Page 58

Darkness weighed heavily on the city, only briefly interrupted by light spilling from the occasional gas lamp. A musky smell clung to the damp winter air. The clamor of nighttime revelers burst from various taverns, brothels, and coffee houses along The Strand.

Lightheaded from too much drink, Stewart Warren made his way toward Fleet Street and prayed he’d find a hackney there.

Home was a good three miles away on the opposite side of the river – a small room stacked on top of a tanner’s shop.

It wasn’t much, but his bed was there, waiting for him to collapse and slip into oblivion.

Honestly, he shouldn’t have come out tonight, but the lads had talked him into it. To be fair, drinking with them was better than drinking alone. Until it came to this – the cold and painful journey he had to make when all he wished for was sleep.

The tankards of ale he’d consumed should help him drift off.

They usually did, by numbing his mind and peeling away the guilt that continued to plague him.

War was a wretched business. It dug its talons into the gentlest of souls and left them forever scarred by the choices they’d made. Or failed to make.

He’d been a fool to enlist, but he’d been spurred on by his friends and the glory of fighting for king and country.

Had he been smart he’d have listened to his mother and stayed in England.

Instead, he’d found himself on that muddy field, cannons blasting – blowing the world to pieces – while men became beasts.

It had been hell. A living nightmare he’d yet to escape. Whenever he closed his eyes, blood still flooded his mind’s eye. It flowed from mangled corpses and dripped from discarded bayonets, reminding him of the horrors he’d witnessed.

Hence the drink. When it was truly bad, he’d take some laudanum too.

The clatter of hooves and the rattle of wheels at his back made him turn.

He swayed on his feet, the dizziness worse now than when he’d departed the tavern.

Yet somehow, he managed to raise his arm in an effort to flag down the vehicle, even though it was already slowing. It came to a halt beside him.

Thank the lord. He’d not have to walk any farther.

He prepared to give the driver directions, but then the door opened and a blonde woman appeared. Stewart blinked, attempted to find his balance, and staggered slightly beneath her gaze.

Her lips curved in an innocent smile, made all the more enticing by the hint of daring that gleamed in her eyes.

“Care to join me?” She angled her head. “I’ll make it worth your while if you give me a couple of pounds. Get you where you want to go and then some.”

Stewart snorted. Not because he wasn’t tempted. Hell, it felt like an age since he’d last enjoyed carnal pleasure and it wasn’t every day that a pretty young whore offered her wares. For the most part, the ones he’d been with were older and fatter, certainly cheaper.

“You’re asking more than I can afford.” He did his best to keep the words steady, but they still sounded slurred to his own ears.

“Pity,” she murmured. “You’re a fine-looking man. Wouldn’t mind a bit of that for a change.” Lips pursing, she leaned forward slightly, allowing her coat to fall open so he could glimpse what lay hidden beneath.

All he could do was stare at the nakedness she revealed with no more than a gauzy chemise. Trimmed with lace and ribbon, it strained against her plump breasts and left her milky-white thighs on open display.

Damn, but he wish he’d saved some more blunt for this moment. This woman was no lowly doxy, but rather an upper-class courtesan. An actress, perhaps? Or maybe a mistress who’d lost her protector?

He swallowed a groan of frustration while looking his fill. All he’d wanted was sleep but now another need burned through his body. Unfortunately, it was a problem he’d have to deal with alone since he’d only a few shillings left in his pocket.

Staggering slightly, he waved a dismissing hand as he swung away from the hackney, more desperate than ever to get himself home.

“Tell you what,” said the woman before he could stumble off into the night. “I’ll take whatever coin you have left if you also give me your cravat. As a token.”

Stewart paused. He couldn’t be this damn lucky, surely? He tried to marshal his fuzzy thoughts. “Why?”

A saucy smile curved her lips. “Courtesans have needs too and the man I was just with failed to satisfy mine.”

Stewart swayed on his feet. He’d be a fool to pass up her offer. It wasn’t the sort he could count on receiving again in the future.

He considered her as there she sat there, patiently waiting with everything she had to offer on blatant display. “You’ll still take me home?”

“And make it worth your while,” she promised.

It was the kind of offer he couldn’t pass up. Hell, he’d never forgive himself for it if he did. Besides, what reason did he have to say no?

None whatsoever.

