A Matter of Grave Concern (10 page)

“It’s possible she has help.”

“Still! A female body snatcher! What’s this world coming to?”

Max knew he should let it go at that. He didn’t want Holmes mentioning his query to Jack when they next spoke, but the pressure he felt to return Abigail to the college, and to find Madeline before it was too late—if it wasn’t too late already—forced him to press a little harder. “Is there any chance you might know where I can find her?”

“No. But if she contacts me, I will be sure to send word straightaway.”

“It’s a bit of a sore subject with Jack, the way she jilted him.”

“He must have been furious!”

“Indeed, so if you happen to see or hear anything about Madeline, I would appreciate you alerting me and me only. I would even pay you a few guineas for your discretion.” He would have said he’d pay handsomely. He was willing to part with just about any sum. But it would not serve him well to let Mr. Holmes know how desperate he was.

When Ebenezer narrowed his gaze, Max feared he had already revealed too much.

“You aren’t planning to oust Jack, to take over the London Supply Company by joining forces with this woman?”

“No.” Max breathed a sigh of relief that the undertaker hadn’t guessed the real reason for his interest. “I am too loyal for that.”

“Loyal? In this business? That won’t get you very far. You should take control.
You
are the stronger leader. Think of how much more you could make.”

“Greed often leads to trouble,” he warned and left.

Abby listened for any creak, rattle or footfall, any indication at all that Jack or Tom might be hovering outside the door, hoping to find some way into the room. She knew, without being told, that they would love nothing more than to prove Max wrong in his belief that he could keep her to himself. The challenge he had created, not to mention the insult, strengthened their desire and determination. But, other than a few settling noises, she heard nothing.

Before long, she became convinced that she was in the house alone, which made her almost as frustrated as she was relieved. This would have been the perfect time to escape! If only Max or Jack hadn’t tied Borax to the tree outside her window. Even if she was willing to risk breaking her neck by climbing out, the second she dropped to the ground, she would be eaten alive. Whenever she appeared at the window, Borax stared up at her as though salivating at the thought.

She was stuck stewing and washing Max Wilder’s clothes—or what was left of them.

Preening in the mirror, she admired the simple dress she had created by disassembling one of his coats, incorporating one of his shirts and using the fabric of a cravat and a pair of his trousers for trim. If she had to continue to share a room with him, at least now she had something better to wear than her gypsy rags.

She was proud of her resourcefulness. But, in her more reflective moments, she was also frightened as to how he would react when he saw the results of her day with a needle and thread. His clothing had been better quality than the average person’s; no doubt those garments had cost him a goodly sum. But he had every other advantage the situation could offer. He could hardly begrudge her a decent change of clothes.

A noise from downstairs brought her to the door. Someone was home.

Was it Max?

She pressed her ear to the wooden panel but, unable to hear anything else, crossed over to the window to look out. She couldn’t see the courtyard from her vantage point—only the dog. By the way Borax strained against his leash, however, something was going on.

Sure enough, a second later she heard Max, Jack or Tom rummaging around.

Or was it her father? Had he finally come?

Feeling a burst of claustrophobia and desperation, she was tempted to call out, but Max’s warning about her father’s safety kept her quiet. Her father didn’t need to become embroiled in the mess she had created. It would threaten everything he loved—cost him the school and maybe even his knighthood. Max had said he would return her to the college eventually, and since he had protected her on two occasions, she was beginning to believe he would keep that promise.

The question was . . . when?

The stairs creaked as someone climbed them. Then the knob on the door to her room turned and rattled when whoever it was realized it was locked.

She pressed a hand to her chest in a futile attempt to push down the fear that sprang up. “Who is it?”

“Where’s Max?” a terse voice replied.

Jack.
Fear made her skin prickle. “I haven’t seen him since he locked me in this room.”

“If you’d rather be locked in
my
room, all you have to do is say so. We’ll figure it out, you and I. And I’ll make damn sure you get that elephant back—that and a lot more.”

As much as she longed for her beloved keepsake, he couldn’t bribe her, not even if he offered her the moon. She would rather die than let him lay a hand on her.

Laughing softly when she didn’t answer, he said, “What if I gave you a few shillings of the money we took
and
that fancy bauble?”

No doubt, to a common prostitute, that would sound like a generous offer. But she prayed he would just move on down the hall. “I want to go home.”

“I could arrange for that, too, in due time. How much is it worth to you? Would you spread your legs for me first?”

Afraid he might try to bust in, she cowered against the far wall, amid all the wet laundry she had draped on the furniture. Was he serious, or just trying to harass her? “Leave me alone.”

