Mr. Ridley: A Whipping Society Novel

by Delilah Marvelle

  His own crimes included but were not limited to destroying property, tossing delinquents out of moving carriages and over bridges, breaking the arms of men who didn’t seem to understand prostitutes were still people, getting to a scene before Scotland Yard did, and pointing pistols at the heads of those he didn’t like.

  Sometimes he pulled the trigger and purposefully shot them in the arm or the leg.

  Sometimes he did more.

  For the countless times he’d been arrested for overstepping his bounds, all it took was a disgruntled missive to his contact at Scotland Yard and Finkle would stalk in and file the necessary paperwork to get him out.

  For too many years he had accepted that he would only ever be married to the dead. And then he married and felt dead. Given Elizabeth turned out to be a bigger loon than he’d ever be, he went back to the dead. And now? Back to the living.

  This is for you, Kumar.

  Tossing his half-smoked cigar onto the cobbled street, Ridley jumped down from the iron step of his coach and slammed the door shut before the footman could get to it. Double rows of brightly lit burning lamps hovered above the opium den he knew Pickering frequented.

  Yanking out a prepared roll of limestone/coca leaves, which was enough to get his pulse roaring, he tucked it inside his mouth, chewing into its bitterness in an effort to bite through what needed to be done.

  The numbness against the inside of his cheek soon started as saliva dampened the dry leaves. He chewed, signaling to his footman, Shelton, to stand on the pavement behind him.

  Slowing each chew, he waited for the coca/limestone to take effect.

  It usually took seven minutes for it to start tapping his brain.

  Much like everything in his life, he had laid out each and every minute of what needed to happen next and why. More than seven minutes had passed. For the coca now revved his pulse to full throttle. He rattled his leg, waiting.

  “One minute remains, sir,” Shelton announced, thudding the gold handled cane into the ground.

  “Thank you, Shelton. Hold your position and the cane.”

  Flexing his arms, one over each shoulder, which was still sore from his boxing trainer’s relentless practice a few days earlier, he widened his stance, ready.

  The woman he had earlier paid to usher Pickering out at an exact time, bustled past Evan and down the darkened, gas-lit street.

  Swilling the last of the coca juice that was already accelerating his heartrate and sharpening his mind, Ridley swallowed the full warmth of it and then spit the spiny remnants of the wadded leaves out.

  Pain for pain, but never for self-gain.

  A cloaked gentleman whose top hat was drawn over his eyes pushed past the door of the opium den and paused, realizing the woman was gone.

  The officer, whose dark mustache was stiff with wax, snapped his gaze to Ridley.

  Shifting his jaw, Ridley held that gaze to ensure the man had a few breaths to adjust to whatever panic was going through that head. “If you lie down on the pavement, I’ll ensure I don’t touch your face.”

  Pickering glanced toward the entrance of the opium den where a crowd had gathered and then opened his coat, displaying a rosewood pistol attached to a holster. “Remove your weapons, Ridley.”

  As predicted. “You needlessly worry. I left my holster at home. After all…some men need more than a bullet.” Removing and shrugging off his great coat on the gas-slit street and folding it, Ridley handed it off to his footman behind him to showcase he had no weapons at all. He pointed at the heads of every last person watching. “Go inside. Now. All of you.”

  Two men lingering nearby, eyed the massive wad of coca leaves Ridley had spit and hustled back into the den.

  The rest of the men who also lingered, adjusted their collars and went inside, as well.

  Pickering released his coat, covering the pistol. “What is this about, Ridley? I’m far from your usual sort of fair.”

  “Are you?” he rumbled out. “Why are some of the logs off by more than a day?”

  Pickering dragged a hand across his mustache and shifted from boot to boot. “I thought you were the sort of man who knew everything.”

  Oho. “Answer the question.”

  Pickering gave him a look of indifference. “Unlike the rest of these constables at Scotland Yard, I’m not intimidated. You’re what I call a nuisance pretending to be the law.”

