When We Touch (31 page)

He warned her flatly that it would be so, and not so tragic, for if she didn't perform as he required her to, she might as well learn the trade of obliging such blokes. She was to learn to be silent and regal, to talk to him, to “lead” him on a path to the dead. She did as he asked, and he seemed pleased, and informed her that their first séance was to be that night; they had been invited to the home of a factory owner whose wife was grieving; she had just lost a child. The “boys” were sent out to find out everything they could about the child, and they were also ordered to bring home some “handy cash” needed for the event.

They returned with wallets and reticules. One was covered in blood. And it was the sight of that blood that first made her realize just what kind of a situation she had gotten herself into. “Trouble?” Jeremiah asked simply.

And Matthew—it was Matthew, she believed—shrugged off-handedly. “He squealed a bit. Don't worry, none, though. He was drunker than a swine . . . looks as if he fell off the stairs coming down from the pub.”

Jeremiah had nodded. And Arianna had felt sick.

“Dead?” Jeremiah asked.

“Stone cold,” Matthew assured him.

It was all she could do to keep from gagging, from passing out, and yet she knew that she could not. If she showed the slightest sign of weakness, she knew now, she would be killed, and somehow, her remains disposed of in a way that would make her demise appear accidental.

“Maybe we should be acquiring our cash from women only these days,” Matthew said. “If there's an obvious sign on the body, we could just cut it up, make it appear that Jack the Ripper fellow has found himself another victim.”

“There's thinking, my boy, but still, I'd prefer our petty needs not be obvious in any way. I keep telling you—we're going for much bigger hauls. We're starting small, I'll warrant, but . . . we'll bring in riches.”

They came back with cash, and information. Arianna discovered that she was to be dressed in simple black, but part of the cash went to buying her a strange red ring, which Jeremiah said she would use as part of her powers. “Now, bear in mind, hands are never to be released around the table. One or two of the boys will always be part of the “séance” goers, ready to strike down any troublemaker among the guests. But, my dear, you bear in mind, you must never let go of the hands!”

They had traveled on foot, in a pack, until they had neared the humble but respectable house. Then four of the fellows had broken off, and Arianna realized that they were to guard the entrances and watch for interference.

In the home, she met the grief-stricken mother, and two other women, both of whom had lost loved ones recently. It wasn't necessary to reach all the loved ones, Jeremiah taught her. Just one convincing performance would bring others back, and spread the rumors of their true ability.

That first night, she conducted Jeremiah into his “trance.” The man was a true actor. Matthew acted as his control, standing alone in the darkened room, creating the smoke that appeared. But Jeremiah had eschewed the use of any real props for the event, speaking in a child's voice, and, apparently, saying the right things.

He was rewarded with an exceptionally fine pocket watch, and they left with a few pocketsful of silver, as well.

That first night, it seemed, Jeremiah was well pleased with her. When Luke made a few comments that she could actually be useful in many ways, Jeremiah sharply told him that she was to be left alone—she was proving herself a fine addition to their group.

The next night, a sailor, a friend of one of the guests, had imbibed in a fair amount of his host's wine before the affair. He mocked Jeremiah before the company, but Jeremiah never lost his pretense of being in a trance. With a deadpan expression, eyes rolled back, he warned the sailor that he was doomed to meet with an accident.

Which he did, as soon as he left the house, and was met by a number of the group's thugs.

Arianna would never forget the sound as his head was struck, his skull crushed. He was deposited in the Thames. When his body was found, it would appear that he had taken a tumble from the bridge, and certainly, if there was an autopsy, it would be discovered that he had been drinking.

She was never left alone.

By the third day, she began to fear what she had longed for—that Maggie would come. Because Maggie would die instantly. Once, it had been what she thought she had wanted. Now, she had learned the truth about such a horrible death. She knew what a pathetic, wretched little fool she had been, certain that she knew so much, that she could handle herself, that she could wile any man into letting her have her way. She had thought it would be a lark, as well as a simple revenge. Now, all she knew was fear.

* * *

The moment the woman began to scream, Jamie was ready. He crossed the darkened alley at a swift pace, swinging her attacker around by the shoulder, and catching him with a right jab to the jaw. The fellow let out a howl of pain, and crashed against the stone wall that bordered the narrow throughway.

“What'd ye do that fer, ducky?” the woman cried out, rewarding him with a swift slap of her shabby reticule against the side of his head.

“You were screaming, I was trying to save your life!” Jamie informed her.

“I didn't mean to 'urt 'er!” the man cried. He was a lean fellow, light-haired and mustached. Like the prostitute, he was missing several teeth. He carried a small valise.

