CHAPTER SEVEN
Our ancestors would be shocked to see Bermondsey as it is now. Since the closure of Thomas Keyse’s Spa Gardens, what was once beautiful foliage and magnificent townhouses is squalid due to industrialization. Be wise: avoid Jacob’s Island at all costs.
-Whispers from Lady X, January 1816
Jacob’s Island, Bermondsey
Nine days since the death of the Earl of Wolverston
If St. Giles was dangerous, then Jacob’s Island was hell. A pestilence-filled, graveyard-smelling hell, where the pungency of death clung to everything like the thick black shroud David had worn the night of the funeral. How it had galled her, to see him parade about in that outrageous black monstrosity, when he was the reason Philip was dead. And just like that night, Jemma couldn’t think clearly.
Gabriel held a lantern high in his outstretched hand as they disembarked from the ferry at St. Saviour’s Docks, located on the east side of Jacob’s Island. It was then that Jemma began to feel it: the ache of unfulfilled dreams, the sting of regret, as if the ghosts of the pirates executed upon the dock never rested. She hadn’t wanted to know the history of this place, but their ferryman was determinedly loquacious. Never again could she see the River Neckinger on a map and not think of the Devil’s Neckerchief, the gibbet used to hang convicted buccaneers.
She tugged her shawl tighter around her, as they approached the deep, muddy chasm Gabriel told her was Folly’s Ditch. The closer they got to the ditch, the more that sensation of unrest increased, shifting from the spirits of the past to the very real tragedies of the present.
At first, she thought the overwhelming stench was too much like that of the cemetery at the Church of All Souls: the mossy ground sodden after the recent rains, the ripeness of decaying leaves, mildew stretched across wet stone. But this was so much worse.
Rank and foul, like a hundred cartons of rotting eggs collected in this one spot. Her eyes stung, her nose burned, and her stomach tossed all at once, the nausea so pervasive she had to grab the rotting wooden railing to steady herself.
“Are you all right?” Gabriel asked, eying her with concern.
She didn’t want to speak, didn’t want to open her mouth to let in the moist, rancid air. She shook her head, not wanting to cause Gabriel undue stress.
Worry lines creased Gabriel’s forehead. “Do you want to go back? I can meet with Mauly Jives myself.”
She stood stock-still on the rickety wooden bridge across the ditch, grasping the rail for dear life. She made the mistake of looking down into the murky water, so laced with scum it was as if a great spider’s web stretched across it. Bubbles of gas broke through the spectral colors of grease, as decaying weeds floated by. Across the way, dead fish littered the water. She followed that line of vision to the filth-strewn walls of the houses, each with a drain pouring into the water. Some houses had buckets set out next to the river, ready to dip in.
Did the people drink from this sewer, too? She couldn’t see any other sources of clean water.
Oh, God. She clutched her roiling stomach, willing it to still. She had not been prepared for this. St. Giles had been bad, but she had been able to retreat back to the familiar streets of the West End.
Here, there was no escape. Every inch of Jacob’s Island was as decrepit, as degraded, as this damn ditch. She looked to her right, and far off in the distance the water was red, either from the blood of the slaughtered animals or the dye used on their carcasses at the tannery. She didn’t want to know which.
With each breath she took in, her panic amplified, until it almost choked her. Stupid, stupid, stupid, she scolded herself, hating her own weakness. This was where people lived, and she couldn’t make it past the first bridge.
What did it say about her, that she spent her days in the gilded cage that was being the Countess of Wolverston, never realizing these people existed in such abject poverty? Her purse full of coins weighed heavily in her pocket, one more reminder that she had so much, and these people had nothing.
Every excuse she’d ever made over the years about why she didn’t have time for charity work, every problem she’d ever complained about, every lie she’d ever told to make life a little easier on herself, all echoed in her mind in an overwhelming cacophony of ignorance and failure.
“It’s fine, Jemma.” Gabriel’s reassuring voice broke through the dissonance. “Really. We can go back. I’ll come tomorrow, on my own.”
She breathed in, then out, the air no longer burning her throat so fiercely. She focused on Gabriel’s face—his Roman nose, his strong jaw, his understanding eyes. He’d come with her on his own time, after working a hard day with Bow Street, because he believed there was truth to her suspicions.
