Chapter 27
The next morning, having slept at James’s, Mary and I left early for Elephant and Castle. Mary went to her room to retrieve her things; I headed for the London and South Western Railway station near Elephant and Castle, where the papers always arrived first.
I had my coins ready and found a boy hawking the Mirror—“Scandal! Scandal! Yard on the case!”—thrust a shilling at him as he took a breath, and opened the paper to find the headline in two-inch letters, followed by the article Mr. Fuller had written.
“What’s ’a matter?”
I looked up to find the newsboy staring and drew a full breath for what felt like the first time in days. “Nothing at all.”
Tucking the paper inside my coat, I cut east on Westminster Bridge Road, with Bedlam on my right and the Asylum for the Blind on my left.
Straight to the Elephant and Castle and up the stairs to the goods room.
To my relief, Maggie was there. Perhaps I’d made it clear I’d stand for no tricks this morning.
I dropped the folded newspaper onto her desk. “Now give me Sarah,” I said.
Her eyes lowered to the paper long enough to take in the headline, then they looked up, glinting as a serpent’s. I could see her thoughts as clearly as if they’d been headlines: She was wondering how far she could push me.
“I told you, I will go to the police and tell them the whole story if you don’t.” My fist closed again around the handle of Amelia’s pistol.
She didn’t miss the movement, and her mouth twitched. “No need to threaten me. I’ll do as I promised.”
The smirk that curved her mouth told me she had intended to give me Sarah all along.
She just wanted to see me twist with uncertainty for those few extra seconds.
It was her revenge for me having done the dodge my way instead of hers.
The hate that blazed over me made sweat prickle across my shoulders.
“Come with me,” she said.
I kept my hand wrapped around the pistol inside my pocket and followed her down to the street, pulling the door of the inn shut.
Maggie started west on St. George’s Road toward Bedlam, and, behind her, I glanced down Temple Street, where Mary appeared at the door of Mrs. Jonas’s bakery. She stood still, and our eyes met.
Hours spent thieving together had taught me to read her postures and her gestures, down to the very angle of her chin.
It isn’t often people can say it truthfully, but I knew her expressions better than I knew my own.
The look she gave me carried even more weight than the moment called for—more than merely, I promised I’d take care of this part of the dodge; I am ready; it will be done.
It was something else. I sensed an apology—but I couldn’t pause to be sure.
Maggie led me past the synagogue, past Marshall Street and Garden Row, turning just before St. Jude’s Church into Richmond Street, where she stopped before one of the many cheap lodging houses.
She opened the door and gestured for me to precede her upstairs.
“No,” I said. I was not such a fool as to go upstairs in a strange house, even with a pistol. “Bring her down.”
Maggie shrugged and went up. Several minutes later she returned, with my sister in front of her.
If anything solidified my desire to see Maggie hang, it was the look on Sarah’s face, the relief at seeing me in proportion to the fear she’d suffered for a whole week.
Sarah’s eyes filled with tears and she hurtled herself down the stairs at me, tumbling the last two steps, throwing her arms around my neck.
The church bell tolled the hour, telling me that Maggie and I had only been away from the goods room less than fifteen minutes.
But that was enough time for Mary to do what I needed, to place the fourth diamond in the secret cupboard behind the paneling, wrapped in a bit of dark cloth, so no incidental glint off its facets could betray our final step.
With Sarah clinging to me, we made our way back toward the main road.
At the corner, I pulled her into my arms, one arm around her back, my hand in her hair, as she gasped jagged, hiccupping sobs into my shoulder.
We stood that way for several minutes until she subsided into silence. Finally, I asked, “Did they hurt you?”
She pulled back, her eyes searching my face.
“Sarah,” I said, gentling my voice, mindful of not looking angry like my mother. “Do you need a doctor?”
“No.” She swallowed. “I’m fine, truly. I had a bed and they fed me.” Her expression was full of dread. “But what did you have to do, Kit?”
“Nothing that can’t be changed back,” I said.
Relief filled her face, and she slumped against me. “I was so afraid they would make you kill someone.”
“No.” I kissed her forehead. “But I do need something from you.” With my arm around her, I guided her toward St. Jude’s church.
There was a gap in a stone wall where a metal gate had rusted away, and I led her through it into the graveyard where our mother was buried.
