Willing (6 page)

He shuddered just as she did, stifling an almost whimper as he pulled from her reach. She screamed, quivering against the hungry mouths that attended to her, then gasped, panting over and over as the wave crested and finally subsided.  Each of the robed men relinquished their hold on her, the last turning her on the altar, laying her lengthwise again beneath Alisdair. He returned to her side, his face flushed now, the goblet in his hands. He didn’t look at her this time as he slid his fingers between her legs, then into his mouth. Then as the circle went silent, he drained the contents of the cup. He stood silent a moment, then laid his hands on the altar.

Constance gasped. Though it was subtle, almost indecipherable, the altar beneath her began to hum. She sat up halfway, pressing her hands to the stone. It was growing warm, then hot. She slid across the stone toward Alisdair, ready to leap from atop it. He did not move. She met his gaze, the stone warming her skin beneath her.

He smiled. “Don’t be afraid, love. You are safe.”

  The words were meant for only her to hear. She swallowed and he lifted his hands from the stone. The humming ceased.

Alisdair turned for the footmen, let the first take the goblet from him, then ordered the second to take his robe. He was wearing black trousers and a white button down shirt beneath, the sleeves rolled up enough to show the chiseled shape of his forearms. He turned from the altar, looking foreign as he approached the robed figures behind him.

“Roman?”

One of the men perked up to the sound of his name just in time to take Alisdair’s right hook directly to the jaw. He dropped like an overripe apple. None of the other figures moved to his aide as the footmen offered their arms to Constance, helping her down from her perch.

“You ever behave in such a manner again, I will exile you from the circle. Am I understood?”

He didn’t speak, but simply rubbed his sore jaw, nodding. Constance watched Alisdair washing his hands in a nearby basin, his black suspenders causing the fabric of his shirt to puff out at his waist. He looked like a regular man, as though he could be a clerk or a doctor, not this high born Lord she knew him to be. The footmen wrapped the robe around her, and tied it snugly at her waist. She didn’t take her eyes off him.

“Did it work, Ali?”

This was a woman’s voice, chiming in from the figures in the circle. He turned to face the masked crowd and grinned. Then he gestured to the footmen and they quickly led Constance out of the ballroom. She could hear their muffled voices as she was led back to the dressing room.

Roger greeted her from the carriage with a scowl. “Jaysus, anover one? Ow many dresses a girl need, den?”

Constance climbed into the carriage wearing a new red satin dress with full skirt, her silver one now tucked into a leather travel case that the blond footman tucked into the carriage beside her. She settled next to Roger, feeling strangely giddy, and stopped the door before the footman could shut it.

“What is your name, may I ask?”

The light haired footman looked startled. “Uh, it’s George, miss.”

She leaned out to look at the second footman. “And yours?”

He turned his eyes to the gravel beneath his feet. “Thomas, miss.”

“George and Thomas. Thank you for taking such good care of me.”

They both bowed, bending their knees in an almost curtsy. “Madam.”

Then they shut the door, banging a fist on the carriage wall to signal the driver.

“Goh, miss high and mighty, ae?”

Roger was in rare form. He’d been sitting there for well over five hours, waiting for her. Clearly he’d recovered from his hangover, but not his usual disposition. It does take a certain kind of fellow to work in a brothel day in and day out. Constance turned to Roger and offered him a small bundle, wrapped in brown paper. He lunged forward, snatching it from her. Inside was a large piece of crusty bread, several slabs of cheese, an apple, grapes, two chocolate pastries, and a mincemeat pie. He groaned at the treasure inside, tore a large piece of bread free, and settled into his meal. Constance leaned against the wall of the carriage, letting the rhythm of the road drown out her companions loud chewing, and thought about the man she’d heard called Ali.

Chapter Six

Despite the late hour of her return to the tavern, Constance was up with the sun. She made her way downstairs to find Henry Poole’s rusty red head bobbing behind the bar. He was in early as well, making good work of washing up the last remaining glasses from the night before. He assured her he was in to take inventory for the next order of spirits, but Constance caught the way he looked at Charlotte over the bar, and Charlotte – a tall strawberry blonde with hair so curly it created a halo around her face a good half meter wide - didn’t hide the returned smiles she shot his way. Constance imagined the budding romance of a brothel barkeep and a rosy cheeked whore, and the frighteningly Ginger haired babies they would produce should they have an accident. She couldn’t help, but smile. Her jovial mood didn’t stop her from scolding Henry when he became distracted from her order of a Full English or breakfast.