“You haughty bitch!” he snapped. “You seem content enough to let Wilder have a go!”

If she had her guess, the fact that he believed his rival had taken liberties bothered him more than anything. He wanted to be able to compete with Max, wanted to compare favorably. But he stood no chance. As far as Abby was concerned, it didn’t matter that they were both criminals of a sort. Jack wasn’t a fraction of the man Max was. Whenever she let her mind wander, her thoughts invariably turned to Max and the comfort he had provided when she finally crawled into bed with him the night before. The more she considered him, the more she began to look forward to seeing him again—ironic, given he was partly to blame for her predicament.

“You’re taken with that pretty face of his, eh?” Jack said.

Max’s physical attributes were certainly appealing, and seemed to be growing more so the longer she was around him. “I don’t know where he is. But he should be home soon,” she said.
Please let that be the case
.

“He better be,” Jack responded. “Because if he doesn’t come back, there will be no more asking you nicely. I’ll lift your skirts whenever and wherever I decide.”

Feeling sick, Abigail slid down the wall. As far as she knew, her father hadn’t come looking for her as expected. She had never felt more alone, and she had felt alone for most of her life.

Where was Max? Why would Jack suggest that he might not come back? Did he know something she didn’t?

“You . . . you wouldn’t seriously hurt a member of your own gang, would you?” She hated the tremor in her voice, but she knew he would. He had already pulled a knife on Max once.

“A man like that is going to get what’s comin’ to him eventually. That’s all I’m sayin’. And maybe it’ll be sooner rather than later.” He rattled the doorknob again. “Maybe it’ll even be tonight,” he said and whistled while he walked away.

Chapter 11

Someone was following him. This time, Max felt sure. He didn’t recognize any of the faces he saw when he turned to look, but the hair stood up on the back of his neck. It was almost as if he could hear footsteps that fell in stride with his own. Every time he walked, someone else did, too.

He stopped in an alcove and waited, hoping to take whomever it was by surprise.

No one suspicious passed by.

Leaning out, he gazed down the narrow street. But it was raining and far too dark in the warrens off Whitechapel Road to distinguish one individual from the next. It could be Jack who was trailing him, or another member of the London Supply Company. Or it could be nothing more than a desperate or greedy pickpocket hoping to lift his purse.

Pulling his coat tightly closed to avoid the wet, he shoved off the grimy brick building, hurried around a small bend and ducked into a dimly lit brothel on Berners Street.

A stout woman, dressed in a red velvet, low-cut gown—the procuress, no doubt—introduced herself as Jane Davenport and offered him an eager smile. He had seen similar smiles—far more shrewd than they were meant to appear—on a hundred women or more as he combed through the seediest parts of Wapping, Covent Garden and Whitechapel.

“What can I do for you tonight?” She got up from her desk and came around to meet him. There was a sitting room to one side, where a cat lounged on a chaise next to a table bearing tea and cakes. “Would you like to start with something hot to drink?”

“No, thank you.” He preferred to get right to the point, to ask if she had seen Madeline and describe his half sister while studying her face for any hint of recognition. But if he had been followed, he dared not make his purpose so obvious lest someone from the London Supply Company question her after he left. As anxious as he was, as cognizant of the passing days and the fruitlessness of what he had accomplished so far, he could not grow careless. He had to be prudent—and not just for his own sake. Abby was at Farmer’s Landing. She was depending on him, too.

“I’m looking for a young woman.”

“Most of the men who come in here are,” she responded, batting her eyelashes. “Have we met before?”

He feared maybe they had, in his wilder days. To his parents’ dismay, he and his best friend, Ethan, hadn’t always kept the best company while they were getting an education at Cambridge, and she looked vaguely familiar. But it was important she not recognize him.

“No, I’m sure we haven’t. I’m new to Whitechapel,” he said and scowled in concentration, pretending to study the handbill posted on a sign next to her desk. This handbill gave a physical description of the prostitutes within her establishment, including each woman’s sexual specialties. It reminded him of the notorious gentleman’s guide to the current brothels and prostitutes in London—
Harris’s List of Covent Garden Ladies—
even though it hadn’t been published in some years, since The Proclamation Society brought the publisher up on charges in an effort to stop the dispersing of “poison” to the young and unwary. He’d barely been born when that happened, but he’d seen a copy while he was at Cambridge.

“Then let me be one of the first to welcome you and to assure you that you will receive nothing but pleasure here—all my girls are clean.”

Judging by the smell of the brothel, that was nothing Max could ever take for granted. He pitied the fools who did. But this establishment was definitely a cut above the competition, especially for these parts. He could see why so many recommended Madame Davenport’s.

