“Bah! Arrogant Bow Street rabble. I daresay this matter might have been resolved weeks ago, had he simply accepted your assistance. A good hunter knows the advantages of a superior hound.” —The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to her boon companion, Humphrey, upon receiving Mr. Jonas Hawthorn’s reply to a most generous offer.
The prostitute was not poisoned. She’d been discovered inside a house in Knightsbridge, her throat cut open, her face beaten so badly she’d been unidentifiable. Pinned to her gown, however, had been a flower, shriveled and dry. Henbane. Jonas had known it on sight, thanks to the botanical sketches Holstoke had sent him.
Now, as he tapped his pencil against his notebook and watched a constable haul a drunkard to stand before the Bow Street magistrate, Jonas rubbed his eyes and silently cursed. In the two days since a watchman had discovered the body, he had not slept. Something about this murder deepened the itch along his neck.
Poison was a refined weapon, distancing and clean. Fists were personal. Enraged.
He’d scoured the area around Knightsbridge, asked neighbors what they’d noticed. Nobody had heard or seen anything. The house had sat empty for years, and Knightsbridge was not known for its prostitutes. But she’d been dressed like one, her body showing signs of her profession. That was all he knew.
“Sleepin’ again, Hawthorn?”
Jonas glanced up to see Drayton limping toward him. “Tell me you found something.”
Drayton tossed his notebook on the desk in front of Jonas and slumped into a chair, rubbing his leg as though it pained him. “She was a lightskirt, name of Mary Bly. Her bawd, Old Sally Sawyer, claims she went missin’ a week ago.”
A week. Jonas sat forward, his skin prickling. “What else did Old Sally say?”
“Not much.” Drayton looked as tired as Jonas felt, his eyes drooping even more than usual. “Miss Bly had been at it a year or so. A right popular dove.”
“Popular?”
“Aye.” Drayton winced and rubbed harder at his leg. “The gents called her Midnight Mary, on account of her hair. A real beauty. That was all the bawd would say. You know Old Sally. Cares more for ’er gin than ’er girls.”
Jonas shot out of his chair and retrieved his greatcoat and hat.
“Hawthorn! Where the devil are you goin’, man?”
“To speak to Old Sally.” He had a sick feeling in his gut. This murder was different. It was a message. He just hadn’t deciphered it yet.
Drayton groaned and shoved to his feet. Ignoring the older man, Jonas strode out of the Bow Street office and headed for Castle Street, where Old Sally resided. He was halfway there when he felt it. The itch on his neck intensified, running down his spine like a trickle of water. He glanced over his shoulder. Saw Drayton loping to catch up, yet falling behind. He scanned the shouting peddlers and indolent wretches who frequented the outskirts of Covent Garden. Little pickpockets darted between pedestrians. Carts full of pottery and fruit and chickens lumbered by. A young girl sold a handful of daisies to a couple fresh from the country. The girl’s accomplice lifted the man’s purse as deftly as Jonas shaved his whiskers.
Bloody hell, his nerves were ablaze. He walked faster, disguising his speed with a slouched posture and lengthened gait. Night was coming. Gray light gradually thickened into dusk.
He found Old Sally leaning against the wood-framed corner of her lodging house, arguing price with a withered man thrice the age of the girl whose arm he clasped.
“Go on with ye!” the bawd shouted, yanking the girl’s other arm. “’Tis two-pound-five or nothin’, ye old sod.” She shoved the man hard. He stumbled back into the path of a hack. The driver shouted and veered, narrowly missing him.
Ignoring the fracas, the young whore adjusted her bodice and grinned prettily at Jonas as he approached. “Ooh, ye’re a ’andsome one, ain’t ye? Care for a tumble?”
Old Sally glanced up from the coins she’d been counting. “Eh. Don’t bother, gel. ’Ee’s got more’n ’is share without payin’ for it. Ain’t that so, Hawthorn?”
“Tell me about Mary Bly, Sally.”
The bawd sniffed. “She’s dead. What’s to tell?”
As he moved in closer, he could smell the gin on her breath, the sweat of summer’s heat. She was a fleshy woman, her hair a blend of orange and gray, her nose red and shiny, even in the dwindling light. “More than you told Drayton,” he uttered, pulling his notebook and pencil from his pocket. “Who hired her last?”
“Already told Drayton, I’s indisposed. She took payment ’erself.”
“What did she look like?”
