by Eve Silver
Gather them?
Nay, bury them.
He paused to let an elderly man with a black slouch hat and a hunched back pass by. He was about to walk on when, with a swish of skirts, two women emerged from the fog, walking arm in arm.
Griffin started and stared, seeing only the black dress and the glint of blond ringlets peeking from beneath the bonnet that shadowed the taller woman’s face. For a heartbeat he thought it was the teacher, Elizabeth Canham.
Inexplicably, his mood turned expectant, only to scuttle back to surly when he saw it was not she. This woman was of middle years, her hair more silver than gold.
With a polite bow, a lift of his hat, and a step to the side, he let them pass.
Elizabeth Canham. She fascinated him, though he could not precisely mark the why of it. She was pretty, but not beautiful... until she smiled. And then her beauty stabbed him like a shiv in the gut.
The pure oddity of his thoughts struck him, and he felt a surge of annoyance at himself. He wondered what he was doing, staring at a stranger, thinking of Miss Canham. He had exchanged only a handful of words with her, and those in two brief conversations... though one had been of an oddly intimate nature.
What had they spoken of? He frowned. That first day, he had found her waiting on the road, calm and cool despite the fact that there must have been a seed of fear sprouting in her heart as she waited and waited for a cart that did not come. Her bravery was the first thing he noticed.
And then they had discussed fencing, and the weather. And the ridiculous brick columns and iron gates that guarded the road to Burndale Academy.
He recalled the way she had pressed her lips together against a smile, the light of humor in her eyes, and his own rare huff of laughter. A moment of affinity.
Their meeting of yesterday had only strengthened his feeling that there was a communion of thought between them. Their discourse had circled topics of death and personal distress, subjects two strangers would not normally address. And yet, they had. He had found their interaction oddly soothing, had felt that she understood him to a depth and richness that was surprising.
In those strange moments of kinship, Miss Elizabeth Canham had definitely piqued his interest. She would likely run screaming if she knew it, for he was not a fit companion for one such as she. He was a man responsible for his ample share of gross deeds, and villainous ones, deeds that destined him for eternity’s fires.
What matter? The things he had done could not be undone, even if he wished it. And in truth, he did not.
One thing he knew for certain: Miss Canham harbored a secret. As a man who guarded a goodly share of his own, he was attuned to the fact in others.
Reaching his destination, he pushed open the door of the Red Bull and stepped inside. Paltry daylight—a weak gray even under the open sky—grew dimmer still as it leaked through begrimed front windows to fall across the handful of patrons sitting at tables. The air was peppered with puffs of smoke and the sounds of conversation. At the bar, a lone man sat straddle-legged upon a chair, a full mug of ale in his hand, his back to the room.
Griffin studied the set of the man’s shoulders, the shape of the back of his head, the scar on the hand that held his ale. A scar he recognized too well.
Here was the unexpected, slithering out from his past.
Turning, he made his way to a shadowed nook and the empty table that waited there. He chose the chair that would see his back to the wall and his face to the room. Reaching down to his boot, he slid free the blade he kept there always and laid it flat across his thigh, ready.
In short order, the barmaid brought him ale and a meal—boiled beef, oat pudding and pickled salmon. He sampled the fare and found it adequate. He had eaten far worse in his time and, often, he had eaten nothing at all. Little effort was required to recall the nuances of deprivation, the sensation of his belly knotted with hunger. Those memories made this meal all the more appreciated.
When the serving maid crossed his path again, he sent her a close-lipped smile and a nod, then flipped her a coin that she caught with a swipe of her hand and a grin. She preened as though she’d slaved over the preparation of the food herself.
Turning his attention to his plate, Griffin ate, but always he was aware of the atmosphere in the pub, the ebb and flow of conversation, the play of light and shadow as the sun peeked out for a moment from behind the heavy clouds. Griffin knew when the man at the bar rose and moved, sensed him drawing nigh. He looked up as a blunt, scarred hand slammed a fresh glass of ale before him, sending the amber liquid sloshing over the sides.
