Chapter Four
A thick mist hovered in the air, permeating Sophie’s wool cape. A chill sank into her bones. She’d never been prone to flights of fancy, but the dense, shadowed fog provided abundant fodder for apprehension. Pity she’d no desire to pen a penny dreadful. London by gaslight could inspire quite a spine-tingling tale.
The fine hairs at her nape stood on end. Rather peculiar. She’d let her imagination run away with her. That was the only logical explanation.
Still, she quickened her pace. Perhaps she should have accepted Trask’s offer after all. He’d become accustomed to transporting her home in his carriage, a sleek phaeton he maintained with the care one would devote to a prized steed.
Her lips pursed in annoyance. Neil Trask was an unscrupulous man, his actions driven by greed. But for some reason she couldn’t quite explain, she could not bring herself to entirely dislike him. At times, he possessed an endearing manner, an easy familiarity that an unwary soul might well interpret as genuine. Even knowing what she did of the man, she’d been unable to completely shield herself against the disarming affability he employed like a weapon.
In the distance, a hound’s bellow drifted through the night. A twinge of warning slithered along her spine. With a sharp breath, she steadied her nerves. What in blazes had come over her? It wasn’t like her to be so skittish. At this rate, she’d be seeing spooks and specters lurking around every corner.
Perhaps Esme will show her face. She bit back a giggle. Esme had been her creation, an elusive spirit guide with a decidedly mercurial nature. Trask preferred to affect a male guide, a serious-minded soul he’d dubbed Louis who’d lost his earthly head to the guillotine during the French Revolution. When Trask decided his liaison to the other side was a native Londoner, the failed thespian cast aside his atrocious accent. His English persona, an unfortunate contemporary of Shakespeare, affected a proper British dialect and recounted the sad tale of his end in the Tower during the reign of the Virgin Queen.
Squaring her shoulders, Sophie maintained her brisk strides. Her heels tapped an even rhythm against the pavement. She’d be home soon enough. A sip of brandy and a good book would ease the tension that seemed to permeate every muscle.
Without a sound, a man stepped into her path. As her smile dissolved in a gasp, she struggled to make out his features through the shadows obscuring his face. He stood head and shoulders over her, his hair a pale, ethereal shade that might have been white blond in the light of day.
Swallowing hard, she slid one hand into the reticule tethered to her wrist. Her fingers closed around her hidden knife. To the unsuspecting eye, the implement appeared to be a fountain pen. One touch to the nib and a concealed blade would deploy.
Steadying her tone, she faced him directly. “Do I know you, sir?”
He shook his head. “But I know who ye are. Ye’re the one—”
A fierce clattering against the cobbles cut through his words. A team of horses pulling a dark coach broke through the fog. He jerked his head toward the sound.
Her pulse raced, but she pulled in a steadying breath. With a subtle movement, Sophie slid her weapon from the bag. She’d keep it out of sight. For now. Surprise would work to her advantage with this towering bloke. With luck, he’d take his leave before the conveyance came upon them, but she’d be prepared for the worst.
The carriage veered around a corner, thundering into the darkness. Blast the luck. She’d get no reprieve. Careful to keep her weapon out of sight, she braced to defend herself.
The pale man swung back around to her. “I’ve been sent for ye.”
“For me?” she scoffed, keeping a tight rein on her tone. Any sign of fear would escalate the danger. “Surely you’ve mistaken me for someone else.”
“My employer wishes t’meet ye. He knows all about what ye do…about the spirits ye talk to.”
The man’s words bore no threat, but she could not say the same of his cold gaze. Taking a step back to put herself out of arm’s reach, she hiked her chin. “If he wishes a consultation, he may arrange a sitting at the Trask studio on the Strand. Now please, step aside. I must be on my way.”
“I can’t let ye do that, luv.” An ugly twist of his mouth pulled his lips into a leering smile. “My employer means ye no harm. He only wants ye t’talk to the spirits for ’im. He has urgent business.”
