“I’ll send Parker over to crack him. Go take care of the girl.” With a smirk and the incline of his head, Finkle disappeared back inside.
Ridley whistled up at Chaucer who was sitting up on a lamp post.
Swooping down into the carriage, Chaucer landed onto Kumar’s hip, tilting his head at her as the footman closed the carriage door behind them.
Ridley fell back against the seat in exasperation and tossed the coats from his arm and her carpet bag onto the floor. “That there, Chaucer, is someone who was very worried about you. Fortunately, you’re indubitably smarter than you look and swallowed the right ones. That is why you’re my bird. You’re brilliant. Like me. And…like her.”
Chaucer hopped closer to her shoulder, grazing his beak against the waistcoat she wore, rubbing his head into her, as well.
“Worry not,” he offered. “When she wakes up, she’ll be a year older.” Leaning forward, he skimmed his hand across the softness of the small brown hand dangling over the seat. “Well done, Kumar,” he murmured. “I hadn’t even thought of dismantling those full oranges. My nose was too close to the bark to see the ax.”
Her head popped up, her mustache hanging off to one side and the cap over her nose.
Chaucer alighted onto the floor.
Ridley leaned back against the seat and waited for the cap to come off so he might glory in seeing what he knew would one day be his: her.
She scrambled to sit up, shoving the cap up. Her blue eyes darted down to Chaucer. Her lips parted. “He lives? How? He ate the segments. I saw him!”
“He ate the pulp from the untouched whole oranges, bless his raven heart. If cats have nine lives, my bird has eleven.”
She sagged against the seat. Tugging at the mustache from her upper lip, she flinched at removing the last of the beeswax and then tossed the mustache. “I do not like this profession of yours.” She cradled herself against the side of the carriage and closed her eyes, easing out of a shaky breath. She turned her chin inward. “Might I sleep?”
He half-nodded, knowing that his dark, dark world was not a place where one like her could exist or survive. “Of course.” He softened his voice, unbuttoning his coat. He quickly removed his weapons from his holsters and set them into the casing beside him, securing the latch.
A part of him needed to hold her. One last time take my knee… “Come to me.” He patted his knee. “You will rest better here. Come.”
She shook her head and kept her eyes closed, curling herself further into the seat.
His throat tightened sensing she was already carving out her own little life like a caterpillar weaving itself into a cocoon.
A cocoon only one could fit into.
That flicking flame of a future he saw, the one he had vividly glimpsed all but an hour earlier whilst watching her intently scrape teeth and slice oranges in the name of delivering justice alongside of him, was…gone.
For all he heard in his head were screams.
Her screams.
Her sobs.
Her terror.
Her angst.
Her misery.
Everything that defined him.
Did he want this life for her or any woman? Ever?
A life of very little laughter or joy? Ever?
One he had sentenced himself to forever given it was how he was? No.
He’d never been that selfish and that was why he continued to be alone thinking of nothing but the rafters in the attic and the ropes that whispered to him to cross over to a life where death became one’s friend, not one’s enemy.
* * *
The following morning, 9:42 a.m.
There was too much to do and although his body needed rest, he knew coca, coca, coca could get him through this endurance test.
So he chewed. Twenty leaves and a good dose of limestone was enough to get him through it.
“See to it she continues to rest and has everything she needs,” he instructed the butler, handing off the entire lined up staff of footmen a pistol. “I’m heading over to Scotland Yard to sign off on papers and won’t be back until the afternoon.”
“Yes, Mr. Ridley.”
“Don’t answer the door to anyone whilst I’m gone.”
“Yes, Mr. Ridley.”
“Tug every last drape in this house shut so no one from the street might see her.”
“Yes, Mr. Ridley.”
“Don’t let her leave the house or open a window. Don’t let her go near a window.”
“Yes, Mr. Ridley.”
“Feed her.”
“I will, sir.”
“Bathe her so the stench of that theatre is no longer with her.” He pointed at the butler. “Not you, mind you. No male servant in this house is permitted to see her in a state of undress. Not even when she is lying in bed resting. Is that understood?”
The butler blinked rapidly. “I should hope you know me better than that, sir. The chambermaid will oversee her in that.”
“Good. Treat her with the respect of nobility.” He paused. “Better than nobility.”
“Yes, Mr. Ridley.”
“There is one last gown in the trunk for her to wear.” The last one he would ever see her in. “Have the chambermaid fit her into it. She also needs a better fitting corset. Have one of the maids borrow her one.”
“Yes, sir.”
Ridley hesitated. “Count out ten thousand pounds in coins from the cellar, put it in a leather satchel and lay it on my desk.” He’d have to contact more collectors and sell more books.
“Yes, Mr. Ridley.”
Tugging on his great coat, and latching on his leather belt with his pistols and blade, he stalked out. If he had stayed, he would have only sat outside the room she was sleeping in. He hardly needed a reason to do it after he hardly slept last night in the hopes she’d come running into his room. She didn’t.
He dragged in a long breath of coal-tinged air and jogged down the stairs toward his waiting carriage. Despite his stride, in the distance, he already noted…trouble.