“I woke this morning like a boar with a sore head,” came the gruff statement. “Likely too much ale drunk in the wee hours. A hair of the dog, hmm? What say you, Griff?”
The voice, rough as a file scraping to and fro on iron links, was recognizable for the tone and pitch, and for the use of a familiarity that Griffin had not heard in a good long while.
“Hullo, Richard,” he said, gesturing with his right hand to the free chair on the opposite side of the table, though he felt little inclined to welcome the man. His left hand he slid beneath the table. “Been a long while since our paths crossed. What? A year now?”
Not a full year. He knew it perfectly well. The frozen ground had been buried beneath a January snow last he’d seen Richard Parsons.
And they’d both seen the girl’s blood that stained the snow dark crimson.
“Richard, is it? When did you become so formal as that? Were we not boon companions, Griff and Dick, the two who could drink any other man under the table and still weave upright from any pub”—he grinned—”with our pockets heavier from the coin we lifted to make our companion’s lighter.”
He grabbed the chair, spun it around and straddled it. Then he cast a wary glance toward Griffin’s obscured left hand. “Do you greet an old friend with the threat of a slit throat?”
“A man can never be too careful.” Not about his enemies... or his friends.
With a laugh, Richard held his hands out, palms up, and only raised his brows when Griffin reached out to shove the sleeves up above the wrists and take a look for good measure.
“No, it’s not been a year since last we met, my friend,” Richard said, watching with narrowed eyes as Griffin leaned down and shoved his knife back into the sheath set in his boot. “Mayhap nine months. Since that girl... a teacher, was she not?...was found at the edge of the woods, killed by some... beast.”
Griffin gave a small nod. The reference was meant to unsettle, but he’d long ago learned to show none of the strong emotion that burned in his gut, to hide his temper behind a bland mask.
The silence dragged. Richard shifted on his chair, toyed with his watch, cleared his throat. Finally, he spoke.
“Glad I am to find you here, Griff. ‘Tis good to meet a friend along the way. Why, I do remember...” He laughed, and launched into a tale of their shared exploits, though to Griffin’s recollection the telling leaned far across the line between truth and imagination, and bore little resemblance to actuality.
Taking up his fork and knife, he returned his attention to the remains of his meal. He murmured appropriate responses to Richard’s anecdotes and comments, letting the other man fill the silence. At length, he pushed the empty plate aside and rocked back in his chair.
“So what do you in Northallerton, Richard?” Griffin asked, sipping his ale and studying his companion over the rim of the glass.
Richard was handsome enough, dark haired, dark eyed, with a touch of arrogance to his features, and a touch of brutality. He dressed the part of the gentleman he ought to have been had life and poor choices not set him on a different path, but careful perusal showed his coat to be threadbare at the cuffs and not quite right in the fit of the shoulder, as though the garment had been made for another and then poorly altered.
From a distance, or in meager light, he looked of an age with Griffin. Closer examination proved the fallacy. Richard’s jowl was beginning to fall and
heavy pouches sat beneath his eyes, testament in part to the start of middle age, and in part to a life of debauchery and excess. But his smile was as ever it had been, wide and infectious, inviting the unwary companion to murmured confidences and shared good humor.
Unless that companion knew a little of Richard Parsons. Of his past. Of the barren place that might once have been his soul.
Griffin knew. He had such a place at his own core.
“Business drew me to Northallerton, dear boy,” Richard said. “Business, and perhaps a little pleasure.”
Griffin nodded. “Honest trade?” he asked, his relaxed posture and tone maintained by will and not by natural inclination.
Honest trade. He thought not. Which left only the dishonest kind.
There had been a time when they had shared both the enjoyment and the profits of such.
