by Selina Kray
“Daughter! You are found!”
The woman at the ledger jumped to her feet. “Juliet?”
“I’ve heard your spirit call to us these long nights, and now you have come home!” Juliet continued at eardrum-splitting pitch, making herself heard to all in the vicinity and probably those across the Thames. “Welcome, Daughter, into Her grace and light! Welcome home!” She hugged a startled Lillian with impressive fervor for one so slender. Lillian, looking to Shahida for a cue, patted her on the back.
A frowning Han caught his gaze from across the way, but Hiero signaled he would play Polonius behind the curtain. Hopefully without the knife in his gut.
“Don’t fear, Daughter. You are among friends,” Juliet nattered on. “We have come to shepherd Her back to Eden through our good works, and, by your pallid cheeks and trembling hands, I can see that you are eager to play a part.”
“Oi!” Shahida hollered, shoving her way between Juliet and Lillian. “Mrs. Pankhurst gets three square a day, and her arthritis is much improved. I dare anyone here to say otherwise.”
“But her spirit, dear girl, droops like a flower too long out of the sun.” Juliet backed away a step to address the customers, every one of which stood rapt. “She knows how this frail woman has struggled. She has heard her prayers and her anguish. She has shone Her glorious light into her, lit her like a beacon for her sisters to find. She is a Daughter, called upon to continue Her good work and bring about a second Eden!”
Shahida let out a trill of laughter three octaves too high. It effectively pierced the balloon of hot air Juliet had been huffing and puffing.
“Angel with a flaming sword you’re not, ma’am. Sorry.” Shahida locked an arm around Lillian. “Stick to the fruit and veg.” A pointed look directed Han to escort their charge away.
“But I haven’t finished the beans...” Lillian muttered as they disappeared into the gaggle of onlookers.
“Shame!” Juliet bellowed, beseeching the yellow sky. “Shame! It is the burden of womankind.” The customers moved into the space vacated by his friends, and Hiero followed, curious as to how she would spin such a public defeat. “The prophet Rebecca Northcote warned against it in her great bible, The Coming of the Holiest Spirit. Too often we ladies wait upon the actions of others. Are made to feel shame and guilt and worthless when we do act. Allow others to lead us astray, away from the truth in our hearts. We pay the price for the sins of our fathers and brothers and husbands. But She... oh, She is coming to deliver us from these injustices, from our fears and torments. As our Holy Mother Rebecca divined, if we join together, Daughters, and build the garden, She will come to save us all. She will gift us with her light!”
“Amen!” the ledger-keeper cried, having abandoned her post to shove pamphlets into the hands of any who would take them.
“Thank you, Mother!” the other sister seconded, lifting a basket of golden pears for all to see.
Juliet scanned the crowd. “You reap of the bounty we offer, but you do not know of how we labor in Her name. To prepare for Her coming, our prophet Rebecca chose each of Her Daughters with care. And though a shame-filled few will deny Her, everyone is welcome to hear Her message and to contribute however they can.” Hiero swallowed a snicker as she gestured to the donation tin. So transparent. “If you are committed to peace and prosperity, if you would see heaven retake the Earth, then I invite you to heed our prophet Rebecca’s call. And She will shine Her light upon you for all the days of your life.”
Juliet seemed to resist taking a bow, but only just. She gave each customer a final angelic smile, then returned to her perch beneath the red sign. A few of the curious chased her with questions; a ragdoll sag and a vacant stare shut them out. Instead the ledger-keeper, who introduced herself as Sister Nora, gathered them around the donation tin before addressing any queries.
“And?” Han appeared beside him, sudden as Banquo’s ghost. “Showstopper or second-rate?”
Hiero rubbed a thumb over his knuckles. “Better than a pair of poncy royals cutting a ribbon, but only just.”
“Fit for a return engagement?”
“Perhaps. Their setup is commonplace, but she does have a certain je ne sais quoi.”
“Enough to en savoir plus?”
“Time will tell. You know how religion turns my stomach. But their focus on Lillian was...”
“Agreed. That Sister Juliet read her too easily.”
Hiero nodded. “Could have been instinct.”