Though not at all the usual sort. Boys.
He scanned the expensive waiting carriage, noting no one else was in it or waiting other than a driver. He slowed. This ought to be fun.
Three lean-bodied youths with burlap sacks on their heads who barely reached Evan’s broad shoulder approached. Each of their white gloved hands pointed a pistol, their varying colors of eyes barely visible through uneven cut out slits.
All the flintlocks pointed at him were…ornamental.
The pristine barrels bore no signs of having ever been fired.
None were even cocked and there were no triggers.
One could say, he was cursed to be smarter than nine-two percent of the overall population, be they young or old.
He chewed his coca, wincing at the tanginess of the limestone that overpowered the twenty leaves he’d rolled in. “How goes your day, boys? I didn’t realize I was intimidating enough to warrant four pistols.” He didn’t bother to reach for his. Yet.
Instead, he ticked through their appearances like the puzzle pieces that they were.
Expensive coats. White silk cravats.
Done up by servants.
Knee-high leather boots of Italian make.
Never seen dirt or the road or a single scuff.
The closest youth tapped his arm and draped out a sack, gesturing to Ridley to put it on.
It was hilarious. They were being so mindful and polite.
How could he not entertain this?
He didn’t have to call on Finkle until noon. Which meant he had time for what he loved most: a puzzle. He took the sack.
“Sir!” His driver and the footman jogged toward him, their pistols pointed at the three young boys.
The boys snapped up their hands in unison and one of them sobbed.
That was all he needed.
Ridley held up a quick hand and waved off the driver and footman with the burlap sack he still held. “No need, Shelton. If I go anywhere,
feel free to follow at a distance. Otherwise…no. Go. Go, go, go. You’re scaring them.” He hardly wanted to be known for making children cry. His reputation was sordid enough.
The driver and footman eyed each other and slowly departed, heading back to the coach, while still glancing back at him.
These boys clearly needed him, but didn’t want the world to know given the burlap sacks on their heads.
Returning his attention to the three youths surrounding him, Evan chewed his coca and rattled the sack. “So I take it you boys want me to put this on and join in on the fun?”
They nodded in unison.
Given the expensive make of the ornamental pistols whose brass were stamped with Hewson, this had the aristocracy slathered all over it. How droll. Their weapons were no doubt from display cases belonging to their fathers.
This crowd was straight out of Eton. “Permit me a moment.” He shook out the wool sack that matched the ones they wore, noting the Sturminster Newton mark that was found in high-scales kitchens, then yanked the sack over his own head, blanketing himself in darkness.
The scent of grain penetrated his nostrils as he decided to further amuse them. “You might want to remove my pistol and blade. That will ensure I don’t hurt you. Because if this goes beyond two hours, boys, I will use both weapons for I hate being late.”
Hands frantically patted his pockets.
“Ey, ey, careful.” Ridley stilled their hands. “Unlike your weapons, my pistols are primed and loaded. Slow. And set them carefully onto the pavement so my servants can retrieve them.”
They paused and then slowly, slowly removed his pistols, then the blade from the leather belt attached to his waist, setting them on the pavement with a soft clack, clack, clack.
Someone now slowly took his arm and he was led and guided up and into a carriage.
Evan landed on a cushioned seat in exasperation and set himself into the farthest corner, letting his shoulder hit the side of what was a private coach. The seats were velvet. “Did you need me for an investigation? Or is this a school assignment?”
When none of them spoke, he sensed they were too panicked to talk.
Not a school assignment.
The carriage slowed approximately eighteen minutes later. He did his best to count given he couldn’t see and his watch was buried in his pocket.
A small hand grabbed his hand and he was carefully guided out of the carriage with a surprising amount of graciousness.
It was charming.
Silence surrounded him as he was guided up eight stairs, into an echoing room and…into a creaking chair.
“Might we tie you, sir?” one boy asked.
How kind of them to ask. “To what purpose?” he countered. “I prefer we continue to be civil and talk.”
“We cannot speak about what plagues us until you agree to be tied. Those are the terms. Otherwise, you might get angry and we…”
He sensed it would ease them into what he wanted them to do: talk.
How was it his life always evolved around a rope? “Of course. Go on. Have at it.”
Roped thudded the floor as he was now being tied.
They carefully knotted more and more thick rope around Evan, ensuring his arms were at his sides and that each muscled leg was strapped tight against the chair to keep him from moving.
How very off-putting that this was being done to him by several young boys. “I do have to be somewhere by noon.”
“We will ensure to it that you are, sir. We will even have the driver take you to wherever you wish to go.”
It was like arriving to a dinner party and being escorted to a finely set table. These were the days when being an investigator was not only entertaining, but all too easy. “I thank you kindly and will most likely take you up on that offer. Now what is this about?”
There were a few whispers between them.
“…how do we…?”
“You do it!”
“I am not as well-spoken as you. You do it.”
At least they were attempting to organize. “I’ll speak to the oldest. Which of you would that be?”
The one nearest him cleared a throat. “That would be me, sir.” That boyish voice cracked in an attempt to be manly.