Because he too wanted justice for Philip.
Because he was here for her.
Oh, how she wanted to believe that last part—that no matter what, Gabriel would continue to be there for her. That she hadn’t ruined whatever chance they had at happiness. That she still had a right to happiness, after all her mistakes.
Jemma took a shaky step forward. The bridge creaked in protest, but she did not stop. She would make sure David did not get away with murder.
And then she would figure out a way to turn her fortunate upbringing into something good. Something that would help people who had so much less.
She could do this, because she had Gabriel at her side.
“One problem at a time,” Philip had always said.
All she had to do was abide by that advice. One foot in front of the other in steady progress. She kept her gaze on Gabriel, and soon, she stepped off the rundown bridge onto Mill Lane.
The houses did not improve upon closer inspection. Built so close together it was as almost as if they were on top of each other, the abodes hung out over the river, jutting into the mud. Even the most romantic-minded could not claim that this was a canal city like the great Venice, but rather a living, breathing sewer.
These low-roofed dwellings stood up more by the power of prayer than any structural integrity. The dirt-spackled exterior walls threatened to collapse if one breathed too hard. Large holes appeared in several roofs, with remnants of past patch jobs clinging to the rotting wood. There was not a single unbroken window in the twelve houses that made up this stretch of the land. In some places, dirty rags were stuffed into the holes in a last-ditch effort to keep out the elements, but in general, the residents seemed to have given up on a battle they could not hope to win.
If futility could be defined by a place, then it was here, in this strange maze of decrepit bridges and slopping muck.
“Where is the Ghoul and Goblin?” Jemma asked, trying not to watch as children scampered barefoot through the cinder heaps.
It was no use—that image would stick with her long after she left this place.
“Over on London Street,” Gabriel answered. “Not far to go at all.”
“I’ve never been happier to hear you say that,” Jemma said, picking her way around a literal pig-sty, set up in front of one of the houses. Unlike the children, the pigs looked remarkably healthy, flourishing in a land where offal was so easily obtained.
Gingerly, they made their way across another ramshackle bridge. Gabriel led her down another corner, and then they were on London Street. Jemma let out a giant sigh of relief. Several minutes later they arrived at the intersection of London and Oxley, and Gabriel stopped so abruptly in front of a teetering wood and chipped brick building that Jemma almost collided into him.
“This is the public house?” It did not look like any public house she had ever seen. The windows had bars over them—or the remains of bars, for rust had taken hold of the iron so stubbornly she doubted they would serve as a deterrent to a determined thief. The chimney of the building lurched off to one side, half-gone but still attached.
She edged closer to Gabriel, wanting his strength, his protection, when faced with such unfamiliar circumstances. When he was nearby, she felt calmer, like she could face anything.
“Aye.” Gabriel raised his fist, knocking upon the door. Paint crumbled off in his hands, once white but blackened by exposure to constant grime.
The door swung open, answered by a tall, emaciated man with paper-thin pearly white flesh. The dark circles around his eyes stood out in stark contrast. His mouth was full of yellowed, broken teeth. He wore an ensemble so strange Jemma could not help but stare: black breeches with rips in them, a silver waistcoat that appeared three sizes too large, and a hunter green brocade coat that must have been from the last century. His right leg was encased in a purple stocking, while his left boasted navy blue.
“Wot ye want?” he asked, punctuating the question with a great yawn.
“This is the Ghoul and Goblin, yes?” She forgot to remain silent, so taken aback was she by him.
The man’s eyes narrowed, until all she could see were two little dark slits in a sea of white skin. “Who’s askin’?”
She didn’t know what answer to give to that, so she waited for Gabriel, again scooting nearer to him. He surprised her by answering in a tone as flat as the bottom of the ferry they’d rode here on, “Tell Mauly Jives that Principal Officer Gabriel Sinclair is here.”
What happened to using aliases? This couldn’t be the right play. Given what Osborne had said about Jives, surely this was only going to make her balk—or flee.
But the oddly-dressed man simply shrugged, and stepped back from the door, holding it open for them. “Suit yerself, mate. ‘Tis yer funeral.”
