Chapter 28
Human beings didn’t need the devil to commit evil. They were quite adept at doing it all on their own.
Kendra left Munroe and Mr. Barts, ideas, theories, and conjecture spinning in her mind like bits of flotsam caught in an eddy.
She liked Dr. Munroe. Hell, she respected him as much, if not more, than any M.E.
she’d dealt with in the twenty-first century.
But she had some reservation over his ability to think objectively when his colleagues and friends were the prime suspects.
On the landing, she began opening and closing the doors in the long hallway.
It took a few minutes to find what she was searching for: an exit that dumped her into the narrow alley, which smelled of urine and rotting vegetation.
She saw movement out of the corner of her eye and turned quick, muff pistol ready .
. . as two small pigs darted out from under a pile of trash, snorting and squealing down the narrow lane.
A single gust of wind whipped her skirts around her ankles and sent a few bottles rolling noisily as she followed in the pigs’ wake.
Emerging from the alley, she joined the pedestrian traffic.
She could see Coachman John waiting next to the carriage, his attention on the street vendors and scantily clad women who were beginning to congregate in the shadows of the Theater-Royal.
She wheeled in the opposite direction, scanning the street as she walked.
A few roughly dressed men eyed her. Coventry Gardens was the kind of neighborhood that became increasingly more dangerous in the evening.
Midafternoon was iffy enough for her to keep her hand in her reticule, around the comfortable weight of her muff pistol.
Deliberately, she made eye contact with the more nefarious individuals.
Attitude always helped. Predators, human or animal, preferred meek prey.
Whether it was the attitude she was projecting or it wasn’t dark enough to cover their criminal activity, Kendra arrived unmolested at a hackney parked along the curb.
She told the driver where she wanted to go, then signaled to one of the street children.
“There’s a carriage down the street with a coachman—Coachman John. Tell him that he can return home. I have an errand to do and will return later.”
The boy gave her a suspicious stare. “An’ who might ye be?”
“The Marchioness of Sutcliffe.” It was the first time she’d used her title, and it made her feel strange. Like there were too many words in her mouth. Pulling out a coin, she pressed it in the grubby palm. “Can you do that?”
“Aye, me lady!”
After watching the kid scamper away, she climbed into the public coach and was immediately assaulted by the smells of bad body odor and cheap perfume. It made her appreciate Alec and the Duke’s private carriages all the more.
Chewing on her bottom lip, she gazed out the window as hackney barreled down the street. Her stomach coiled itself into greasy knots. Not because of what she was doing—damn it, she was a trained FBI agent. She could take care of herself.
Her nerves came from anticipating Alec’s reaction when she eventually told him what she’d done.
She’d never had to worry before about taking action in an investigation.
She had to report to her supervisor, sure, but not about something like this.
Besides, Alec wasn’t her boss; he was her husband.
They were equal partners. She refused to feel guilty.
Yet her head was beginning to throb with not feeling guilty.
The streets changed from cobblestone to gravel, from gravel to muck and dirt.
She’d visited the neighborhood of Cheapside before.
The area hadn’t improved. Poverty clung to the smudged shops, businesses, and tenements like moss on a tree.
The residents of Cheapside ranged from the tattered poor to the rough working class. And criminals.
When the hackney pulled up outside its destination, Kendra pushed open the door and leapt down.
“Wait here,” she ordered the driver, then flagged down another young boy flitting about the street. School, what school?
Pointing at a half-timbered Tudor building that housed a pub that went by the name of Ye Old Beelzebub, she gave the kid a coin to find out if the person she wanted was inside, and to deliver the message that she needed to speak to him immediately.
She promised another coin after he delivered the message.
The kid’s eyes widened at the name she gave, but he looked more excited than scared about his errand. She watched him sprint away and disappear inside the tavern.
A prickly sensation on the nape of her neck warned Kendra that she was attracting unwanted attention from at least a dozen men on the street.
The hackney driver shifted in his seat uneasily. “Miss, maybe ye ought ter get inside the carriage—”
“Maybe ye ought ter shut yer mouth and let the lady be,” said a man, advancing toward her with the slinky slyness of a tomcat. “The lady came ter ol’ Cheapside for a reason.”
Not taking his eyes off Kendra, he stepped close enough for Kendra to smell his fetid breath. “Only right ter give her a proper welcome.”
Kendra narrowed her eyes at him, shifting subtly. “I appreciate the welcome, but I’ve got business with someone. I suggest that you move along.”
The man’s face hardened. “Aw, now, that don’t seem friendly. Looks like you need ter be taught some manners, yer ladyship.”
He reached for her. She didn’t hesitate, whipping her pistol out of the reticule and drilling the muzzle into the man’s forehead. His eyes bulged and his mouth dropped open, and he scrambled back a step. She followed, her hand rock-steady, finger on the trigger as she pinned her eyes on his.
“Eh, now, ye be careful with that barkin’ iron. It could go off!”
“Yes, it could. And if it does, you’re going to have a hole in your head. But, hey, look on the bright side. There’s a good chance the bullet will miss your brain, because it’s so damn tiny. Hands up! Lace your fingers together at the back of your head. Now.”
“Damnation.” But he obeyed.
The other men circling them stared at her with wide eyes. But they didn’t advance. Yet.
“Fokking hell!”