With a wink, Richard laughed. “What would be the fun in honest trade?” He lowered his voice and leaned his forearm on the table. “A question, dear boy. Do you know of a... well, no way to be delicate... a woman who might ease a man, lad? I’ve been here six full weeks, and though the inn is clean, there’s a certain lack.” He shifted closer still. “Of the female persuasion, if you understand me. What I’d not give for a sweet blond whore, young, mind you, and up for a bit of rough play.”
Griffin took a long, slow pull of his ale. Swallowed. Said nothing. Six full weeks. Parsons had been in Northallerton an inexplicably long while.
Hunting, or hunted?
“Well, I’ll take your silence for a no.” Richard waved a hand. “So we’ll talk of what’s on every mind in Northallerton, and likely every village for miles around. No doubt you’ve heard of the missing maid, a blond girl from the telling of it. Speculation as to her fate is on every loose tongue.”
Griffin heard an undercurrent to the casual tone, a challenge. “Do you join in the speculation, Richard? Do you present your thoughts and suppositions on her whereabouts?”
“Do you, Griff?” Richard’s fingers drummed a staccato beat on the table, slid to his waist to toy with his silver watch, then strayed to the buttons of his waistcoat. “I say she ran off with her lover.” Then he laughed, the sound low and menacing. “Strange how history repeats and repeats, eh? Wonder what the local constabulary would say to know of a fifteen-year-old tale from Ratcliffe Highway...”
When Griffin made no reply, Richard laughed again, an ugly sound. He slapped his knee, relishing the private joke. “And here we are again, the two of us, so many years on, sitting in a pub, speaking of butchered blond whores.”
“The girl was no whore, but a maid at Briar House.” Griffin held his neutral tone with effort. “And the niece of my housekeeper’s husband.”
“At Briar, you say?” Richard made a tuneless whistle. “Well, that is a thing. Can’t imagine you would find a welcome there.” He paused, nodded slowly, watching Griffin for any hint of reaction.
Griffin said nothing, merely drank his ale. No, he would find no welcome at Briar House, the home of his dead wife’s parents. He had married Amelia Holder, and everyone in every town for miles around knew he had killed her. Killed her, and gotten away with the crime.
With a pull of his mouth, Richard leaned back in his chair, and needled further. “And the niece of your housekeeper. Hunting a bit close to home, dear boy?” His expression grew crafty and mean. “Someone’s scratching at an old wound, Griffin. Making inquiries in London about bodies and ghosts best left buried. You wouldn’t know aught about that, would you?”
“Not a thing,” Griffin replied, his mask in place, though emotion churned beneath his surface calm. Someone was stirring up old venom, poking at things best left buried. Who? Why?
“You know nothing about that, hmm, but you do know something about Briar’s little missing maid. You say she was no whore. Interesting choice of words and tense...” Richard’s gaze grew sharp. “So she is dead, is she, Griff? She is dead.”
Tossing some coins on the table, Griffin rose and stood staring down at Richard, his once boon companion.
“She is dead,” he said softly, his blood running cold as a winter stream.
She was dead. They both knew it.
Just as the two missing teachers had been dead, and the whore at Covent Gardens, and the barmaid in Stepney, and so many others in between.
Turning away, Griffin strode from the Red Bull with the sound of Richard’s dark laughter biting at his back.
o0o
He hummed as he worked, running his fingers through Sarah’s long blond hair.
Yesterday, he had made a liniment: an ounce of vinegar, an ounce of powdered stavesacre, a half ounce each of honey and sulfur, and two ounces of oil, all in a mix. He had rubbed the treatment along her scalp and the roots of her hair, taking care to work it in well.
His mother had used this recipe. Repeated it again and again to rid the hair of vermin. She had sworn that he and his brother were crawling with vermin.
He had never seen a one. Not on his own head and not on his brother’s. But he’d quickly learned not to gainsay her when she was in a mood, or she would beat them both until they were bruised and bloody.
Once, she had said he might not see them, but they were there, crawling on him, in his hair, in his ears.
More than once, in a frenzy, she had scraped his scalp with a dry blade, her movements jerky and unsure. She had drawn blood, and then the knife grew slick and red, while he and his brother sobbed and pleaded.