He closed the door behind them, and motioned for them to have a seat in the public house. The space was larger than Jemma would have thought from the outside of the building, full of mismatched tables and chairs. Half were occupied by people with the same sickly white skin and sunken, dark eyes. She slid onto a bench. Gabriel blew out the lantern, and set it down on the table. He slipped an arm around her, and her heart soared at the simple gesture.
As if she was his, for real.
She wanted that, more than she’d ever wanted anything—but it seemed impossible.
Still, he had marked her as under his protection, and she was unspeakably relieved to have him here with her. His broad-shouldered, muscular build made him intimidating enough, but there was a coldness to his eyes, a hyper-alertness that made her think of a lion about to pounce on an antelope.
Philip had defended her, but his protection had always been in the power he held over the rest of society. He’d delivered a swift cut direct to anyone who besmirched Rosie’s name in their presence, and soon, the rumors grew to naught more than tiny titters from a few persnickety dragons.
This was far more primal. Gabriel’s posture was straight, yet loose, as if he was waiting for the right time to dig his teeth into the neck of anyone who dared so much as look at her in the wrong way.
That shouldn’t have made warmth pool within her, nor should she have felt those telltale tingles of desire.
But she did.
It seemed she was always doing—and feeling—what she shouldn’t, when Gabriel was around. Three years ago, she had decided her head ought to be her guide. Now her heart kept acting as her touchstone, and she didn’t know if she could trust it.
A few minutes later, the man from the front door reappeared, motioning for them to follow him. Gabriel picked up the lantern, and they set off. The man led them to a dark, narrow hallway, lit by a single dingy lantern. The smell of burning animal fat from the candle made Jemma’s nose twitch, but at least it was a far cry from the pungency of the outdoors.
Down the hall they went, then they turned and went down another hall. This one had two lanterns. Doors lined the hall, salacious moans and vulgar curses echoing from behind them. She heard a crack from one of the doors, like a whip had been used.
She gulped. Was this what it had been like at the White House, when Philip visited? The scandal sheets might not have revealed the nature of Mrs. Berkeley’s boudoir explicitly, but they’d dropped enough hints for Jemma to know the abbess practiced flagellation.
In that moment, she was ignorant again. Philip had never introduced such tactics into their bedroom. Their lovemaking had been dispassionate at best, such a far cry from the sparks when she’d kissed Gabriel.
He reached behind him, taking her hand in his and giving it a quick press of reassurance. How did he always know what she needed? She returned his squeeze, grateful for his stalwart company—grateful for him.
They proceeded down another, thankfully quieter hall. Jemma began to wonder if they truly were descending into the bowels of hell. Even if the Ghoul and Goblin was joined with a brothel, they’d been walking for longer than she’d expected.
Finally, the willowy man stopped in front of a red door. He knocked once, and then opened the door. Nodding at them, he stepped back, and then promptly headed back down the hall.
“I suppose we should go in,” Jemma whispered.
They entered together, Gabriel positioning himself in front of her, shielding her. She peeked out from behind his arm. Her curiosity outweighed her fear, for it was hard to be afraid when a man as strapping as Gabriel had made it his mission to protect her.
A woman sat in a dilapidated blue armchair by the window, the curtains drawn back so that she could view the night sky. The moon lit her reflection in the glass with an eerie glow. For a foolhardy second, Jemma wondered if she was indeed a ghost—perhaps that of a lady pirate who’d met her death by the swing of the noose.
She pushed herself up slowly from the chair, as though it took a herculean effort to align all her spindly joints in order. When she stepped out from the alcove, Jemma’s breath sucked in. Like the man at the door, her skin was so pale it was almost translucent. Clothed in a long, flowing white dress streaked with black grime, she moved with such lithe grace she appeared to float across the dirt floor.
“Ibbitt says you are from Bow Street.” Mauly Jives’s quivering, high-pitched voice, uttered from cracked, pouty lips, sent a chill down Jemma’s spine. It was as if she was hearing a small child, trapped inside this glassy-eyed adult. “Ibbitt says many things, and not all of them are true. Which is it, then? Are you Bow Street, or have you come to take tea with me?”