“Or she saw a mark.”
They shared a look weighted by their years of friendship and experience, a partnership of equals who knew, without another word, how to protect their own.
DI Timothy Kipling Stoker turned the card in his hand over and again, flicking the edge with his index finger as he considered the townhouse before him. Wedged amidst a row of houses in the same porridge-brown brick, there was nothing to distinguish it save a withered Christmas wreath that drooped off a nail in the front door. An overgrown strip of lawn had overtaken the walk some time ago, such that a half-decent tracker could probably tell Tim about the recent comings and goings. Tim, an avowed city man, could only make the most basic assumptions about the inhabitants based on the state of the place.
Which brought him back to the card. Blank except for a cryptic summons—718 Dodger’s Way, eight o’clock. Wait for the candle. Come alone—and the stamp of a coat of arms he could not place. He was fortunate to be at his lodgings when it arrived with his breakfast, or perhaps not so fortunate, depending on the result of this evening’s adventure. Tim shifted against the lamppost he leaned on, reassured by the press of the truncheon concealed in the inseam of his coat. He should have enlisted Han’s assistance as lookout, he knew, but there was no way to do so without alerting Hiero and Miss Pankhurst, and thus their circus of a household.
After months searching for missing baubles, chasing down absconded servants, and once, not so memorably, a lost python, Tim’s desperation for a real case had reached fever pitch. The eccentricities of his new colleagues he’d been prepared for; the tedium of their routine investigations had left him longing to be demoted back to constable. Tim now had a better understanding of why they were so eager to chase down the thieves who stole the Fangs of Scavo. He’d rather have launched himself back into a cage of man-eating lions than tracked down Mrs. Minniver’s cherished poodle, Dumpling. Found behind the butcher’s, raiding the bone bins, a conclusion Tim was certain her butler might have come to, given half the chance.
The mystery of Hiero’s true identity helped Tim endure these elementary cases. For the occasional peek behind the masterwork that was Hiero’s persona, he would persevere. Tim suffered a twinge of guilt at not having invited him on this adventure—certainly the two hours’ wait would have been more agreeably passed in his company—but some matters called for stealth, not spectacle. And to Tim’s mind, there was no greater show on Earth than the life of Hieronymus Bash.
A candle sparked to life in one of the front windows. A pair of spectral hands slipped back behind heavy curtains. Tim straightened, on the scent. Slipping the card into his pocket, he forced himself to count to fifty before he mounted the steps and knocked.
The door creaked open. It had been left unlocked. Tim unsheathed his truncheon before pushing the door all the way in. Its clang against the back wall announced his arrival. The dark void of the entranceway tunneled in to a solitary lantern, hung as if in midair far down a long, black hallway. Cursing his naivety, Tim took a few hesitant steps into the house. He stopped before the entryway became the corridor, glanced back in time to see the door slam shut.
“Hello?” Tim straightened his posture and his resolve, truncheon poised to strike. “You summoned; I have come. If you want my assistance, you’d best show yourself.”
Tim listened into the silence for too many heartbeats. Lantern fumes and a thick layer of dust conspired to choke his panic. He stood his ground, unwilling to venture farther into a house of who-knew-what horrors
without some sign this was more than an elaborate prank. He refused to even consider the other scenarios racing through his mind. He’d ruffled his share of feathers in his time, from the criminals he helped convict to the vengeful lord still clamoring for his head to, unfortunately, his fellow detectives at Scotland Yard. Let alone the fiend who’d murdered his parents, who might have gotten wind of his latest inquiries into their deaths. Only one person, if he really thought about it, preferred him alive.
The one he’d failed to tell about this little excursion.
Footsteps. A silhouette merged into the lantern light, face obscured. The man’s dress gave nothing away save for his wealth. Under Hiero’s tutelage, Tim had learned of cuts and colors and quality of cloth, enough to distinguish Savile Row from a lesser tailor. This man had means, a fact not immediately reassuring.
“Mercy’s sake, Stoker, come in, come in!” a familiar voice called out. The rip of a match against the wall revealed Colonel Sir Hugh Winterbourne, Commissioner of the Police of the Metropolis, Tim’s indirect superior and sometimes ally.