Sophie slid her thumb along the length of the pen. Her heart pounded a ragged beat. For months, she’d trained for a moment like this. Removing herself from the scene would be the most prudent course of action. But if the bloke pursued her… Through her agency preparation, she’d become well versed in the techniques that would keep her alive.
Steadying her breath, she met his eyes. “Urgent business? With a being who has gone beyond?” She infused her voice with a scoffing tone. “Spirits shun earthly affairs.”
“Ye can tell him that yerself. He sent me t’bring ye to him.”
Sophie studied him, sorting out her next move. The knife felt weighty in her hand. She’d give the bloke fair warning if he attempted to restrain her. She’d never had to employ a potentially lethal weapon in her own defense. In theory, she possessed the skills she’d need to fend off an assault. But actually plunging the blade into a man’s flesh—that would be a far different matter. If he left her no choice, she’d simply have to push through her revulsion.
The rhythmic tap of boots against the cobbles cut through the heavy silence. A shadowed figure rounded the corner, approaching with a steady gait. In the dim light, she could make out his dark uniform and helmet. Sophie hadn’t expected to spot a constable, but breath released from her lungs as she welcomed his appearance. She slid the knife into her bag. Best to keep it out of the lawman’s sight. It wouldn’t do to raise questions.
Built like a brawler, the patrolman cut an imposing figure. The tall, pale man squirmed, as if he debated whether to cut and run or risk the crunch of the officer’s nightstick against his skull.
The constable stopped mere feet from Sophie. While not a man in his youth, the officer possessed a look of vigor, leaving little doubt of his strength and willingness to use it. He stood silent for a long moment, cocking his head, as he assessed the scene. The weathered lines around his eyes seemed to etch deeper. Good heavens, surely he did not think she was a doxy out to sell her wares to this miserable rotter.
“Is there a problem here, miss?” The constable shifted his gaze to the wiry man. “Anything I should know?”
“’Twas a case of mistaken identity. I thought I knew her.” The pale man’s words came out slowly, betraying no trace of nervousness. A hard gleam in his eyes contradicted his bland tone. The only mistake he’d made that night was allowing himself to be spotted by a lawman. He tipped his bowler hat. “My apologies, miss.”
With that, he stepped from her path. The patrolman blocked his exit.
“Not so fast.” His gaze lit on Sophie. “I’d like to hear your version of events, miss.”
Fashioning her features into a placid expression, Sophie met his inquiring eyes. “There’s no harm done. The gent made an error.” She slanted her gaze to the ruffian. “One that shall not be repeated, I’m sure.”
With a brisk nod, the constable sent the pale man on his way. He turned to Sophie. “Ye’d be wise to stay off these streets this time of night. Ye never know what of sort of fellow ye’ll encounter.”
“Wise words, indeed,” Sophie concurred. Of course, she was well aware of the nature of the fellow she’d encountered. But she knew better than to let on.
“Ye make yer home around these parts?”
“Yes. I’ve a room at Mrs. O’Brien’s boardinghouse.”
He gave another nod. “I know of the place. I can see ye part of the way while I carry out my patrol.”
The knot in her stomach loosened as she took note of the bobby’s badge. She’d be foolish to entirely trust any man out on these streets, even a man garbed in a constable’s uniform. But to refuse his offer would kindle suspicion she could ill afford. And she’d keep her weapon at the ready.
“Thank you. It is indeed reassuring to have an officer of the law at my side.”
Resuming her crisp strides, Sophie navigated the streets to the boardinghouse. Though little more than a mile from Trask’s office, an aching tension had settled into her bones. How she welcomed the prospect of a warm bed, a good book, and a locked door.
“I need to continue on my patrol, miss. I must leave ye on your way now.” Mild regret laced the constable’s tones. “Ye don’t have far now. If ye encounter any trouble, don’t hesitate to call for help.”
“I’m confident I shall have no difficulty making my way home. Thank you again for being a gentleman.” Sophie turned away, but the constable’s voice stilled her.
“A pretty miss like you had best be careful.” The benevolent notes that had colored his words had been replaced with a far steelier edge.