“What's in the bag?” Jamie demanded.

“Me carpenter's tools!” the fellow said. Both he and the woman stared at Jamie as if he had gone daft. Jamie looked into the bag. Not a knife in it, or even a sharp-bladed instrument of any kind.

He passed the bag back to the man. “Why were you screaming?” he asked the woman.

“ 'E cheapened out on me, 'e did! Trying to cheat me out o' a few d's!”

Jamie looked to the man.

“Got to have me doss money!” the woman said.

“Pay her,” Jamie told the man.

“She weren't worth what she wanted!” he complained.

“Pay her,” Jamie insisted.

The fellow looked disgruntled, but dug more deeply into his pocket. “You a copper, or something like that?” the man asked, irritated.

“No,” Jamie told her.

“I didn't need to pay 'eh, then!” the fellow whined.

“You needed to pay her,” Jamie told him sternly.

“If ye're not a copper, wot are y' then?” the fellow demanded belligerently.

“Call me a simple member of a citizens vigilance committee, and quit griping. What can you be thinking, cheating her out of a few pennies when you know she should be inside? There's a killer on the loose.”

“Aw . . . needs me own doss money,” the man said. “Lost me room today, I did.”

“So far, this fellow isn't after men,” Jamie reminded him. He looked at the woman. “Get to your doss, then. There're dozens of lamps out tonight, so it seems.”

“Thank you, sir!” the woman said, and she sped on across the alley. As Jamie watched, she disappeared into darkness again.

“Not a copper, eh? I'll be on me way, then!” the man said. Frustrated, Jamie leaned against the wall, watching as he, too, started to disappear into the darkness.

Then he called back to Jamie, “Don't matter much wot I paid that one, sir! She'll be spending it on 'er gin, long before she looks for a bed for the night!”

Chapter 15

Maggie was quite convinced that she'd never had a better disguise. Cecilia loved to play at her masquerades, and she was equipped with all manner of wigs and makeup.

The thing that worried Maggie somewhat was that they had wound up with Cecilia as an accomplice in their endeavor.

She would never have agreed, but Mireau returned not only with disguises, but with her adventuresome friend, as well.

“Now, explain to me just what we're up to?” Cecilia demanded. They had enlisted Clayton for the evening, afraid that Darby would feel that he was obliged to go for Jamie, or some other authority. Maggie wanted only to find her stepdaughter, and get her out of harm's way as quickly as possible.

“We're going into Whitechapel, and possibly to a séance,” Maggie explained, “and it could be very dangerous. Cecilia, you've two young sons, and you shouldn't be with us.”

“Oh, but I shouldn't be half the places that I am!” Cecilia said, smiling. She had out a box of makeups, and cursed now and then as the carriage went over a few ruts. She sat back, surveying her handiwork. “Oh, but I'm very good, actually. Mireau, take a look! Why, Maggie. You're nearly an old hag! Can you imagine that—I've made her look quite ugly.”

Maggie had no idea what Cecilia had done with her theatrical paints. But Mireau was staring at her now as well, shaking his head. “Like an old crone,” he agreed. “Maggie, no one will recognize you now!”

“Here, I've a mirror!” Cecilia said, and offered it up.

Maggie looked at herself in the dim light, and nearly jumped. The wig Cecilia had given her was drab and gray. With the makeup, she had added lines and an aged, haggard appearance. She had gone so far as to give her an ugly mole.

“Perfect,” she marveled, looking at Cecilia.

“See, aren't you glad I'm here? I'm amazingly handy.”

“Yes, but if things go badly, I shall never forgive myself,” Maggie said.

“I owe you,” Cecilia murmured.

Mireau frowned. “I took Maggie out for a last fling, having no real idea that she didn't wish to have one.”

He stared at Maggie sternly. “It was fine. I was able to leave.”

“A gentleman helped her out,” Cecilia explained.

“Maggie!” Mireau said.

“It's over, and we've tonight to concentrate upon!” She stared at Fiona, silent and wide-eyed in her corner of the carriage.

“Ah, yes, tonight!” Cecilia said.

The carriage came to a halt. Clayton came around, decidedly unhappy about their course.

“We're at Mile's End,” he said.

“Fiona, where was this room you rented?” Maggie asked.

Fiona came out of the carriage and stood at her side. “I don't know!” she moaned.

“Fiona, you must think!”

“It's dark,” the girl murmured.

Clayton became helpful, pointing out streets and landmarks, and at last, Fiona said, “There, down that alley, and around the corner. I think.”