The tone and language was very upper crust. About one year off of being at Eton. “A pleasure to formally meet you. What is this about? How did you know to find me?”
“Everyone knows where to find you, Mr. Ridley. You post your cases in the newspaper every week and we follow your adventures. Our favorite thus far was when you threw a procurer from a bridge for refusing to testify.”
Ah. The Limmer case. He got arrested for that one. “I didn’t realize I had a following.” He rattled his head against the burlap sack, bending it toward them. “Do you mind? The smell of grain is a bit strong and I’m chewing on something I shouldn’t be chewing on in front of children. More importantly, I prefer to see who I’m talking to. Might you?”
“With pleasure, sir.” The sack slowly came off, cascading his dark hair into his eyes while revealing an empty room with one cracked window and missing plaster.
An abandoned building.
How original.
The three youths were still wearing burlap sacks, the slits of their eyes so unevenly cut out, one of them even dipped downward.
All done probably with a pair of scissors they stole out of their governess’ own sewing box. Whilst he was never known to laugh, this made him want to reconsider it. “Is there a reason you boys brought me here? We could have easily settled this back at the house.”
One of them pointed his blade. “We didn’t want anyone to know we were talking to you. You are also twice our size, sir, and twice more in everything else, including wit.”
He wasn’t going to brag or argue. “If you follow my adventures in the broadsheets, surely you know I wouldn’t hurt you. I only go after criminals.”
They were quiet.
Interesting.
“We tied you, sir, should you…succumb to anger.”
Double interesting. “Why would I get angry?”
They fell into silence.
Evan paused, noting a gold signet ring on the hand holding out the blade. While he couldn’t make out the engraving, given the direction of the ring was turned, it was resting on the same finger that had been missing from—
Male of about eleven. Freckled white skin in state of blue darkening, brown eyes, brown hair, lean, four feet and ten inches. Notable indentation of the skin on the left, fourth finger evocative of a large ring no longer present.
The Clover Stack boy.
They were the same age.
Setting his shoulders against the bindings, Ridley let his mind rifle through the case in his head. No callouses on either hand and nails unusually clean, indicating wealthier station despite frayed trousers. “I promise I won’t get angry. I’m strapped to this chair and tied, remember? Which means I can’t hurt you. Now what would you like to talk about?”
The one with the blade leaned in, turning the hilt. A thistle crest revealed itself. “We are asking you to close the investigation into The Clover Stack that was shared with newspapers.”
Bold. “In return for what? My life? You’ll have to offer me a bit more than that. My life isn’t worth as much as you think it is.”
The youth pointed the dagger with a trembling hand. “If you think we are not in earnest, Mr. Ridley, we are. Our lives depend on it, and as such, we will show you that we are to be feared.”
That tone indicated the boy wasn’t quite certain.
It was time to gauge their behavior. “By all means,” Ridley countered. “Show me. It’s important we understand each other. How serious are you? Hurt me. Come on.”
“I…” Still pointing the dagger, he hesitated and then slowly and carefully, carefully dragged the blade across Ridley’s hand, with a trembling hand. “There.”
The pressure of the cold blade pierced a small angle of the skin, yielding a pinch b
ut nothing in the least bit extraneous. It was obvious this poor boy had never even cut his own finger on parchment, yet alone that of others.
For effect, Ridley winced and hissed out an exaggerated breath for effect. “I am undone. I may require stitching.”
The youth glanced at the blade and frantically handed it off to the one next to him. “Get rid of it! Get rid of it!”
One of the others shoved him hard. “Whatever are you doing?! We are attempting to get out of this, not into it! You dolt!”
Another grabbed the blade and frantically threw it out with a clatter into the corridor behind them. “Leave it there. Leave it!” He sobbed.
These three clearly weren’t intent on ever becoming professionals.
In fact, he had no doubt they were only desperate to hide what was becoming all too obvious.
An accident. He softened his voice to ensure they didn’t feel threatened. “Why did you leave him beneath a clover stack? Was he your friend?”
They all grew quiet.
Ridley noted they were all wearing the same thistle ring. The same burlap sacks. The same ornamental pistols. They were all friends. His heart squeezed knowing it. “Did you boys have some sort of club?” He further softened his voice. “I’ve always wanted to be part of a club. What did you name it? Did you have a name?”
There was a moment of silence.
“The Thistle club,” one quietly offered, turning his ring. “Charles named it. He…how did you know we had a club?”
It was like being ten again and running down the street with a book in his hand, trying to keep up with other boys who only ever left him behind. “I’m incredibly good at guessing.” He eyed them. “Consider me your newest member and a true friend. I need you boys to talk to me. I need you to tell me what happened and why. It’s important. Did you hurt him?”
“No! Never!”
There was a shaking of burlaps heads.
“He was our friend! He…” A sob escaped one of them. “He fell from the window.”
Teeth untouched, yet jaw, side and back of skull fractured. Nostrils heavily coagulated with blood and uneven bruising on right shoulder and entire side. Broken ribs, shattered pelvis and dislocated shoulder all on same right side, indicating possible fall from an elevated height.
Mr. Ridley: A Whipping Society Novel Page 21