The Perils of Pleasure (22 page)

“We believe the body in the coffin is a member of her family, and we hoped to surrender it to her. Otherwise we shall go straight on to the pauper’s cemetery with it. I come from Edderly Hospital.”

“Do you?” Mrs. Pallatine was studying her closely now, frowning a little.

“Yes, as a messenger of Doctor—”

Madeleine realized just in time there might be linger
ing sensitivity to the name of Dr. August in this house
hold. “—Smythe.”

“Do you
typically
deliver bodies to doorsteps, madam?” Mrs. Pallatine didn’t sound suspicious. She sounded fascinated. Understandably, she’d never heard of such a thing.

“We received word at the very last instant in this case, as we made ready to leave for the cemetery, and as your home was on our route, I was instructed to inquire at your residence in case alternate arrangements could be made. We make every effort at Edderly Hospital to
locate relatives of patients who pass without relatives present. And the government is always grateful when a relative takes charge of a body. And ’tis it not sad to go to your reward alone?”

The entire story sounded preposterous to Madeleine’s own ears, but apparently either her sincere delivery or the mention of the government compensated for it. Why else would a perfectly—or
nearly
perfectly—respectable woman be driving about London with a coffi n?

Mrs. Pallatine sighed.

“I’ll send the Marys down. Perhaps you can sort it out between them. Would you like to come in, Mrs.—”

“I think I should perhaps remain with the coffi n,” Madeleine said discreetly.

“Yes, given the trouble with Resurrectionists, I think that’s wisest.”

And what could Madeleine say to that? “Indeed,” she agreed somberly.

Down below in the street, Colin reflected upon the fact that he’d spent the past several weeks of his life in increasingly small, dark spaces. He was not desperately uncomfortable at the moment. Then again, he could not in truth say he was comfortable. He couldn’t move more than an inch in any direction, and any time he stretched his arms, the coffin lid bumped a bit, the straw itched him, and the sweat had begun to gather in earnest be
tween his shoulder blades. And then there was the low hum of fear, the knowledge that he might need to spring into response in a heartbeat’s amount of time.

But that had been so ever present lately, he was almost growing used to it.

He began to plan what he might do if the coffi n lid opened over him and he didn’t see Madeleine’s face but another one altogether. He diverted himself for an in
stant imagining Louisa’s blue eyes peering in at him, but they had an expression of horror no matter how he tried, so he stopped. He’d crossed his hands over his chest over his locked pistol. He could get it unlocked pretty quickly. He thought he might be adroit enough to jab the interloper in the eyes with two fi ngers or—

A gloved finger was poking him in the ear again. He could only just bend his arm enough to reach up and squeeze it.

Madeleine risked lifting up the coffin lid an inch or so then. He saw a pair of dark eyes fringed by lush eyelashes.

“Good day,” she said softly.

“And good day to you,” he answered politely and just as softly.

“Mrs. Pallatine has two Marys. She’s sending them down. Are you able to breathe?”

“Adequately.”

“What more can one ask of life?” she whispered.

He smiled at her, and he saw her eyes scrunch up in a smile, saw the soft little stars in their depths, and then the lid fell.

Suddenly, a strident female voice penetrated the walls of his little pine prison.

“’Tis mine, Mary, I tell ye. Off wi’ ye,” snarled a rough feminine voice.

“’Ow d’yer ken ’tis
yer
body, Mary?” Another female voice whined.

Two Marys? Colin mused.

There was a silence.

“I . . .
ken
.” This Mary’s voice was a low and sinister snarl.

Convincing, Colin had to admit.

There was a silence. And then the wench who must
have been the other Mary squeaked and he heard the sound of her footsteps dashing back up the stairs.

Colin was distantly amused to be referred to as “it,” and also that the remaining Mary was so eager to claim him. He thought he knew why. This Mary must have looked at that coffin and seen pound notes.

They’d found their girl.

His heart began a now familiar hard, swift thud
ding, and he tipped his head back to get his ear closer to his air holes.

“Are you very, very certain, Mary?” Madeleine sounded careful and reasonable. “I was told I could bring a body to you, and you would know . . . what to do with it.”

