London
Eric Bunson was a tall, lanky man whose greedy habits had finally started to put flesh on an otherwise stick-like frame. Some would even say he was handsome, unlike his toad-like brother.
“Kate, my little lamb. The police haven’t told Uncle Eric what happened to Uncle Robert,” Eric Bunson wheedled, catching hold of one of his brother’s unfortunate urchins.
“‘E got killed, sir,” Kate said, far too happily.
“Yes, I’ve heard about that. But all that I heard was that he was found in the street. What happened before?” Eric asked, trapping the little girl by holding the strings of her stained apron.
That was not all that he’d heard. He’d heard that his brother had been gutted like a fish and mauled by wild dogs. He’d been told that he could bury the head and the bones... but there would be no need for a good black suit to bury him in. Hanging about the depths of Whitechapel the last few days had subjected him to the ravings of drunkards, whores, and madmen, who claimed that some trull and her giant of a clap-infested client had met a similar, yet milder fate the next day. Fools began to whisper about some menace with blue flames about his body, some demon who could leap over buildings.
Poppycock.
“Someone killed ‘im,” Kate repeated, struggling in Eric Bunson’s grasp.
“Yes, I know. Someone who hated him very much.” Eric wound the strings around his wrist, and Kate stood still with a wince. “That’s better. Listen to Uncle Eric. Someone who hated Uncle Robert very much hurt him.”
“‘E don’t let us call ‘im uncle. Mr. Bunson, it was.”
Eric closed his eyes and resisted the urge to strike the child. Ever since he had taken up residence in his brother’s rooms a day ago, there seemed to be some sort of quiet mutiny brewing among his brother’s charges. That wouldn’t do. Without the children’s labor, their burlap sacking business would be a dead duck. He’d expected to find the dirty, snivelling little nits panicking and quarreling amongst themselves over the last of the provisions in the larder or the last of the coal in the cellar.
But they weren’t. They were full and strangely happy. Some of the older boys had taken charge.
Fear keeps a man needed. Hatred makes a man a target.
Eric let the child go with a shove.
Someone had to have killed Robert in that ghastly way out of pure hatred and rage.
That meant someone Robert had tormented to the snapping point. Someone here, or someone who had just left after years of being pinned under Robert’s cruel thumb. While Eric was sure he had the cushier job, being away from the little curs, he liked to make out that Robert had the easier task—staying in one place, bossing a bunch of children about, and satisfying his lusts with the girls he was about to kick from the nest. Now, he was sure it was so. Robert’s job had some perks, indeed, but it had plenty of risks.
As Kate ran off, Eric watched three of the big lads carrying out mattresses stuffed with rotted hay, tossing them into the street.
“Roof wants fixin’,” one lad called, chin raised defiantly.
“Leaked all over these,” the next one chimed in, crossing his arms.
“Ought to get new beds all around. We do good work ‘ere. Don’t get paid for it.” The third stepped forward, and Eric was alarmed to see that the youth was almost as tall as him.
“Well... the money’ll be tied up, won’t it?” Eric said smoothly, not backing down. To back down would be to admit a loss of power. “Inquest and all. Murder does that. Ties up the pounds and pence. But you seem to be faring all right. Is that beef stew I smell?”
“One of the rich toffs Bunson used to parade around dropped off ‘alf a ruddy cow,” the broad-chested youth said.
“How kind. And Polly’s in the kitchen?” That would be some consolation. With Robert out of the way, he could finally have the wide-eyed blonde. So patient, so willing, so unspoilt. The perfect enjoyment.
Unless Robert had her first. Eric’s fists curled, and he shoved past the startled trio. “She didn’t leave, did she?”
“Polly?”
“Polly?”
“Who’s Polly?”
Eric stilled at the triad of vague responses. “You know Polly. Every lad here knows Polly. Every one of you dreams of slipping it to her!”
“Polly’s looked after most of us since we were little.”
“Don’t mean you wouldn’t give her one,” Eric chuckled. “Have you hidden her somewhere? Or did she finally grow a brain in that empty head of hers?”
Stony silence warned Eric that he should try a milder line of questioning. He squinted at the three boys in front of him, probably all fifteen or sixteen. Ready to strike out on their own. Old enough to make alliances. Old enough to lie.
