The Clockwork Scarab (20 page)

“Wot’s that, luv?” A wicked smile twitched the corner of his mouth, making him appear dangerous and delicious at the same time.

“I’m wondering,” I said, forcing my voice to stay light as his eyes focused on mine, “if you have any idea how jealous you sound.” I settled back in my chair as his smile faltered.

Then he chuckled and eased back as well. “All right, then, luv. Ye’ve lammed me twice t’night. Per’aps I’d best take m’lumps and stop now. Wha’ can I do fer ye?”

“You told me you saw some men removing things from the museum the night we met. And that one of them was carrying something long and slender. Can you give me any other information?”

He retrieved his tankard of ale and took a healthy swallow. It looked so good that I reconsidered tasting mine. One sip wouldn’t hurt. I lifted the mug and drank.

Bitter
.

Oh, ugh, sharp and
bitter
!

But then I tasted the nuttiness and the full, rich flavor, and warmth rushed to my belly along with the ale.

His gaze was dark and warm beneath his hat brim. “Right, then, luv. The drink—it takes some gettin’ used to. And so
 
.
 
.
 
.
 
ye want t’know about the thieves. There’s no’ much more t’tell ye, but they were movin’ a ’eavy box. Bigger’n a man. It was goin’ into a large wagon, wi’ no markin’s on it. “

“That’s it?”

He shrugged. “I ’ad other things to be attendin’ to, an’ it ain’t my concern wot them flimps was doin’.”

“What were
you
doing there?”

“Now that, m’luv, is no concern o’ yours. But I will tell ye I was lookin’ for m’bloke Jemmy. ’E’s gone missin’, and the trail led t’that particklar crib. ’Twas just yer good fortune I ’appened to be there that night.” His teeth flashed again.

I placed the scarab on the table. “Have you seen this before? Or anything like it? Someone tossed it in on a bet tonight, and there have been others found like it, related to
 
.
 
.
 
.
 
to the death of the girl who was found in the museum.”

“I did ’ear ’bout ’at. Sad business.” He picked up the scarab, holding it near the candle, turning it over. He had the perfect hands for a pickpocket: long, dextrous fingers and solid, strong wrists. The thought soured any soft feelings I might have begun to have for Pix. I was here to get information from him, and nothing more. I should
not
be enjoying his company, his jests and, most definitely, I should not be noticing the shape of his mouth. And the way the corner of it ticked up gently when he was amused. I straightened up in my seat.

“Well?”

“No,” he replied, and handed the scarab back. “But ye say it was in the pot t’night? I can find out.”

He lifted his fingers and gave a sharp, piercing whistle. Immediately, two men detached themselves from a group and approached.

Interesting. Pix, for all his easygoing ways, had respect and stature in this place. It couldn’t be simply that he was the champion of arm wrestling.

By now I’d seen enough of his face to confirm my earlier guess at his age. Twenty, twenty-two at the most. But here was a man who carried authority in a pub of thieves and pickpockets, who could whistle and summon them in an instant. And he could make his way into a Society ball, groomed and dressed like a neat servant who knew his way around the house and his tasks.

He was aptly named after an ever-changing, always on the move, sprite.

I took another sip of ale and didn’t wince at the bitterness this time. I listened as Pix spoke to the newcomers. Their slang-filled cant was English and mostly incomprehensible to me, but I understood he was sending them off to find out who had put the scarab in the pot. After taking a close look at the object, the two men nodded and left the table. I saw them make their way around the pub and assumed they were asking about the talisman.

Pix watched them for a moment, then took a drink. As he lowered the mug, I asked, “Why were you at the Roses Ball, sneaking around in Lady Cosgrove-Pitt’s—”

He covered my hand with his and squeezed, silencing me. “Not s’ loud, luv.”

My interest perked up, for my voice hadn’t gone any louder than before. “What were you after?”

“Now, why would I tell ye that? Ye already
know
wot I was after. Gewgaws an’ jewels an’ the silver, o’ course. Wha’ever I could stuff in me pockets.”

He was confirming exactly what I suspected, but I didn’t believe him. “You’re lying.”

He tilted his head and looked at me with an odd expression. “Right, there, luv. An’ a bloke’s gonna ’ave some secrets.”

“I suspect you have a multitude of them,” I said. “Like where you hide all the loot you’ve stolen. And who knows what else.”