  Ridley lowered his chin, his mouth numb from the coca and his pulse roaring. He leaned in. “At least I know how to pretend with finesse. Because you’re far too busy smearing the logs and making Indian women stand naked in your back room. And for some reason, you can’t even slap on shackles properly. You turned in the bolt.”

  Pickering dropped his voice to lethal. “Are you referring to the one with the brown tits and brown cunt I could have easily fucked but didn’t?”

  That made Ridley drag in a breath that burned his chest.

  Cracking his hands to ready them, he breathed out, “I’m about to make The Black Raven Murder look like Jesus was having fun.”

  Removing his pistol, Pickering pointed it at Evan’s head. “Leave.”

  “No.”

  Pickering cocked the pistol.

  Ridley slowly signaled the footman behind him with four fingers.

  Shelton tossed his gold headed cane on an angle and scrambled back.

  Jumping aside, Ridley snatched it, and swung the head of the cane at that pistol with the grit of teeth, dashing it downward so hard out of the man’s hand, the thundering echo of the pistol fired off.

  It thudded across the far end of the pavement, announcing he was in control.

  Pickering seethed out breaths, holding his rigid hand against his heaving chest. “Clever.”

  “At least one of us is.” Gripping the cane, Ridley waited. “Why are you smearing the logs?”

  “I have no idea what you’re referring to.”

  “Wrong answer.” Backhanding the cane hard across those facial bones with the swing of his body, the sound of flesh cracked the night air. “What about now? Does anything come to mind?”

  “Son of a bitch!” Pickering keeled off to the side before jumping back toward him with a swinging fist.

  Skidding aside from the swing of those knuckles, Ridley brought the entire tip of the gold cane across that mustached face with the force of a brick going through a building.

  Pickering staggered and collapsed to the ground.

  Standing over him, Ridley whirled the cane and lifted it up and onto his shoulders, letting his wrists dangle it in place behind his head. “You’re usually on the right side of the law, Pickering. What the hell is going on? Is someone threatening you?”

  “Fuck all nine generations of your ancestors,” Pickering choked out.

  “There may be far more than nine, but why not count them in person yourself?” Lifting the cane up and off his shoulders, Ridley tapped the pavement with it in warning. “I’m offering you what I offer everyone: assistance. Take it before I introduce you to the cane.”

  “I intend to report you to the commissioner. He will know of this. He. Will. Know.”

  Little did this bastard know the commissioner was ‘Finkle’ and now Ridley’s other hand. “You do that.” Gritting his teeth, Ridley swung the cane down over and over, despite the shouts and the grunts that the coca blurred.

  Much like it always did, his mind blanked as he let the devil do the rest.

  Head. Neck. Back. Back. Jaw. Head. Mouth. Face. Head. Face. Face. Face. Leg. More leg. Don’t break it. Mouth. Shoulder. Back. Hard. Harder.

  Why count?

  Thoughts of Kumar in chains, thoughts of her wrists, her fear, her humiliation at having to stand naked before men who knew nothing of pain, made him hit Pickering harder and harder, until blood spattered and covered his clothing, the cane, and his boots.

  “Sir?” the footman politely called in from behind as he was instructed to always do. “There is more than enough blood to warrant stopping.
He is no longer moving.”

  Her eyes. Her innocence. Let it guide you.

  Between evening breaths, Ridley stepped away, folding himself back into his mind, and tossed the cane back to his footman. “Thank you, Shelton,” he rasped. “Wipe it down and soak it in brandy.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Pickering slowly edged his head upward to look at Ridley from the blood-spattered pavement, his gored face, heavily gashed and swollen, his seething breaths wheezing.

  Squatting casually beside him, Ridley leaned in to that bloodied face. “The only reason you’re not dead, Monsieur Pickering, is because of one person. Me. Learn how to better fight because pistols aren’t always reliable even when shot.” Ridley leaned in closer, the acrid smell of fresh blood drifting from that flesh and that pavement. “Why are the logs being smeared?”

  The man attempted to move away. “I…I needed…the…money. I owe the den…a thousand.”

