Chapter Twenty-Two
“Taking a key off a dead woman, ’specially one that cared for you is wrong, Ripps.”
Fletcher stared down at the large body of Mrs. Bean’s former doorman. “And now you’re bleeding all over her favorite rug. She wouldn’t be pleased with you at all.”
Knife still in his hand dripping blood, Fletcher winced at the pain in his ribs and made his way to the sideboard. “You helped yourself to her brandy too, you pig.” He picked up the bottle and swallowed, relishing the burn. “Don’t feel bad about killin’ you at all.”
Ripps didn’t answer given his throat was slit.
His eyes, wide and unseeing, followed Fletcher as he made his way around the parlor.
There was no one else in the house. The music at The Dancing Swan had drowned out the sounds of Fletcher killing Ripps and Mary was already gone, hopefully safe at Mrs. Baldwin’s boarding house in Cheapside.
Mews had arrived earlier to fetch the body of Mrs. Bean, promising Fletcher he’d bury her in a spot beneath a flowering crabapple.
“Best make sure of it,” Fletcher had warned him. “I’ll be checkin’.”
After Mews left with Mrs. Bean’s body wrapped in a sheet, Fletcher had bolted the heavy oak door that served as the private entrance to Mrs. Bean’s home, leaving only the door in the wall open. Ripps would have to come through that way. And he had.
Fletcher heard Ripps yelling at the girls to get to work, stomping about The Swan as if he owned it, and he likely thought he did.
Lark must have promised him something to betray Mrs. Bean.
Ripps stomped through the door in the wall, hollered for Mary and when he didn’t get an answer, moved into Mrs. Bean’s private parlor.
Fletcher had stepped out of the shadows, quietly securing the door between the house and The Swan to make sure he wouldn’t be interrupted.
He’d peered into the parlor, watching as Ripps poured himself a healthy glass of Mrs. Bean’s private brandy. Expensive stuff. Grandmam hadn’t cared for gin. The doorman hadn’t even bothered to shut the parlor door, that’s how safe he felt struttin’ about.
Bastard.
Ripps didn’t go up the stairs or yell for Mary again, which Fletcher thought odd, but he didn’t care enough to examine it.
All his attention was focused on Ripps and how best to kill him.
He’d taken the key off Mrs. Bean’s dead body, the prick.
Probably in his pocket. Now he was going to drink her brandy and likely wait for Lark.
Ripps settled in Mrs. Bean’s favorite chair by the fire, uncaring that the filth of The Devil’s Acre was stuck to his boots and tracking dirt over her favorite rug.
All of which had incensed Fletcher.
He’d killed plenty of men before, mostly to keep from getting stabbed himself. Ripps, however, presented a challenge given his size. Ripps and Lark both considered Fletcher inept at not only thievery but knives, so he’d be underestimated.
“Didn’t expect me at all, did you?” he said to the body bleeding all over the floor.
“Big body, but a tiny brain. Believed everythin’ I ever told you.
Did you really think I survived this long without knowin’ how to fight properly?
Or slice a throat?” Fletcher winced from the pain in his side.
Ripps might not have been smart, but the man had fists like a bloody ham.
“You got a punch in though, didn’t you? Arse. ”
Fletcher had stood directly behind Ripps while the bastard sipped on the brandy, meaning to plunge the knife into his throat, which was wide and thick like a bull’s.
But Ripps must have sensed him a fraction of a second before Fletcher slashed, downward, missing the throat entirely.
He did manage to open up Ripps’ cheek, the flesh of which flapped with a wet sound as the big doorman turned his head.
Roaring with pain, Ripps came out of the chair. He tossed the glass of brandy at Fletcher’s head, which thankfully missed, and threw a haphazard punch.
“Where is it?” Fletcher danced easily out of his way. “The key? The one you stole from Mrs. Bean.”
“Don’t matter.” Ripps had grinned. “Dead men can’t use keys. Which you’ll soon be, Fletch.” One fist caught Fletcher in the side, breaking a rib. He felt that crack over the entire length of his body. But he’d had a broken rib before. It would heal.
When he swung again, Fletcher tripped him, meaning to pounce on his back and slit his throat, but Ripps, damn him, knocked the knife away. He grabbed Fletcher just beneath the chin, fingers big as sausages, meaning to choke the life out of him.
He went limp, gasping for air, knowing his only chance was to reach the other knife tucked in his boot.
Fingers stretching, Fletcher grabbed the hilt, slashing the blade across Ripps’ throat so quickly the other man was still grinning as he fell to the floor.
Blood spilled from the wound, staining the rug.
“Real shame about that rug. Sorry, Mrs. Bean. But I can’t take it with me. ’Specially not now.”
Fletcher kneeled, holding a hand to his ribs and ran the other over Ripps, searching for any sign of the key. He rifled through the man’s coat, his trousers, even took off his boots.
“Christ, Ripps,” he hissed, looking at the filthy socks.
“Bathe now and again.” Fletcher laughed.
“Oh, right. Never mind.” He stood and went to the room Ripps slept in, right next to Mary’s on the other side of the kitchen.
Nothing at all, just a small bag of gold coins, which Fletcher pocketed, and a woman’s scarf.
“Goddam,” he cursed. “Lark has the key.”
Fletcher returned to the parlor, grabbed the bottle of brandy by the neck and took a swig, staring at Ripps.
He went over every conversation he’d had with the man since impersonating Roxboro and outside of the general mention of a widow in Cheapside, Fletcher hadn’t given him, or anyone else, a location.
There were dozens of warehouses, businesses, and boarding houses plus the market, along with a great many widows.
Fletcher had not been followed to Mrs. Baldwin’s boarding house because he’d stopped visiting once Lark had him followed.
It might take Lark weeks to find out Fletcher had been frequenting one particular spot…
Unless somehow, Lark knew about Wood Street and Mrs. Baldwin.
“Fuck.”
Staring down at Ripps, Fletcher’s fingers tightened on the bottle of brandy. He could almost feel the cuff of Mrs. Bean’s fist against his head, telling him, The soft spot you have for the ladies will get you in trouble one day, lad.
It hadn’t been Ripps, though he’d certainly been working for Lark and knew about Cheapside, but so did Mary. Poor, frail Mary, who’d tried to garner Fletcher’s attention and who’d tended Mrs. Bean in her final days. The girl he’d wanted to save from Lark.
An ugly laugh came from him.
As Mrs. Bean would say, There’s no charity in The Devil’s Acre.
“I don’t generally consider killin’ a woman, Mary,” Fletcher whispered, taking another swallow of brandy. “But I may make an exception for you.”