“Don’t be yelling at him. You haven’t paid fer yer breakfast in three days!”

Constance startled at the sound of Berty’s voice, turning to find her coming down the stairs fully dressed and ready to start the day.

“Well, he didn’t ask for my coin, so I didn’t offer,” Constance said, smirking in mischievous admission. Henry Poole shot her a playful glare and set the plate of bacon, eggs, beans and toast on the bar before her.

“Don’t you be getting me in trouble, lass!” He hissed, but grabbed her fingers and gave them a squeeze before returning to his post down the bar, just across from Charlotte.

“You’re up early.”

Constance stifled on a bite of egg and toast, nodding to avoid being rude. She swallowed before she spoke. “Woke up with the sun, it seems.”

“Well, it ain’t that early. Still, ain’t seen you downstairs before noon in a long time.”

Constance smiled, dipping her toast into the baked beans. “I keep rather late nights.”

She winked at Berty and took a big bite. Berty flapped a rag at her and disappeared into the back of the tavern, slipping down to the cellar for something.

The door to the tavern gave its familiar chime and all the girls turned to see who’d come in at such an early hour. Constance swallowed hard at the sight of the man.

She recognized him from many months earlier. He wasn’t a John or a gangster coming to threaten Berty and get chased into the streets by their in house Irishman – this man was a detective with the London Police.

“Good mornin,’ ladies.”

The girls chimed in with somewhat lackluster greetings. Not a one of them was wholeheartedly trusting of the police. Still, this man wasn’t a street copper, looking to haul in girls and their customers to make an example of them. This was a detective, and those usually only came around when someone turned up dead.

“Can I help you, sir?” Henry offered from behind the bar.

The man took off his hat and gave Constance a quick nod before answering. “I do hope so, sir. Would you mind horribly if I asked some of the girls a few questions?”

Henry snorted. “If ye can, lad. If ye can.”

The man gave another nod and turned to Constance, who still sat hunched over her breakfast. She quickly found herself without an appetite. He raised her brows at her, a silent request. Constance gave him a nod.

“Mornin, dear. Do you mind if I have a seat, then?”

“No, go right ahead.”

The man sat beside her, shifting onto his bar stool as he set his hat on the bar. He was wearing a light brown tweed jacket and dark trousers, his mustached perfectly combed and waxed. He was about Constance’s height and seemed to have an almost gentle way about him. Many coppers did when they wanted something.

“Chilly reception this morning.”

Constance raised a brow at him. “Did you expect pomp and circumstance? Come by with good news sometimes. You might find that helps.”

He chuckled. “Fair point. My name is Detective Kevin Jenkins. May I ask your name?”

“Constance.”

His brows went up just so. “Constance. I think we may have talked before, no?”

Constance nodded. “We did.”

“Glad to see you’re doing well. How is business, then?”

She gave him a sarcastic glare. “Enough of that. What can I do for you?”

“I appreciate your candor. I’ve come to see if any of you girls might’ve been acquainted with an Alice McKenzie?”

Constance shook her head. “Not that I know of. Is she a working girl?”

“She was, yes.”

Was. Constance took a deep breath, exhaling through her nose. This wasn’t welcome news. “How’d he do her?”

The detective startled at this. “What’s that?”

“The girl. McKenzie, you said? Was it him? Is he back?”

Detective Jenkins displayed his hands, touching her shoulder gently in an effort to slow her concern. “Hang on, now. I didn’t say anything -”

“You coppers said he was done, didn’t you?!”

They both startled at the sudden bellow from the back of the bar. Berty appeared there, her eyes narrowed to slits.

“Said we wouldn’t see any more of that, didn’t you?”

“I never said -”

“Of course. But what of all the girls that went before – or since for that matter? Girls die in these streets all the time, but the only time we get one of the likes of you is when they’re being killed by a lad brazen enough to write bloody letters to the newspapers. Made you lot look like a bunch of bumbling fools and suddenly you’re comin’ around, askin all sortsa questions.”

“Mrs. Grisholm -”

“Answer her question – was it him, then?”

By now, poor Detective Jenkins had the full attention of everyone in the room. He swallowed, steeling himself against the Berty’s barrage. “We don’t want to jump to conclusions, but it bears some sim -”

“You shoulda caught him by now.”

