to the criminal element, having hidden rooms and exits from which a person could escape unseen. There were such places all over London. He’d be willing to bet she was using some of them, as well.
As for their nighttime visitor, they learned there were actually three watching the school in shifts around the clock. They were boarding only a few doors down from Mrs. Hayton’s house.
Will repressed a shiver. Before moving in, he’d passed beneath their window every morning on the way here.
“And there are others,” the girl told them. “The marketplace is full of her spies. A boy in her pay works for the butcher, another for the lamp oil man. They’re all over, in the stalls, pushing carts. And there’s her urchins everywhere. I see them watching me when I go to run errands for Cook. Sometimes they bring me messages or leave them in my basket with the goods I’ve purchased.”
“We know at least one of her people works for the milkman,” murmured Jacqueline darkly.
The girl had the good grace to hang her head. “I don’t know who delivered the children’s milk this morning, but it could not have been Mr. Farnsworth—he would never do such a thing. He’s a kind man. The others always treat me no better than I deserve, but him, he’s always spoken to me as if I was a lady. And now, because of me, he’ll be ruined.” She began to cry.
Will had no patience for emotional outbursts or girlish infatuations.
Before he could say so, however, Jacqueline spoke. “I’m sure Mr. Farnsworth is not at fault,” she told Sally. “I’ve known him several years. I shall send to him this morning and ask if he will assist us in appreh
ending the culprit.”
“The poisoner doubtless left immediately after the deed was done,” Will cut in. “But send to Mr. Farnsworth anyway and get a description of the lad. Be sure to inquire regarding any unique traits that might help us identify him in the event he returns here to make another attempt.”
At her nod, he turned back to Sally. “You will now describe for me in detail every individual you’ve made contact with who works for Boucher, beginning with the most recent,” he commanded, taking out his little notebook and pencil.
Two hours passed, during which Jacqueline left three times to check on Janet. On her third return, Will marked her ashen face.
“The purge has finally ended,” she responded. “But she’s very weak and in a lot of pain. Dr. Horton has given her a calming tonic for her stomach, but refuses to administer laudanum. If she improves, he may relent, but for now it does not look well for her. He asked that we pray for her.”
His hands trembled with the urge to vent his rage on a solid object. Focus on the task at hand… Before him, Sally sat, her face gone white again. Clearing his throat, he addressed her. “You understand of course that we cannot allow you to go free.”
Jacqueline spoke before Sally could reply. “You will be confined until this matter is resolved. One of the quarantine rooms should suffice.” At his askance look, she explained. “We have three small bedchambers reserved for use in the event a child contracts a contagion. Their windows all face the inner court.”
“The window must be sealed. We cannot risk her escaping before I can apprehend Boucher. And someone trustworthy should stand guard at her door. It must be watched at all times.”
She nodded. “I will see to it.” Rising, she beckoned to Sally. “Come with me, and don’t be afraid. No one will mistreat you. You have my word.”
“Am I to be shut away until she’s caught?” asked the girl, hesitating. “She’ll be expecting to hear from me within a day or two.”
“I’m afraid your imprisonment cannot be avoided, nor can I allow you to communicate with anyone outside, but I’m not so cruel as to keep you locked away from the light and air. I will accompany you out into the inner court every afternoon to take in the air…”