A Matter of Grave Concern (19 page)

She turned away to wash with the pitcher and bowl. “I want what I can’t have. And now, so do you.”

Chapter 20

This time Max let Abby join him in Mr. Hawley’s office. She was wearing the dress she had fashioned out of Max’s coat in place of her gypsy rags, and the mark he had left on her neck was almost gone. In her own estimation, she had to look a lot more respectable. But, like before, Mr. Hawley didn’t take much notice of her. She could only hope he remained as oblivious of the tension between her and Max—although she couldn’t imagine how that was possible. There was so much emotion flowing under the surface they could scarcely look at each other.

“I’ve found a few things,” the clerk announced, getting right to the point.

“It’s about time we have a change in fortune,” Max responded. He was in no mood for further disappointment, and Abby could easily tell. “What have you learned?”

“That woman who died? The one you were worried about being murdered?”

“With the glass eye?” Max slid forward in his seat and Abby caught her breath.

“Her name was Anna Harper. She was a widow who boarded with a Mr. Bolstrum and his wife.”

“How do you know?”

He rubbed his hands in apparent eagerness. “I found a shopkeeper who recognized her description.”

“You’ve spoken to this Bolstrum and his wife, then?”

“I have. They claim she fell ill and passed unexpectedly.”

“In their house?”

“Yes. In her own bed.”

Max’s gaze strayed to Abby. He was obviously eager to celebrate this small victory with her. At least they had discovered
something
about the woman, something that might lead them further. But then he must have remembered that they were at odds, because he jerked his attention away. “Then how did Jack gain possession of her body?”

The door slid open with a bang, and a stocky, tattooed sailor came into the warehouse. Mr. Hawley got up to see what he wanted, gave him directions since he seemed to be in the wrong place, and returned. “Mr. Bolstrum said her family lives in India,” he told Max. “She has stacks of letters from them, which he showed me. He said that of course they couldn’t wait for someone that far away to make arrangements for her burial. It would take weeks just to notify them.”

“So they did . . . what?” Max asked.

“She was a member of a friendly society. After paying twopence a week for the past several years, she should have been afforded a decent funeral—an elm wood coffin with a coffin plate and handles, a velvet pall, even hatbands, hoods and scarves for the attendants.”

“How do you know?”

“I spoke with Mrs. Shrewsbury, who runs the society she was in.”

Max took a moment to digest Hawley’s response. Then he asked, “Why didn’t Anna Harper get what was due her?”

“Mr. Bolstrum claims he contacted the society and they came for the body. As far as he is concerned, she did get it.”

Abigail couldn’t stop herself from jumping in. “How long did she live with the Bolstrums?”

“Ah, your mind is going where mine did.” Mr. Hawley didn’t seem the least put off that she would be the one to ask this question. He was too pleased that he had an answer. “I wondered the same thing, so I asked him for his rental records.”

“And he complied?” Max asked wryly.

“He was eager to convince me that he had nothing to hide.”

“What did the ledger show?”

“She had been staying there since October of 1827.”

“After three years, he and his wife should have known her quite well,” Abigail mused. “Wouldn’t they be aware of her funeral? Wouldn’t they have wanted to attend?”

“Mr. Bolstrum mentioned that it was difficult to endure her company,” Mr. Hawley replied. “They weren’t on speaking terms at the time of her death.”

Abby looked to Max but only briefly, as he had looked at her before. “So it’s Mrs. Shrewsbury who sold her body to Jack?”

“It sounds like she would certainly have been in a position to do so.” It was Max who answered her question and yet his attention remained on Mr. Hawley.

The clerk seemed oblivious to the fact that they were so hesitant to engage each other directly. “I don’t think it was her,” he said. “Mrs. Shrewsbury insists she was never notified of Mrs. Harper’s death.”

“That merely makes it Bolstrum’s word against Mrs. Shrewsbury’s,” Max pointed out.

Mr. Hawley dipped his head in agreement. “Still, I believe Mrs. Shrewsbury—”

“Why?” Max broke in, sounding slightly irritated. “We can’t assume she’s honest just because she’s a woman.”

“Although a woman is probably more reliable than a man,” Abigail added.

She had spoken under her breath, but Max heard—and scowled at her. “You can’t intimate that I haven’t been honest with you.”

“That depends on your interpretation of
honest
. What you have told me came a bit late.”

The clerk’s eyes widened at this exchange.

Max arched his eyebrows. “And she’s the daughter of a surgeon,” he said as an aside. “Presumptuous, isn’t she?”

