Chapter Four #3
“You need to stop doing it.” Her brow furrowed. “If he finds out…I won’t be able to protect you.” The brandy made her speech slow. “Murdered his own brother in cold blood.” Her features grew pinched and pale. “Worse than an animal. What’s to stop him from doing the same to you?”
“He doesn’t know.” Fletcher shrugged off her worry. “I didn’t think Lark had any family to speak of.”
Mrs. Bean looked away, fingers pulling at the blood-stained handkerchief. “I’ll be dead soon,” she whispered. “I’ve done all I could and I don’t know if it will be enough.”
Fletcher placed his hand over hers. He loved Mrs. Bean but didn’t necessarily like her.
She was as brutal, in many ways, as The Devil’s Acre.
But she’d always made sure he was fed and warm.
Gave him an education, far more than any denizen of a rookery should have.
Taught him to survive using his fists or a blade. Poison.
In her own way, Delores Bean loved him.
“You aren’t dyin’. Don’t be dramatic.”
“Let’s not get maudlin, Fletch.” She looked back at him and picked up her cup of tea, taking a long swallow.
“The dyin’ is going slowly but it’s coming, none the less.
Every single day is worse than the one before.
” A raspy exhale followed her words. “Nothing to be done about it ’cept prepare to meet the Devil on my own terms. Just tell me that…
you aren’t gambling it away. That you’ve a plan. ”
“I’m not,” he said, leaning over so she could hear him. “Mr. Bly.”
“Ah.” She nodded slowly. “The older gentleman who liked to watch. I thought as much. Pity he ain’t around no more.”
Which meant Bly was also probably dead, killed for the same reason as Charlotte.
Mrs. Bean was nothing if not thorough. Her protection, her determination to hide Fletcher in any way possible hadn’t once waned, not in the entirety of his life.
He thought some of her insistence might be because of Lark, but not all of it.
“A shame. He taught me a great many things,” he answered.
Bly had been a semi-regular at The Dancing Swan. A gentleman who liked to watch others having sex while he touched his own cock.
I don’t want the pox, Bly gave as his reasoning.
He’d once been a successful man of business, but gin had ruined him as it had so many others.
Bly spoke and behaved like a gentleman, the sort Fletcher needed to be so that others would mistake him for Roxboro.
So in return for as much gin as he wanted, and drilling a peephole for one of the rooms, Fletcher asked to be taught good manners and proper speech.
Bly, to his credit, never asked why, but he assumed Fletcher wanted to imitate his betters.
During those lessons in the small set of rooms Bly rented some distance from the rookery, he also taught Fletcher about money, namely, how to make more of it.
Investments. Interest payments. Stocks. Bly taught him how banking worked.
It was Bly who’d suggested that if Fletcher ever had any extra coin, he should invest it in a textile mill, insisting ready-made clothing for the masses would make him rich.
You’ve a head for such things, Fletcher. Pity it will do you little good in a rookery.
“Did he teach you that takin’ risks would get your throat slit?” she insisted. “Bean’s Book will only keep Lark at bay for so long.” Her fingers plucked at him. “Though you might find another use for it.”
“Is it really so important?” Fletcher asked. “Surely some of those secrets no longer matter. You’ve been keeping the book for ages. Some of those lords mentioned might already be dead.”
“Not all of them.” She shivered and drew her shawl tighter. “I wrote it all down.” Her voice was like broken glass. “So you’d know not to trust him. You mustn’t.” Her eyes shut for a moment. “But not until I’m dead. I don’t—want you to know the things I’ve done.”
Fletcher’s only interest in Bean’s Book was how long it would keep him alive, hopefully until he could get out of London.
He’d never once read what was inside because he didn’t want this life, nor the brothel.
Lark could king himself emperor and Fletcher wouldn’t give a fig.
But he obeyed Mrs. Bean, as he always had.
She put the book in an iron strong box with a lock as big as Fletcher’s fist. The key hung around her neck. “I promise, Mrs. Bean.”
“You hid the box? It’s safe?”
“Yes.” She’d asked him to hide the strongbox when she fell ill, noting that the best way to keep it out of Lark’s hands was to separate the box and book from the key.
“Don’t tell me where,” she said, holding up one hand. “You’ll…need the book. Eventually.”
The iron box with the book was at Mrs. Baldwin’s boarding house, a place no one but Fletcher knew about. He’d pried out the floorboard beneath the bed and placed the box inside.
“The book is safe. And you’ve the only key to the strongbox.” He nodded to the thin chain around her neck.
“Had it made by a fine locksmith. The box is solid. Would take,” her words slowed again. “Quite a bit to get it open without the key.” One finger reached up to touch the spot where the key lay beneath her dress. “Didn’t want to make things easy for Lark.” A cackle left her dissolving into a cough.