A shiver crept over her spine. “Indeed, I make a point to be vigilant.”
He eyed her, as if in warning. “Ye never know what sort of villains are lurking in the night.”
There were times when Sophie would much rather have been weaving her way through the streets of London on some inquiry or other than to be shuttered inside the serviceable room at the boardinghouse she’d called home since a month past her twentieth birthday.
This was not one of those times.
Gaslight illuminated the front entrance of the plain brick building a five minute walk beyond Charing Cross. A lamp blazed in a second story window. Bloody perfect. The landlady was still up and about. Sophie let out a sigh. After the trying events of the evening, she’d no patience for Mrs. O’Brien’s prying questions. With any luck, she’d manage to creep up the stairs while avoiding the matron’s all-too-observant eyes.
A low, plaintive cry drew her attention to the shadows just beyond the front door. A cat strolled from the darkness, its eyes gleaming yellow in the lamplight. Another soft meow, and the sleek creature sidled up to Sophie, rubbing against her skirt. Crouching, she gave the cat a gentle rub behind the ears that was rewarded with a robust purr. The ebony kitten certainly knew how to win her over, night after night.
Turning to the stairs, she dashed up to her flat, lit a lamp, and bolted the door behind her. She gave the latch a tug for good measure. The pistol in the bedside table would provide ample defense against an intruder, but she’d no desire to put that theory to the test.
Stepping lightly over a rug that had seen better days…much better days, from the looks of the threadbare spots scattered throughout its braided threads, she tiptoed to the painted chest beside the window, removed her high-top boots, and took out her nightdress. She slipped off the oh-so-prim garments she’d selected with Stanwyck in mind and donned the simple gown. The soft cotton was smooth and warm against her skin, but a shiver danced over her arms.
A muffled squeak beneath her stocking-clad feet jarred her, and she sighed again. With any luck, Mrs. O’Brien had snored through the board’s creaky protest. In any case, there was nothing to be done about it.
She snatched her wrapper from the hook on the wall and huddled within it, then propped a pillow between the bed and the wall. Leaning against it, she stretched out her legs and wiggled her toes. Such a small, glorious pleasure after their confinement within her tautly laced shoes.
Nervous energy pulsed in her veins. Considering the events of the evening, it seemed no wonder. Even now, the constable’s creased, ordinary features played in her memory. She’d no true cause to harbor suspicion of the man. So why had his words of caution struck an ominous chord?
Ah, she was letting her doubts get the better of her. By all rights, she should be under her blanket, dreaming of some rousing expedition in a sunny, far-off place, but she knew better than to think sleep would come. Not yet. Not while her mind still raced with questions.
She opened the book on her bedside table, but she could find no interest in the novel. Drat. Closing it, she retrieved her journal from the drawer directly beneath the one in which she stored her Sharps Pepperbox revolver.
Relaxing against the makeshift bolster, Sophie glanced over her notes. Anyone who happened upon the leather-bound journal she’d received from her uncle on her seventeenth birthday would believe the book to be a diary, the events within meriting little interest. Indeed, over the years, she’d documented her fascination with all things Egyptian and even kept note of the hieroglyphs she’d learned to interpret. But recent entries contained hidden information within the scribblings. Utilizing a code she’d devised, she’d penned key references to the cases she’d investigated since becoming a part of the Colton Agency. Even her mentor, Jennie Quinn Colton, would be hard-pressed to decipher the hidden meaning in her seemingly ordinary statements accented with symbols first written thousands of years earlier in the Nile Valley.
The pale man’s cold, hard eyes flashed in her thoughts. She was loath to admit it, even to herself, but fear had rippled through her during the encounter. The ruffian was not the sort who’d hesitate to hurt a woman. His cruel expression betrayed that much. Her knife would’ve enabled her defense. But she uttered a small, silent prayer of thanks that she had not needed to use the weapon.