She slipped her arm through his as she guided him across the room to a high-backed chair. “Here, sit. Let me get you a handbill you can study more closely.” She stepped back, making him uncomfortable again by eyeing him carefully. “Although . . . maybe I can make the decision an easy one. I have recently acquired a new girl, a virgin of only fifteen. I’m guessing a man as virile as you might enjoy the taking of such innocence, yes?”

Virgins were so sought after that some women physically altered their bodies in an attempt to pass themselves off as never having been with a man. Procuresses liked virgins, too, because they sold for a premium. But Madeline had had a child. Max doubted she would ever try to pass herself off as untouched, even if she had sunk as low as prostitution.

“I prefer a woman with some experience,” he said. Those words weren’t simply his way of furthering his search. They were true—or used to be. Almost as soon as he said them, he thought of Abby. She had no experience whatsoever, and yet she appealed to him just as she was.

God, Abby again?
He couldn’t seem to get her off his mind. At random moments, her pleasure over the mirror and brush set he’d bought her would pop into his head—and he’d smile. Or he’d remember the no-nonsense way she had described sexual intercourse, as if she knew so much when she knew next to nothing, and he would chuckle to himself.

“Rather than have me choose from a piece of paper, why don’t you bring them all out?” he asked Madame Davenport. “I’ll know what I want when I see it.”

She blinked in surprise. “I’m afraid that’s impossible. Some are already working.”

“Then show me what you’ve got.” Since he couldn’t
ask
if she had seen someone of Madeline’s description, he would have to check for himself.

“As you wish.” Stepping back so he could sit down, she gave him a nod and bustled off.

When she returned some fifteen minutes later, she had ten women in tow.

Max nearly jumped to his feet when he spotted one, entering the room behind two others. She had hair the same color as Maddy’s! That shade was so unusual, he felt sure he had finally found his sister, so sure that his breath caught as he anticipated whisking her away.

But . . . no. As he shifted in his seat to see her face, he realized the girl was far too young. She wasn’t nearly as pretty, either.

The bitter taste of disappointment rose in his mouth as he pretended to consider the selection. “How many more possibilities do you have?” he asked.

“Six,” Madame Davenport informed him. “And we get more every week if we don’t have something here you like.”

He would have to come back to see the other six—just like he had to revisit all the other places he’d been, in case something had changed since he had been there before. He wanted to dismiss them all so he could move on, but he couldn’t leave the premises quite yet. He had to stay long enough to convince whomever had been following him that he had come for the usual reason.

After selecting a woman who reminded him, although remotely, of Abigail, which was somehow a positive association, he let her lead him into the back.

The girl told him her name was Kitty and wound her arms around his neck as soon as the door closed behind them, but he set her aside. Whatever he had imagined in this woman to be like Abigail—he could already tell she was nothing like her in reality. “I’m too tired for anything more than a good rub,” he said.

“A
rub
?” she echoed as if it were a disappointment.

“Yes.”

“That’s a lot of work,” she complained. “Takes longer, too, so it’ll cost you extra.”

“I’ll pay it.”

“Why? Why not use what you got ’tween your legs instead? Let me enjoy my work, for a change?”

“For a change?” he repeated.

Her lips curved into an appreciative smile as she cupped him. “It’s not often we get a man handsome as yourself. It’ll give me something to dream about later, when the next guy’s fat as butter.”

He stopped her from fondling him. “I just want the backrub.”

Offended that he would refuse, she stuck her bottom lip out. “Suit yourself, then.” She indicated the bed. “Lay down.”

Unwilling to touch the linens, he pulled a chair into the center of the room.

“What’s that for?” she asked.

“That’s where I’m going to sit.”

She looked confused. “You don’t want to stretch out? If you lay down, maybe I can prove that you’re more interested than you thought.”

“I’m afraid not.”

“No one’ll believe you were such a disappointment,” she grumbled, but once she started to knead his shoulders, he thought he was the one who had the right to complain. He’d never had a worse backrub.

But her lack of skill didn’t matter. He was just biding his time. In another quarter of an hour, he could walk out without worrying that whoever had been nipping at his heels might find it strange that he had stayed for only a few minutes.

“Do you like this?” the girl asked.

He made a noise indicating assent.

“It would be nice if you remembered I’m in the room once in a while, you know.”

His mind had been drifting—he’d been thinking of Abby again, wondering what she was doing. He needed to hurry home so that he could make sure she had what she needed before going to work with Jack and the others.

“I’m paying you; you’re not paying me,” he reminded her. “I owe you no favors.”