“Oh, aye.” She was all business now, her voice low and practical. “Ye want me man, Critchley. Yer story is a good one, mum, but ’tis right rash to bring the body straight ’ere in the daylight. But fer two pounds I’ll tell ye where to find ’im. Ye’ll get four pounds fer this ’un if ’tis a large, and Critchley will sell it on to the surgeons an’ take ’is cut from the fee, as ye’ve done the work, like. But . . . I’ll jus’ ’ave me a look inside, won’t I?” she said suddenly, with insulting insinuation. “I tell ye, I willna be buyin’ a coffin full of rocks—”

The coffin lid flipped up, a doughy face appeared, and Colin apparently closed his eyes too late. For he saw a mouth gape into an enormous O, and out of it came the first note of a scream that promised to be so extraordinary in pitch that Colin nearly screamed himself.

Madeleine’s hand instantly appeared, clapped over the mouth and pulled the face back, and the coffi n lid dropped.

Knowing Madeleine, she’d probably managed to
thrust her pistol in the girl’s ribs, too. But she would

need help. That face hadn’t belonged to a
petite
girl.

Colin pushed the coffin lid up tentatively a bit more.

“I only wants the dead ones,” Mary was saying resentfully.

She was a charmer, this Mary.
But I’m rumored to be worth one hundred pounds alive
, he was tempted to say.

Madeleine’s voice was low and persuasive. “Mary . . . come with us for a very short ride, and I promise it will be worth your while. But if you scream, do keep in mind that we know all about the Resurrectionists, and you and Critchley might find yourselves in very, very grave trouble.”

“Mrs. Pallatine, she’ll sack me, she will,” Mary said resentfully.

“Well, Mary,” Madeleine said reasonably, “
we’ve
pistols and pound notes, and we’ll use both to obtain what we need from you.”

Colin sat part of the way up, lifting the lid of the coffin, but not enough to poke his head above the sides of the wagon. He brushed his hair away from his eyes, and squinted into the sun, and cocked his pistol almost refl exively.

The sound got Mary’s attention, and she spun her head to stare down at him.

“Who the divvil—who are—are ye—” Her mouth dropped open again. “Oh, sweet MaryMotherofGOD-
ColinEversea
!”

Her voice went up and up and up in pitch until his name was nearly an inaudible squeak.

He gave her his very best, spine-melting smile.

And before his eyes, all the surly went out of her. In its place appeared a small, shy, young-looking smile.

Her face was fleshy and colorless, and her hair was oily, some of it shoved up under maid’s cap and some trailing down. Her eyes were blue as lapis but very small and set unnervingly far apart. They reminded Colin a bit of currants pressed into a Christmas pudding.

She was in fact now staring at him as if he
were
a Christmas pudding.

“Colin
Ever
sea,” she breathed worshipfully. “I bought a ticket to yer trial, I did. Saved up me wages. Saw a day of ye there. Critchley was none too pleased.”

“Mary, we have questions for you,” he said gently. “We will pay you—” Behind Mary, Madeleine sur
reptitiously lifted up a pound note. “—one pound for answers.”

“Well, then. Ask away,” she said, eager to cooperate with him now. “’Tisn’t like Mrs. Pallatine pays more than piss.”

nm

adeleine persuaded Mary to climb aboard the cart, Colin closed the lid on his coffin, and Mad
eleine cracked the reins. They drove around the corner to the small wooded park.

The only person they saw was a nurse grappling with a little boy still in dresses. The woman clung tight to the child’s hand, and the boy was thrashing and dancing like a kite in a stiff wind at the end of it, whining inces
santly. Good. The woman was distracted.

They saw no other visitors to the park, but they would need to do this before the morning got under way in earnest for the neighborhood, which meant quickly.

Colin pulled himself out of the coffin, rolled surrep
titiously over the side of the wagon and gulped in air as if he could store it for later use.

Pretty little park, he noted. Mature oaks and beeches, flowers planted in bright orderly mounds, a few benches lining an informal path. He took it in with a glance, then turned, and was nearly brought up short by the glow of worship radiating his way from Mary.

He glanced over at Madeleine, whom he was strangely grateful to see in her entirety. Despite her rumpled
appearance, she, too, felt strangely like air. By means of an exchange of glances they arrived at a tacit agreement: he would do the talking.

“Ah . . . very good, then, Mary,” he began. “We know that Dr. August paid you for information about Mr. Pallatine, and you gave him information about the Resurrectionists.”

“Oh, yes, Mr. Eversea. Dr. August paid me right well up until Mr. Pallatine’s ’eart gave out. An’ then I told him on the sly about Critchley. Critchley is . . . me man.”