Provoked by his condescending manner—as if it was beyond shocking that she would dare speak to a successful man of business when she was
merely
the daughter of a surgeon—Abby regarded Mr. Hawley with a level stare. “Mr. Wilder has his own flaws.”

“The most grievous of which is the fact that I have a fiancée,” Max added dryly.

Abby gaped at him. “I wouldn’t want you, anyway!”

When Mr. Hawley coughed, Abby realized that she had gone too far. Finally feeling some of the embarrassment she would have felt much sooner, if not for the jealousy that poked her like a sharp stick, her cheeks flushed hot. “But . . . continue,” she said, trying to back away from the scene she had just caused in front of Max’s employee. “I will . . . I will say nothing more.”

There were several moments of silence. To Abby they felt as if they stretched on for an eternity, so she attempted to guide the conversation back to where it should be. “You were saying you believe Mrs. Shrewsbury and not Mr. Bolstrum,” she murmured to Max’s clerk.

“Right. Yes. So I was.” He seemed to be having difficulty getting over what he had just witnessed but, to Abby’s relief, he managed to resume. “It seems logical to me, given that it is Mr. Bolstrum who lives down the street from Bill Hurtsill.”

Thankfully, this piece of news was sufficient to propel the conversation forward, beyond her gaffe. Not that anyone was likely to forget her behavior, especially Abby.

“So after they left the Lion’s Paw, Bill, Emmett, Tom and Jack probably walked past Bill’s house on their way home,” Max said. “No doubt they expected to drop him off and continue. Instead, they received the ‘happy’ news of Mrs. Harper’s death, paid Mr. Bolstrum a few shillings and took her off his hands.”

“That’s a plausible scenario,” Mr. Hawley said. “Perhaps Mr. Bolstrum assumed, with her family in India, he could do as he pleased—and might as well make up for the rent he would lose while he advertised for a new boarder.”

Max studied his clerk. “He didn’t like her anyway.”

“He admitted as much.”

“So you don’t think she was murdered . . .”

Mr. Hawley kept his attention on Max. Abby couldn’t blame him. She had embarrassed them all with her outburst. Max had, to a point, provoked her. But she had overreacted.

“So far, we have no proof either way,” he said. “Given what you have told me about the London Supply Company, and Mr. Bolstrum’s apparent lack of feeling where Mrs. Harper was concerned, it is just as likely that they killed her and agreed to split the money her corpse could bring.”

A frown tugged on Max’s lips. “Jack told me that someone supplies him with a body here and there. That makes Mrs. Harper’s appearance at Farmer’s Landing sound like more than sheer luck. He even mentioned paying this person. That’s a business transaction. So what we need to learn now is whether or not he was speaking of Mr. Bolstrum.”

“Indeed,” the clerk said. “If we can discover a link between Mrs. Harper’s landlord and anyone else recently deceased under questionable circumstances, we might have our answer. Such a coincidence would be suspicious, to say the least.”

Worry and hope appeared on Max’s face. “Did you ask him about Madeline? Could it be that
she
boarded there?”

“Bolstrum
claims
he has never met her,” Mr. Hawley said.

“But . . .” Max prodded.

Even sitting there in abject misery and shame, Abigail could tell by the clerk’s inflection that he wasn’t convinced of Bolstrum’s verity in that regard any more than how Anna Harper had died.

“I got the impression he was lying.”

“Mr. Bolstrum is a stranger to you, Hobbs.”

Abigail hadn’t heard Max call Mr. Hawley by his nickname before. But, seeing how they interacted, she got the impression they had known each other a long time, which only made all she had said worse.

“He seemed to grow nervous when I mentioned her, was suddenly far more eager to send me on my way,” Hawley said.

Max rubbed his temples. “Maybe Jack hasn’t killed anyone. Maybe it’s someone else—Mr. Bolstrum—who’s to blame for Madeline and the woman with the enamel eye.”

Abby had promised herself she wouldn’t say another word, but she couldn’t let that go. “It has to be Jack,” she argued. “We already know that he is capable of murder. What happened to Tom tells us so.”

“We have no body for Tom, no proof,” Max responded.

She folded her hands in her lap. “There’s a chance I could get it. And if we can prove they killed Tom, chances are very good that they killed Mrs. Harper and Madeline, too.”

He looked at her despite the enmity between them. “How can
you
get proof?”

“I could go college to college, searching for his corpse. Before Jack could stop him, Bill said they made up for what we lost when we were interrupted at St. George’s last night. He mentioned fifteen guineas.”

