A Matter of Grave Concern (4 page)

The odds were certainly better than when she had been staring at
five
. . .

Or maybe she wouldn’t have to confront anyone. Maybe she could simply slip into his house and steal back her property . . .

She sent a worried glance toward the clock ticking on the mantel. It was just after midnight. As fraught with risk as her plan was, she had no time to come up with a safer alternative. She couldn’t put off recovering the money; it would be spent if she did. She had to act right away, while under the cover of darkness.

Suddenly firm in her convictions, Abigail riffled through her writing desk to locate Hurtsill’s address. He lived at No. 8 Farmer’s Landing. If she hired a hackney, she could find it. She just hoped Hurtsill would keep the money and the elephant with him when the gang split up for the night.

Catching sight of her drawn face in the mirror on one wall, she paused. Was she really going to do this?

She swallowed hard. As far as she was concerned, she had no choice. If she didn’t recover the money, she would be sent away.

She had already lost her mother. She would not lose her father, too.

Chapter 4

As Abigail descended from the cab she had hired to take her from the college in Smithfield to Wapping, her heart pounded, but she drew courage from the awkward bulk of the pistol stuffed in the deep pocket of her cloak. Her father had taught her how to use a gun when she was barely fourteen, so she could protect herself should the need arise. It was one of the few times she remembered having his full attention. A woman living in a man’s world could never be too careful, he’d explained.

But if everything went as planned, she wouldn’t have to fire a single shot.

“Thank you, mum.” The cab driver told his horses to “get on up” as soon as Abigail dropped the fare in his palm. He was obviously nervous about having traveled so far into this quarter after dark, and for good reason. Everyone knew a cabby carried a certain amount of coin, which made him vulnerable.

Abigail, on the other hand, had gone to great pains to appear as downtrodden as possible. Dressed in worn-out clothes that looked about to be torn into rags—a tattered skirt, a cotton smock she had hurriedly mended to make it serviceable and a threadbare cloak that hid her face and hair inside the cowl of its deep hood—she’d had a devil of a time convincing the cab driver to bring her to this location in the first place. He had demanded to see the color of her money before he would venture past Gray’s Inn Road. But at least his reluctance to trust her had given her some confidence in her beggar’s disguise.

A fresh trickle of unease slid down her spine as the grind of the hackney’s wheels receded. But she took a deep breath and began to walk. If she wanted to go unnoticed, she had to travel on foot the rest of the way.

She came upon three men, deep in conversation, outside a dilapidated house on Wapping High Street. Other than that, the neighborhood was deserted. Although a gas lamp burned at one corner, it provided only a dim circle of light that cast everything outside it in deep shadow.

At least the rain had stopped.

Wrinkling her nose at the terrible stench, she skirted several piles of manure that had been left in the street and began to follow the directions the cabby had given her.

Farmer’s is one of the many alleys that run off this street here, second turn on your left
.

Careful to walk without too much of a sense of purpose so she wouldn’t draw attention, Abigail kept her head bowed and her eyes on the uneven cobblestones in front of her. As she passed the men, she could hear snippets of their conversation.

“You can get hundreds from Billington for three- or fourpence a piece . . .”

“I’ve got my own ratter. Maybe he’s not quite up to Billington’s standards, but he supplies me well enough . . . and you should see my new dog. He can kill twenty in four minutes, he can.”

Much to her relief, they paid her little mind. She thought they would ignore her completely, until one tossed her a halfpenny. A shot of alarm went through her as the coin hit the street. She didn’t want to be addressed. But she shouldn’t have worried. When she played her part by scrambling to pick it up, the giver turned back to his friends.

“What are you going to name this one?”

“Billy, of course, after the best bull and terrier in the business . . .”

Once Abigail rounded the corner, she saw the unusual crooked-looking house the cabby had told her to look for. This muddy court, lit by a single gas lamp, was, apparently, Farmer’s Landing. There was the typical water tap that served the whole street, the privies that did the same and the miskin—the part of the court where everyone piled their garbage. Neglected laundry hung, dripping from the recent rain, on lines strung from roof to roof, and moonlight glinted off the shards of glass from a neighbor’s broken window, which had been covered on the inside with an old blanket.

Behind the standpipe, in the darkest recesses of the court, sat No. 8.

Hurtsill’s house was quiet. It was also dark, which gave her a modicum of hope that he was asleep after a hard night’s work.