“Gents, let's not start my visit off with cross words. Polly’s not in the kitchen, is that it?” he asked, his voice light. “Has she left? I wouldn’t begrudge her leaving. After all, she must be seventeen. Eighteen...”
“Twenty. Twenty in the autumn, she was.”
“Well! Then it was high time she went! I suppose Polly has been the best matron we’ve ever had, and we didn’t have to keep her with wages. She just had that pure, gentle spirit.” Eric put his tall silk hat with its stained and soiled fabric to his heart with a heavy sigh. “I wonder if she’s heard of Robert’s passing?”
“I don’t know. She might.” The one who seemed to be the youngest of the three looked between his companions.
“Well, when did she go?” Eric asked, his face pleasant while his mind churned.
Polly’s been here forever. Robert’s personal little pet, his dolly that he let grow nice and plump and more beautiful each year. Ripe for the plucking.
Oh, I bet he plucked her, all right. Had his way with her. Probably beat her until she couldn’t fight back or pushed her down the stairs and got his leg over.
Filthy swine.
“I think it’s been three days. Maybe four?”
“Today would be four.”
“No, no, she was ‘ere yesterday.”
“No, she wasn’t!”
Eric made a grumbling sound, nodded, and walked off. Robert had his particular pets—but Polly was supposed to have been his. Still... he had consolations. One of them was a rather pretty fifteen-year-old with raven hair, green eyes, and a badly twisted leg that left her lame and “useless” to most. Robert had tried to push her off on some charity matron many times, but Eric always insisted that they wait. After all, in just a few more years, he could risk coaxing her to some hidden corner of the place and taking his pleasure.
“Liza, my sweet sparrow, how are you?” Eric sat down beside the girl in her ragged clothes as she sewed sacking together.
“Much the same, Mr. Bunson.”
“Uncle Eric, dear child! I suspect you are downhearted over the loss of Mr. Bunson and Polly?”
Liza’s head jerked up. “Polly? Who told you about Polly.”
“I don’t know their names, I’m afraid. The boys. Three big lads.”
Liza snorted. “They would notice she was missing,” she said bitterly, savagely plunging the needle into the cloth. “I could be dead a week before they’d think to look for me. But Polly, with her perfect legs and perfect skin... They told you about her running screaming into the night, did they?”
“I’m sure they’ll pay more attention to you since she’s gone,” Eric soothed, not answering the question. “How could any man resist? Why, if I were ten years young, Liza, I’d carry you off in my carriage, and we’d sail the world. I’d never take Polly with me. She wouldn’t appreciate the wonders I could show her.” He ran a finger under the girl’s freckled chin. “Sometimes being able to caper about like a painted pony just means you’re weak in the head,” he tapped his brow. “Not like you. I know if there’s anything I need to know, my sweet, clever Liza will have the answers. I do wish I knew what prompted Robert to run out into the alley that night. I don’t suppose—”
Before he could finish laying the trap, Liza had sprung it, her head bobbing as she leaned near him, an eager expression on her face. “Polly. It was Polly. Everyone knows she’s Mr. Bunson’s favorite. Reckon he was bedding her, I do. Otherwise, why keep her on with her being well older than the rest of us?” Liza hissed, a smug look of satisfaction on her face. “Of course, some of these dolts couldn’t see it, but I could. Looked at her like she was made of gold.”
Eric nodded, making a sympathetic cluck. “Why, of course he did. He was very foolish, my brother. He overlooked so many things right under his nose,” he concluded with a leering look at the girl, who flushed and puffed up with her own importance. “How did Polly get mixed up in Robert’s death?”
“Oh, he was chasing her! He chased her right outside, shouting at her, and she was running from him—as if she had anything left to run off with! Maybe she did. Maybe she had something of his.”
Eric doubted that. Polly wasn’t a thief. Lust or not, Robert wouldn’t keep someone around who would cut into the profits with theft. “So, she ran, and he chased?”
“And neither ever came back in. He’s dead, and she’s gone. D’you reckon she did it?” Liza asked, her eyes like glowing coals, burning with excitement.
“I think she might have.” With help, of course. Eric didn’t think Polly was strong enough to have killed his brother in such a brutal fashion—but she might have struck the first blow. She might have had help.
She might have been a victim of that madman with the dark lantern and a bit of phosphorus on his shoes to make him glow, the one the papers were calling Spring-Heeled Jack.
But if she was alive, he would find her and make her answer his questions.
And then, he’d make her pay.