Chapter 13
Breaking one of Amelia’s rules, I stopped in my room on the way to the inn.
I knew better than to hide the bracelet anywhere here; our rooms had no locks, and because the ring paid for our rooms, if Maggie suspected me of hoarding, she could search every drawer, every inch of mattress, every stitch of clothing down to the hems. Amelia had done it once, catching a girl named Leonora with a pair of cufflinks worth twenty pounds, easily four months’ rent in a decent boardinghouse.
I held the two chains in my left palm, the little heap of gold, one yellower than the other, but both shining.
The bracelet was probably fifteen carat, with thick curb links, probably worth twelve pounds.
Fanny’s necklace was more delicate but longer, with bits of turquoise inlaid and finer workmanship; likely fifteen.
If I had to bet, that jeweler would not let another day go by without hiring a private detective for his shop.
I wrapped the bracelet in black paper and tucked it into my pile of hair, clipping it with pins inside my hairnet.
I used the mirror to check; it was invisible.
After dropping off Fanny’s necklace in the goods room and changing clothes, I started for Mayfair to walk Sarah home. She might not like me coming for her, but I wanted to talk privately.
The church bells struck six as I reached the northern end of Waterloo Bridge. I’d reach Mayfair long before Sarah could leave, and I decided to take a roundabout route toward Willits House.
What would it be like to live in this world?
I wondered as I looked about me. Aside from the gilt-wheeled carriages and shining new hansom cabs on the street, the traffic on the pavement had a wholly different quality than in Southwark.
It was a decorous parade of bell-shaped skirts and parasols, well-heeled boots and silk hats that would be ruined if it rained.
There seemed to be no urgency, for no one hurried; indeed, there seemed to be a purposeful languor, a slowness with these people.
Their days weren’t measured by the time it took to get from their rooms to their place of business, to the baker before it closed, to Mayfair to collect their sisters.
Human activity meandered in the open streets rather than hurrying down alleys that provided shortcuts.
My own roaming eventually brought me to the corner of Brook Street, where the Fairleigh house stood, the white front of Willits House visible in the distance.
The gas lamps were already ablaze farther down the street, and I watched as the lamplighter made his way toward me and then passed by, though it wasn’t anywhere near dark yet.
Trust West Enders to have light when it wasn’t even needed, I thought.
Gazing at the Fairleigh house and the crowd of spectators across the street, I paused under a plane tree whose branches extended beyond the gated park behind me.
The daily crowd of spectators had diminished, but it was curious how people behaved a fortnight later.
Some pedestrians took pains to cross the street, hurrying along with their eyes averted out of decency or perhaps fear that the violence might infect them, like one of the Thames miasmas.
Others slowed their steps to look, while others stood boldly at the gate, their hands, gloved or bare, curling around the wrought iron bars, and stared at the house as if it might reveal some truth about what happened there.
“Strange, isn’t it?” said a man’s voice.
I turned to find a man to my right. I’d missed him in the shadow of the plane tree.
He was a head taller and a few years older.
Wheat-colored hair, a pleasant face, clean-shaven, brown eyes, an air of calm steadiness.
A good overcoat, tailored to fit his shoulders; neat turnups without frays on his trousers; well-heeled leather boots, though dusty, as if he’d spent the day walking; an ordinary black umbrella, without an ivory or silver handle, resting with its metal point on the stones.
Despite everything, I felt my mouth twitch.
If he’d appeared at Elephant and Castle as a traveler, he would have been led to the fire, settled in a comfortable chair, fed wine laced with laudanum, and woken the next morning wearing nothing but his shirt and underthings.
However, we were here, he was no traveler, and the way he stood and surveyed the house sent a warning heat down my nerves.
If I had to guess, this was a Yard man.
“What’s strange?” I asked.
“People’s fascination with death,” he replied. When I said nothing, he added, “Do you know what happened in that house?”
“Anyone who’s seen a newspaper knows what happened in that house—and they haven’t caught him yet.”
His jaw sagged. “I know,” he said heavily.
I felt unexpectedly sorry for him, but this confirmed my guess about his profession.
Two carriages rolled past, temporarily blocking our view, and by the time they passed, a young newspaper boy had appeared. “Latest news on the murders!” he croaked, and the crowd pivoted toward him as one.
The Yard man’s eyes narrowed, and he went still the way Amelia did when she was angry. As pleasant as his countenance was, I would not want to be on the wrong side of him. Together we watched the boy distribute his papers, pocketing his coins cheerfully.
