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LONDON

MARCH 1889

T he tavern in Spitalfields was a low den, more a place of desperate refuge than any reputable establishment. London’s evening gloom had settled heavily over the crooked streets, pressing the stale reek of industrial smoke and damp stone into every crevice. Inside, the small common room glowed a sickly yellow from oil lamps and tallow candles. It wasn’t a place frequented by the respectable; even the most indifferent watchmen knew better than to linger here. Yet, at one corner table, a curious meeting was taking place.

Seated at that grimy table were two men who, at a casual glance, could not have appeared more different. The first, clearly a gentleman, was dressed in a well-tailored suit of fine cloth, a waistcoat of deep burgundy beneath a black frock coat, and trousers pressed with meticulous care, seemed misplaced in this den of broken souls. A gleaming silver pocket watch hung on a chain, and on his lapel was a pin that might have been a family crest. He had positioned himself so as to touch the table as little as possible, grimacing discreetly each time a drop of stale ale or some unnameable sticky residue threatened to soil his cuffs. His face was sharp, hawkish. A low-slung cap shadowed keen grey eyes that spoke of an intellect sharpened by privilege and a first-rate education. The slight curl of his lip at the corners betrayed a man accustomed to finer establishments.

Opposite him was a fellow who seemed born from the muck and mire of Spitalfields itself. Tall, broad, thick-necked, built like a butcher. A scar marred the right side of his face. He wore a grimy shirt whose original color was long lost to sweat and soot. His jacket—torn at the elbows and stained with who knew what—barely kept out the chill of the evening. His trousers, similarly tattered, bore silent witness to a life lived close to the gutter. His hair was ragged and dull, his fingernails chipped and blackened with dirt. He smelled of rancid meat and stagnant rainwater. His eyes, though, were sharp in their own way—a feline brightness that suggested cunning and hunger.

Their tankards of ale stood between them as a meager truce. The upper-class toff had avoided drinking the swill. The other man, known as O’Donnell to the few who cared to remember it, had downed half his tankard in a few gulps. The ale, cheap and bitter, was a comfort to him in a world without many comforts.

The toff leaned forward slightly, lowering his voice so that it would not carry beyond their table. “I trust that we have reached a suitable understanding?”

O’Donnell wiped a drip of ale from his scruffy beard. The amber droplet caught on the candlelight before disappearing into the coarse hairs. “Aye,” he said in a voice that rasped like a file on iron. “We understand each other well enough. Ye want a certain gentleman put in the ground. I’m willing to do that, fer a price.”

The toff inclined his head, as if acknowledging a minor point in a contract.

“The target is neither stout nor slim, about fifty years of age. He is well-dressed—always in a dark coat—and favors a red scarf. This scarf should help you identify him at once. He’s no fool and keeps careful habits, but I know where he will be. He frequents the home of Evangeline Pratt, his mistress, on Tuesday and Thursday evenings. She lives in a small house off Princelet Street, well within your reach. On those nights, he will be there shortly after nightfall, savoring what comfort he can find there that he can’t find at home.”

O’Donnell chuckled darkly. “I’m not after a full life’s story, guv. Just enough to know the right man. Ye can leave the details of how to me.”

The upper-class man nodded again, pulling his gloved hands away from the sticky table. He seemed eager to conclude this business. “Of course. I merely wish no mistakes. There’s a legacy hanging in the balance. If this goes well, there will be another task for you.”

“As long as it isn’t a lass or a babe, I’m your man.”

“Not even for a hundred pounds?” the toff smirked.

O’Donnell neither agreed nor disagreed, but the avarice in his eyes gleamed clearly. With enough coin, he could be bought.

Silence settled over them for a moment. The tavern’s other patrons—drunks, petty thieves, and broken laborers—were lost in their own grim worlds. A lamplight flickered, casting shadows that danced across the warped floorboards. Outside, a distant cry sounded, perhaps a cat, perhaps something more human. This was London’s underbelly, and these men were playing a deadly game in its shadows.

