Chapter Twenty-Four
Lark had Helen. The words echoed over and over in his mind, the worry for her increasing every second.
I wasn’t as careful as I thought.
Fletcher had made a great many mistakes. First letting his guard down around Mary, and then not believing he’d be followed by any of Lark’s men to the better parts of London.
And now Lark had taken Helen.
He crawled back a bit further into the barrel that was currently his hiding place.
Ribs aching as he twisted around to get a better view of Mrs. Baldwin’s boarding house.
After killing Ripps, Fletcher had come directly to Cheapside but didn’t dare approach the boarding house in light of Mary’s betrayal, so he watched for any sign of Mrs. Baldwin or the other boarders.
Not one soul went in or out.
Curious, Fletcher finally crawled out of the safety of the barrel. Pulling his hat down low, he wandered into the market a few streets over and struck up a conversation with one of the merchants, pretending he was looking for a room to let.
“Heard there’s a decent boarding house on Wood Street,” he said to the man.
“Not anymore,” the merchant replied. “Closed up suddenly. But there’s two on Milk Street.”
That’s when Fletcher knew with certainty, Lark had come to Cheapside.
Returning to his hiding spot, he surmised Mrs. Baldwin was either dead or Lark had advised that she and her boarders vacate the premises.
Mary, that disloyal chit, must have run to Lark while Fletcher was with Helen in Galway’s garden.
He’d found the lockbox, then waited for Mary to bring him the key, all while Fletcher was crying over the body of Delores Bean and killing Ripps.
Should have known better. You trust no one in The Devil’s Acre.
He might have left then. Let Lark have the damn book since he wanted it so much, but he’d promised Mrs. Bean and the truth, his truth, was in the book.
Fletcher was certain of it. He was still debating the merits of whether to retrieve the book or simply flee to the manor house he’d purchased and forget all about Lark when he saw Helen, barely visible through a window.
Fear for her had Fletcher wanting to weep inside the barrel.
How long had she been at the boarding house?
It had been days since he’d seen her in Galway’s garden.
She was obviously meant to lure him inside to his death.
He’d always known that Lark wouldn’t be satisfied with only The Dancing Swan and Bean’s Book.
The need to get Helen, keep her safe, became paramount.
But he couldn’t just barge in, not in broad daylight.
He’d wait, until darkness descended. As the afternoon lengthened, Fletcher watched Lark swagger up the boarding house steps, leaving one of his men, Blackbird, on the porch.
Not an hour later, Lark departed, a smug, self-satisfied grin on his florid features.
An hour or so passed. Vulture brought down a body wrapped in a quilt, tossing it carelessly into the alley, just down from where Fletcher hid in the barrel.
No. No. No.
Heart nearly incapable of beating, fear making his palms sweat, Fletcher approached the covered body and carefully pulled back the quilt.
Mary.
His relief was so great Fletcher fell back onto the hard stones of the alley, cursing at the pain in his side.
Though she didn’t deserve it after what she’d done, he spared the poor girl a brief prayer.
If he could, Fletcher would try to make sure Mary got a decent burial and not leave her to the rats as Vulture had done.
Mrs. Bean wouldn’t have been so charitable.
Fletcher turned towards the boarding house, pressing his body into the brick of the building beside him.
Blackbird stood on the porch picking at his teeth with the edge of a knife and sipping from a bottle of gin.
Lark did think Fletcher was a useless idiot, which was an advantage.
He certainly didn’t think Fletcher capable of storming the boarding house and taking out both Blackbird and Vulture.
Nor should he. Fletcher had done a decent job of letting Lark think he was stupid, liked gin too much and couldn’t pick a pocket to save his life.
Mrs. Bean complained loudly and often that Fletcher was useless in a fight as he could barely hold a knife and only cared about bedding the girls at The Swan.
None of which was true. But Ripps likely reported that back to Lark.
Lark would imagine that Fletcher would just try to sneak into the boarding house, unable to inflict any pain, and allow himself to be trapped.
Won’t they be surprised.
Just ask Ripps.
“I’m coming, Helen,” Fletcher whispered. She’d likely never speak to him again once he returned her to Galway’s house, nor should she. But at least she’d be alive to hate him.
He crept out of the barrel, two knives in his boot, one stuck up the sleeve of his coat. The pistol was still inside his coat pocket, but that meant noise. Knives were quieter.
Night had fallen in Cheapside and there were few people roaming about. The neighborhood was decent, mostly tradesmen and such, but still it wasn’t bloody Mayfair.
