A Matter of Grave Concern (8 page)

When she turned, she knew she had succeeded in shocking
him
. He looked a little stunned, but he quickly rallied.

“You might want to think a little longer before you make a statement like that to an unscrupulous body snatcher.”

At the moment, he didn’t look unscrupulous. His clothes were basic and serviceable but better than what most men wore in these parts—and that only reminded her of how
she
must look, especially by contrast.

She confronted the mirror and gasped when she saw the red marks he had made on her skin. A deep purple bruise stood out on her neck like a brand. “Look at me!” she said. “Look at what you have done!”

“I noticed.”

He didn’t seem to be taking any pleasure in the harm he had caused, but she could detect no contrition, either. “I can’t go out like this. Everyone will assume I am your . . . your whore!”

“Your clothes won’t help. Where on earth did you find them?”

“The rag-and-bone bag. I thought they were the perfect costume.”

“Indeed they are. You will fit right in. Just don’t get separated from me or, pretty as you are, you might find yourself approached by any number of men.” He came up behind her and lifted her chin to study, in the mirror, the marks he had made.

“Are you satisfied?” she asked.

The thumb of the hand that held her face moved over her bottom lip. “Hardly,” he muttered, but he obviously didn’t expect a response. Growing purposeful again, he let go of her and went to the door to peer out.

“Do you see anyone? Is Jack out there?”

“He doesn’t seem to be up quite yet.” He closed the door and waved her over to his toothbrush and comb. “It would be best if we get out of here as soon as possible. You have fifteen minutes, at the most. I suggest you do what you can to accomplish your toilette.”

She recalled Tom saying Max wouldn’t let anyone touch his things. “You don’t mind if I use these . . . these personal implements?”

“Anyone who smells as good as you do can’t be too dirty,” he said.

“I am very conscientious about my cleanliness,” she assured him.

“I believe that. But even if I didn’t, some sacrifices have to be made.” His gaze returned to the mark on her neck. “You won’t be the only one making them, I assure you.”

When she hesitated—it seemed so invasive to put his toothbrush in her mouth—he said, “Would you rather go without?”

“No,” she replied and quickly availed herself of all he offered before he changed his mind.

He watched her while he waited, but she made him step out of the room and into the hall when she used the chamber pot.

Max strode down the street, his hand at Abigail’s elbow as he propelled her along with him. He didn’t like being out with the surgeon’s daughter. He couldn’t help worrying that someone might recognize him. On this side of town that wasn’t likely, especially garbed as simply as he was and walking with a woman who could easily pass for a low-class prostitute—thanks to what she was wearing and what he had done to her face and neck. But he confronted that possibility whenever he went out, which was partly what made his situation so dangerous.

As if that wasn’t enough to worry about, he wasn’t sure he could trust Miss Hale not to grab some passerby and scream that she was being held against her will. He doubted she would be taken seriously, but her voice was quite cultured. Her education and intellect, should anyone listen for too long, would also be apparent. Both would work against him. If leaving the house to escape an early confrontation with Jack—Jack was never congenial the morning after a drinking binge like the one he’d had the night before—had been his only objective, Max might not have risked it. But he was eager to get a message to his clerk.

“Must you drag me along at such a brisk pace?” Abigail complained.

He wanted to reach the teeming docks of St. Catherine’s and slip inside the cool, dark safety of the warehouse, just in case Jack had sent someone after him. He couldn’t allow himself to be followed.

“You seem to be keeping up just fine.”

“I’m nearly running! Perhaps you are
trying
to draw attention?”

That was exactly what he
didn’t
want. Slowing, he shot her a disgruntled glance, and she smiled sweetly as if she enjoyed having achieved a victory, no matter how small.

“Quit being so smug.”

She batted her eyelashes at him. “Why, whatever do you mean?”

“You know what I mean.” He turned to glance behind them. All seemed as it should be, but . . . that could be deceiving. A disgruntled Tom could be trailing them even if Jack hadn’t asked him to.

