Chapter Twenty-Three #3
Helen inhaled through her nose, attempting to swallow down the bitter taste in her mouth. A savage murder, that Mrs. Bean had seen fit to write out in detail and name the perpetrator. No wonder Lark wanted the book so badly. That information was a bit more valuable than…a parsnip up one’s behind.
“Fletch, he’s too stupid to use Bean’s Book.
Thinks he’s better than the rest of us in The Devil’s Acre.
But he ain’t. This book could have made him a rich man, but instead, he’s been sittin’ on it.
I’m the only one that knows what’s in here other than him which is why,” he grinned.
“Fletch’ll get a knife to his throat.” He slapped the book shut and retied the red ribbon.
“I thank you, Mrs. Bean, for your foresight and curiosity. I do. But I can’t risk Fletch making the mark before me. Nor will I kill him quick.”
A whimper came from Mary, surprising Helen. She’d been certain the girl was dead. “Mr. Lark—” she started, meaning to help Mary. The girl hated her, but Helen couldn’t just leave her on the floor.
“Ah, poor poppet.” Lark walked over to Mary and leaned over, pinching the girl’s nose and mouth shut. “There, there.”
Mary’s legs stretched. Kicked frantically. Then her entire body sighed as a final breath left her.
Oh, Helen’s mind was frantic. Now she’s truly dead.
“You see, I can be charitable. You know what’s in the book, ladybird, but there’s no reason for me to kill you if you’re useful.” His eyes ran over her. “There’s still more in here to unravel.”
Hardly comforting.
She could no longer hold back the horror of her present circumstances. Reaching for the chamber pot, Helen threw up the meager contents of her stomach, gagging until there was nothing more.
Lark pulled a filthy rag from his pocket and tossed it at her.
“Wipe your mouth,” he said with disgust. “I’ve got to be on my way.
” He held up the book. “Got a meetin’ to attend, but I’ll return, don’t you worry.
Fletch isn’t at The Swan, so he’s been holed up elsewhere since he killed Ripps.
He’ll come for the book, see you and well,” Lark lifted his palms. “I’ll let Vulture have a bit of fun with you two until I return.
” He turned to Vulture at the door. “No killin’ him until I’m back. Or her. She’s useful.”
Vulture made a disgruntled sound, clearly not pleased.
Helen wiped her mouth, staring at Mary’s dead body and tried to keep from fainting. There wasn’t any telling what Vulture might do to her if she were unconscious.
“Vulture’ll move Mary in a bit. Might do you good to have the company though.” He burst into a fit of giggles, a disturbing, childish sound from such a horrible man. Then without another look in Helen’s direction, Lark arrogantly sauntered out.
Vulture shut the door behind him, leaving Helen with a dead girl, trying not to become hysterical at her circumstances. She shut her eyes against the sight of poor Mary, the blood from her ear still dripping down her throat.
“I’m so sorry, Mary,” she whispered. Helen stood and ripped the quilt off the bed, unable to bear the sight of the poor girl a moment longer.
She wanted to scream, though it would do her little good.
No help was coming. The house was deathly silent around her.
Whoever had lived here before Lark and Vulture arrived, they were gone.
And Helen didn’t think of their own accord.
Covering Mary’s small form with the quilt, she said a prayer for the girl’s soul. As she dropped the quilt over her body, Helen caught sight of something red in Mary’s fist. Like a small dot of blood.
Yes, only blood. Helen glanced at the spot again. No. Not blood. Wax.
Helen hunched down and carefully unfurled Mary’s fingers, though she didn’t want to touch her at all. A crumpled note lay in the girl’s palm. Wax seal, unbroken.
She took up the bit of paper.
Mary hadn’t read the note. Or possibly she couldn’t. The girl had been trying to give this to Lark before he—best not to think of it again.
Note in hand, Helen hid it in her skirts and went back to the bed. Whatever was written must be important. She glanced at the door, ready to read the contents when Vulture appeared. He winked at her, a toothpick caught between his yellowed teeth. The smell of onions followed him into the room.
“I’ll do you a kindness and take her out,” he said, nodding at Mary. “Remember that when I tell you to spread your legs, Fletch’s ladybird. Bet I can pleasure you better than him.” He stuck his tongue out, wiggling it at her while Helen shrank back in revulsion.
“Ah, you’ll warm up, I expect.” He looked down at Mary and picked her up, carrying the girl out of the room. Dropping the body with a thud in the hall outside, he winked at her once more before closing the door.
Helen sat perfectly still. She took deep breaths to calm her racing heart. Fletcher would come, not for her, but that terrible book. Lark was certain of it. And she would need to be…not in a state of panic.
First things first. She needed to read this note, memorize the contents, and then dispose of it lest Lark or Vulture see it. Helen carefully unfolded the paper, fingers trembling as she read the salutation at the top.
My Darling Freckle