Constance turned down the bar to see Charlotte’s eyes trained on the detective as Henry reached across to her, touching her hand.

The detective took a deep breath. “I don’t disagree, but that’s why I’m here. I want to make sure that we do everything we can to bring him to justice.”

“Good,” Charlotte said, taking a sip of her very early glass of whiskey.

The detective turned his attention back to Constance, clearly finding her to be the most easily reasoned with. “I understand your concerns. I’d only suggest that you all keep your work within the tavern. We don’t know yet if it is connected, but best to be safe.”

Constance nodded, trying her best to give the man her attention without the disdain of her jaded counterparts. “What happened to the other detective?”

“Who’s that now?”

Constance remembered another fellow that came round the tavern several times while the London Police were investigating the Whitechapel murders of the previous year. “Can’t rightly recall his name? Started with an A, had glorious mutton chops -”

“Abberline?”

Constance gave the detective a playful tap on the knee. “That’s the one. Is he not on the case anymore?”

“He is. We all are, I assure you.”

Constance nodded, though she didn’t feel any real assurance from it.

“Mrs. Grisholm? Might I have a word with one of your employees? A Mr. Tims?”

Berty stood just behind the bar, listening to their conversation, though refusing to take part. At this she and Henry both turned their full attention to the detective.

”What ye want wit ‘im, then?” Henry asked.

“Just wanted to ask him a couple questions, if I might?”

Berty rolled up the rag in her hands and jutted out her chin. “Ye mightn’t. He ain’t here.”

Constance’s brow furrowed. “He isn’t?”

Berty shook her head. “Room’s empty.”

“Do you know when last someone saw him?” The detective asked.

“Last night. He came in with me around four this morning.”

Berty and Henry both gave her menacing look. The look screamed loud and clear – never rat to the police. She was so confused to hear of Roger’s absence that she hadn’t even considered it.

“Alright, and what of the night of July 16
th
, do you have any notion of where he was then?”

Constance glanced to Berty and Henry, wary of further reprimand, but her mind quickly raced through the days of the week, searching for an answer. The sixteenth was a Tuesday. Words came nonetheless. “He was here! All night.”

The detective’s brows shot up as Berty hissed at her. Constance ignored her. Tuesday was Joe Flannery’s night. She could set her watch by his arrival, and Joe loved his cards. Roger may be a surly bastard, but if a woman was murdered on a Tuesday night, it couldn’t have been him.

“How can you be sure of that?”

“Tuesday is one of my regular’s nights. He has a standing card game with Roger every week before he comes up to see me. Been here every week for three months straight. Roger was here.”

The detective gave her an appraising nod. “You’re sure of that?”

“I am.”

Henry and Berty stormed off, openly showing their disgust for Constance’s declarations, but she didn’t care. Had it been either of them, she’d have done the same.

The detective gave the room a quick scan, finding it near emptied since his arrival. Constance watched him a moment. Curiosity finally won.

“Where did they find her? This time?”

He swallowed. “Round about Goulston Street – in Castle Alley.”

Despite herself, Constance exhaled in relief. This murder was further away than the last. The detective touched her hand, giving a reassuring pat as he stood from his stool. “Well, can’t imagine I’ll be getting much from the other girls, will I?”

He shot her a wink, picking up his hat from the bar.

“I’m sorry, detective.”

“It’s fine. I’m accustomed to cold receptions in this part of town. Just spread the word for me. Avoid the streets after dark if at all possible - don’t go anywhere with anyone alone.”

Constance nodded. “Of course.”

He gestured to Henry, giving a curt nod and a thank you, then was back out the door into the yellow light of London’s streets.

“What the hell were you thinkin, rattin on Roger?”

Constance turned to meet Berty’s gaze with equal fire. “I wasn’t ratting on him, I was defending him. The two of you might’ve done the same!”

“We know better than to talk to the coppers -”

Constance was up from her seat, unwilling to be berated by anyone at this early hour. She made her way up the stairs, Berty hollering from below for the whole tavern to hear.

“They ain’t on our side, girl! None of ‘em are!”

“At least he’s trying!”

Berty slapped the rag onto the bar, shaking her head in disgust. “Stupid girl.”

With that Constance stormed down the hallway, passing the pale faces that peered from their own bedrooms, curious of the ruckus. Constance disappeared into her room, slamming the door behind her.