“That’s a fairly high price for a corpse. It could be two, and they could be strangers to us—the results of information that gravedigger gave Jack.”

“Or it could be Tom. Corpses with a deformity like Tom’s harelip often sell for a premium.”

“If they killed Tom, they would have to be fools to sell his body,” Max said. “It would have been far wiser to simply dump it in the Thames.”

“In the heat of passion, people don’t always do what is wise,” she said. Hadn’t she just proven it? “Especially when there’s money involved.”

She could tell she was getting through to him, and yet Max still seemed reluctant to give her permission to do as she suggested.

“You know how careful the colleges have to be,” he said. “They won’t share any information.”

“With
you
.” Abigail felt confident
she
could persuade them—or most of them. “I might be associated with one of their competitors, but no one wants what Burke and Hare did repeated, least of all those in the medical community. Our reputation has suffered enough. Besides, I have met most of the surgeons in London at one time or another. They would rather let me in than you or the police. At least they know I will be as discreet as possible, that their interests are, to a large extent,
my
interests.”

He folded his arms as he sat back to study her. “Word of your inquiries could get back to your father. Have you considered that?”

She had, of course. “He might not like my involvement, but at least then he will understand that I am involved in something bigger than running away with a resurrection gang.” And falling in love with a man she could not have . . .

“We have to take
some
chances,” she added. “If Madeline’s alive, she could need help.”

He sighed. “I fear she is not alive. She would have reached out to her son, if she could.”

Feeling sheepish for letting her personal interest in him supersede the fact that he was trying to help his poor sister, Abby attempted a smile. No matter how hurt and disappointed she was, she couldn’t hold what had happened against him. He had never promised her more than what he had delivered. “We’ll find her. And we’ll put a stop to Jack Hurtsill, too.”

She put her hand over his to convince him, to apologize for her sharp tongue and encourage him at the same time, and felt his fingers slip through hers. She had thought he would give her a quick squeeze and let go—if she was forgiven. But she fell in love with him that much more when, in spite of his clerk’s presence, he lifted her hand to his mouth and kissed it.

Chapter 21

Before he would let her start making the rounds at the colleges to search for Tom’s body, Max took Abby to Cable Street, where Mrs. Harper’s landlord lived. He wasn’t satisfied with what they had learned from Mr. Hawley. He wanted her to pretend to be a friend of Madeline’s, to ask after his sister as if she were under the belief that Madeline had once resided there.

Abigail smoothed her hair as she waited on the stoop. Maybe some other woman would have Max when this was over—oh how she hated the thought of that—but Abby at least wanted to know she had done everything she could to help him. Finding Madeline meant so much to him.

Cable Street was known for its brothels and cheap lodgings, but this house wasn’t as dilapidated as some of the others. She expected to confront Mr. Bolstrum, as Mr. Hawley had, but a short, stout woman with gray hair responded to her knock.

“Good morning.” Abigail used her dimples to appear as young and appealing as possible.

The woman held the door with an ample hip while drying her hands on an apron—all business. “What can I do for you?”

“I’ve come all the way from Bristol to see Madeline.” She stepped back and looked at the house with a critical eye. “I do hope I’ve come to the right place.”

“I’m afraid you haven’t,” she said in no uncertain terms and started to go back in.

“Wait!” Abby caught the door before it could slam shut. “Madeline Alcott? You don’t know her? She has red hair and . . . and some freckles on her nose?”

“I can’t help you,” the woman replied, but this time there was something that rang false in her words. She recognized Madeline’s name; Abby could see it in her eyes. So she tried again, adding more distress to her performance, as if she might burst into tears.

“But this is the address she sent me. And I
have
to find her. I know no one else here in London.”

The woman glanced behind her as if she was afraid she might be overheard. Then she stepped out and closed the door. “I don’t know what she promised you, Miss, but there’s nothing she can do for you now.”

Abby was tempted to twist around and wave at Max. This woman knew Madeline; she had just admitted as much! But he was down the street, staying out of sight, and she dared not draw attention to him.

Suddenly far more anxious than before, lest she unknowingly give herself away now that she was making progress, she cleared her throat. “I’m a friend of a friend—new to the area, like I said. She wrote me, said if I came to her, she might be able to help me find lodgings.”

“That would be like her,” the woman said. “There wasn’t anyone with a softer heart than Madeline’s.”

Wasn’t? Past tense?
“So you
do
know her? Are you Mrs. Bolstrum then?”

“No, I’m just a charwoman who comes in to clean one day a week. My help eases some of the pressure on Mrs. Bolstrum, who’s ill more often than not.”