Stunned, Tim hurried to catch up as Sir Hugh disappeared around a corner. He followed him into a musty room that may have once been a study but now housed only two wingbacked chairs and a small table, on which sat a bottle of top-shelf Scotch and two tumblers. One, Tim noted, glistened with amber liquid. A growing fire had been kindled in the hearth, which cast only enough light to skirt the edges of the chairs. Darkness blurred the corners of the hollow room, teasing Tim’s peripheral vision with half glimpses of movement.
“Apologies, Sir Hugh. I thought—”
Sir Hugh tutted. “It is I who should beg pardon for all the cloak and dagger. I do hope you’re not too disappointed?”
“Disappointed? How so?”
“That I’m no despondent widow possessed by a demonic cat or nervy lord plagued by a hellhound.”
Tim stifled a frustrated grunt. “You can forgive me making assumptions, given your choice of rendezvous.”
“Ah, yes. You must be wondering.” Sir Hugh gestured toward one of the chairs. “My brother’s old pile. He fell in the Crimea, and so the house fell to me. Never could bring myself to part with it, though as you can see...” Tim traced the line of his gaze to the stone above the mantel, where the faintest outline of a missing portrait could be discerned. No doubt the subject had been Sir Hugh’s fallen brother, perhaps in his military reds. “Drink?”
“If you would be so kind.”
Tim eased into the chair and the silence as Sir Hugh poured him a double shot and refreshed his own. Sir Hugh had always been a strict but convivial sort. Himself a decorated veteran of the Crimea, he was the antidote to the previous commissioner, Sir Richard Mayne, who crossed the Home Secretary over the Clerkenwell bombings of 1867 and lost favor with the peelers over his increasing rigidity. By contrast, Sir Hugh’s support of the 1872 police strike made his name among government officials and officers alike. While not exactly beloved, he’d earned the respect of both parties.
Doubly so for Tim, who owed his career to Sir Hugh, as he’d twice now overruled Tim’s superintendent, Julian Quayle, to keep him with the Yard. Given his tendency to embroil himself in cases that resulted in major solves but aggravated his superiors, Tim would forever be in Sir Hugh’s debt.
One he expected was about to be repaid, in part if never in full. Tim scented something like melancholy on the air in this abandoned place that housed so many of Sir Hugh’s memories. Any detective worth his salt would have by now deduced they’d be discussing a matter to be kept well away from official police business. That Tim was chosen not just for what he owed, but his position as an outsider. He worried a finger around the rim of his glass as he waited Sir Hugh out, praying he was not about to be trapped between the proverbial rock and a hard place. While Tim indulged in certain freedoms as Hiero and the team’s minder, he drew the line at committing any criminal acts. Any major ones, at least.
“How are you getting on with this Bash fellow? I’m afraid Superintendent Quayle is more of a glass-half-empty sort when it comes to reports. I take it no news is, for lack of a better word, good news?”
“Mr. Bash is"—Wonderful, infuriating, delectable, maddening—"unique. His chief talent lies in assembling a team around him that make up for his deficiencies as an amateur.”
“And you feel you’ve been collected?”
“Precisely so.”
“Your exploits have garnered a certain renown. Not something, I think, you are accustomed to.”
“Mr. Bash earns most of the attention, but...” Tim inhaled deeply, dove in. “If I may be frank, sir, it’s the quality of the cases that concerns. I don’t expect every villain to live up to Lord Blackwood’s infamy, but petty criminals and thieving servants...”
“Not quite the challenge you were hoping for?”
Tim shook his head. “I’m grateful, sir, for all your efforts on my behalf.”
“But you’d prefer something with more meat on the bone.” His lips curled into a thoughtful smile that didn’t quite meet his eyes. “Well, Stoker, I hope you’ve brought your appetite.”
It took everything Tim had not to leap on his chair and perform a celebratory jig. “Haven’t eaten for weeks.”