“On’y me an’ the good Lord know, that’s f’sure.” One of the men approached, and Pix, reading something in his expression, rose to meet him. They spoke for a moment in undertones, then Pix turned back to me and bent over the table. “Yer in luck, darlin’. Ferddie o’er there was the one wot put the coin in the pot. ’E got it from Bad Louie, and—”

“Who’s that?”

“A bloke ye
don’
wanna know. ’E’s been stealin’ girls offa the streets fer years. Even ye don’ wan’ ’im catchin’ a glimpse o’ the likes o’ ye, luv. Ye kin trust me on ’at.” His expression was fierce. “Ferddie says Louie’s got ’imself a right purty speck o’ a girl in fine, rich togs stayin’ with ’im.
Stayin’
bein’ a kind way o’ puttin’ it, iffen ye get m’meanin’.” He looked at me closely, his voice still low. “Ye wouldna know anythin’ about a missin’ Society gel, would ye?”

“If he got the beetle coin from the girl, then I would definitely know all about her.” I rose. Even if it wasn’t Lilly
Corteville, a Society girl—or any girl—had no business being held prisoner by the likes of Bad Louie. “Take me to her, Pix.”

He sobered, eyeing me. “What’s the chances you’d stay ’ere instead?”

“None.”

Whatever he muttered under his breath probably wasn’t a compliment. Resignation in his face, he gestured for me to stand. “Come on, then.”

Pix’s two friends accompanied us as we left the pub and descended to ground level. We went only a couple of blocks before turning down a dark, close alley. A bridge that had once connected across the third street levels sagged, untraversable, above my head. Pix glanced at my ready pistol and curled his lip. I could almost read his sneer: he didn’t need a blooming pistol. “Stay ’ere. Wait. Watch. I’ll be jus’ a minute.”

I complied, but only because one of the other men stayed as well. The night was filled with distant shouts and clanging noises, the rare rattling of carriages, barking dogs and yowling cats, the hiss of steam. Neither my companion nor I spoke.

I watched the area where Pix and his companion had disappeared. There was a dark building in front of us, and they’d gone in there at ground level. Then I heard a shout in the distance. And gunshots.

I sprang to attention, my gun in hand, and started to move. I couldn’t wait to get my hands on Bad Louie. More gunshots and shouts echoed through the night. Light flashed
in a small explosion as I started down the dark alley, hurrying in the direction Pix had gone.

But before I got more than a dozen steps, two shadowy figures appeared. They were running, and one of them had something large and heavy over its shoulder. I didn’t need to see to know the runners were Pix and his friend.

“Run!” More shouts and gunshots filled the air.

I stayed with my companions as we dashed through a dizzying maze of streets and alleys, up flights of rickety stairs and over narrow bridges, down and up again until I was completely lost. We turned down a narrow street with dark sky-touching buildings and then ducked into the entrance of a large, black structure. There was a loud clang behind me, and the sound of a metal bolt being thrown.

Someone shoved me along in the dark, and I was propelled down some stairs. A man cursed, another person pushed and guided me, and finally I saw the faint glow of light. At the bottom of the stairs, I stepped into a completely different world than the dark, dingy, dirty Whitechapel streets above.

This was someone’s living quarters, and very well furnished. Settees and rugs had been arranged in a large open space that looked just as comfortable as a parlor in any Society home. Gas lamps
 
.
 
.
 
.
 
no,
electric
lights cast cool, white illumination. Much sharper than the mellow golden glow that lit the rest of London. Something mechanical whirred softly in the corner.

Well, here was the answer to one question: where Pix hid all his stolen loot.

I turned to him. He was sliding the large, heavy item from his shoulder onto the settee. I realized his burden was a person he’d retrieved and carried all this way.

The clear light played over her face, and beneath the dirt and bruises, I recognized Miss Lilly Corteville. She was conscious. Her eyes fluttered and focused, then fear and shock filled her expression.

“Lilly,” I said, kneeling next to her, yanking off my cap so she could see my face. The pins ripped from my hair and scattered. “It’s me, Evaline Stoker. You’re safe now.”

I could have sworn I heard someone whisper
Evaline
behind me, as if testing out the name, but the chamber was filled with so many other sounds that I couldn’t be certain.