“But you met Madeline here?”

She lowered her voice. “Aye, she was a boarder, for a short time. But not anymore.”

Abby pressed a hand to her chest as if this was harsh news indeed. “Where did she go?”

The charwoman’s eyes grew troubled and, with a frown that suggested she was contemplating how she would respond, she stared off into space.

“Mum?”

Blinking, she focused. “She left a month or so ago when she lost her job at the textile mill. Went to live with Jack Hurtsill. He claims to be a ratter, but from what I’ve heard, he’s a bloody resurrectionist. She met him through Jack’s brother, who lives just down the street.” She indicated the direction where Abby could find Bill, then shook her head. “Unfortunately, Jack isn’t the kind of man I ever wanted to see her with.”

“Because he’s a resurrectionist?”

“Because he’s
dangerous
. Has a mean temper, that one. And he can be vengeful when crossed.” She waved a hand. “But he made her a lot of promises. And she was desperate to be able to raise her child.”

“So she has her boy with her?”

“Who can say? Last I heard her boy was living with a family in Whitechapel. I don’t know which family. But she sure talked of Byron a lot—and dreamed of being a proper mother to him.”

Abigail added fresh concern to her voice. “You haven’t seen her since she left?”

“No, and that makes me sad. Of all the boarders I’ve met here through the years, she was my favorite. I was quite fond of her.”

Again, Abigail resisted the urge to look where Max was watching. “Have there been other boarders who have left unexpectedly and not returned? Or . . . or who have suddenly grown ill and maybe even . . . died?”

The charwoman gave her a piercing look. “Why do you want to know?”

“Madeline mentioned that something odd was going on. In her letter. She was worried—that’s all. I thought that might have something to do with her leaving.”

“If so, she had no reason to be fearful. Only Anna Harper has died here, and she was ailing for some time, the poor thing.”

That didn’t seem to attach the Bolstrums to any other unexplained deaths . . . “I really must find her. Have you seen Jack or his brother since she left?”

“Aye. Several times. They come here often, mostly to drink. They’re friends with Mr. Bolstrum.”

“Have you asked them about her?”

“I have. I expected her to come back and see me now and then and started to worry when she didn’t.”

“And?”

“They told me she ran off, but I don’t believe that for a second.”

“Why not?”

Her eyes took on that faraway look again. “Maybe she took Byron and headed to the country,” she relented as if that was what she preferred to believe, even if it wasn’t true.

Someone called out from inside the house.

“I’ve got to go,” she said.

“Wait, can you tell me where I might be able to find her? Where I could at least look?”

“She had a good friend, a . . . a prostitute she once lived with, before she got her job at the factory. Her name is Gertrude. She lives over on Flower Street—205 Flower Street. I went by there a week ago myself. Gertrude hadn’t heard anything. But maybe that has changed.” She started to go again but turned back. “And I would ask Bill, of course. He’s a bit friendlier than his brother.”

“Thank you,” Abby said. “Thank you for your help.”

“I’m afraid I’ve been scant help. I wish I could do more,” the woman said and was gone.

Abby was flushed when she met up with Max again. The expression on her face gave him hope, but it also reminded him of just how pretty she was—as if he needed a reminder.

“You were right!” she said, breathless with excitement. “Your sister was there!”

The concern he felt for Madeline pressed in on him again. If only she were
still
there.

He pulled Abigail out of the street when he saw a horse and buggy coming—then found it difficult to let go of her. Given the cool autumn temperatures, she was covered head to toe in fabric. But he could feel the way her flesh gave ever so slightly beneath his grip and remembered all too clearly how soft she was.

He wished he found his fiancée even half as appealing . . .

“Mrs. Bolstrum told you?” he asked.

“No, a charwoman who helps out there once a week. I got the impression she’s privy to a lot that goes on—not that she always approves of it.”

With the horse and buggy well past, he stepped back. He was afraid of what he might do if he didn’t put some space between them. The temptation to kiss her intruded on his thoughts more and more often. He could understand having such a compulsion when they were in bed together. Just about any man would be tempted by Abby. But they were standing in the street!

“What, exactly, did she say?” he asked.

Once Abby explained, he ransacked his brain for any memory of Gertrude. “Madeline never mentioned her,” he said, but she hadn’t confided in him much. He hadn’t been deserving of her secrets. He had been too busy trying to avoid her, to pretend she didn’t exist.

Abby gazed down the street, toward Bill’s house. “Should we visit Bill first? Since we are here?”