She would slip in, take a quick look around and, with any luck, recover her property. If he wasn’t home, she would hide and wait until he was. She just had to remember to steal more than her money and the elephant. It had to look like a regular burglary, or she would leave her father and the college open to retaliation.

She could manage that, couldn’t she?

Of course. Soon, she would be able to go home, peel off her costume and be no worse for having met the men behind the London Supply Company.

But approaching the house was the most difficult thing Abigail had ever done. Palms sweating, she circled wide, hoping to find a door or a window unlocked in back. It wasn’t as if they had butlers or housekeepers in this part of town keeping an all-night vigil over the silver and plate.

What Hurtsill did have, however, was a big dog. The beast took Abigail by surprise, lunging at her out of nowhere. A rope attached to the animal’s collar was the only thing that saved her from those snapping jaws.

Thanking the Lord the tree he was tied to had caught him up short, she hurried around the corner and pressed her back against the house just in time to avoid being seen by a neighbor, who lifted a window and shouted for the dog to shut its bloody muzzle. When the animal continued to bark and strain at its leash, the neighbor muttered something she couldn’t make out and slammed the window. Then, except for the dog, there was a long silence.

No one came to the door of No. 8.

Jack had to be passed out, drunk. Or he wasn’t home. That dog had been loud enough to wake the dead. If such a racket wasn’t enough to produce Hurtsill, she should be safe to venture within.

But what if he hadn’t returned? What if he was still gone and had her money and her elephant with him?

She was at his house. She had to at least check.

Pulse racing, she crept up to the back door and put her ear to the panel. All was quiet.

Hopefully he was inside; hopefully he was sleeping and couldn’t wake up even if he wanted to.

He and his companions had made a fortune tonight. Any man of Jack Hurtsill’s character would probably celebrate with a few pints. But it was late. They should be home by now.

Despite all her self-talk, her hand shook as she tested the knob.

The door was unlocked. As warped as it was, she could probably have broken it, anyway. It wasn’t much of a barrier. But she preferred not to do that.

The hinges creaked loudly as she let herself into a single room that was obviously used as kitchen, dining room and parlor. Moonlight streamed through the front window.

He won’t be wary; he has no reason to expect me
.

She chanted those words over and over to herself, focusing on the positive. She definitely didn’t want to think about the thick, greasy hair and ogling grin of Big Jack. Or the incredible power in Wilder’s every move. Jack’s friend was more frightening than Jack, in some ways. But he had to be wherever he lived by now.

Even if he wasn’t, she had a gun and, unlike Bran, she knew how to use it.

She felt around for a lamp and the supplies to light it. Then she paused, listening again just to be sure. When she didn’t hear any sounds of movement, she proceeded to check the coat rack. She had seen Wilder put her money in his pocket. Since she had no idea where Max lived, she could only pray that Jack had demanded it as soon as they left and brought it here . . .

There
was
a greatcoat hanging on the rack inside the living room. But that greatcoat didn’t belong to Big Jack.
Wilder
had been wearing it.

Did they live together? If so, she would be outnumbered again. But that could be fortunate, considering she had no idea which one of them had her elephant. She guessed it was Wilder. He had been closest to her desk at the end. But it could also have been Jack. He had shown more interest in it.

The dog outside quieted as Abigail set the lamp on the floor.
Please let the money be here, and my elephant, too
.

She didn’t want to come into contact with Wilder’s coat. Jack and the others rarely bathed. Chances were they bought their clothes from a pawnbroker and never washed them—and Lord knew what they touched on a daily basis. But, to her surprise, Wilder’s coat was heavy and well made and smelled more like rain than body odor.

She delved into his pockets, searching for the ivory elephant and the purple pouch—but came up empty.

God’s teeth! What now? She could scarcely breathe for the fear charging through her.

But all remained quiet. There was no need to panic. She had free rein of the place, could keep looking.

She turned to survey the rest of the room, which contained so much stuff there was hardly any space to walk: a sofa, several tables, a broken chair, a large steamer trunk, a washbasin she guessed was rarely used and a bin of coal against the far wall. The drapes hung at an odd angle above the window, but Abigail did her best to get close enough to pull them shut. She didn’t want the neighbors to see her light—if, indeed, anyone other than the man who had yelled at the dog was up.

Once she got the drapes closed, she slipped off her hood so she could see better and began to search in earnest. Her elephant and money had to be in the house somewhere.
Please . . .