The bawd shrugged. “Black hair. Flat bosom.”
“Tell me about her face.”
A scowl settled deep into the woman’s creases. “Comely enough to fetch four guineas.”
Tilting his head, he let her have a glimpse of his impatience. “Details, Sally. Now, if you please.”
The bawd shifted nervously, shot him a wary squint, and swallowed. “Light eyes. Fair skin. Good teeth. Like I said, four guineas. Would’ve been five if not for the bosoms.”
The sick feeling he’d been battling sank deeper. Grew colder. Apart from one feature, she might be describing Hannah Gray.
“Eh!” the bawd shouted, shooting past him to shove at the man who’d almost met his end beneath a hack. The man was pestering another of Old Sally’s girls.
Jonas released a breath, attempting to calm the bloody itch. He needed more answers. He needed to know who had hired Mary Bly and then murdered her in the most brutal fashion.
“Mr. Hawthorn?”
He turned.
The young, yellow-haired whore with bruises forming on her arms gazed up at him with a puckered frown. “Ye’re lookin’ for the man what killed Mary?”
“I am.”
“I—I might’a seen ’im.”
Bloody hell. “When?”
“A week past.” The girl’s brown eyes gleamed with tears. “Poor Mary. Is it true she were b-beaten?”
Gently, he took the girl’s elbow and drew her deeper into the shadows of the lodging house. “Just tell me what you remember. Can you describe him?”
The girl sniffed and swiped at her nose. “Mary ’ad the loveliest eyes. Like moonlight, they were. Drove the lads mad.”
Inside, he went colder. He reached into the lowest pocket of his greatcoat and withdrew a sketch he hadn’t meant for anyone’s eyes but his own. Carefully, he unfolded the paper. “Did she look something like this?”
The girl peered at his drawing. A frown tugged. “Aye. She were a bit ’arder, ye understand. Not as lovely as that one. But similar.”
He folded the sketch, tucked it away, and offered the girl a handkerchief.
She took it and blew her nose.
“I need to know about the man Mary left with. What did he look like?”
The girl made a show of dabbing her eyes. Sniffed again. Wiped away a tear. Then, she calmly held out her palm.
He glanced down at the small, empty hand. Came back to meet young, jaded eyes.
Devil take it. How he despised this world.
He dug out two pounds and five shillings and dropped the money into her open hand. “Now,” he said softly. “Tell me.”
“’Ee were shorter than you.”
He held his hand level with his nose.
She nodded. “Pleasant to look upon. ’Is eyes were soft, understand. Round, like ’ee were a green lad. But ’ee weren’t that. There were a coldness in ’im. I told Mary not to go. But ’ee offered five. Nobody does that.”
“Five guineas?”
She nodded again. “Last I saw of Mary Bly, she were climbin’ into a ’ack with ’im.”
He reached into his upper pocket and unfolded the now-careworn sketch. “Is this the man you saw?”
Her eyes widened. “Aye. Tha’s the one.”
His urgency increased a hundredfold. The blackguard was going to attack Hannah Gray. He did not know why, but it bloody well didn’t matter. All that mattered was reaching her. Keeping her safe.
“Ye missed ’is scar.”
He frowned and glanced down at the sketch. “What scar?”
She traced a finger along the side of the man’s neck. “Ear to shoulder. A long, white scar. From a blade, I reckon. Healed jagged, though.”
“He wasn’t wearing a neckcloth?”
“Naught but a shirt and waistcoat. Plain. Bit like yours. Tha’s why I took notice. Looked too poor to offer five shillings, never mind five guineas.”
Jonas did not understand the man’s game. He’d dressed in a footman’s livery to invade Randall’s house—complete with the powdered wig. An effective disguise if a man wished to blend into the scenery. Then, he’d solicited a prostitute wearing plain, humble clothes that exposed a distinguishing scar. No wig. No disguise.
Why change patterns with Mary Bly? Why not poison her and leave her somewhere near Covent Garden, where she was known to ply her trade?
Knightsbridge was a fair distance away. The blackguard had paid for the hack. He’d paid five guineas for Miss Bly. He’d managed to enter a vacant house and murder a woman without the neighbors noticing.
And he could be anywhere.
Once again, Jonas glanced around, taking in the rabble of Castle Street. The workhouse. The lodging house. The withered man arguing with the bawd.