She shut up after that, and they managed to whittle away twenty minutes. But after making himself dally that long, he walked out and headed down the street—and it was only a few minutes later when he felt that same creeping sensation that he was being followed.

Determined to figure out who it was—and to put a stop to it—he ducked into the alcove of a tavern but didn’t go inside. He slipped around a knot of men who were just exiting instead—and waited.

Sure enough, Emmett came skulking up, hesitant lest he be overeager and get himself caught, but so intent on seeing inside the entrance when the door opened again that he didn’t notice Max standing to the side.

“Why are you following me?” Max asked as he grabbed his arm.

Emmett didn’t seem overly concerned. He merely flipped his wet hair out of his face. “Why do you think? Jack asked me to. He’s asked me to do it a number of times.”

Max had expected him to lie. He liked Emmett much better when he didn’t. “I left Farmer’s Landing well before you.”

“No. I started out immediately after, just as soon as we divided the money from Aldersgate.”

Max studied him. Did he know anything? Did he seem concerned or overly suspicious? “And?” he asked. “Have I done anything particularly interesting this evening? Or before, for that matter?”

“Not that I can tell. You do a lot of walking, I can say that.”

He hadn’t been
walking
; he’d been searching. Besides Madame Davenport’s brothel, he had visited several taverns. He’d asked about Madeline at each. Had Emmett gone in afterward to inquire as to his business there? Or had he simply continued to follow? “Why would Jack be interested in what I do on my own time?” he asked.

“He thinks you’re up to something.” Emmett spat at the ground. “You know Jack. He always thinks the worst.”

“That’s true enough, but I’m a little surprised you’d tell me. You know he wouldn’t like it.”

Emmett kicked a stone as they started down the street together. “You gonna give me away?”

“I haven’t decided yet. Answer my question, and we’ll see.”

“You’re a decent chap, not angry like Jack and not weak like Bill. I like having you around; I don’t want him to run you off.”

Max couldn’t help feeling sorry for Emmett. He’d been born into the squalor of Whitechapel. After being abandoned by a destitute mother, he’d had to shift for himself on these streets—by begging, trading sex for money or pickpocketing. Emmett knew Aldgate, Bethnal Green, Mile End, Limehouse, Bow and the other villages east of London better than the rats that infested the area.

“He won’t run me off for visiting a brothel, will he?”

“Not normally.”

“Is this somehow different?”

“Can’t say as he’ll understand it now that you got that pretty surgeon’s daughter he wants so badly for himself. I mean, what would you want with a common whore when you can dip your wick in something like her—especially you, clean as you are?”

Max had pulled on his gloves before leaving Madame Davenport’s. He smoothed them on tighter as they reached Whitechapel Road. “Maybe I have a predilection for things Abby doesn’t know how to do.”

“A pre . . . what?”

Emmett might not know what the word meant, but he certainly understood more about human fetishes and perversion than most people. After he had worked as a mudlarker—a child who scavenged the coal that spilled from coal barges down at the docks—he had become a male prostitute until he grew too old to be attractive to the type of men who typically hired him. “A common whore will perform certain . . . favors a man can’t ask of a regular woman.”

“Oh. Aye. But you don’t seem the type to need . . .” He stretched his neck. “Never mind. I’m just glad you came out of Madame Davenport’s when you did. Jack remembered something right after you left and changed our meeting spot for tonight. He wouldn’t have been happy if you didn’t show up for work tonight.”

Max thought of Abby. He’d assumed he would have the chance to take her more food before going to work with the others. What he had left couldn’t be enough to keep her from going to bed hungry. “I just need to head home and make sure Abby has everything she needs. Then I’ll join you.”

“I’d let Abby wait, if I were you.”

“Excuse me?”

He shoved past two men who were haggling over something and standing in their way. “If you go all the way to Wapping, you won’t get back in time. And it’ll seem strange that you’ve got so much to do you can’t make a midnight rendezvous, especially when you need money as bad as you do.”

Something about the way Emmett said that last part made Max uneasy. Was he simply trying to be helpful, to look out for him? Or did he know more than he’d let on? “Why wouldn’t I make it back? Where are we meeting?”

“Just down the street here, at St. Mary’s. We’re almost there now.”

But Abby had to be getting hungry . . . “I’ll have to be late. We have a corpse on the sofa. We have to deliver that, anyway—before it starts to putrefy.”

“Jack and Bill said they’d take care of that. I’m guessing they already have.”

Max got the impression that this was some sort of test—and figured he and Abby would probably both be safer if he complied. “Fine. She won’t starve in one night. We’ll go now and get it over with.”