So he thanked the heavens for his sweet fortune and stepped off the pavement. The woman retreated inside the carriage, making room for him to climb in. Stewart set his foot on the step.

“You’ll want to give the driver instructions,” the woman told him. “Or else he’ll take us where I asked to go.”

“Right. Of course.” With no wish to wind up farther from home than necessary, and with the last of his funds spent on whoring, Stewart gave the driver his address and added, “The slower the better,” before climbing in.

* * *

Chief Constable Peter Kendrick hated the bloody cold with a passion.

He could not wait for winter to end, for the frigid air chilling his bones every morning to cease.

The wetness, caused either by fog or some infernal drizzle, only made it feel worse.

What he wanted right now was to stand before a fire, toasting his icy hands.

Instead, he’d been forced from the warmth of his bed by one of his Runners.

It was an age since he’d woken this early.

Not since Polly Griffin’s body was found in September last year.

Months had passed since that incident. After her killer had been done away with, he’d gradually grown accustomed to a more peaceful London.

Not that crimes didn’t happen. A city this size would always be home to unpleasant things, but he’d not had to deal with additional murders.

Until now.

“I’m sorry for waking you, sir.” Lewis, the Runner who’d banged on Peter’s door until he’d yanked it open and demanded an explanation, did indeed look remorseful. No doubt he regretted being the Runner responsible for alerting his boss.

“Don’t be. You did what was needed. I’ll just be a moment.” Peter dressed, then grabbed his pocket watch and checked the time. It was just after four, which honestly wasn’t too bad. He pocketed the watch, collected his box of cheroots, and put on his hat before reconvening with Lewis. “Let’s go.”

They left the rooms Peter rented from Mrs. Cranburry, a widow whose husband had been an acquaintance of his father, and exited the house. It didn’t take long for the hackney Lewis had acquisitioned to take them to Bow Street, or for Peter to spot the scene of the crime.

Two other Runners stood in the street, guarding a parked carriage, their tight expressions a testament to their current distaste for their job. Nevertheless, they straightened at Peter’s approach and bid him good morning.

“I trust the body is still inside?”

“Of course,” said the nearest Runner who mostly served as a clerk since he was still green behind the ears. Gordon, was his name. “Lewis said not to touch anything.”

Peter nodded and sent a look past Gordon’s shivering person to Adams, the Runner who kept Gordon company. “Where’s the driver?”

Gordon nodded toward the Bow Street offices. “In there. Anderson is taking his statement.”

Excellent. Progress was already underway. Peter thanked the Runners and suggested, “Why don’t the pair of you go and get warm while Lewis and I take a look at the scene. While you’re at it, prepare a pot of fresh coffee.”

Gordon and Adams did not need a second telling. They muttered their thanks and departed, teeth chattering so loud it was clear the cold air had seeped into their bones. In his own attempt to ward it off Peter lit a cheroot and enjoyed the warmth he pulled into his lungs.

“Right then,” he said to Lewis. “Let’s get on with it, shall we?”

The young Runner had come a long way this past year. He no longer looked like he’d soil the crime scene with his vomit. Instead, his expression was grave, devoid of emotion. That was the price of the job. It took the sentiment straight out of people and killed it.

Lewis pulled the carriage door open and took a step back so Peter would have better access. Despite the darkness, there could be no denying the gruesomeness of what had occurred here. Peter tossed his half-smoked cheroot aside and stepped closer, his critical gaze already assessing each detail.

“Fetch a couple of lanterns,” he muttered.

“Right away, sir.” Lewis disappeared inside Bow Street, leaving Peter alone with what already looked like a brutal encounter with a sharp blade.

He stared at the victim who slumped against the far wall. It was a young man, his blank eyes fixed on Peter as though in a silent plea for assistance. Hopefully a calling card would be found in his pocket to help identify him.

The brisk click of approaching footsteps made Peter turn. He extended a hand and took once of the lanterns Lewis brought with him. “I’m climbing in for a closer inspection. You stay here by the door and help light up this side of the cabin.”

Lewis agreed and Peter lit up the space closest to him, just to be sure he wouldn’t disturb any evidence he might have missed in the dark. Finding nothing, he entered the cabin and took a seat on the bench.

“Bloody hell,” Lewis murmured as he caught his first fully-lit view of the scene.