But that prayer wasn’t answered. She couldn’t find either. Could Wilder or Jack have taken them upstairs?

She didn’t have the courage to look there—not under any circumstances. If she drew too close to the resurrection men, she wouldn’t be able to use her gun. They would wrest it away before she could fire. And there was no way out from the second floor except the stairs, which would make it far too easy for them to trap her.

She couldn’t let that happen. So . . . had she come all this way for nothing?

Tears of frustration and discouragement welled up as she stood in indecision. Briefly, she contemplated pulling out her firearm and charging upstairs despite all reservations. She craved nothing more than to wave it in front of Wilder’s face and watch his arrogance turn to fear.

But she wasn’t
that
reckless. She couldn’t confront him. She didn’t know how many were there or which rooms they occupied. No way could she risk having one of them come up behind her.

A tear rolled down her cheek as she realized that all was lost. She had failed—there was nothing more she could do.

Filled with a sudden and overwhelming despair, she choked back a sob as she started for the door. She had tried so hard and risked so much, and for what? What would she tell her father? How would she come up with the money? And, if she couldn’t, how would the college get by?

She didn’t see how they could . . .

She got only halfway across the room before she heard a man’s voice coming from outside: “Keep that damn dog quiet, you hear?”

Hurtsill! He wasn’t
in
the house; he was just coming home. She heard another voice, too. Someone was with him, someone who, when he muttered an answer, sounded
very
close to the back door.

Abigail whirled around to head out the front. But there was too much furniture and clutter blocking the door. She would never be able to move it in time.

All she could do was hide herself—and hope they went to bed soon.

She blew out the lamp and set it down, but before she could decide where to hide, a man’s hand clamped over her mouth, making it impossible for her to scream.

Chapter 5

“What are you doing here, you little fool?” Max breathed in her ear. But Abigail couldn’t answer, and he knew it. He had his hand over her mouth. He couldn’t risk that she might yell or make some other noise that would alert Jack to her presence.

Yanking her back against him, he kept her silent while hauling her up the stairs.

“You’ve done it now,” he told her as he dragged her into his room. “What the hell were you thinking?”

When he closed the door and pinned her against it, she squirmed to get loose. She seemed to be heading into a full-blown panic. He warned her to be absolutely still—unless she wanted Jack to charge up the stairs—and, only when she complied, did he test her by taking his hand from her mouth.

She didn’t scream. Instead, chest heaving as she filled her lungs with air, she glared her hatred at him. He could see the gleam in her eyes despite the darkness. “Were you trying to suffocate me?” she whispered.

“I am trying to save your willful hide,” he told her. “But I have to be honest with you, unless you cooperate, the odds aren’t in our favor.”

There was a ruckus going on downstairs. Max could hear Jack slinging commands, and wondered why he sounded sober. What could he be going on about at this hour?

Miss Hale seemed too concerned with him to pay much attention to what was happening below. “Let me go,” she insisted.

“Where?” He pressed against her that much tighter to make sure she wouldn’t attempt to run. “Where would you go?”

She fumbled in her cloak. Then he felt the barrel of a gun jab his ribs.

“Anywhere away from you. Take your filthy hands off me.” Her tone was unyielding, her body rigid enough to make him believe she would pull the trigger.

Evidently, she was crazier than he had thought.

Hurtsill and someone else were clomping up the stairs. Whoever was with Jack was laughing and stumbling ahead of him, by the sounds of it. But Hurtsill seemed tense, angry. “Get out of my way, you blimey bastard. You think we got all night?”

Max felt fairly confident he could strip Hale’s daughter of her firearm before she did him any harm. But he feared she would fire in the process and alert the others to her presence. Then she would really be in trouble.

“Think about what you’re doing,” he cautioned, his words barely audible. “You have one ball. You shoot me, Big Jack will be on you in minutes.”

She started sliding away from him, presumably so she could get out the door when it was clear. “Where is my elephant?” she whispered back. “I won’t leave without it.”

Incredulous, Max laughed and shook his head. “You risked your hide for a bauble worth less than two pounds?”

“Not just the bauble. I need the money, too!”

He scowled, keeping his eye on the pistol. “I don’t have your elephant, Miss Hale. But I will gladly return your money. I was just trying to figure out a way to leave it out for you. I heard the dog, saw you searching my coat and knew what you were after.”

She seemed justifiably confused. “I-I don’t believe you. Why would you give up forty guineas after . . . after how you treated me?”