She’d never laid eyes on the blighter before tonight. Not that she’d have much cause to mingle with his sort. In her position at the Herald, she reported news of the latest fashions from the Continent, provided gossip-laden accounts of society balls, and depicted the goings-on of London’s elite. Her latest article for the Ladies’ Pages had featured the eccentric widow of a prominent industrialist who’d constructed an elegant home on her country estate for her beloved Abyssinian cats. Amusing, perhaps. But certainly not fraught with peril, unlike the undercover investigations her mentor had conducted during her years at the paper.
Jennie’s exposés had destroyed powerful criminals and uncovered abuses at facilities entrusted with caring for the most vulnerable in society. She’d stepped away from her role at the paper and now employed her investigative talents as a director of the agency she and her husband had founded at the behest of the Crown. Operating under the guise of a detective service, the agents delved into matters beyond the expertise of Scotland Yard.
Sophie had been honored to become a part of the exciting endeavor, even as she’d maintained her role as a reporter at the Ladies’ Pages. Her position at the Herald provided access to places and events and society types who played into their investigations and offered a plausible justification for her travels throughout the city. Unlike her journalistic duties, her assignments on behalf of the agency were laced with risk. Even though Jennie urged caution, Sophie relished the thrill of treading a bit dangerously. The adventure of it all made her come alive.
Even so, the encounter with the pale man had triggered an innate warning. Perhaps more caution was warranted.
Pushing the wiry cur from her thoughts, she focused on the notations she’d made regarding her investigation.
The first death had come late in the winter. Outspoken and brash, Albert Cochrane, Lord Eversleigh, had garnered his fair share of adversaries during three decades in Parliament, though, none might have been considered an enemy, much less one who’d shatter the back of the man’s skull. A trusted member of the Queen’s inner circle, the viscount had been consumed by grief following the death of his beloved son. Eversleigh had sought out Trask, desperate for some hint that his son’s spirit lived on in another realm.
He’d been found early one morning, sprawled lifeless upon freshly fallen snow, steps from the entry to his Mayfair home. Only a thin trickle of blood at the base of his skull had provided any clue that the aging viscount’s death had been the result of decidedly unnatural causes. A tragic accident, the officials had said, speculating the gentleman had taken a deadly fall. A logical conclusion, most agreed.
Pity the verdict could not explain the presence of a needle puncture behind the viscount’s left ear.
Sophie tapped her fingertip against the paper, mulling the facts of the case. Eversleigh’s daughter had relayed details of her father’s meetings with Trask, but in her distraught state, authorities had given little credence to her accusations.
Sir Clayton Fenshaw had been the second man to die. He’d risen from humble means, parlaying the fortune he’d made in the textile trade into the power that came with a seat in Parliament. The well-heeled industrialist had met his fate at his country home on a glorious spring day. Thrown from his beloved steed, Fenshaw had suffered a broken neck, or so the formal inquiry had concluded. That verdict could not explain away the single bruise over the pulse point on his throat, a marking approximately the size of a man’s thumb. That inconvenient detail was dismissed as irrelevant to what was deemed an accidental demise. The man’s connection with Neil Trask had not been examined. After all, it wouldn’t do to bring attention to the desperation of a grief-stricken man. But the fact remained that Fenshaw had attended at least three sittings with Trask, seeking contact with the wife he’d lost to a merciless fever.
Of course, it might well be a coincidence. There was no reason to suspect that Trask had any connection with the deaths.
Until the third man had died.
She let out a sigh. This morbid exercise was serving no purpose, other than ensuring she would not sleep well that night. Without further evidence of Trask’s involvement, she could draw no conclusions. She’d have to delve deeper into Trask’s records and see what other intelligence she could coax out of the man. If he had files hidden away, she needed to find them.
Sophie closed the journal and slid it back into the drawer. Extinguishing the lamp, she pulled the covers tight and stared up at the ceiling. She was missing a piece of the puzzle. Somewhere in that cramped space Trask referred to as a salon, he’d left some clue, some evidence that would shed light on his connection to the mysterious deaths.
And somehow, she’d simply have to find it.