  “Ah.” The coca still roaring through his veins, Ridley nudged that head to get a better view of that battered face. With a gloved finger, he dipped it inside the man’s blood-filled mouth like an ink well and scraped it into the pavement, in between frequent dips, writing out KUMAR.

  It took a small while, given he had to keep dipping for blood and making Pickering wince.

  Given the last letter wasn’t dark enough, Ridley dipped it in the man’s blood again hard, making Pickering hiss, and then casually rounded the R. “There. Read that for me. What does it say?”

  Those brows flickered.

  Ridley pointed to each blood letter. “K-U-M-A-R. Kumar. This is the name of the woman whose rights you violated. Explain to me why you thought it necessary to strip a respectable woman naked in a prison whilst purposefully turning a bolt inward in the shackles of her wrists. Explain this to me.”

  “I…I lived through seeing my…wife and child burn…due to…those…heathens.”

  “Is that what that was, Pickering? My, my. I certainly hope the blood you’re dripping and the pain you’re feeling will remind you of not only her pain but the pain of her people. Maybe they burned your wife and child because the government you work for burned their wives and children. Have you even given thought to that? Or do you only see your own cock hanging between your bony little legs?”

  Pickering said nothing, only wheezed.

  “Now that you understand my position on India, explain to me who is making you smear the logs? Unlike your ears, mine are not full of blood and I can hear you. I suggest you start talking.”

  Pickering averted his gaze that was swelling from the gore but said nothing.

  This was going to require gentlemanly French devil finesse. Ridley snapped his fingers at Shelton. “Load his pistol, s’il vous plaît. Use my gunpowder and a lead ball.”

  “Yes and most certainly, Mr. Ridley!” Shelton swiped up the pistol and held it up and passed it to the driver.

  The stocky driver, in between the smack of over-enthused lips, primed and loaded the pistol before handing it back to Shelton. “Five pounds says I’ll see the inside of his skull,” he chided.

  “As if you have that sort of money, you popinjay.” Shelton pointed up at the driver and chided back, “Eight pounds says he’ll get arrested.”

  Ridley leaned in closer to Pickering, his own arm draped over his own bent knee. “It would seem my footman and driver appear to be bidding against you with their own wages, Mr. Pickering. Heed the warning as they have both seen it all. Do you have a name for the one making you smear the logs?”

  Pickering staggered to lift his head off the pavement but still said nothing.

  “I see.” Taking the pistol from Shelton, Ridley whirled it and then cocked it. He set the pistol against the man’s bloodied head, digging it into that temple. “Given your inability to use the brain that is swelling against your skull, I will reduce my own level of intelligence in your honor for a game called Trios. When you hear the French word trios, those ancestors of mine, which you had so boldly insulted and who are all buried in France and some without heads, will formally greet you. The hardest part of playing this game or winning it is one never knows when I’m actually going to say trios because I’m not one to count in any particular order. Permit me to do it in English first until I get to the French. Let us begin, shall we? Sixty. Nine. Fifty.” He ensured the man heard his finger tapping on the trigger. “Vingte-et-un—”

  “The governor,” Pickering choked out. “The governor. He…he had me…smear the logs.”

  Ridley paused and squinted. “Why?”

  “I was never told why. I…I did it and…and took the money.”

  Sensing the man was telling the truth, Ridley removed the pistol from that temple. He would ensure Finkle knew. Because something was going on. Kumar’s log wasn’t the only one that had been played with when he’d been rifling through them.

  Too many logs were missing.

  Feeling at ease with the information he had, Ridley sighed and leaned in. “How do you feel? Do you need a ride home?”

  Pickering’s chest heaved, his eyes rolling to the back of his head. He went limp.

  “They always do that.” Realizing he’d delivered one blow too many, Ridley grudgingly handed off the pistol and wagged over the footman. “Fetch my satchel. He needs gin, laudanum, thread, needle and a few bandages.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Tugging over his great coat from off the pavement, Ridley methodically folded it and set it beside the man’s head, rolling him onto it. “You need to cease being cocky. You’re the law. Represent what few do.”

