Page 33 of A Shop Girl’s Christmas (Pennington’s Department Store #3)

Stephen tried to shake off a feeling of irony as he passed shops and houses with sparkling decorations and streamers, reminding everyone Christmas would soon be upon them. Happiness. Celebration. A New Year promise of fresh beginnings just a hand’s reach away. The festivities were a cruel joke.

Working at Pennington’s, he didn’t need reminding that Christmas lay just around the corner. That he would be alone once again this year. Instead, the rich red, gold and green trimmings and ornaments that adorned every surface and wound around the mammoth banister of the grand staircase only served to emphasise his solitude.

He walked closer to Pulteney Bridge.

His mother had been invited to Bristol to spend Christmas with her best friend and her family and Stephen had urged her to go, saying he had a friend coming to town with whom he’d spend Christmas Day.

The lie still stuck in his throat an hour later.

But he needed the time alone to think. The wait on the investigation into his part in the failings on that horrible, fateful day in London grew worse every day. How was he to make a decision about anything until he knew the outcome?

Burying his jumbled thoughts, Stephen quickened his pace along Bridge Street.

Pulteney Bridge had been one of Bath’s attractions since the late eighteenth century and now, with every latticed shop window that lined the bridge either side lit for Christmas, it looked more spectacular than ever. Yet, the bridge’s exquisite architecture was little more than an illusion, masking what lay beneath.

He slowly walked along the pavement to the far end of the bridge and a small opening that led to some steep stone steps. Furtively, he looked around, before peering into a darkness made even more macabre by the Christmas brightness above.

The damp stones glistened with grime, mud and moss, the walls dripping with moisture. Only a fool would descend these steps at this hour of the night. Only a fool would expose themselves to the drunkards who loitered beneath the shelter of the bridge.

Well, tonight he was that fool.

Holding his breath, Stephen carefully descended, feeling the slip-slide of his boots as he crossed each step worn smooth by time. Emerging beside one of the bridge’s stone arches, he stopped, straining to listen to the noises around him.

The odd raspy cough broke the murky air, along with a cacophony of snorting, spitting and cursing. He studied the hunched shadows beneath the arch closest to him and farther along the iron railings to his side. No one seemed to be paying him attention. He was pretty certain most of them didn’t care whether it was day or night, who was or wasn’t present, or what they were doing.

Slowly, he made his way along the river’s edge, looking for God only knew what. His first job was to act on the scant information Herman Angel had provided and see if he could find anyone else willing to talk. If – and it was a big if – Lillian Carter’s killer remained close to the former home of his victim, the man had more nerve than a gambler playing with counterfeit notes.

The paved walkway was empty of people, which came as no surprise, but the air crackled with sounds of humanity, scrapes and scuffles, whispered voices and hacking coughs.

‘Well, Mr Gower, you took your time.’

The hairs at the back of Stephen’s neck rose and he curled his hand a little tighter around the cudgel in his pocket.

He swung around.

Herman.

Immediately relaxing his grip, Stephen fought the urge to smile. The man must have got lucky since Stephen had last seen him. For one thing, Herman had obviously found a place to wash his face and clean his teeth. Both positively shone in the moonlight, while his grubby coat flapped open to reveal what looked to be a barely worn and rather dandyish waistcoat.

Stephen walked closer to where Herman leaned against the railing, casually smoking a rolled cigarette and looking relaxed enough that they could’ve been meeting in a gentlemen’s club.

Shaking his head, Stephen smiled. ‘What are you doing here, Herman?’

‘Waiting for you, of course.’

‘Waiting for me?’ Stephen raised his eyebrows. ‘Now, why would you think I’d be here tonight, I wonder.’

‘I didn’t know if you’d be here tonight.’ Herman flicked the butt of his cigarette into the river. ‘But if not tonight, then tomorrow, or the night after that.’

‘Is that so?’

‘Yep, whether or not you’re really working in Pennington’s as a watchman, or whether you’re there as a constable, I can smell one of your lot a mile off. As soon as you started asking questions about the dead woman, I knew you wouldn’t let things lie. So, I’m here to watch your back, that’s all.’

‘I see.’ Christ, Stephen ground his back teeth. Did he wear his previous occupation like a damn tattoo across his face? ‘When did you know I was in the force? More to the point, how did you know?’

Herman stepped closer, his newly cleaned face shining brighter, the wider he smiled. He tapped the side of his nose. ‘Don’t you worry about that. We’ve got more important things to think about.’

Stephen cast a furtive glance left and right. ‘Such as?’

‘Such as finding a killer.’ Herman tilted his head, inviting Stephen to follow. ‘Come with me. I’m guessing you’ll want to see where you’re most likely to find the man I told you about. He isn’t here tonight, but I’ll show you his spot, shall I?’

Without waiting for an answer, Herman brushed past Stephen and led him further along the river, until they came to a dense patch of trees. Ducking his head, Stephen followed his informant through the trees, squinting into the blackness. Once more, he tightened his grip around the galvanised handle of the cudgel.

He had no idea what or who Herman Angel had been before he’d found himself on the streets, but now he’d put himself forward as an ally, Stephen would ensure the man came to no harm.

The area was quiet, compared with the entrance by the steps, only the crunch of their boots on the grass and twigs beneath their feet breaking the silence.

Herman stopped abruptly and stooped to pull a curtain of leaves and foliage to one side. ‘There you go.’

Although damp and squalid, the area had been inhabited. Through the semi-darkness, Stephen saw a couple of blankets were bundled in one corner, the remains of a burnt-out fire in the other. In the centre, discarded tankards, brown paper bags and other debris were haphazardly scattered around.

