B006O3T9DG EBOK (24 page)

Now ensconced in her elegant townhouse, Daisy did not care to think of such baseness. However, it was a hard truth and no one dared chance an unwatched grave. That meant that grief-stricken mourners had to lay out good money to hire someone to see that their loved one was not dragged from their final resting place and sold to the highest bidder. There was but one blessing to the victims of this trade. The window of opportunity was small. Unlike some crimes, time was of the essence. Depending on the weather, in a day or so the body would be too putrid to be saleable.

As watch and ward over a certain sickly arm of society, Daisy had paid her own money to watchers when one of her girls died. When poor Mary Catherine was brought to the straw and bled out in an hour. Daisy was particularly saddened. Labour had come early, hence the baby did not live much longer than its mother. (Mary Catherine’s liberal-minded boyfriend made himself scarce lest he be looked to for any outstanding bill.) Daisy had the young mother and babe placed in a carved mahogany coffin with the baby wrapped snugly at its mother’s bosom. Daisy then paid the yellow-skinned old man who emptied her chamber pots an extra shilling to stay with the body and laid out two more to the caretaker at Moorfields Roman Catholic Chapel to see that Mary Catherine’s remains were not thereafter stolen.

Daisy knew that it was heedless to have trusted the old man. She had dismissed him once for filching silverware. Second-chancers were never a good risk. He and his obligations never made it to the cemetery.

The poor little maid was likely wrapped in a shroud, sitting somewhere ready to be loaded for her trip to King’s College Anatomical Department. The most shameful part of the crime was that the baby had been stolen along with its mother’s corpse. Anatomists did not pay well for infants. (In their part of London, foetuses were too easy to come by.) No doubt it had been discarded like so much rubbish.

“If a man would put a spade in a grave, they would not scruple against anything else!” Daisy exclaimed.

Not a soul took exception to that statement.

What the old man was paid for selling the girl’s corpse would likely keep him insensible of his betrayal for weeks. Daisy Mulroney, however, would not stand for such business. The old man could go hang himself, but she knew where to go to get the body back and she meant to do just that.

It was common knowledge that bodies were hauled through the streets concealed in hampers of certain straw and weight. Unafraid of any man (and damn few dogs), Daisy knew the most likely culprits and headed directly to the
Fortune of War
to demand Mary Catherine’s return.

With cigar in the corner of her mouth, and her new fox tippet thrown over her shoulder, she stood in the middle of the
Fortune
’s floor and bellowed, “What’ve ye done with her? I know ye got ‘er back ‘ere behind the bar. Tag on her toe, no doubt. She ain’t fresh no more, by gawd, and I’ll have her back now or know who says otherwise.”

After that ejaculation, she withdrew her trusty pistol and clapped it down on the bar. Anyone who thought to ignore her took notice of that. From thence furtive glances flickered to a partially concealed alcove behind the bar. It was covered by nothing but a tatty curtain. Replacing her gun in her waistband, Daisy walked across the floorboards. The place went silent and each step she took echoed a bit. With great care, she drew the curtain aside. Sure as the sunrise, two hampers lay side by side. Her hope that both mother and child might be recovered was for nought. In one basket was a boy, no older than sixteen. Opening the lid to the other, Daisy recognised the quickly-decaying remains of Mary Catherine. Mid-day heat meant the resurrectionists had to move fast else their bounty would go bad on them. A fresh gash on the girl’s forehead had not bled. Daisy noted that it must have chanced when her body was off-loaded. The baby was gone—Daisy could not let herself think of that. It was most likely thrown in a ditch.

She shook her head. A feeling came over her that was new to her. In time, she would recognise it as despair.

It was undeniable that she had become a bit of a gull for a sad story. Not only was she taking in every female with a bad chest, a bad leg, or bung up her pipe six months gone, she was paying known thieves good money to do honest work. Disgusted, Daisy slammed the lid shut and stomped out of the alcove and into the room of drinkers.

Angry at... the loss... the insensitivity... the bloody, worthless men who traded in such horrors, she pushed her way back through the crowd. Several well-muscled, small-headed men had lined up as if to intimidate her. The publican waved them off. He was a smart man. Bloodshed would bring the law and they didn’t much want the law eyeing what was laying in the back room. They might be accused of murder. As a woman of property, Daisy knew her word on it would have some weight.

“Out of here!” she told them all. “Scat or I’ll give yer a topper!”

The men separated, several leapt out the door. Daisy stepped briskly towards the same door, waving her gun and barking orders as she did.

“Get that hamper with the girl. I’m taking her to Moorsfield cemetery now. And if you know what’s good for yer, find that
baby
and bring it or I’ll come lookin’ for yer!”

Her toe caught the corner of a box lying at her feet. It capsized, sending twenty or so teeth scattering across the floor. Daisy picked one of them in her hand and eyed it.

“How much you get for a full set of these?” she asked holding up a tooth.

Reluctant to be seen making arrangements with someone out of the trade, the publican stood mute. So did his patrons.

“The Guild of Cadavers,” she sniffed at the bunch of them.