  Pickering drifted back into consciousness and stiffened.

  “You needn’t worry.” Ridley leaned in to that gored face and grabbed the man’s hand hard to assure him. “I’ll pay half of what you owe the den and offer to pay the rest if you find out more. Try to get the governor to talk. Can you do that?”

  Picking’s features flickered in confusion. “Why are you…?”

  “When the sun rises, my friend, you will find yourself in endless pain and your soul will be cleansed because of it. Take the offer and find out more.” He grabbed the bottle of gin from his Shelton. “Wait until your face heals and don’t mention my name.”

  Ragged breaths escaped Pickering. “You will…pay…the debt?”

  “Only if you stay true. Work alongside me, Pickering. You’re more than this. Honor the child and wife you lost by starting anew. Nothing is ever guaranteed until we’re dead. Are you insinuating you’re already dead?”

  There was a long moment of silence.

  “I’ll do it.” Pickering winced. “Can I…have the…gin?”

  “In a moment.” Ridley uncorked the bottle and leaning toward the pavement, poured out enough to finger out Kumar’s name which he had written in blood until it smudged and was unreadable. He leaned back and tilted the bottle toward those split and swelling lips. “Drink the whole thing. Judging by the damage, you’re going to need about…” He surveyed the gashes. “Two inches of thread pulled through your face. I can assure you, the women will love it.”

  Pickering groaned.

  “No, no, I’m quite serious. Women are drawn to dangerous men. Now hold still.”

  * * *

  3:18 a.m. — 221 Basil Street

  When I heard her voice, I fancied I knew

  her, but could not be positive. After we had

  got about fifty paces into the wood, the

  man who seemed to be their commander,

  rose up to the person that carried me, and

  cried to him, set down the slabbering

  milksop you have behind you, and let her

  shift for herself.

  * * *

  The damn thing wasn’t even properly edited.

  It was going to be the first book he ever sold off that he didn’t finish reading.

  Christ. Slapping shut The Comic Romance of Monsieur Scarron, which had been printed in 1775, Ridley reached over the ledge of the copper tub he was soaking
in and set it onto the stand. How the damnable thing was worth even a farthing let alone the twenty guineas a collector wanted for it went beyond his mental understanding.

  Ridley edged up and up, sending a swirling wave of warm, blood-tinged water against the soapy, porcelain tub around him. He raked his drenched, dark hair out of his eyes with a few agitated sweeps and seethed out a breath.

  Numb, given the effects of the coca had vanished, he stood, water streaming down the length of his muscled, nude body. A body he punished to the point of never giving himself any pleasure outside of pain.

  He was used to it.

  His career had seen him stabbed four times, each requiring a half an elbow of needle and thread. He’d been shot twice and stitched up for that, too, one bullet having almost hit an artery. Broken glass marred and whitened his knuckles, whispering of the times he’d broken windows to get to people who refused to open doors.

  His body was a map to his own insanity and the mind that had long lost track of it.

  Grabbing hold of the towel from the brass stand beside the tub, he rubbed the water from his hair. He stepped out onto the black-and-white Italian tile, blankly drying the rest of himself and folding the wet towel, draped it back on the brass stand.

  The flickering light from the oil lamp within the bath chamber shifted the shadows.

  Shrugging on a cashmere robe over his unclad body, he left the bath chamber and entered his room, lathering his face with shaving soap. He snapped open his straight razor. By the dim light, he scraped the coarse hairs from his jaw and upper lip, needing to look like the gentleman his mother, Marguerite, had raised him to be.

  Methodically cleaning everything and chalking his teeth while humming a tune he’d once heard in France, he rubbed his face with cologne, letting it sting his freshly shaven skin, and tying the robe into place, he eased out a breath and turned toward the adjoining bedchamber.

  Extinguishing the oil lamps, save the one by the écritoire which he always kept on, he guided himself toward his own bed into the darkened room.

  He paused.