Stephen frowned. ‘This is where he lives?’

‘Occasionally. With others. You’re unlikely to find him alone. He has protection.’

‘Protection?’

‘Of course. If he’s bragging about murder, he clearly thinks himself safe. You’d be best advised to watch your back, while you’re poking about in the man’s business, Constable. Or is it Detective?’

There was something about Herman’s voice that was at odds with the lowliness of their surroundings. Stephen’s suspicions that the man wasn’t always on the streets intensified.

‘What’s your story? Why are you living on the streets?’

‘You tell me yours, I’ll tell you mine.’

Stephen shook his head. ‘I don’t think so.’

Herman laughed and lifted a nonchalant shoulder. ‘Oh, well, it was worth a shot. I have an interest in the law. As an ex-member of parliament, I find it as difficult as you do to allow the perpetrators of violent crime to thrive.’

Stephen fought to keep his face impassive. ‘You were an MP?’

‘Yes, sir.’ Herman kicked a blanket. ‘Up north.’

So that explained his accent. ‘What happened?’

‘To bring me here? To be living like this?’ Herman smiled again. ‘The drink, sir. It can capture a man and hold him tight within its iron claws, before he even has the chance to look back and ask what the hell happened.’

Sympathy stirred in Stephen’s chest. He’d seen enough good people in the force brought down by alcohol to know how quickly drink could ruin a person’s life. ‘Right.’

Herman lifted his eyebrows. ‘That’s all you have to say? No judgement? No worldly advice?’ He sniffed. ‘And you call yourself a policeman.’

‘No. You called me a policeman.’

‘Are you denying it?’

‘I’m many things, but I’m not a liar, so let me just keep my peace. All right?’

The vagrant studied him before shrugging. ‘Fair enough. I’m not one for poking around in people’s business.’ He flashed a smile. ‘At least, I’m not any more.’

‘So, this person you heard talking about Lillian Carter. He’s been seen here?’

‘Every week or so, yes. I’m not saying he’s the one that killed her, but it might do to have a word with him.’ He drew a breath. ‘Although, I have no idea how you’ll manage that.’

‘You leave that little problem to me. Knowing where I can find him is a good start. I’m grateful for the intelligence. Truly.’

‘There were others, you know.’

‘Others?’

‘Women. Murdered. Not by the slums, like Mrs Carter, but farther up the streets. Closer to the bridge. If you look back far enough.’ Herman swiped his hand over his face. ‘Lillian Carter was liked. She was spoken about with care and respect, in one of the worst places in the city. She cared about people. Children, especially. She deserves justice and if you can deliver it, then I’ll do all I can to help.’

A spark of adrenaline swept through Stephen. He would have preferred to think the man was lying about multiple murders, but the sincerity in his words spoke of truth. Was Stephen seeking one man who’d killed multiple times? A gang? Or could it be that the killings weren’t linked and were entirely random? If what Herman said was true, Stephen had no choice but to dig deeper. There was no way in hell he could walk away from this enquiry now.

It was madness to have Cornelia and Herman anywhere near something so monstrous. Yet, he hadn’t listen to Fay and Hettie and they’d died.

What the hell was he supposed to do?

He needed Cornelia and Herman’s help. Maybe he could ask Inspector King back at Scotland Yard for help, too. There was every chance he would be willing to make some enquiries on Stephen’s behalf. King was more than Stephen’s superior, he was a friend… of sorts. A man who wanted him to remain in the force, feeling he was too good a detective to lose.

However he looked at it, King would be pleased he’d been right to say that walking Pennington’s floors would not be enough for Stephen. If he gave the man credit where credit was due, stroked his ego a little, then perhaps the inspector might be open to digging around.

Drawing a few coins from his pocket, Stephen held them towards Herman. ‘Here. Take this for your trouble.’

Hesitation showed in the vagrant’s eyes, maybe even a flash of humiliation, before he pulled himself up straight and touched the brim of his worn top hat. He took the money and dropped the coins into his inside coat pocket. ‘Thank you kindly, Mr Gower.’

‘Stephen.’

Herman nodded, a ghost of a smile curving his lips. ‘Stephen.’

Stephen slowly walked to the covered entrance and stopped. ‘Are you looking for a place to stay? If I can find you somewhere, would you welcome it?’

For the first time since he’d met him, Herman’s expression turned suspicious, his grey eyes wary. ‘Why would you do such a thing?’

Yes, why would you? Stephen held the other man’s gaze. ‘You don’t belong here, that’s why.’

Herman nodded, a barely discernible dip of his head.

‘I might be able to persuade someone to give you a roof over your head for a few weeks. Maybe help you out with some new clothes. You could look for work. Start again.’

Herman smiled, but the suspicion didn’t fade from his eyes. ‘You fancy yourself my guardian angel?’

‘No, but I’m lucky enough to not have lost everything after my own misguided choices. I was supported by friends and colleagues, until I could think and walk straight again. Maybe a helping hand is all you need.’ Knowing when to walk away and take the pressure off, Stephen pushed back the heavy foliage and moonlight speared the dank ground. ‘Where and when can I next find you?’

‘Find me?’

‘You want to help find this killer?’

Herman nodded.

‘Then I’ll need to find you, and it’s no good you coming to Pennington’s until you’re cleaned up.’

‘Right you are.’

‘Good. Then I’ll be in touch.’

With a final nod, Stephen ducked beneath the foliage and out into the wooded area, heading for his lodgings, his mind filled with Lillian Carter and the possibility of other ghosts.