“Can it not be both?” Gabriel’s expression revealed no discomfort—rather, he looked at Jives as if the idea of drinking tea made from sewer water would be delightful.
Thankfully, Jives shook her head. “No. It cannot.”
“Then it is the former.” Gabriel had the good grace to look disappointed, though Jemma had a hard time holding back a sigh of relief.
Jives wove a finger around one of the haphazard curls resting against her cheek. Once, her snowy white hair had probably been an ordered chignon, but now it resembled more of a frizzy rat’s nest. “Why are you here, Bow Street? I have paid the bribes. You are not due for another two weeks.”
Gabriel stiffened, and Jemma leaned almost imperceptibly closer to him, not wanting to risk an open show of support. There was something about Mauly Jives that she found unsettling. Beyond the woman’s wraithlike appearance and breathy affectations, Jemma sensed a keenness to her, as though she saw far more than she wanted people to realize.
Jives glided across the floor, coming to a stop directly in front of Gabriel. She leaned in, her eyes darting from the crown of his head to the bottom of his toes, sizing him up.
“‘Tis not the bribes,” she declared, with a shake of her head that set her ringlets dancing. “And ‘tis not the gels. It must be the other.”
Gabriel nodded. “You’ve received certain goods I need information on.”
Jives pulled back from him, her pert nose wrinkling in distaste. “I do not talk about my deals, Bow Street. You must understand that. Not only would it be bad business, it could be fatal. A woman makes enemies in these parts, and when you’ve lived as I have—you have quite a few.”
She said this with such pride that Jemma thought she might have the key to getting Jives to help them. It was worth a try, at least.
“It’s harder for us.” Jemma stepped out from behind Gabriel, her gaze never leaving Jives’s face. “We’re expected to be docile and sweet, when we all know damn well that doesn’t get you anywhere. Men want to define us, put us in boxes, subdue us.”
She saw a flash in Gabriel’s eyes, a question she could not answer now, before it was snuffed out. He stayed silent, letting her take the stage with Jives.
“My sister Rose was different.” The words popped out before she could stop them, shocking her. She hadn’t meant for this to turn personal. “She was wild and free, no matter how they tried to confine her. I’ve never known anyone who was more full of life.”
Jives clasped her hands together, her attention now completely on Jemma. “What happened to her?”
“A man broke her heart, but it was the vile rumors that really broke her.” The familiar sting of pain rushed to the surface, but Jemma forced herself to go on. “She wasn’t like you, or me. She did not have the mettle needed to survive.”
Some mettle I have, for I gave up on the only man I ever loved, all so I could be safe.
Jives turned, waving her hand for Jemma to come along with her. She spun the heavy blue chair around, moving it quicker, easier than Jemma would have expected.
There was a lot more to Mauly Jives than met the eye.
“I have made myself an empire,” Jives said, spreading out her arms as she leaned back in the chair. Though it was patched in two places, and stained in three others, it looked like a throne with her in it.
A throne for the undead, but a throne nonetheless.
“And I have made myself a countess.” It was her sole accomplishment. She’d married well, by society’s standards. Then why had marriage to Philip felt like the greatest of lies? They’d never hid what they were to each other—friends, helping each other achieve practical goals.
“Yet you are not happy.” Jives eyed her critically, those glassy eyes unexpectedly sharp.
“No.” Jemma took a chance, hoping it panned out. “And neither are you.”
Jives let out a loud, high-pitched laugh. “No, I am not.”
Gabriel looked from her to Jives and back again, his eyes widening and his jaw slightly agape. When she started to take a step back, to let him take the lead on the investigation as he had in all the other shops, he shook his head. That he trusted her enough to give her control over this made her heart swell with pride.
“I failed Rosie,” Jemma said, sadness sunk deep into her words. “And I failed my husband. I couldn’t save either of them. But I can make sure the man who killed him pays.”
Jives caught on quickly. “And you think I can help you do that.”
Jemma nodded. “A man came to you with gold buttons with the seal of the Prince Regent and an olive branch. He would have wanted to move them quickly, I’d guess, and without any fanfare. Do you remember him?”