“Lilly,” I said again, looking at her cut, bruised face. The poor thing. What had she lived through? “You’re away from that horrible man. Whatever happened, you’re safe.” I found one of her hands and closed my fingers around it. Her digits were cold and stiff.

Her lips moved, and I couldn’t tell what words they formed, but I understood. “Water, and something to eat,” I ordered over my shoulder. “Hurry. And
 
.
 
.
 
.
 
something warm. She’s like to freeze to death.”

I’d hardly spoken the words when a soft blanket was thrust into my hands. I tucked it around the poor girl, but not before I noticed her torn, filthy clothing. It had once been
fine and expensive, but now it told the tale of her experience: blood and dirt stained, lacking ruffles, lace, and other embellishments that could be stolen and sold.

She’d been missing for weeks. She’d obviously been wearing the same clothing all that time. Had she removed the lace and ruffles to raise money, or had they been stolen right off her by Bad Louie or someone else? I burned to ask questions, of her and of Pix, but I knew the time wasn’t right. The girl was in shock, and she needed to rest.

And as for Pix
 
.
 
.
 
.
 
He’d saved her from a terrible situation. And in spite of everything I knew or suspected about his criminal habits, I had to thank him for that.

After dabbing her face clean with warm water and a bit of soft soap I hadn’t thought to ask for, I helped Lilly Corteville drink some thin broth. Her gaze skittered about, and she didn’t release my hand until her eyes closed. At last she slipped into a restless slumber.

Extricating myself, I stood and found Pix watching me. The other two of our companions were sitting across the room, playing dice at a table. My host sat in a chair, lounging in his deceptively relaxed manner. But I sensed tension and an air of something I couldn’t define emanating from him.

“You’ll take good care o’ ’er, now, won’t ye, luv?”

“Right after I find Bad Louie,” I replied. Now that I had seen Lilly and her condition, I understood just how
bad
that man had been.

“No need f’that,” he replied. “Bad Louie won’ be stealin’ no more pretty girls.”

“You killed him?” I had a moment of shock competing with disappointment. I’d wanted to have a hand in the man’s punishment.

“Oh, ’e ain’t dead. ’E jus’ wishes ’e were.” There was no humor in his words.

“Thank you for helping her
 
.
 
.
 
.
 
and me. But now I must get her home.”

“Aye, I’ve made the arrangements. Now, will ye sit and take a sip o’ tea wi’ me?”

I took the cup he offered and settled in a chair between Lilly and Pix. The tea was fragrant and sweetened, without milk. Just the way I liked it. How did he know?

And how, I wondered not for the first time, had he known my name? My vocation?

“Better’n th’ale?” he asked, watching as I sipped.

“I think I could get used to the ale.”

His lips curved. “Aye, I’d expect nawt less from ye. An’ now I’ve a question for ye, luv,” he said as, all of a sudden, I realized how exhausted I was. My eyelids grew heavy, and weariness rushed through my limbs. It had been busy night.

“What’s that?” I replied, taking another drink of the soothing brew.

“Why did ye let me win?”

I smiled at the hint of aggravation in his voice.

“Because I could.”

I set the teacup down, and despite the fogginess that had begun to swim over me, I added, “And so now you owe me one.”

He chuckled in that low, rumbly way of his. “And so it is. Now, close yer eyes. I’ll see ye and yer friend ’ome safely.”

Blast him! “You drugged my tea!” I struggled to sit upright. But my muscles were loose and my brain was foggy.

“Now, luv, a bit o’ laudanum ne’er ’urt anyone—so long’s it’s jus’ a bit. An’ I can’t ’ave ye leavin’ ’ere, and rememberin’ where my crib is, can I? I’m not one for unexpected guests.”

His dark gaze, focused on me from beneath the ever-present cap, was the last thing I saw before darkness enveloped me.

T
he next morning, I received a cryptic message from Miss Stoker. Written on paper from Fergus & Fenrick’s, it said

Lilly Corteville home and in ill health. Discovered in Whitechapel. Come as soon as able.

Aside from the fact that she didn’t seem capable of using proper subject/predicate grammar, Miss Stoker’s girlish penmanship was bothersome with its distracting flourishes. As it was hardly dawn when I received the note, I felt a detour home to freshen up was a good use of time and would keep me from arriving on the Cortevilles’ doorstep at an unreasonable hour.