“Good.” Sir Hugh settled into his seat with what should have been a magisterial air but looked more like hugging into himself. His sheep in sheep’s clothing looks little helped convey an attitude of strength. Sir Hugh was of a classic beauty more suited to the heroes of romance than stern military men. Chestnut curls now streaked with gray, cherub cheeks, petal-plump lips—an English rose by any other name. The divot in his pronounced chin only added to his poetic air. His melodious voice should recite poetry, not bark orders.
Tim had quickly understood two things upon their first acquaintance. First, that any attraction he might feel should be strangled in the crib, for survival’s sake. Second and most vital, that the great battle of Sir Hugh’s life wasn’t the Crimea, but to be taken seriously: his greatest victory being that he was. Even now his soft brown eyes scrutinized Tim the way a stag might a dozing hunter, curious, but wary of being wounded.
“First, some preliminaries.”
“Not a word,” Tim assured him. “To anyone.”
This earned him a soft chuckle. “I’d almost forgot who I was conversing with. Perhaps you should list my conditions.”
“With pleasure.” Tim straightened in his seat, excited to finally—finally!—exercise his detective skills. But for all his enthusiasm, he tread lightly. If Sir Hugh was to be his newest client, it wouldn’t do to scare him off before he even learned the facts of the case. “The matter is a private one, not to be shared with anyone at the Yard or in police circles. I must pose as a personal investigator; I’m not to let anyone I interview know I’m a detective unless absolutely necessary. I’m to continue my work with Mr. Bash while devoting myself to this matter in my own time. I’m not to make my reports to you in any official capacity or at any recognizable location with which either of us are associated. This house, I imagine, is the only safe spot. To request a meeting, I’m to send an encoded note to your... valet? Head butler?”
“That would be telling.”
“No. The porter at your club.” Tim fought to sober himself when Sir Hugh nodded. The commissioner was right—he was bone starved with need of this. “How can I be of service to you, sir?”
His smile fell. All the rosy beauty drained from his face until he looked as gaunt and ghostly as one of the forgotten inhabitants of the house.
“My child is missing.”
Stunned, Tim let the silence stretch to impossible lengths. A million questions buzzed through his mind, but he would listen to Sir Hugh’s story before jumping to any conclusions about his life, the same consideration he would show any other client. He would ignore the stinging knowledge that his wife had died of consumption some five years past, their marriage childless.
“I have not behaved honorably in this affair. I
cannot but admit to that. I have done a great deal of wrong to several persons and to my mortal soul. But he... My son is an innocent. And so I ask you to do this for him.”
Tim met his eyes with confidence. “I see no harm in helping you both. What are the circumstances? And please, spare no detail.”
Sir Hugh let out a blustery breath. “If you must take notes, make sure to burn them.”
“No need.” Tim tapped his temple.
“Astounding.” Sir Hugh downed the last of his Scotch and, with a shaking hand, refilled their tumblers. Tim had mostly ignored his but took a quick sip in solidarity. “It was never my ambition to marry. My father was a kind but pious man who valued honesty above all. He urged us to examine our deepest selves: our motives, our flaws, our desires. My weakness has ever been that of the flesh. I knew myself and sought to spare any decent woman the burden of having me as a husband. But after the war, I wanted stability. Thinking I could devote myself entirely to Laura may have been my first mistake.
“I was always careful. A man of purpose must be. And in truth she seemed relieved when it was clear she could not carry a child. Ours became a marriage of the minds. But once she passed, in my grief... I indulged. Too many, too recklessly. One in my household.” Sir Hugh forced his chin up, having bowed it during his recitation. “Maude Mulligan is her name. Laura’s ladies’ maid, whom I kept on. She was four months along before she even realized... or so she said. I’m not proud to say I encouraged her to be rid of it, but she insisted.”
“Did she mention marriage?”
“Insinuated. As if that would ever have been possible. I found a lying-in house that would care for her, a society of sorts for fallen women, the Daughters of Eden. She was furious at first, but after a few weeks, her letters were much less angry. Eventually she birthed a son. It gives me no pleasure to report I do not know his name. I could not claim him as my own, not with... The Daughters arrange for the child and the mother to be placed in a proper situation, once she’s recovered.”