He nodded to the girl and tucked away his notebook and the sketch. Then, he began to move. He needed to go to Dorsetshire. He needed to be where Hannah Gray was. The prickle in his neck and the fire in his spine screamed it until his pace neared a run.
He rounded the corner off of Hart Street and felt his neck catch fire. Sheer instinct drove him to dart left.
A searing pain speared his shoulder.
He blinked, disoriented by the force of the blow. It jerked him sideways into a wall of brick.
Blood pounded. Drumming and drumming. His hand went numb. Dripped.
He looked everywhere, but dark had fallen while he’d talked to the yellow-haired whore. Nobody in sight. A single light. It glowed gold in a window on the second story. The window was open.
His breathing sharpened. He shoved away from bricks. Staggered forward toward the gold glow. A figure appeared in silhouette. Tall. Different than he’d drawn. He blinked, the gold and shadow blurring.
A quiet thwick. Another streak of agony. His right thigh.
He went to his knees hard. His blood drummed and drummed. Seeped and pooled. Whatever had struck him made his vision blur. He could scarcely see his own hands gripping cobbles and dirt.
He’d met death before. Old friends, they were.
This was not how things would end.
He needed to get to the gold window. That was all. He needed to kill one man before that man killed … her.
Bracing his hand on the bricks, he forced himself to rise. Forced his feet to plant and his hand to shove and his left leg to carry his full weight. The filthy street tilted. Undulated and duplicated. He shook his head. Took a step.
An explosion of anguish cannoned through his right leg. He looked down. Twin feathered arrows protruded from his thigh. No, not twin. There was one. One in his leg and one in his shoulder.
Christ, his blood kept drumming and drumming. He had to get to the window. Had to kill one man.
Another step. Another burst of anguish. A third. And a fourth.
“Hawthorn!”
A fifth. His breath sawed in and out. He focused upon the door that led to the second story that led to the blackguard who meant to kill … her.
“Bloody, bleeding hell, man. Are those arrows?” It was Drayton.
He fell to his knees again as the other man reached him. “W-window.” He gripped Drayton’s arm, shaking it. “Second story. Go.” He shoved, but he was weak. Too damned weak.
Drayton attempted to pull him up.
“Go!” Jonas roared, pointing toward the gold window.
A cursing, limping lope carried the other man away.
Jonas tried to convince the ground to steady. But it was only growing wetter.
His blood drummed and drummed. The darkness came, gray at the edges.
Breathing was shallow now. He blinked. Sound faded. A woman passed by, her skirts swishing away from him.
A woman. Pale skin. Eyes of moonlight. Hair of midnight. Miles above him. Leagues. Cold and pristine as a winter lake.
“… will hurt like bleeding hell, Hawthorn. Must be done …”
Fire. In his shoulder and leg. Bursting white behind his eyes, then dark and gray and blurred. Then rocking. Pulsing green gaslights.
“… see Dunston’s surgeon. Hold tight, man. Nearly there.”
For a moment, his vision sharpened. He saw Drayton above him in a coach. A hack, perhaps. The wheels clattered on the pavement at a furious pace.
“Catch him?” Jonas wheezed.
Drayton ran a hand over his whiskered, haggard face. “No. He was gone. Left the bow behind, though. Generous fellow.”
Jonas reached up with his uninjured arm and carefully clawed a fistful of Drayton’s coat. He drew the older man down so that he would hear him well. The green gaslights were dimming. Blurring.
“Must go to Dorsetshire.”
“Hawthorn—”
“Dorsetshire,” he shouted, though it came out as a threaded wheeze. “She is in danger.”
Drayton glowered, his eyes flashing in the passing light. “Who?”
“Gray,” he whispered. “Hannah Gray.”
“You’re out of your head. Once the surgeon has a chance to—”
“Swear it to me,” he growled, shaking Drayton with as much force as he could muster, which was not much. “Must go to Dorsetshire. Warn Holstoke. Protect her.”
“Aye. Dorsetshire. I’ll leave at first light.”
“We,” he corrected, the green lights graying. Blurring. Disappearing.
His grip slipped loose as he heard Drayton’s rough crack of laughter. “… daft, Hawthorn … been shot … bleeding arrows, for Christ’s sake.”
Jonas’s eyes drifted closed until the only thing he saw was … her. “I am going,” he whispered, wondering if he’d only spoken the words in his mind. “This is not how it ends.”
*~*~*