London
Eric Bunson flung open the door.
A startled man with oddly pale skin looked back at him, surprised eyes hiding behind dark curls streaked with white and a stack of boxes. A cool, imperious voice announced, “A gift for the children.”
Eric found himself flat on his back under a sudden onslaught of boxes, then bolts of fabric—fine fabric, too, damask, silk, satin, cotton... “Who are you?”
“A person who wants those items to be used for the children. You will not sell them. You will not profit from them. You will see that the children are warm and well-clothed.”
The man turned, and Eric scrambled to his feet, pushing boxes across the dirty floor. The stranger was vanishing fast, far faster than a man could walk—but then again, he had just managed to carry far more than one man could.
There must be someone with him. Someone slender and slight that I missed.
“Who the hell are you to tell me how to run my business?” Eric Bunson shouted into the night, venturing into the fog-covered street to shake his fist and scan the area for the mystery man. “Agh!” a strangled gulp burst from his lips when he turned back to the building and the man was there, facing him. His hat was pulled low and his cloak was turned up high. All he could see was a streak of white and black curls, piercing eyes, and very red lips.
“I am here to tell you that this isn’t a business. It’s a home for children. You are to safeguard them until they become adults. Adults are fair prey. Children aren’t.”
“You’re touched in the head. Get away from here, you nutter.” Eric swung one lean but strong arm up—and wished he hadn’t. A crushing grip caught his wrist, and the bones grated in the stranger’s grip.
“I am wiser than you. Do what I said with the fabric, or I shall know about it.”
With one twist that left Eric on his knees and screaming in agony, the stranger was gone—and a blue light, faint but unmistakable, was left in his wake.
“What’s all the fuss?”
Eric jerked his head towards a voice behind him. Three boys—the same three who had demanded he fix the roof—were behind him, their arms crossed. “Get back to bed.”
“Not until we know what’s goin’ on.” One bent and picked up a long white box and opened it. “Look at this! Fancy gowns and all!”
“M’Lady’s. Grosvenor Road. Pimlico,” another said, reading the stamping on the box. “That’s bleedin’ posh!”
“Give me that!” Eric snatched the box from his hand, only to get a clout on the nose for his trouble.
“Get off! Get one of the other dozen boxes, you weasel.”
Eric Bunson fell back and tried to recover his dignity by picking up one of the smaller boxes. Indeed, it was from Pimlico, in the Grosvenor Road.
The man with blue lights. This spring-heeled bloke. He was here the night my brother died. And he’s here again.
Eric kept his head low as if studying the box’s address. Around him, the three boys who had made themselves de facto leaders were gathering up the rest and carrying it away. He wouldn’t get those back without a fight, and he could have fetched a pretty penny for them, too, especially from the bolts of fabric.
An unsettling realization occurred to him.
I wouldn’t win that fight. Not now. The little wankers have gotten bold. They think... They think Polly killed Robert and got away with it. Her and some fancy man are out there, blood on their hands, living the high life, now. Dropping off gifts like that ruddy half a cow. Now this.
His blood chilled. Fear of punishment, or worse being put out on the streets, that’s what kept Bunson’s Home for Unwanted Urchins operating. More progressive homes run with more discipline but better care were flourishing, but these little sprats didn’t know that, and Whitechapel remained a blister on ’s backside, full of poverty and filth. You lived here and you died here, unless you worked bloody hard to escape. Usually, the only way out was by climbing from the pit, pulling yourself up by the knives you plunged into others’ backs.
I’ll lose this place. Lose control of the children. The money we make off of them.
No. Not for some murdering whore with a pretty face, I won’t. She’ll pay. I’ll make her pay.
Eric’s cowardice didn’t allow him to admit that he wasn’t thinking of making the stranger with the bone-shattering grip pay. No. Just Polly. Polly, because she was weak and would be easy to punish, batter, and worse.
Ought to leave her body here for the kiddies to find, teach them the fear of God and Eric Bunson again!
Or not. Police might poke around.
Oh, it wasn’t as if children hadn’t died in their care before. Cold, illness, accidents, injuries... Those were easy enough to explain away. It hadn’t happened in a long time—not since Polly took over as their unofficial matron. It wouldn’t happen now, either, if her secret accomplice kept leaving gifts that kept the children warm and full—and fearless.
Tomorrow, he would leave and go to Pimlico and look for the man with the strange blue lights about him. If he found him, he’d find Polly.
“Where’d this come from?” One of the boys was asking as he hoisted a teetering stack of boxes.
“Ten to one it’s Poll. Good old Poll.”
“Where’d she get the money from?”
“Are you jestin’? With a face like ‘ers? She wouldn’t need to go on the game, she’d go straight to being some rich bloke’s bit of stuff on the side.”
A rich bloke? Eric stood still on the ground floor of the drafty building, listening to the voices as they disappeared into the dark stairwell that led to the dormitories.
A rich man, yes, one who could afford to buy such quantities of meat and cloth as if it were nothing.
Rich men were powerful men. Hadn’t he and Robert scraped every penny they could, even out of the mouths of starving babes, in pursuit of that power?
Powerful enough to kill and get away with it. Then come back like it’s nothing, as bold as brass, the toffee-nosed bastard. Eric clenched his fists. Well, the man probably only got involved for the sake of Polly. Hurt the girl, hurt him.
That would have to be the end of it, for rich men had their own laws and protections.
And besides... I don’t think I dare leave the home for too long just now.
Eric watched the three boys spring up the stairs in high spirits, despite the fact that they’d have to be up in just a few hours.
Larking about as if they own the place. There’s mutiny afoot if I’m not careful. Best to remove their little friend and stick close to the nest.
“Sleep well, boys. Busy day tomorrow,” Eric Bunson said, and slunk back to his room.