“Is something wrong?” Abigail craned her neck to follow his gaze.

He tightened his grip on her arm. “No, face front.”

“
You
keep looking behind. Why?”

“Jack doesn’t trust me much more than he trusts you, that’s why.”

“Must you always be so cryptic?
Why
doesn’t Jack trust you?”

“I will answer your questions fully only if and when I want you to know something.”

She rolled her eyes. “You can be terribly overbearing and autocratic, in case no one has ever mentioned it.”

Had he not been sincerely concerned for their safety, he might have spared a smile for her pluck. There weren’t many people in his life who dared to stand up to him the way she did. And what other woman could have weathered the past ten hours so well? “If you cooperate nicely, and stop questioning everything I do, I will buy you something to eat and maybe a sweetmeat on our way back.”

“Are you bribing me with sugary treats, sir?”

Leave it to her to question him, even on that. “Consider it more of a . . . reward.” He adopted a stern expression. “But we can forgo stopping if you don’t care for being rewarded.”

“I like being rewarded just fine!”

She assured him so quickly and unabashedly that he chuckled in spite of his anxiety. “As I thought.”

“Just one more question.”

He arched an eyebrow to let her know she was pressing her luck.

“Where are we going?”

“To the docks.”

“What business do you have there?”

When he didn’t answer, she shivered even though it wasn’t cold. “Whatever it is, I pray it has nothing to do with
death
.”

“Those are my sentiments exactly,” he responded.

She looked up at him. “You don’t know?”

He
didn’t
. He hoped to find Madeline alive and well, if not today, some day in the near future. But, considering it had been months since she disappeared and there had been no sign of her, learning of her death was far more likely.

“I can’t say that I do,” he said and quickened the pace again, desperate to escape the guilt that dogged his every move.

Chapter 9

Should she run? Scream? Plead with the man meeting Max Wilder to come to her aid?

Abigail shifted from one foot to the other as she stood in a dark corner of a large warehouse that smelled like tobacco, watching for her opportunity to escape. She had to do
something
now that she was out of Jack Hurtsill’s house. When would she get a better chance? If she allowed Max to take her back to No. 8 Farmer’s Landing, he would have the control he had before. She would also have to face Jack and the others and, while she hoped Max could protect her, she had no idea how long that would last or how far he would go.

Was he committed enough to risk his own hide?

Even if he was, the thought that he might be harmed while trying to defend her didn’t sit well. They would both be better off if she could just slip away.

But how? He was keeping such a close eye on her. Although he had demanded she stay right where she was and moved some distance beyond her, he wasn’t so far that he couldn’t chase her down if she bolted.

If only the small, bespectacled man he had come to meet would acknowledge her in some way. Maybe she could send him a signal—with a fearful glance or a mouthed plea for help. But, from the beginning, Max’s associate had acted as if she weren’t even there. As soon as he had looked up to find her and Max approaching, he had hurried out of his small corner office, his focus on Max alone.

The low murmur of their voices reached her ears. She easily recognized Max’s as the deeper of the two. But she could not make out the individual words. Both men seemed singularly intent on their subject.

What could they be going on about?

Max glanced over to be sure that she was where she was supposed to be and narrowed his eyes. “Don’t you dare!”

She spread her hands as if she had no idea what he was referring to. Although his intermittent checks didn’t make the task of escape any easier, she was secretly relieved that he had finally drawn his companion’s attention her way. She implored the man with her eyes, but he bent his head back toward Max and the conversation resumed as though it had never been interrupted.

With a bolstering breath, she studied the large square of sunlight pouring in via the double doors through which they had entered. Freedom seemed
so
close. There were people outside—great masses, making barrels, crawling into and out of lighters, hoisting and searching cargo, collecting tariffs and doing other work for the customhouses. Could she make it to the wharf before Max set upon her? And, if she did, would anyone take pity on her?