We sat on a stone bench, partially concealed behind a boxwood hedge, and Sarah’s head dropped onto my shoulder.
The leaves of the plane trees overhead rustled, the standing stones were tipped and the etching faded, the damp earth at our feet gave off a nutty, musty smell.
The place held something like peace. Sarah gripped my left hand fiercely in both of hers, crushing my knuckles against each other, but I’d have let her break my hand if it helped her.
From here, Ma’s grave wasn’t visible. It was marked with a small stone, set flush with the ground, with only her name and the years of her birth and death.
As we sat in the silence, feelings warred in my heart.
There was my anger, longstanding, at how Ma had abandoned us for drink and for men.
But there was a new feeling now, a sense of sorrow for her, a sense of kinship.
Ma had been desperately unhappy, and perhaps afraid, too, not knowing how she would support herself and two girls after her husband left.
I thought of what I’d always considered my mother’s last, selfish lie, how she’d said on her deathbed that we would be fine.
We hadn’t been fine, not by a bloody mile, because she’d spent nearly every farthing we had.
But perhaps it hadn’t been merely a lie to free herself from blame; perhaps it had also been meant to encourage me.
Perhaps she knew how hard I’d work to keep Sarah and me safe.
And perhaps she’d seen enough of me to know what I was capable of.
Sarah lifted her head from my shoulder. “You said you need something from me. What is it?”
There wasn’t a soul close enough to hear us; still, I kept my voice low. “Sarah, I made a deal with a newspaperman, who helped me set you free . . . in exchange for you doing something for him.”
Her forehead wrinkled worriedly. “What could I do for a newspaperman?”
“I need you to tell him what you saw in Mayfair.”
Her eyes widened in horror. “Kit! I can’t be a copper’s nark!”
“This is different.” Slowly, I explained everything that had happened—from the moment Maggie approached me, suggesting a theft in Hatton Garden, to the newspaper story appearing that morning.
She had sagged against the bench’s back by the time I finished. “Is James all right?”
“He’s in hospital,” I said. “But he says he will be.”
The clock chimed again.
“I know how brave you are, Sarah,” I said. “I’ll be with you the whole time.”
She nodded her acceptance, subdued. “Must we go now?”
“In a few minutes.” I put my arm around her, drawing her close. Her head returned to my shoulder. “We can sit,” I said, stroking her hair. “Catch your breath.”
Naturally, the peace didn’t last long.
Billy appeared beyond the church’s stone wall, on the far side of St. George’s Road. The thick bulk of him was still, only his head moving as he scanned the street.
Damn everything.
Of course, Maggie would send him after us the moment Sarah was free. She’d double-cross me, just as I’d double-crossed her.
I slid my hand into my pocket, feeling the reassuring weight of the pistol. Still, Billy would have a bigger firearm and more certain aim. And if by chance I shot and killed him? I couldn’t. I’d rot in prison for the rest of my life.
We needed to be somewhere with more people.
Even as I thought it, Billy caught sight of us. He took one step into the road and drew back just as quickly to let a cab roll by.
I snatched at the precious few seconds of a head start.
“Sarah, we must go. Billy’s just there, looking for us.” I rose, and after one small terrified cry, Sarah leapt up, and we hurried behind the small church and around the side, my left hand pressed to the rough stone of the old wall. I peered around the corner.
The street was empty. But I heard footfalls on the church’s flagstone path behind us.
Picking up our skirts, Sarah and I pelted down the street. I turned to cast a quick look behind us.
Knowing we’d seen him, Billy made no pretense about keeping secret. He hurried after us with long, purposeful strides. We’d never outrun him—there were no shops on this stretch—nowhere for us to take refuge.
Sarah turned and gasped. “Kit, he’s coming! What should we do?”
Grabbing her hand in mine, I dodged into a grimy little alley, barely a snicket. “In here. It cuts through to London Road. Run, Sarah!” I pushed her ahead of me.
Past dustbins and over muck and dung, past broken crates and closed doors, we raced toward the busy street at the end, but Billy was gaining on us.
We flew around the corner toward St. George’s Circus, the busiest place in this part of Southwark, known for every kind of crime.
“Kit!” Sarah pointed. “It’s a constable.”
We ran straight toward the man in uniform.
Yet another thing I never imagined doing.
The constable was young, and he started as Sarah threw herself at him, clutching his arm. “Please, sir, there’s a man frightening us!”