“Because it seemed like the quickest way to be rid of you. But I didn’t manage it soon enough, and now Jack is home, which changes everything.”

“It doesn’t change how badly I want my elephant!” The tremor in her whisper belied her calm bravado.

How would he get her out of the house? He was afraid, even if he could devise a plan, she would refuse to go without that damn carving. Could he get it for her?

“Do you have any idea what Big Jack would like to do to you?” he asked, angry that a cheap ivory elephant threatened everything he hoped to accomplish.

Jack and Tom were in the hall, snapping at each other.

Eyebrows drawn, Miss Hale nibbled on her bottom lip. “I know he is not an honorable man.”

“No, he is not.” He kept his voice as low as hers; he had to. “If you have half a brain, you will do exactly as I tell you.”

“Which is?”

“Hand me the gun.”

She shook her head.

“Give me the blasted gun!”

“Why should I trust you?”

“Because, the way I see it, you have no choice—”

“Max, open up! We ’ave business,” Jack bellowed, banging on the door.

Max froze.
Business?
What could Jack possibly need now?

Miss Hale’s eyes went wide and riveted on his face. She might be impetuous and stubborn, and unlike any lady he had ever met, but she was definitely beautiful . . .

“It’s me or him,” he said, scarcely making a sound. “You will never get past Jack even if you shoot me.”

She hesitated, but another insistent knock helped her decide. After relinquishing her weapon, she scuttled across the room and hid on the far side of the bed. She also said something but spoke so low he couldn’t make out the words. He understood the gist, however:
Get rid of Jack
.

“Max! Wake up!” Jack shouted.

“Comin’.” Max muffled his voice so that Jack would believe he was climbing out of bed. “What do you want?” he demanded when he cracked open the door.

“We got work to do.”

Max had Abigail’s gun hidden on his person, just in case. “Have someone else do it. I’m tired as hell—”

“Bill had to go home to his wife before she leaves him for good. Emmett’s keepin’ the dog quiet.” He jerked his head toward Tom, who was staggering drunk. “An’ you can see the state he’s in. Come on, it’ll just take a minute.”

“To do what?”

“You’ll see.”

“We got us a bonus tonight,” Tom piped up from his room across the hall.

Jack told him to shut the hole in his face and go to bed, and Tom laughed as though it was the finest joke in the world.

“Fine. But give me a minute.” Max closed the door and leaned against it, listening to Jack’s heavy tread recede. He hated to leave Abigail alone, but if he satisfied whatever it was Jack wanted, Hurtsill might go to bed. Then maybe Max could grab the damn elephant and the money and send Miss Hale on her way.

“Stay here.”

“No—”

He cut her off before she could say more. “Your life may depend on it. Do you understand?
Stay here!
”

When she nodded, her eyes wide as saucers, he donned a shirt and shoved her pistol back in the waistband of his trousers. He hoped, without the gun, she would be less likely to try something that could get one of them killed.

Jack was waiting downstairs, in the dark.

Max’s gaze circled the familiar sitting room. “Why not light a lamp?”

“There’s no need. Come on.” He motioned for Max to follow him to the back door. Outside, Emmett was kneeling next to Borax, petting and crooning to the dog to keep him calm.

“Hello, Max,” he called as loudly as though it were midday.

“Shut up, you idiot,” Jack hissed. “Do you want to wake the whole neighborhood?”

A wheelbarrow sat in the weeds to Max’s right, hidden in the deeper shadows of the house. When he saw what it held, he understood. It was another corpse.

“Help me get her inside,” Jack said. “This old gal is bloody heavy.”

Max sucked in a bolstering breath. “I thought we were done for the night. Where did you get this one?”

Jack considered him for a moment, almost said something, then changed his mind. “Let’s call it a . . . lucky turn of fate.”

Steeling himself against the distaste he felt—the same distaste he always felt at the prospect of disturbing the dead—Max put his hands under the arms of the corpse while Jack took the feet. But the moment he touched the body, he knew something was terribly wrong. This woman was still
warm
!

He drew back as though stung. “She’s not dead.”

Jack laughed at his reaction, revealing the fact that he
was
at least partially drunk. “She’s dead all right. She’s just a mite fresher than those we pull from the ground. Come on, Emmett can’t keep Borax quiet forever.”

Anger and accusation churned through Max like acid. Was it as he had suspected all along? Were Jack and the others following in the steps of Burke and Hare and killing people for the money their corpses could bring? Had this woman been murdered for ten bloody guineas?