Clayton remained with the carriage while the four hurried down the street. Maggie noted that it was well into the evening, but early for the East End where pubs stayed open all hours and the homeless drifted the streets endlessly.

As she walked, she tripped over something. A body. She looked down, terror filling her heart.

“‘Eh! Watch where ye're goin', luv!” a man cried out angrily.

She breathed again. Down the street, they came to a stop before a door. Maggie stepped forward, banging on it.

No answer, and it was dark within.

“We rented it from a woman down the hall,” Fiona told her, pointing as Maggie lifted a brow.

Again, Maggie marched forward, and knocked on a door. It was answered by a portly woman with a heavy chin. She peered at them in the dim light that filtered out from her own quarters. “What ye want?” she asked suspiciously.

“I'm looking for the young woman who had taken the room down the hall,” Maggie said.

“Ah, she moved out! Barely moved in, and she moved out! The room's vacant—there! You were with the girl!” she declared, pointing at Fiona. “I'm owed on that room. In fact, if ye're kin to the girl, ye can give me wot's due!”

“How amazing. Most people ask for their rents in advance!” Mireau said.

“She did ask for her rent in advance,” Fiona said, staring back at the woman.

“Where did she go?” Maggie demanded impatiently.

“Am I goin' ta git me money?”

“Give her some money, Mireau,” Maggie said. “And missus, you tell me where the girl went.”

“The usual,” she said, taking the coin from Mireau, and studying it. Apparently, she decided that she had received a satisfactory bribe. “With a group of men.”

“A group of men!” Fiona said.

“Aye, a group of young cutthroats, I daresay. Where they went, I don't know.”

“All right, then,” Maggie said. “Perhaps you can help us in another way. Have you heard about any mesmerists or spiritualists working in the area?”

“Ah . . . I've heard about a new fellow. Called Jeremiah. But if you want to know more about the bloke . . .”

“Mireau, give her more money,” Maggie said.

The woman grinned, pleased, and was happy to accept another coin.

“Sorry,” she said. “Seems the bloke don't work out of one place, though he is gaining something of a reputation! Goes to diff'rent places, he does.”

“We should take the money back!” Mireau muttered.

Maybe the woman thought it was a real threat. She stepped back. “I can tell ye this—head for a pub just around the corner, called the Blarney Stone. His fellows are known to occupy the place. The gin is very cheap.”

She slammed the door in their faces then.

“The Blarney Stone, I take it?” Mireau said, rolling his eyes.

“The Blarney Stone,” Maggie agreed.

* * *

Midnight.

Now having moved on to a second pub, Jamie leaned against a wall, watching as the evening's customers came and went. There was a killer loose on the streets, and it seemed that men and women alike were quick to whisper in hushed words about the goings on, but it didn't appear to stop them from frequenting their favorite gin houses—and the streets.

The police were out and about, making their presence known. But that night, more than ever, Jamie became aware that they could not protect every woman on the street—many hundreds of thousands of people were crowded into London's East End.

As he watched the doorway of the pub, he was startled to see a fine carriage drive by. For a moment, his blood quickened, as he feared that Maggie had ignored his threat, and had come to Whitechapel on another of her missions. But thus far, he'd never seen her in the foggy, misty, gas-lit streets at night.

He kept to the shadows, watching the carriage, and noted that there was no coat-of-arms upon the door. A block past the pub, in a field of haze, the carriage came to a halt. Someone in a black cape and tall hat stepped from the carriage. As a woman walked by, the fellow stopped her.

Frowning, Jamie walked along the row of cottages, remaining in the shadows, until he reached the carriage. He strode out, then, but paused at the rear of the carriage, surprised to see that the man was Baron Justin Graham.

Jamie couldn't hear the words being exchanged, and he started to come around, and identify himself. But apparently, he had a made a noise, and Justin jerked his head around, then stepped back into the carriage. The woman stepped away, staring after the carriage, her eyes aglow.

“Missus!” Jamie said. The woman looked at him, and backed away, deciding whether to offer him her services, or scream bloody murder.

He lifted his hands. “Don't be afraid. I won't come any closer. I . . . I'll pay you for information.”

“Information?” she said cautiously.

He produced a silver coin from his pocket and tossed it to her. “What did that gentleman want from you?”

She started to laugh, and slumped against the brick wall that gated a factory on that side of the road. She was drunk, and the sound of her cackle actually made him want to snatch his coin back, but he reminded himself quickly that one look at the surroundings made it easily possible to understand why gin seemed the best remedy for life.

“Please,” he said evenly, “I need to know what that gentleman wanted.”