He shuddered at the memory.
Again, he ran his fingers through Sarah’s hair. Shiny and glossy from the oil. He wanted it soft and pretty.
With a frown, he wondered if the liniment had done its work yet, if the vermin were destroyed. He could not recall the length of time required. It had been so long ago.
His frown deepened.
Surely a full day was long enough. Leaning close, he peered at her hair. He saw no vermin, no nits, no crawling things.
Bright gold. So pretty. Her hair was almost perfect.
He raised his head, stared out the window. His preference ran to lush curls, thick, coiled ringlets that gleamed like moonlight.
Sarah’s hair was a shade too dark, and the curl was missing. Nonetheless, she would do. She would most certainly do.
Lifting the pitcher, he turned his attention back to his task and poured water into the basin before him, immersing all that lovely hair. The water was cool on his hands. He closed his eyes, ran the strands through his fingers, worked a lather with a cake of soap, allowing himself to savor the tactile pleasure.
After a time, he opened his eyes, set the soap aside, rinsed her hair, once, twice. He wanted no residue to dull the color.
With a smile, he added a splash of vinegar. The pungent scent wafted up to tickle his nose. His mother had always said that a splash of vinegar brought out the fairest lights of her hair.
He wanted that for Sarah, wanted to draw out the fairest lights.
When he was done, he squeezed out the water and stared at the long tresses. Wet as it was, Sarah’s hair looked dark, almost brown. Dry, it would be soft gold once more.
He sighed. He did regret the lack of curl. Her hair was so straight, he wondered how it had ever held a pin.
With a final twist, he wrung out the last drops of water, wrapped the length in a large square of linen and pressed until the cloth dampened.
An evening breeze carried through the open window, fanning across his face. It was less than perfect weather, cloudy and damp, though it had cleared a little since he had been in Northallerton earlier in the day. He thought that with the breeze, it would take her hair less than an hour to dry.
Whistling tunelessly between his teeth, he set aside the damp linen, crossed the room and stood by the window, looking out. There was nothing to see but trees. A veritable sea of them.
He pushed the window wide, breathed deep. The scent of fall was in the air.
With a grin he turned to the nail he’d hammered in the wooden wi
ndow frame and hung Sarah’s severed scalp to dry, watching as the damp strands of her hair danced in the wind.
Chapter Eight
Burndale, Yorkshire, September 6, 1828
Beth found that the routine of Burndale Academy varied little from day to day. First off were prayers and hymns in the largest schoolroom, with Miss Browne playing the piano in accompaniment.
Hymns read and done with, the girls whispered and giggled as they marched into the refectory, a great, long room that spanned the entire depth of the building. Narrow tables were neatly placed throughout, with low benches alongside and stout stools at either end. The room was lit by large windows along one side, with an enormous hearth on the other. No fire burned there now, for the morning—Beth’s third at Burndale—had dawned mild and bright. Still, Beth thought she would be glad of the hearth’s warmth during the cold winter to come.
In groups that were arranged by age, the pupils went each to her assigned table, and the teachers sat at the head and the foot. Each teacher was expected to sit at a different table each day.
Ignorant of that rule, Beth had mistaken her place on the second morning, going to the exact seat that she had taken on the first.
That, it seemed, was not the Burndale way.
She had felt her cheeks heat as Miss Browne stood over her, tapping her foot against the ground, heavy arms folded across the ample shelf of her bosom. For a moment, Beth had imagined herself the wayward pupil, caught in Miss Browne’s displeasure.
She had not enjoyed the experience.
Wiser today, Beth made her way to a different table, the one in the far corner. As she passed a small group of teachers, Miss Doyle, Miss Hughes and Mademoiselle Martine, she heard snippets of their whispered conversation.
“...missing since her morning off...”
“They’ll find her. Find her dead, mind you...”
“...thinking Sarah Ashton ran off with a man...”
“I heard she has blond hair like the others...”