The man swung the tip of his umbrella toward the house. “Do you know them? The Fairleighs?”
“Not at all.”
“Is it your first time seeing the house?” His manner was easy; he kept his curiosity about my presence friendly.
There was no harm in telling him. “My sister works here in Mayfair, and I’ve come to walk her home. She’s only fourteen—although she doesn’t like me treating her like a child.”
A smile tugged at his mouth. “No, they don’t, do they? I have a sister who’s fourteen, too.”
“Oh?”
“Cathy. She still lives outside London, on our farm.” His eyes followed a carriage that slowed but then sped up and passed. “I imagine this has spooked your sister a bit.”
“I imagine it’s spooked everyone in the entire borough,” I corrected him. “With decent folks murdered in their beds.”
“Fair point.” He paused. “Is she to meet you here? Your sister?”
“No. I’ll meet her up the street.”
He looked concerned. “Do you feel safe walking? I’d be happy to escort you.”
I let a smile seep into my voice. “Kind of you, but it’s not needed. Besides, if you walked me home, you’d cause me all sorts of trouble with my husband.”
He chuckled. “What’s your name?”
“Mary Lacy.” It was a name I’d used before.
“And what do you do for work, Mrs. Lacy?”
“I’m a needlewoman,” I said, patting my pocket as if I had my needles in it.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Sarah approaching. Her steps slowed as she saw me, and I twitched at my skirt with my left hand. She caught my signal and walked on, keeping her face toward the house.
“I should go find my sister,” I said once Sarah was out of sight. “She’ll be waiting.”
“Ah. Well, have a good evening,” he replied with a smile. “Home safely.”
I turned left and then left again toward Blackfriars Bridge, where I found Sarah peering about. As I approached, her shoulders lifted with a sigh. “I told you, you don’t have to come fetch me.”
“I wanted a chance to talk before you got home.”
Her face sobered. “Why? Are Billy and Tommy back?”
“No, they’re still gone,” I said. “James says they’re in Bermondsey.”
“So they’re not up here,” she said, visibly relieved. “And what’s happened to Josie?”
“She got six months.”
“Oh.” She wrapped her hand around my elbow, and we started for home.
“There’s something else I need to tell you,” I said. “Amelia has left the ring.”
Sarah’s fingers tightened. “And she’s asked you to head it.”
“No, no, no.” I couldn’t get it out fast enough.
She looked bewildered. “Who else would she ask?”
“Amelia didn’t ask anyone. Maggie Wirth—Patty’s daughter—came back from Australia and asked her.”
As we walked, I explained all that had happened. At the end of my recital, she shook her head as if stunned.
“I never dreamed Amelia would leave,” she said. “Where will she go? Do you think we’ll see her again?”
“She said Whitechapel, and we can visit it, surely, but . . . well, you know how it is.”
“People leave, and they don’t come back,” she said, her voice flat with certainty. “But Amelia’s been good to us since Ma died.”
“I know.”
A gust of wind on the bridge drove the chill of the river into our bones and kept us from speaking again until we crossed. By the time we reached the other side, Sarah’s shoulders drooped, and her mouth was pursed in a way I knew.
I laid a hand on her arm to draw her to a stop. “What’s the matter?”
She turned toward me, her expression sober and resolute. “I don’t want to quarrel, but you must stop thieving, Kit. Six months is long enough to die in prison.”
I had no answer to that.
She crossed her arms over her chest. “Do you know why I wanted to go out in service?”
“To help,” I said.
“So we’d have enough money that you could do something different, something away from Elephant and Castle.”
“I’ve been thieving for years,” I said slowly. “Why is this bothering you now?”
“Because I’m finally old enough to know how dangerous it is!
And now that Amelia’s gone? Please, Kit.
” Her eyes begged. In the wind coming off the river, fine strands of her fair hair escaped her pinned braid and blew about her face.
“Those murders just made death seem so . . . close and so possible.” Her face was pinched.
“I am more afraid of you dying than of anything happening to me. Do you think I don’t worry every day, knowing what you’re doing at the shops, knowing you could be caught? Even hanged outright?”
“I told you, I’ll quit when I can.” My voice cracked over the words.
“I want you to find a way to quit, Kit.”
“I will try. Truly, I will.” I swallowed. “But you’d be all right. You’re in service, you—”