“Why, just like you, sir! He wanted information.”

“About what?”

“Had I seen anyone suspicious! Everyone in the streets is suspicious these days, dearie! Then, did I know anything about a fellow claiming quietly to be a great spiritualist, or did I know about any particular house of... ill repute.”

What in God's name was Justin up to now? He'd heard the fellow was trying to turn a new leaf—to have more purpose in life. Still, these were mean streets. Justin had served his time in the Queen's army, Jamie reminded himself, and still . . . it was somewhat uncomfortable to think about him trying to clean up the streets of Whitechapel—on his own.

“Thank you,” Jamie said. “Where were you off to?” he asked her.

“You've something in mind, ducky?” she said, suddenly coy.

He shook his head. “It's getting late. I'd hoped you were heading home.”

“Well, wot a sweet one ye be, and handsome at that! You've given me quite a pretty coin here, sir!”

“Take it, and go home,” he said, and turned, and started walking down the street again.

Watching the pubs would avail him little. The murderer would not strike so close to so much activity, where there was so much light.

As he moved down the street, the mist-shrouded night was suddenly rent asunder by a scream, a man crying out, “Murder! Oh, my God! It's another murder!”

Jamie started to run in the direction of the shout.

* * *

At the Blarney Stone, Mireau went to the bar and ordered a round of drinks, then joined Maggie, Cecilia, and Fiona at a table.

“What's going on at the bar?” Maggie asked him.

Mireau shrugged. “They're talking about the murders. And about their jobs, the casual work some of them get now and then, how the police should be doing more . . . how there's not enough work, and not enough gin. The woman with the paisley shawl is trying to get the short fellow in the tan cap to take a stroll into an alley with her. And don't stare now, but there's a young fellow, tan trousers, black jacket, shaggy brown hair, and a half a day's beard whose been watching us since we came in here.”

“Oh?” Cecilia said, craning her neck to see over the head of others.

“I said, don't look now!” Mireau reminded her.

“All right, all right!” Cecilia said. She had worn ragged, fingerless gloves, and as she picked up her gin, Mireau made a
tsking
sound.

“What?” Cecilia said.

“A perfect manicure. Ah, they'll think you're a working girl, all right!”

Maggie had covertly taken notice of the fellow. And he was watching them.

She suddenly let out a loud moan, and let her head slump to the table.

“What is it?” Mireau cried, with real alarm.

Cecilia was quicker. She let her voice rise. “What is it, what is it? Are you daft man? How can you ask her such a thing when you know how she's suffering, poor lass! Ever since her dear Frank died of that awful fever . . . there, there, lass!”

Maggie raised her head just slightly, sniffling. “You don't understand, you can't understand . . . we'd argued that day! He died, and I was never able to say that I was sorry . . . never able to tell him just how much I did love him!”

Cecilia pulled her into her arms, rocking with her. “Don't sit there like a useless bum!” she charged Mireau. “Can't you see, the poor dear needs another gin?”

“Right. Righto,” Mireau said, rising, and heading for the bar.

“Have you ever seen that fellow before?” Maggie asked Fiona, her head resting against Cecilia's shoulder so she could continue to rock and moan while getting a good look at the man.

“No,” Fiona said. “Wait! Yes . . . maybe. Yes, I think that he
was
in here the day that Arianna met with that Jeremiah man.”

Maggie nodded imperceptibly and let out another moan. Her heart jumped as the fellow approached Mireau as he stood, asking the bartender for another gin.

Mireau turned to him, and he either was startled at first, or was joining in on the act. He took the gin, listened to the fellow, nodded gravely, and then set a hand on his shoulder and indicated the table where they sat. The fellow came along with Mireau.

“This fellow says his name is John,” Mireau said.

Maggie sniffed, giving him a curt nod and no more.

“Hello, John,” Cecilia said. She gave the words an appreciative sound. “Sorry, me old auntie is not up to herself this evening.”

Old auntie?
Maggie thought that Cecilia was enjoying herself.

“She's not usually so rude. There's Flossy there,” she said, indicating Fiona, who blinked once and nodded, extending a hand.

“Pleasure,” Fiona said.

“Don't mean to be intrudin' on yer grief, mum,” John said. “But I couldn't help but hear.”

Maggie waved a hand in the air.

John lowered his voice and leaned low to the table. “Frankly, you don't look much like you belong in these parts.”

“We'll belong here soon enough. Uncle Frank kept us all eating,” Cecilia said with a sigh. “Still, we've a few pretty little things left to pawn—not on us, of course!” she added sternly. She looked at him furtively, as if realizing she should be suspicious.