Max hadn’t mentioned Madeline’s name to any of the London Supply Company. It had seemed like the quickest route to giving himself away. “Asking about her could make him suspicious. And, if Jack did harm her, that would only put my life, and yours, in greater danger.”

“We could pretend to be on an innocent errand . . .”

“What reason would we have to visit Bill’s house when we see him almost every night?”

“We are worried about Emmett! We are out looking for him and want to know if he has heard anything.”

Max
was
concerned about young Emmett, so that wouldn’t be fabricated. He didn’t particularly admire
any
member of the resurrection gang, but Emmett was the last one he would ever want to see hurt.

Besides, maybe Bill would be gone, and they would have the opportunity to speak to his wife—a brash, loud woman who liked to talk and might provide details Bill would know to hide.

“Good idea,” he said. “Let’s see what we can find out.”

Taking Abby’s elbow, he guided her down the street to Bill’s residence. He should have been too nervous to think of anything other than the task at hand. But once they were standing on the stoop, and Abby smiled up at him, he couldn’t seem to quit looking at her.

“What?” she said. “Aren’t you going to knock?”

Dragging his focus to the door, he pounded on the wooden panel. What was happening to him? He could hardly believe that someone who had been cloistered away from regular society for most of her life and knew nothing of the usual flirtations could hold such power over him.

“Max, what are you doing here?”

It was Bill who answered.

Max quickly hid his disappointment that it wasn’t Agnes, Bill’s wife, as he had hoped. “Looking for Emmett.”

“Again?”

“He must be somewhere. You haven’t seen him yet, have you?”

“No.” He yawned as if he had just rolled out of bed, and adjusted the bandage that covered his gunshot wound. “What makes you think he would come here?”

“I thought he might check in, let one of us know if he made it through. He hasn’t shown up at Farmer’s Landing. We went by the cemetery again, too.”

“He’ll turn up.”

“It’s been more than twenty-four hours.”

“So he’s nursing a few injuries somewhere. He’s young. He’ll survive.”

“Maybe not,” Max said. “Maybe he’ll be like that woman who used to be with Jack. She’s never reappeared, has she?”

Bill seemed mildly surprised. It wasn’t as smooth of a transition as Max had wished, but he couldn’t think of a better one. “
What
woman?”

“I don’t know her name. I think she was Jack’s wife.”

“Jack’s never been married.”

“A sexton at St. James’s mentioned her a couple of weeks ago, remember?”

“That woman’s gone,” he mumbled.

“What woman?” Someone—Bill’s wife?—asked this from behind Bill, but he didn’t answer.

Max inadvertently spoke at the same time. “Where did she go?”

“What does it matter to you?”

Growing more frustrated and desperate than ever, Max nearly grabbed him by the throat and threw him up against the door. Maybe force would bring him what diplomacy and subterfuge, so far, had not. “It seems that people are disappearing right and left.”

“She didn’t disappear.” This came from Bill’s wife, who suddenly grabbed the door. “She left.”

“Agnes!” he complained when she squished into the opening, but she ignored him.

“You’re talking about Madeline, aren’t you?” she said. “I don’t know her last name, but she lived over at Farmer’s Landing before you did. Jack was crazy about her.” Her lips curved into a self-satisfied smile, one that suggested she wasn’t particularly unhappy her brother-in-law’s love affair had ended badly. “Might have married her. He wanted to. But she ran off.”

Max didn’t have to pretend to be amazed. “
With another man?
”

“No.” Agnes shook her head. “Emmett was the only other man in her life. That boy followed her around like a whipped puppy.”

Emmett?
“Did she like him?” Max asked.

“No. She once told me that he frightened her.”

“More than Jack?” Abby asked.

Bill sent his wife a sullen look for being so forthcoming. Then relented with a shrug, as if he couldn’t see what harm talking could do, anyway—not if Jack wasn’t around to disapprove of the way they bandied about the details of his personal life. “Emmett had a thing for her. But she obviously didn’t go anywhere with him. She could’ve gone back to her family, though.”

“Gone back to her family,” his wife repeated with a skeptical laugh. “Sure she did. They wouldn’t have her, and you know it.”

“Why would you say that?” Abby asked.

Max could hear the defensiveness in her voice, knew she felt the need to stand up for him. But he didn’t deserve it. He didn’t appreciate the question, either—didn’t want to hear Bill’s take on the family’s shortcomings, or anyone else’s. He already knew he was largely to blame and felt badly about it. He was also afraid that some tidbit Madeline had shared might give away his identity.