Kendra looked up at the reason for her visit here: Bear, aka Guy Ackerman, aka London’s most infamous crime lord.
She’d forgotten how enormous he was: at least six-five, with a massive chest and bulging muscles.
He had the kind of face only a mother could love, and even that was debatable, given how soulless his mud-brown eyes were at times.
Those eyes were now staring at her in amazement.
“What are ye doin’?” he demanded.
“Getting to know the locals. What the fuck does it look like I’m doing?” she shot back, glaring at him.
“Ye’re a bloodthirsty wench,” Bear muttered.
Kendra ignored the insult, instead focusing back on her captive.
“I’m going to let you go, but the next time you decide to be friendly to a woman, make sure she wants your attention.
Do you understand?” She pressed the gun’s muzzle into his forehead, hard enough to leave an indentation, when his lips started to curl in a snarl.
“I’ll ask you again. Do. You. Understand? ”
“Aye, aye!” he gulped. “I understand!”
She kept the gun aimed at him but took a step back, then another. His eyes burned with fury, hatred, and humiliation. She braced herself for retaliation, but the man blanched when Bear growled, “Get off with ye, ye stupid scum!”
Kendra wasn’t surprised when the man took off running. The crowd around them melted away just as quickly.
Bear planted his hands on his hips and declared, “Ye’re as mad as a fokking hatter.” Then his lips trembled and he began to laugh, a big, booming sound that drew the attention of passers-by, who just as quickly averted their eyes as soon as they realized who was laughing.
She didn’t blame them. She’d had an odd relationship with Bear ever since he’d kidnapped and tried to kill her and Alec the year before. The way she saw it, she’d threatened to blow the criminal’s balls off, so they were even. Unfortunately, Alec didn’t see it the same way.
“I’m glad you think this is funny.” Kendra pulled a coin from her purse, pressed it into the kid’s palm, then turned back to Bear. “I need to talk to you.”
“Aye, so I was told.” He folded his arms in front of his immense chest. “This is about the gentry mort that offed herself at Bowden’s?”
Kendra couldn’t hide her surprise. “How’d you know?”
He snorted. “’Cause it sounds like somethin’ ye’d get tangled up in. Why d’ye care that she brained herself?”
“She didn’t kill herself. She was murdered.”
“Wot’s it ter do with me if me betters kill each other off?”
“How do you know the killer is . . . one of your betters?”
“Who else would kill some uppity gentry mort but one of their own?”
“Have you heard about anyone being contracted to kill her?”
Bear cocked an eyebrow at her. “Now, why should I tell ye?”
“Aside from being a good citizen? Queen Charlotte asked me to personally look into the matter.”
Kendra had introduced the Queen’s name to emphasize the importance of the investigation, but was astonished to see real fear flash in Bear’s eyes.
He lifted his hand, as if to ward off something evil. “I don’t know nothin’.”
“You haven’t heard, or you don’t want to say?”
“Both,” he retorted, then hesitated. “I ain’t heard nothin’,” he admitted. “And I would have, if someone was hired ter stop a noblewoman’s claret. Word gets around in the stews. Particularly word like that.”
“I believe you. How about word on the street about an actress named Clarice Chapman going missing?”
He scowled. “Nay.”
“Another actress—Isabella Russo? Or any other women missing? Actresses, prostitutes?”
Bear rolled his eyes. “Blimey, who do ye think I am? Chits come and go all the time. I ain’t their keeper.”
“How about women found drained of their blood?”
“W’ot?” His eyes widened, and Kendra thought she saw a flicker of interest stir behind his flat gaze.
“Clarice Chapman’s body was pulled from the Thames. They called her a mermaid in the papers.” Kendra watched him closely, saw recognition flash briefly across his face. “She didn’t die of drowning, though. She died of exsanguination—someone drained all her blood.”
“Christ. Why’d they do that?”
“She had syphilis. I think someone was experimenting with ways to cure her.”
“What kind of ningimmer would bleed anyone dry?”
Kendra had to ask: “Ningimmer?”
“A leech that treats someone with the French Pox.”
“That’s what I need to find out,” she said.
“You’re in a position to hear things, Bear.
I’d appreciate it if you let me know if you hear about any other women .
. .” Was there politically correct language to describe a woman in the lower classes?
“Women who are not gentry morts disappearing or being found dead under suspicious circumstances. Or if you hear about anything odd going on.”
He gave her a quizzical look. “Odd, how?”
“Maybe someone promising to cure syphilis or some other disease.”
“There’s no cure for the French Pox.”
“That doesn’t mean someone isn’t promising one,” she said.
“I’m just asking you to keep your eyes and ears open.
Also, there’s another girl—Edwina. A seamstress from the Bowden Theater.
Young, with a scarred face from a fire. We had reports that she might be somewhere on the docks.
I’m looking for her, but so is the killer.
I’d appreciate you letting me know if you hear anything that could help find her.
” She swung herself up into the hackney.
“Send word to Number 15 Bedford Square.”
She shut the door, only for Bear to knock on the window. She fumbled with the latch, finally dropping down the glass pane.
“What?”
“Ye still with yer tulip?” he demanded.
“I am.” She rapped on the ceiling and the hackney started to pull away from the curb. She popped her head out the window to flash the crime lord a grin. “I married the tulip.”