With the way she was dressed and the marks on her neck, she feared not. Max would be right there to defend himself against her accusations, to tell any old lie he chose. He could claim she was his sister or some other close relation and he had merely come to get her off the streets and haul her home. Who would question it? And if she broke faith with him, she could lose his protection.

She couldn’t even imagine how bad it would be if he abandoned her to the mercy of Jack, Tom or even one of the other two men who had delivered that cadaver to Aldersgate.

When Max handed his companion some money, Abigail decided their meeting was drawing to a close. She expected to leave soon after, but it was the little clerk who hurried out.

“Come sit down in the office,” Max said, motioning for her to join him.

“What’s happening?” she asked as she complied.

“Nothing. I am merely fulfilling my promise.”

“To protect me?”

“To buy you a reward.”

“But I thought”—she turned to look after the man who had darted out into the morning sun—“I mean, I assumed we would do the shopping ourselves.” They had come down Ratcliffe Highway, which was lined with shops and taverns and doss-houses.

“That won’t be necessary. We would be wise to stay out of the public eye as much as possible.”

“Why? No one is likely to recognize me. Not in this end of town. I don’t know a soul who lives near the docks.”

“You have dealt with other resurrection men, have you not? One or more could easily live here.”

“On occasion,” she allowed. “But our contact has been so limited it would be highly unlikely for anyone to recognize me in such a setting and situation.”

“Believe me, you are not so easily forgotten. Why take the chance?” He pulled out a chair for her. “My friend won’t be but a moment.”

Her hopes of escape wilted further as she sank into the seat he proffered. She had imagined them stopping at least twice on their walk back, which should have created two more opportunities for Max to become distracted enough so that she could break away and disappear. Now whomever he had sent would return with what he ordered, and Max would hurry her to Farmer’s Landing, intent on nothing but her safe and secure return.

“I should have made a run for it,” she said.

He surprised her with a cocky grin. “I knew what you were thinking. But there’s no need to suffer too much regret. I would have caught you.”

“Must you act so pleased with yourself?” she grumbled.

His grin only widened.

The items he had his clerk purchase did far more to mollify Abigail Hale than Max had expected. When Clive Hawley returned, and spread a small covering over his desk to make a place for them to eat, she accepted what he provided with the purest enthusiasm. She had two glasses of wine with lunch. Then she downed every pastry or sweetmeat he didn’t eat himself, and seemed genuinely delighted when he presented her with a new sterling silver brush and mirror—so delighted that she gave the impression she had completely forgotten about trying to escape. She kept thanking him and marveling at the beauty of the set.

“Haven’t you ever received a gift?” he asked, finally interrupting her happy chatter as they walked back. Hard-pressed to think of anything that might please a woman who had every reason to hate him, he had sent his clerk after the same set he had given his mother last Christmas.

“Now and then,” she said. “My father would have given me more, but special occasions sort of pass like ordinary days for him. He is a very busy man.”

Max had heard the
busy
part before. She offered that excuse for every shortcoming Edwin Hale possessed. “So you have said.”

“But this . . . this is quite extravagant.” She examined the mirror again. “Wherever did you get the money?”

He was considering how to answer when she stopped—so fast she jerked right out of his grasp.

“What is it?” he asked, turning to find her glaring at him.

“Tell me you didn’t use what you took from the college for this!”

“I
didn’t
use the college’s money.”

He could tell she wanted to believe him but remained skeptical. “How can I be assured of that?”

“You could believe me.”

“And if I dare not?”

“I will gladly give you all forty guineas when I return you to your father,” he said, taking her arm again. “Fair enough?”

She fell in step with him but wouldn’t move quite as fast as before. “How is it that a man like you can spend a small fortune on me, someone who means nothing to you, without even blinking?”

He didn’t want to go into that. What he had spent was a mere pittance to him, but practical considerations—like the fact that he hadn’t wanted his clerk out shopping all day—had caused him to overlook how it might appear to a woman who had lived with far less. “As you have mentioned, my profession pays quite well.”

“Not well enough to buy me baubles that are needlessly expensive.”