Apathetic and callous, their hands flopped loosely at their sides. Ashes to ashes, stripped bloody bare. Daisy saw theirs was just an extension of her former trade. Dead flesh, however, brought a better price.

Two men lugged the hamper behind her as she stomped out. The footman she had purposely left to guard her carriage leapt down and scurried to help. With surly gazes at the wretched alehouse, they tied the hamper onto the back. Still furiously puffing on her cigar, Daisy eschewed help and climbed into her carriage by herself. She ordered her driver to walk on, but a sedan chair blocked their way. Ready to issue all manner of curses to make it move, something made her hold her tongue.

From the chair, a well-shod gentleman stepped onto the walkboards. He paid her no mind whatsoever. As befitting a gentleman entering such a place, he wore his hat low, his countenance partially hidden behind his collar. He was well-tailored in a nut green coat with white piping and did not look as if he belonged amongst these squat working men.

She knew the type. No doubt he was fresh with tips of new “subjects” and warnings of the law. Certain professions often overlapped. No doubt this man took his share off the top and bugger the rest. When he was not rousting the dead, he was most likely rousing the irate in the street.

The
Fortune of War
pub-keeper did not see the gentleman as he alit. He was too busy crawling about the doorway collecting the scattered teeth. Pivoting on his walking stick, the gentleman gingerly stepped around him. As he did, his limp was pronounced.

.

Chapter 33

Pearls Have Their Place

With candle in hand, Darcy crept down the steps from the nursery.

The Master of Pemberley was not obliged to see that his children were fast asleep in their beds. It was a duty he chose to undertake nonetheless. The peace therein was a reassurance. To have spent his day in the saddle and an evening with family and friends suited his notion of true contentment.
Once he fell into his wife’s arms and reminded her of the many ways he loved her, his day would be deemed perfect, indeed.

As he entered their bedchamber to attend to that obligation, his nostrils flickered. The scent of his wife’s favourite perfume meant that she had preceded him. Yet, it was unusual for her to bedew herself with scents at bedtime. That alerted him to the possibility that something unusual was afoot. His interest piqued and his ardour kindled, he looked about the darkened room to ascertain what libidinous delights she might have conjured. Had she donned his breeches? A French corset?

He espied a large lump beneath the bedclothes. Was he prepared himself to be sent reeling with lust when he threw the covers back, he was to be disappointed. Truth be told, he was even a bit befuddled.

His wife lay beneath the counterpane with her knees drawn to her chin. Not only was she not in a French corset, she wore a plain, high-necked nightdress, last seen when she had taken to her bed with a nasty cold. Not an hour ago, she was quite well—and looked to be in an amatory mood.

Any distaste he had for her night dress could be dealt with by claiming a pre-emptive right to dispose of it. However, her expression did not invite familiarities. She appeared to have been affrighted. Her eyes were wide as dinner platters—but not with fear. Taking her trembling hands in his, he realised that they were cold as ice and rubbed them briskly. Her alarm was genuine.

Ere he had leave to inquire, she burst forth, “You shall never believe... I cannot believe... I am mortified beyond all reclamation!”

Despite being pleased that she was merely embarrassed and nothing sinister was involved, her disconcertion disconcerted him.

“Pray, tell me—what can be the matter?”

“I am such a blunderer! I made a ghastly error! I am humiliated beyond measure!”

“If you cannot gather yourself.... Wine! I shall get you a glass of wine!”

“I need no wine!” she moaned. “I need only to become a mouse. A mouse, I say... to hide in a little, tiny mouse-hole for the rest of my days.”

Given of her last remark, Mr. Darcy understood that if his wife’s life had been threatened, it was through mortification. Yet, he could not coax her into telling him what befell her. When he asked again, she fell back upon the mattress and, groaning, drew the counterpane back over her head.

With an expression that suggested extreme impatience, he awaited.

Reluctantly, she tossed back the bedclothes. Taking a moment to speak, she groped to think of a way to describe what occurred without her humiliation of her own making.

She said, “I did not give instructions for my Aunt and Uncle Gardiner to be put in the Blue Room.”

Darcy returned her gaze, but did not speak, for he could not disagree with that assertion.

She continued, “I gave particular instructions that they were to be in the Gold Room! When they are here, pray tell, are they not always taken to the Gold Room?”

“Indeed, they are.”

At that moment, she held up a crumpled note.

She said, “This was for you.”

Unfolding the missive with all due diligence, he read it aloud. It was quite economical.

It read, “D, Pray come to the Blue Room, love E.”

His brow furrowed when he looked at her. She widened her eyes, twice for emphasis. For a man of quick wit and exceptional understanding, it took him far longer than it should have to comprehend what had come to pass—or at least that was what he pretended.

She said, “I repaired to the Blue Room to await you,
dearest
!”

He was silent.

“Regrettably,” she explained. “I was preceded.”

“By the Gardiners?” he said finally. “I am sure they can forgive so small an intrusion....”

“When I entered, they were in bed,” she said

As he did not respond, she emphasised the specifics of the encounter.

“They were—
in flagrante!”
cried she.