Chapter Thirty-Nine
She could not see where they were going. The hood of her cloak was pulled too far over her face. Only her feet were visible in that small patch beyond the ring of expensive wool, and they moved so quickly in and out of her narrow line of sight she wondered if they were real.
She wondered if any of it was real.
The stench of sewage. The slop of mud and filth against her boots. The empty gin bottle she nearly tripped over. Somewhere to her right was raucous laughter and the sweetly bitter scent of spilled beer.
The shudder ran from Cat’s shoulders, down her spine and through the arms still bound behind her back—hidden now beneath the cloak—and into the pistol pressed against her back.
“Afraid, Mary Elizabeth?” Wycomb leaned close, the pistol shoving into her ribs.
She gasped at the sudden pain, but did not make another sound. Cat refused to give him that satisfaction.
“Not far now, just a few more steps.” He pushed her ahead of him, one hand gripping her shoulder. She stumbled, off balance without the use of her arms.
Through the dim dawn light and beyond the hood pulled close about her face, she saw an open space where street after street converged, then crossed the circle to the other side as if they were seven spokes of a wagon wheel. Cat and Wycomb did not cross the circle to the other side, as the narrow streets did.
Instead, Wycomb shoved her toward a door set into the stone building. A pub shared the wall on one side, an empty building on the other. Above were floors of dark, broken windows interspersed by the occasional window with candlelight flickering. Ropes were slung between buildings on either side of the street, the drying clothes draped there silent and unmoving in the gray dawn.
The door swung open, a sickly sweet scent rushing out to swirl around her. Wycomb shoved her through the opening into a dim hallway. She coughed as the scent filled her nose and lungs, stumbled again over rough floor. The door slammed closed, shutting out the dawn and the filth of the rookeries. There was nothing in front of her but a narrow hall and planked floors fading into darkness.
She realized the windows were covered so no light penetrated the room or the stench that hung in the air. What little entered revealed a pale, writhing smoke in its thin beams.
“Oy!” Feet pounded through the narrow hall until a tall, gaunt man stood before them. “The room is— Oh! ‘Tis you!” A pistol appeared in his hand before Cat could blink. “One thrashin’ weren’t enough?”
“I’m here on a different matter.” Wycomb walked forward, the pistol that had been at her back now pointed at the man.
Cat shrank back against the wall, pressed her hands and shoulders as tight as possible to the worn panels. A whimper of fear rose in her throat. She swallowed hard before it could escape.
“I have a business proposition for you.” Wycomb reached for her, gripped her upper arm.
“Yer last offer cost me money. I had ta repair me shop when yer shipment didn’t come in, the men were that glimflashy. Tore the place to bits.”
“Well, this offer will make you money—will make both of us a lot of money.”
“Eh?” The man cocked his head. The pistol wavered. “What is it?”
“Her.” Wycomb yanked back Cat’s hood, revealing her face. She blinked, but lifted her chin. “I know of more than one party who will pay handsomely for her return—assuming she remains unsullied.”
…
He’d had no luck at the pubs—again—and had not seen the man he’d spoken to during his last visit. Prostitutes on the street were of no help. Wycomb’s picture looked familiar to a few, but the locations he frequented were lost on the girls. Despair was a heavy weight. It had been a full day, dawn to dusk, that Cat had been missing.
Jones stayed in the shadows of the narrow street, against the wall to avoid the worst of the mud and filth. The eerie, blue-black light between sunset and night hovered over St. Giles. Still, candlelight beamed between the rags stuffed into broken windows as makeshift patches. That broken gold light fell on a pack of boys running past, barefoot, heedless of the dung and piss and vomit they were stepping in.
He’d stepped in his share—and he’d be burning his boots when he returned to Angel’s townhouse. Still, he had a job to do, not memories to relive.
Jones collared one of the boys, jerking him around to face him before he boy bolted. He bucked and reared, twisting to escape. Unluckily for the boy, Jones knew all the tricks.
“Do not be afraid, boy,” he barked. “Just want a word.” That small body was quick as a whip and nearly had his knees buckling with a good kick. “Son of a—”
“Lemme go!” Small hands scrabbled at Jones’s fingers.
He jerked the boy’s collar, watched his body twist and writhe to free itself. “I only have a few questions.”
“Aye?” The boy peered up at him from beneath the brim of his cap. “Questions ain’t good in St. Giles.”
“I know. I was born here.”
That seemed to give the boy pause. He stopped wriggling and hung from Jones’s hand, peering up at him with blue eyes much too large for his face. “Where?”
“A whorehouse in the Dials.” Bitter words. Bitter taste. Sometimes the truth couldn’t be made sweet.
“Aye?” The boy looked up, wide eyes searching Jones’s face—for what, Jones did not know. “You don’ look it.”
“I got out. Became something.” He jerked the boy’s collar again to bring him back to the present. “That something wants to know if you’ve seen a man who looks like this.” Jones held up the drawing of Wycomb.
“If I have, what’ll you give me?” The boy’s cheeky grin was irresistible, reminding him forcefully of Young John.
“Two things.” Jones let him go, and though the boy was freed, he stayed in the shadows of the building beside Jones. Eyes and ears were ready, keen interest moving over his face. “What’s your name?”
“What’s yours?”
It was a test, so he fell in line. “Jones.”
“Stupid name. Mine’s Michael, only everyone calls me Tim.” He straightened, as if a simple name gave him purpose. He wore no coat, just a shirt and breeches, but he smoothed them down as if they were as fine as any lord’s attire.
“Why Tim?”
“Dunno.” Michael-called-Tim shrugged. “But I has a name, and it was given to me by me Ma. There’s others what can’t say thet.”
“True. My name was given to me at the foundling hospital.” Jones bent over, looked Michael in the eyes. “How trustworthy are you?”
“Very, sir.” Michael straightened, puffing out his chest under the worn shirt. “Me Ma weren’t no whore—beggin’ yer pardon sir—and she taught me right. You can trust me, sir.”
The gut feeling grew, just as it had with Rupert and Young John and Angus. He had unintentionally collared another Gent.
“Well, Michael, I might have work for you. Honest work. I need to know you’re ready for it.” Jones set a hand on Michael’s shoulder, gripped. He held up the drawing of Wycomb. “What do you know of this man? They say he becomes a demon with red eyes.”
“Oh him.” Michael didn’t laugh, but he did snicker behind his hand. “He ain’t no demon. That’s the opium, see?”
“What?” Shock reverberated through Jones. Some things he could expect from spies—murder, treason, lies. Opium was a word he had not expected.
“The opium. The men what comes out of the opium den—they think the sun is a fireball and the moon is ice. They think they can touch them.” With eyes much older and wiser they should be, Michael leaned forward. “Those men think I’m a demon. It’s the smoke. Once they have it, they don’t know nine feet from one foot. They only know the den.”
“Where is it?”
There was a long pause, a considering one. The boy looked him up and down, once, twice, with serious eyes.
“Seven Dials. Next to a whorehouse.”