She mumbled casually over the last words. And then beamed at Colin, as if she would willingly trade Critch
ley in for Colin the moment Colin said the word.

“An’ a good customer, is Dr. August, Critchley says. Pays right well fer larges,” she added helpfully.

“Do you know if Critchley works for or with anyone else besides Dr. August?”

“’E sells bodies to Dr. August, an’ to doctors in Ed
inburgh for the school there.”

“Edinburgh—how in God’s name—” Colin did not want to think about what condition stolen bodies would be in by the time they reached
Edinburgh
.

“How does he
get
them to Edinburgh?”

“Oh, e ’as use of a fine fast carriage, and takes them just as far as Marble Mile by night in about four, fi ve hours or so. The men in the steamers take them down the coast to Scotland by water.”

“Has use of a fine coach, Mary?” Madeleine asked sharply. “What do you mean by that? It’s not a hack
ney, or a wagon?”

“Nay.” She was scornful. “’Tis fast as a mail coach, ’tis, wi’ fine leather seats inside, and shining on the out
side, and the cattle—bays, all of ’em! Matched. Or so
Critchley says. I’ve only seen it in the dark, ye see. Be

longs to the Mercury Club.”

Colin’s heart nearly stopped.

“Do you remember anything about the outside, Mary? Did you notice a coat of arms, or a symbol of some sort, anything?”

“I canna tell ye, Mr. Eversea.”

“Cannot, or
will
not?” He was aware of his voice going more taut.

Madeleine sent him a cautionary glance.

“How often does Critchley go to Marble Mile, Mary, do you know?” Colin pressed.

“But once every month. By the full moon, ye ken, because ’tis easier to dig fer the bodies then. More light.”

It conjured such a vivid, grisly picture that neither Colin nor Madeleine could speak for a moment.

“Er . . . I see. So . . . did he make the trip to Marble Mile recently? I haven’t been where I can track the moon, you see, so I don’t know when it was last full.”

“Well, ’e’s about due for another trip, Mr. Eversea. ’E went more than a fortnight ago.”

Colin was aware of his palms sweating now. A quick
silver rush of hope nearly sickened him.

“What
day
, Mary, did he last go?”

He must have said this a little too intensely, because a mulish look came over her face and she took a step back and frowned, glancing down at the pound note in her hand, as if weighing whether she would tolerate anything other than gentle flirtation for a pound. Then glanced back at him.

Damn.
He might have to kiss the girl to get more information.

He tried another soft smile, which was difficult to do given the weight of his impatience. Her mulish expres
sion relaxed more toward rapt once more.

“Do you recall the day of the week he went?”

“It might have been . . . well, ’twas on a Tuesday, I believe. Fer I had just been to market, as I recall, and bought the cheese Critchley prefers, but he wasna ’ome to eat it, and then I . . . ”

She rambled on some more about cheese and other things after that, but Colin heard nothing more. Be
cause that’s when he
knew
:

Horace Peele had been taken to a romantic cottage in Marble Mile in a swift carriage full of bodies the day after Roland Tarbell was killed.

God willing, Horace Peele was still alive. But why make the effort to take him all the way to Marble Mile in a “fiery winged chariot” if they planned to kill him? In London, anything could be bought, including murder. His murder could have been arranged easily enough.

So it was possible they weren’t dealing with an evil person.

But perhaps they were dealing with a . . . determined one.

Colin breathed in, and tried not to let that thought settle in and leech the light of hope from him.

“Does anyone else know about Critchley’s line of work, Mary?”

“Only me sister. She used to work for Mrs. Pallatine, too. She got ’erself a better job, she did. She’s pretty, me sister,” she said with surprisingly little resentment, and as if this explained everything.

Sadly, it probably did. It was also, Colin thought mercenarily, difficult to believe.

“Where does she work now?”

“Oh, she’s a maid fer the Mercury Club. Got ’erself a lover there, too.”

Colin squeezed his eyes closed, said a prayer of hallelujah.

And then, shocking everyone, including himself, he leaned down and kissed Mary Poe on her cheek.

Mary Poe pressed her fingers to her now crimson face, as if she could hold the kiss in place forever.

“Don’t tell Critchley,” Colin whispered. “And don’t tell anyone you saw me.”

“You’re incorrigible,” Madeleine said after they’d taken Mary Poe back to Mrs. Pallatine’s and returned to the park to discuss the day. She was growing a trifle weary of talking to a coffin. It was absurd and macabre.