He didn’t want to believe it, mostly because he couldn’t bear the thought that Madeline might have come to such an end. Although he suspected just that, it was his worst fear.

“Tell me what you did,” he demanded.

Jack motioned to the house with a jerk of his head. “Inside.”

When Max didn’t move, Jack scowled. “What? Would you have the neighbors comin’ out to meet our new guest?”

The powerful emotions assaulting Max threatened to expose him.
Madeline
. . . Her name was a silent wail in his head and his heart.

But he had to go on, had to continue with the charade. His younger half sister had disappeared after being seen in the company of Jack Hurtsill. Jack was his best bet of finding her—or finding out what happened to her.

“Let’s go.” Max helped lift the woman through the back door and into the sitting room, where they dumped her on the sofa.

Sweating from the exertion, Jack wiped his brow with one hand and sank into the chair next to her.

Too keyed up to sit, Max remained standing. He was completely unnerved. To make the moment that much worse, the woman had one eye open and seemed to be staring at him. When he looked closer, however, he realized that eye was made of enamel. “What happened to her eye?”

“How the hell should I know?” Jack replied. “I didn’t ask, and I don’t care. She has enough real parts to serve my purpose.”

Max felt ill at the memory of her disconcerting warmth. “Did you kill her?”

“What are you talking about?”

“You heard me.”

“I heard you, but I don’t like the tone of your voice. I thought you were one of us. If you are, you need to mind your own business and don’t ask questions.”

Max schooled his face into the emotionless mask he needed it to be and considered his response. He was nothing like Jack Hurtsill, prayed to God he never would be. “No one said anything about murder.”

“That’s because
we
didn’t murder anyone.”

“Then who did?”

“I didn’t ask.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Some bloke supplies me with a body here and there. I don’t harass him about where they come from. I don’t think he’d take kindly to it. I give him twenty-five bob, sell the body to one of the schools at a hefty profit and everyone goes away happy.”

Except for the victim, and the victim’s friends and loved ones. “They didn’t get this woman from a grave. There isn’t a speck of dirt on her. She’s not even cold.”

“So maybe they have a connection with an almshouse. Maybe they pay a stipend or two for those who die with no kin. Or they pose as kin to claim the dead. Why not save England the price of another pauper’s burial? It ain’t none of our business either way. She’ll be cold enough when we take her to Webb Street School tomorrow night.”

Max wanted to accuse Jack of more than stealing corpses. A crime against public mores didn’t bring the same punishment as a crime against a person. But he had to hold off until he had proof. It was possible this woman hadn’t been murdered. Besides taking advantage of the poor, some resurrection men snatched dead bodies right out of private homes while they were being watched over until they could be buried.

A creak on the stair drew Jack’s attention. When he looked up, Max did, too—just in time to see Abigail dart around the corner and run for the back door.

“What the hell?” Jack bellowed.

Max couldn’t believe it. He should have locked her in. But he was afraid she would panic and start to scream.

Weaving around the furniture, he lunged for the fabric of the cloak fluttering behind her, but there was too much in his way and it slipped through his fingers. She charged outside ahead of him, a half step out of reach—until she ran headlong into Emmett. They both grunted and fell when they collided, and the dog went wild, but Max grabbed Miss Hale by the collar and hauled her inside.

She couldn’t leave now. From the look on her face, she had heard too much. She would go to the police—anyone would. But Max couldn’t let that happen. Not yet. He needed to hold out long enough to discover who was supplying Jack.

That was the only way to put a stop to the London Supply Company, whether they were murderers or not, and find out what happened to Madeline.

“What’s
this
?”

Tentacles of fear squeezed Abigail’s heart as Jack Hurtsill gaped at her. The third man—more of a boy, really—who had detained her long enough for Wilder to grab her, got up to look on, too. Clearly, she had made a mistake. But she’d had to make a run for it while she had the chance. She couldn’t wait for Max Wilder to return, hoping he would let her out, nice as can be. Look what he had done at the college!

Besides, he had just proved he was unreliable. Without him, she would have evaded the boy and escaped.

“I have a visitor,” Wilder explained. “Evidently, she didn’t like my room as much as I thought.”

Abigail tried to free herself of Wilder’s hold.
Something
had to go her way tonight. But struggling proved futile. His grip was as unyielding as his chest, which formed a wall at her back.