Chapter 23
The curtains were drawn against the afternoon light. Catherine sat at her desk, the blue leather journal opened to a single name: Maud Hatcher. Her fingertip smudged the ink, a dark bruise against an otherwise empty page.
Quinn sat opposite, hat in lap.
“You’ve heard the name?” she asked.
“In passing.”
“Then you know she’s still breathing. I’d like that rectified.”
“Literally?”
“Utterly.” Catherine tapped a fingernail against the desk. “She was at the auction in ‘10. She decided what I was worth. Like a head of livestock.”
“May I learn what you were valued at those many years ago?”
“Eight pounds, six shillings, tuppence.”
Quinn’s brow twitched, calculating. “A fair price—”
“Do not finish that thought. I do not need to hear empty platitudes or valuations.”
“I would never insult you in such a manner.” Quinn’s eyes flicked to the journal. “And you want her brought to account?”
She narrowed her eyes.
“I want her dead.”
“You ask a bookkeeper to do a butcher’s work. That is not my trade.” He cleared his throat. “I can ruin a man. I can starve a business. I bury the already-dead.”
He paused. “I do not spill blood.”
She leant back in her chair, studying him. “It’s probably easier to kill a woman than a man.”
“That may well be true. Or not.” Quinn shrugged. “I’ve no experience to answer it.”
She thought of Reeves. “Then—”
He waved her quiet. “Please, madame. Don’t even whisper his name in this house. The man you are thinking of would sooner gut you than work for you.”
“I have coin.”
He shook his head. “It is of no consequence.”
She tapped her lips with a finger. “Shall I tempt you with wine instead of work, Mr Quinn?”
He shook his head. “Consider, instead, why you asked me. You’ve killed before. You’ve done more with your own hands than I ever have.”
She stilled. The thought nettled. It was true, when stripped of circumstance.
He leant forward. “I can place her. I can manoeuvre her to a place where no one will ask questions when she does not walk out. That is what I do. Not the blade. The board.”
She clenched her fists. “Blood debts are owed. To me. And I shall collect.”
“What do you require of me?”
“Find me someone else.”
“You would need someone who won’t talk. That’s rarer than you think.”
“I trust you to find one.”
“You trust me to find a killer?”
“I trust you to find someone useful.”
He studied her. “Useful and reliable rarely come in the same coat.”
“Then find me two men and sew them together.”
“Not amusing, madame.”
“It was not meant to be.”
He tapped the brim of his hat. “You do understand there’s a difference between breaking a woman and burying her.”
“More than you do.”
“Breaking her would be slower. Less risk. And it leaves her to remember you.”
“I want her to remember me only until she can’t.”
He narrowed his eyes. “Do you mean to be present at her end?”
The idea had some merit. And little downfall. “And if I were to say I did?”
“Then I’ve found you the rarest thing of all—a killer in a lady’s skin.”
Catherine laughed. Quinn was clever. Dark, too.
“Yes, Mr Quinn, I daresay you have.”
He rubbed his hands together. “Give me a fortnight. Then you may exact your revenge.”
Quinn rose. “With your leave, madame,” he said, bowing, “I will begin the arrangements.”
The door clicked shut.
The name Hatcher waited.
* * *
The March rain fell in thin, persistent threads, making the cobbles shine.
From his chair at The Forge, Roark watched the wet glisten on the street through the ripple of glass.
The oak beneath his arm was scarred from a hundred tankards, his own glass untouched.
He sat still, one boot hooked over the rung, letting the room’s noise wash past.
Quinn slid into the seat opposite, damp and unbothered.
“She’s set me my first task of her own,” he said without preamble.
“Took her long enough.”
“She tried me three times before this. Now she’s certain I’ll not disappoint.”
Roark looked up. “Tell me.”
“First—merchant with a short ledger and a long tongue. She wanted names, debts, and silence. I brought her the truth and nothing else. She checked. Found it clean.”
A nod. “Second?”
“A baron’s card-table alias. I mingled, smiled, left with the name and his company. Added one detail she didn’t ask for—she liked that.”
“The third?”
“A dock rat with ties to your man Fenby. Promised to carve me small as joints for the pot.”
That drew a faint smile. “And now?”
“She’s set me on Maud Hatcher.”
Not Tom King. Interesting. “The old crow who buys slags from King?”
“The very same.”
Roark leant back, the chair creaking. “I thought she’d drunk herself into the grave.”
“Still breathing. If you call that wheeze breathing.”
“She’s a gin sponge wrapped in second-hand lace. Kept her girls hungry so she can eat better. Filthy hands, filthier books. No loss if she’s swept off the board.”
“Until you say otherwise, she’s still in the game.”
Roark shrugged. “Matters not to me. Apparently, to your mistress, it does.”
“Old Maud bought her from Tom King for eight pounds, six shillings, tuppence. Sold her on to Sylvia.”
The hook beneath the bait. Target the weakest. Catherine Murray was a hunter. A very rare woman. “And that earns her death? There are plenty worse in the Dials doing the same trade. Why her, and why now?”
“She’s the first name from a list.”
“First doesn’t mean worst,” Roark said, then paused. “I want to know if this is about strategy… or spite?”
“She keeps the journal under lock and key.”
Roark’s tone dropped. “Locked things can be opened. If she’s keeping score, I need to see who else she means to settle with. I won’t have her crossing lines she can’t uncross.”
“You want the names?”
“I want the pattern,” Roark said. “Names show targets. Order shows motive. And motive tells me if I step aside—or send Reeves in.”
Quinn’s expression stayed level. “I’ll tell you the names as I learn them.”
“That’ll do.” For now. Roark waved him off. “Not worth getting caught in her rooms over it.”
He turned to the window. Rain hissed against the glass.
“Tell your mistress I set her field. Take your fee.”
Quinn’s grin was all teeth. “Anything else?”
“Keep this one quiet. I want to see if she dares move against Tom King.”