One hundred pounds.
And she wouldn’t have to feel this harrowing buffeting of emotions anymore.

“You just want a kiss, too, Mrs. Greenway.”

He gave her a wicked little smile that did alarming, melting things to her insides, and caused everything in her to both yearn toward him and pull back in great alarm simultaneously. And then he pulled his long body out of the coffin and leaned against it.

“Why on earth would I want something you give away so freely?” she asked coolly.

“Freely!” he mused. “That kiss was an
investment
. In loyalty and silence. One hopes.”

“Do you think she’ll be able to resist bragging about it? The kiss?”

“Oh, no one will believe her if she does,” he said with some satisfaction. “And Critchley didn’t strike me as the cuddly sort. If she told him about it, I’m willing to bet he’d take it badly.”

One hundred pounds
. It sat on her shoulder and sang into her ear like a dark little bird.

Aloud, she said, “So . . . she said her sister works at the Mercury Club.”

“Yes.”

“Marcus is a member of the Mercury Club,” Mad
eleine observed.

“Yes,” he said curtly. And then rallying his man
ners, he added quickly, “As are Isaiah Redmond and numerous other men. And the emblem on their coach is a pair of winged ankles trailing flames. Mean to indi
cate speed, I suppose. Mercury the messenger god and all that.”

“A fiery chariot,” Madeleine said quietly. “Well, then.”

“Well, then,” Colin agreed grimly.

They allowed themselves a moment of silence to muse on how different their lives might have been at this moment had a particular drunk been more
specifi c
, and less filled with the poetry of gin.

“Horace Peele was taken to Marble Mile that night in the Mercury Club carriage,” Colin said half to him
self. “So I need to go to Marble Mile.”

Marble Mile, a swift few hours coach ride away in Colin’s former life, might as well be America given their current conveyance. Not to mention the fact that Colin was a famous fugitive. And that he could scarcely breathe in the coffi n.

“But we can’t go to Marble Mile with you in a coffi n and me driving this woeful cart. Perhaps you can some
how visit the Mercury Club to ascertain whether—”

His head jerked up. “Four
days
, Mrs. Greenway.”

He’d snapped it.

Madeleine was stunned silent.

Colin stared at her for a moment, his eyes distant and furious, not really seeing her.

Then he sighed, and tipped his forehead into his hand and rubbed at it, as though trying to coax a genie from a lantern.

Madeleine understood then: four days until his brother, whom he loved but who might have arranged for Horace Peele to disappear so he could wed the woman
Colin
loved, would live the life that was rightfully Colin’s.

“My apologies, Mrs. Greenway,” he said stiffl y. “What I
meant
to say is: I can use those four days to linger in London and try to find answers and perhaps learn nothing, or I can go straight to Kent and Marble Mile and perhaps find Horace Peele, and all of this will be . . . over.”

Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps.

Marble Mile was at least a half day or more away by hackney. A journey to look for Horace and return to London could take up two days, possibly more.

And God only knew where Mutton Cottage was.

It was a terrible choice to have to make.

“Then again, it isn’t as though I have anything else on my schedule at the moment,” Colin added.

Madeleine wondered where he found it, the where
withal to be witty when things were absurdly, dauntingly thorny. She found herself deeply and unaccountably moved.

“Then there’s the little matter of who tried to kill you, Mrs. Greenway,” he added. “And didn’t
pay
you.”

“As of now, I would simply like to be paid. As I men
tioned before, I need the money rather urgently.”
And I need a bath
, she wanted to add.
And my rooms. And my clothes. And a life I can call my own again. I need to leave here.

“And I’m worth one hundred pounds. So they say.” Colin Eversea’s head came up again then, and he fi xed her with an even gaze.

It was a test, and Madeleine knew it, even as the di
rectness of it surprised her.

She stared back at him. Behind him the scattering of leafy trees and the well-tended lawn of the park made his eyes more green than blue, and no less beautiful for all of that. He still had a noticeable pallor. Copper whiskers edged his jaw now, and weariness pulled at the skin beneath his eyes. But his gaze was steady and clear. She didn’t read challenge in it, or fl irtation, or warmth, particularly.

He was searching for an answer to some other ques
tion he hadn’t yet voiced. He was as tired as she of uncertainty.

Would he shoot her if she did try to take him for the reward? Colin now knew important things about her. Such as the fact that no one in the world would realize or particularly care she was dead.