“Well then,” said O’Donnell, leaning forward. “There’s the matter of payment.”

Reaching into his coat with deliberate care, the toff drew forth a small pouch.

O’Donnell watched with a predator’s interest, eyes narrowing. “As agreed upon,” said the toff, “here are twenty pounds in coin. The remainder will be paid upon the successful completion of your task.”

With a gloved hand, he slid the pouch across the table. O’Donnell did not snatch it greedily, not yet. He was a professional, in his own grim way, and such eagerness could be misconstrued. Instead, he drew the pouch toward himself with two fingertips, opening it just enough to glimpse the glint of metal inside. Satisfied, he closed it again and slipped it into the pocket of his trousers.

“That’ll do for now,” the rough man said. He finished his ale in one long swallow, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. A thick silence settled again, broken only by the clink of tankards and the low hum of muttered conversations around them.

The toff cleared his throat. “You will find me at the address we discussed. After the deed is done, I will have the remainder of your fee.”

O’Donnell’s eyes narrowed, and he leaned in, lowering his voice to an almost inaudible growl. “I’ll find ye all right. But mark me, ye’d best have that money ready. No excuses, no delays. If I show up and find ye’ve flown, or if ye try to be clever and wriggle out of this arrangement...” He paused, letting the implication hang in the sour air. “Let’s just say I know where you live. And I know enough to ruin more than your fancy suit.”

The toff’s face tightened. This was the part of the transaction he disliked most: the acknowledgement that the gutter-snake he’d hired could just as easily turn on him. Yet, he needed O’Donnell’s services, and in this matter, he had no other reliable means. He lifted his chin and tried to speak with calm authority. “Your warning is duly noted. Rest assured, I am a man of honor, and I will pay what I owe.”

O’Donnell laughed silently, shoulders shaking. The notion of honor among these kinds of dealings was laughable, and they both knew it. “A man of honor,” he echoed, mocking. “A man of your breeding wouldn’t be here if he could soil his gloves in a more respectable manner, would he?”

The toff’s jaw tightened. “I am here because I must be. The world is not always governed by polite rules. You know that better than most, I imagine.”

O’Donnell smirked, revealing a few yellowed teeth. “So we have an understanding, then. I do this deed, and you pay me what’s due. If not . . .” He let his voice trail off. The threat needed no repetition. The implication was enough—the toff’s blood could just as easily join that of the target in the gutters of the East End.

The toff tried not to let the fear show in his face. Instead, he affected a mild indifference. “Indeed, we are in agreement. Now, I suggest we both be on our way. The night grows old, and I have other engagements. You have your... preparations to make.”

O’Donnell rose from the table first. He stood a head taller than the toff and much heavier in build. He picked up his cap from a peg on the wall and settled it low over his brow. With a final look at the other man, he said, “Don’t worry, guv. I’ll get the job done. Lord High and Mighty will be feeding the fishes soon enough, or my name ain’t Ratty O’Donnell.”

With that, he sauntered toward the door. Moving fluidly through the cramped space, he navigated overturned stools and unconscious patrons as if he belonged here—because he did. The door creaked as he pushed it open, letting in a draft of cool night air that made the lamps flicker. A moment later, he was gone, swallowed by the darkness and the maze of alleys beyond.

The gentleman remained seated a moment longer. The coins were gone, twenty pounds already spent. The next time he and O’Donnell met, the job would be done—or at least, it had better be. He tried not to think about what would happen if O’Donnell failed, or if he tried to extract further payment through blackmail or violence. A shudder crawled up his spine. The idea that this filthy murderer knew where he lived—knew even the pattern of his doorstep—was unsettling in the extreme.

He came to his feet and made his way out. The pact was sealed. Twenty pounds had changed hands, and a man’s fate was marked.

In 1889 London, deals were struck not only in counting houses and boardrooms, but also in grimy taverns with tankards of foul ale. He pushed open the door and stepped into the darkness. As the fog swallowed him, the city itself seemed to hold its breath, waiting for the inevitable violence that would soon follow.