Jives drew herself up to her full sitting height, fixing Gabriel with a pointed glare. “I’ll talk, chippy, but not with him here.”
“I won’t leave her,” Gabriel objected immediately.
“It’s fine, really. Go. You can stand outside the door or something.” Jemma walked to him, squeezing his hand. She leaned forward, dropping her voice lower. “Just keep trusting me, please.”
Gabriel gave a stiff nod, and with one last uneasy glance toward Jives, he walked out of the room and closed the door behind him.
Jives watched their interaction. “You may have lost your husband, but that Bow Street is all yours for the taking.”
“We are friends,” Jemma protested, sounding half-hearted to her own ears.
“Do as you will.” Jives shrugged, and Jemma was again struck by the fluidity of her movements. “I like you, child. You’re an odd soul. I’m going to help you, but if a hint of this comes back on me, I will personally rip out your tongue and jam it into orifices that don’t see the sun, do you understand?”
Jemma blanched, that visual being more than she needed on top of an already disturbing day. “Yes.”
“I’ve got the buttons.” Jives stood up from that chair, crossing to a cabinet in the corner of the room. She pulled from her dress a skeleton key, jamming it into the lock on the second drawer from the top. It clicked open. She tugged out the drawer, picked up four gold buttons, and presented them to Jemma with her palm extended.
Jemma reached for them, and Jives snatched them back.
“You ought to know better, girly,” Jives scolded. “These are real gold—I had them checked. You owe me what I’d get from the sale, and then some, for bringing a Peeler here.”
“Of course,” Jemma agreed.
When Jives told her the amount, Jemma nodded. She pulled out the purse of coins, giving it to Jives. “That ought to be enough, plus extra.”
Jives opened up the purse, dumping the money in her outstretched palm. Her eyes lit up as she counted, grinning with satisfaction. “Very well. I did not like the bastard, anyhow.”
“So you remember him?”
Jives gave her an insulted look. “I remember everyone.”
“As do I,” Jemma said. “As do I.”
“Blond, mid-thirties, tall, but with a bit of a paunch that says he spends too much time drinking and not enough time bedding,” Jives recalled, ticking each quality off on her fingers. “Dressed like the very definition of a modern major toff, in Jacob’s Island, no less. I had to stop six of my gels and lads from frisking him. Bloody buffoon.”
That sounded like David, but it still wasn’t enough. “Did he have any identifying features?”
“A signet ring,” Jives said. “Wolverston crest, I believe.”
When Jemma arched a brow, Jives frowned at her. “I pay attention, dearie. No one gives a blooming rat’s arse for us out here. We look out for ourselves.”
Jemma couldn’t remember a time when she hadn’t been looking out for herself—and for others. She thought of Rosie, alone in that convent, never getting to know her son. Of Philip, and how he’d saved her from societal ruination. Of Gabriel, and how he’d dropped everything to help her.
She owed so many people so much. How would she ever repay it?
“Thank you.” She reached for Mauly Jives’s hand, not thinking. Surprisingly, the woman allowed Jemma to press her palm in thanks. “You’ve helped me more than you can know.”
“Good,” Jives said, a slow, coy smile forming across her face, reminding Jemma of a mischievous ghost.
With one last adieu to Mauly Jives, she left the room, returning to safety of Gabriel’s watch. Around him, she felt protected, secure. That was invaluable now, with the proof that David had set up Philip to be killed.
They left quickly. She couldn’t think of anything else to say—words didn’t come easily, not when the bite of David’s betrayal stung so ferociously. She had suspected it all along, but to have confirmation? That was something else entirely.
She wanted to reach for Gabriel, to confide in him, but something stopped her. For three years, she had analyzed every situation on her own before ever consulting with anyone else. Those habits were hard to break. All she could think of now was that this man she had considered family for the last three years had killed her dearest friend.
She had no family left. Her mother was dead; her father not long after. She hadn’t heard from Rosie in ages. Philip was gone, killed by the brother-in-law he’d always wished she’d show more compassion toward.
That left no one but Gabriel.
Who was never hers to begin with, no matter how much she wanted him to be.
Jemma couldn’t shake the notion that for the first time in her life, she was truly alone.