Fletcher moved down behind the boarding house, careful not to be seen. He slid along the edge of Mrs. Baldwin’s house. The smell of cheap gin hung in the air, following Blackbird’s shadow. It wasn’t difficult to pin the man to the wall and slit his throat, before lowering the body to the ground.
Blackbird was dead before he even knew what happened.
Fletcher dragged the body into the same alley where Vulture had tossed Mary, then returned to the boarding house. Opening the front door slowly, he stepped inside, cocking an ear at the stairs.
“Finally, Blackbird. I’ve got to take a piss.” Vulture came down the steps, reeking of gin and grabbing at his crotch. He grunted at the open door, peering through the opening. “Blackbird.”
Knives in both hands, Fletcher stood just behind the door, hidden from sight. He waited for Vulture to step closer, trying not to gag at the smell of onion. Vulture loved onions, often eating them raw throughout the day. Always made it easy to smell him coming.
“Blackbird,” he said again. “I said I’ve got to take a—”
Two knives. One throat. Vulture pissed himself and slid to the floor, spewing blood and clutching one of Fletcher’s legs. The smell of urine mixed with onions in the air.
Vulture’s eyes bulged. “You prick.”
“That’s me,” Fletcher assured him, waiting for the man to properly die.
Vulture’s hand finally went slack and dropped to the floor.
Not much time.
He wasn’t sure when Lark might return, only that he would, which left Fletcher only a small window of time.
There was no saving Bean’s Book, and he silently begged Mrs. Bean for forgiveness.
Whatever the book contained would remain a secret, at least for Fletcher.
He’d never meant to use it, only keep it from Lark.
’Sides, Fletcher wanted out of it. London.
The Swan. The Devil’s Acre. As soon as he returned Helen to Galway, Fletcher Bean would cease to exist. Lawrence Weathers was the name he’d chosen for the remainder of his days.
Before all this, he’d hoped…Helen might want to—
Fletcher pushed that hope aside. There wasn’t any way Helen would forgive him.
Patting down Vulture’s pockets, Fletcher found the key to what he assumed was the room where Helen was being kept.
Making his way up the stairs, Fletcher spared a pause at the tiny room he’d rented from Mrs. Baldwin.
The door was open. Floor pried up. No sign of the iron strongbox. He’d expected as much.
The next door was open, the room empty, clothing strewn about and the bed unmade. But two more rooms down, the door was shut and locked. No one else was about. Lark had left only Blackbird and Vulture to greet Fletcher.
Good, he thinks you’re a dolt. Let him. Take every advantage.
Mrs. Bean’s voice whispered the words in his ear and a pang of grief struck him as he unlocked the door.
Helen sat trembling and pale, in the middle of the bed, a letter clutched in one hand.
“Fletcher,” she whispered. “You came.”
His gaze traveled over her, searching for any sign of injury, but there wasn’t so much as a bruise. “Yes,” he murmured.
The letter in her hand drifted to the floor. She clutched at her skirts, staring behind him, eyes darting back and forth, obviously concerned that someone might come upon them.
“Don’t worry I’ve…taken care of Vulture and Blackbird. They won’t be bothering us, but we need to leave.” He stretched out his hand, half afraid she wouldn’t take it. “Nothing to worry about. I need to get you out of here before Lark returns.”
“He—killed Mary.” Helen bit her lip. “Right in front of me.”
“I’m here now. No one will hurt you.” He took her hand which was icy to the touch.
Poor ferocious little gnat. Helen had seen more terrible things in the last few days than she likely had in her entire life.
Fletcher could never have taken her back with him to The Devil’s Acre.
Helen was unlikely to consider going anywhere with him except out of this boarding house.
Helen blinked, as if she’d thought him a dream and only realized he was not. Her fingers closed around his. “Yes.” But after a step, she pulled back, reaching for the letter.
“Leave it.”
“No. It’s…important.” She looked in in the eye, studying him. “Absolutely not,” she said more firmly, averting her eyes from the bloody knife still in his hand. Taking the note, she placed it in her bodice and regarded him far more calmly than she had moments ago.
Fletcher pulled her close. “We have to get out of Cheapside. Right now, Helen before Lark returns. And he’s bound to be unpleasant considering what I’ve done to Blackbird and Vulture.” He led her down the stairs.
“What you did?” Helen glanced at the knife once more. “I didn’t care for Vulture. He was going to—” She stumbled on the stairs as she caught sight of Vulture’s body lying just inside the door.
He waited again for her to pull away and scream, but Helen straightened her spine and nodded.
“Well,” she continued in that prim, determined tone Fletcher had grown to adore. “I suppose it doesn’t matter now at any rate what he planned to do, does it?”
“No, my ferocious gnat, it does not.”