“A card game on the side can make a tidy sum. Anyway, who says the expense was needless? Gifts aren’t meant to be practical. They are simply meant to please the recipient.” He hoped his attempt to charm her would be effective and was relieved when that seemed to be the case.

“I admit I have never owned anything quite so lovely.”

He shot her a glance. Her obvious pleasure made him want to shower her with gifts. But he felt it only fair to warn her that his indulgence and affection could go only so far. “Don’t feel too grateful, Abby. I owe it to you for what you are being forced to endure, since I can’t return you to your rightful place quite yet.”

“Have you decided
when
I’ll be able to go home?”

“No.”

If only he could find the answers he sought, he could take her to Aldersgate sooner rather than later. For the past several weeks, Hawley had been canvassing the medical schools as his emissary, asking about Madeline—even offering to pay handsomely for any information. But no one would admit to receiving or dissecting a specimen that looked remotely like his sister. And he could understand why. The scandal would put them all out of business. When they were dealing with a female corpse there was an even greater stigma, because of the sexual connotations. No family wanted their mother, sister or daughter’s corpse exposed to the gaze of a roomful of lads, even in death.

So maybe his clerk would be able to glean some pertinent details on the middle-aged woman Jack had asked him to help carry in last night, since she wasn’t yet at a college. Max had provided Hawley with her description, as well as the date of her demise. If his clerk visited enough workhouses and brothels, it was at least remotely possible that he could identify her and ferret out the circumstances of her disappearance or death. After all, chances were far greater, if she came from Wapping or any place nearby, that she was a member of the poorer class than not. Someone had to remember that artificial eye. Not every woman had one of those.

Then again, not every woman could afford one. He knew a sailor who had survived Trafalgar Square but lost an eye to shrapnel. A doctor replaced it with an enamel one, but that had been quite expensive. So if she had been poor at the end of her life, she hadn’t always been destitute . . .

“What are you thinking about?” Abigail asked.

Max pulled himself out of his thoughts. “Nothing.”

“Do you always frown like that when you think of nothing?”

Lately, there hadn’t been a great deal to smile about. Not after everything he had decided about his own mother—and inadvertently let happen to Madeline. “Apparently.”

“You are an unusual man,” she said.

“Unusual as in ‘interesting’?” He tugged her to the left to avoid a collision with two small street urchins.

She didn’t reply with the same sarcasm. She seemed rather contemplative when she said, “Not quite.”

He didn’t ask her to clarify. Her excitement over such a small gift—small by his estimation, anyway—was affecting him strangely. He wanted to take down her hair and run his fingers through it . . . to make her laugh.

But such inclinations involved more personal interest than he could afford. His life was mapped out for him; it did not include a beautiful misfit like Abigail Hale.

At the curb, they paused to allow a hackney to go by before crossing the street. For the moment, Abigail seemed content to accompany him, which gave him some hope that he was winning a bit of the trust he had demanded from her. But as they drew closer to Jack’s house, her step slowed and, once again, he had to pull her along.

“You had better hide your gifts,” he told her as they came upon Wapping High Street. “Such items will assuredly draw the interest and attention of Jack and the others.” Then they, too, would wonder why he would spend what he did, given that he had told them he had gambling debts to satisfy.

She put her mirror and brush in the brown wrapping they had come in and tied the strings.

“We will slide it under the house until I can bring it up to you later,” he said.

Although she didn’t seem to like the idea of parting with the package, even for a short time, he knew it was the idea of encountering Jack and the others that gave her pause. He couldn’t blame her for that.

“I need you to continue to be brave,” he said.

With a nod, she threw back her shoulders, let him take the brush and mirror and marched on.

Jack and Tom sat at the table, eating what looked like potato pie with boiled bacon and drinking beer. Both men were wearing the clothes they’d had on the night before, which wouldn’t have been so remarkable to Abby—most people in this part of town had only one set of clothing for every day—but it didn’t look like they ever washed them. Only Tom had bothered to comb his hair.