Page 48 of A Shop Girl’s Christmas (Pennington’s Department Store #3)

Stephen put on the sorry-looking flat cap he’d picked up for a couple of pence at the market and examined his dirt-smeared face in the bedroom mirror.

This will either work or it won’t.

He patted his hands over his jacket and trouser pockets.

Some notes and loose change.

His trusty cudgel.

Some paper and a pencil.

The minimum he needed for tonight’s excursion… Brute strength and quickness of mind could possibly be others.

Leaving his bedroom, he reached the hallway and glanced through the open parlour doorway. His mother sat in her favourite armchair, her knitting needles busy between her fingers.

A floorboard squeaked under his foot and he hissed a quiet curse.

‘Stephen?’

He looked longingly at the closed front door. ‘Just popping out for a quick pint, Ma. I won’t be late.’

‘Well, that’s nice, but it wouldn’t hurt for you to let me see your face while I’m talking to you.’

Muttering another curse, Stephen drew himself up to his full height and walked to the parlour door, braced for an onslaught.

She laid the knitting in her lap… and flinched. ‘Good Lord above. Why on earth are you dressed like that? They’ll not take kindly to you walking into the pub like that.’

Stephen touched his hand to the brim of his cap. ‘There’s a reason for it. That’s all I can tell you, I’m afraid.’

She studied him, her mouth pinched into a tight line.

Trying his best not to fidget under her scrutiny, Stephen held her gaze.

Emitting a rather inelegant sniff, his mother picked up her knitting. ‘Right. Then I’ll leave you to your business.’

Surprised, and more than a little concerned by her lack of curiosity, Stephen said, ‘That’s it?’

She didn’t look at him, her fingers busy at her needles once more. ‘That’s it. If you’re daft enough to get yourself tangled up in the one thing you came here to avoid, that’s your own doing. Good luck with it.’ She lifted her head and met his eyes. ‘Just be careful.’

Stephen winked. ‘Always. I’ll see you in the morning.’

He quickly left the house and hurried along the busy streets towards the centre of town. The night was cold, with sleet blowing in every direction on a rising wind. As he stepped up his pace, his mind once again went over the contents of the box Joseph Carter had given him earlier that day.

Carter had caught him just as Stephen’s shift had ended and pushed Lillian Carter’s box into his hands. The papers and log sheets inside had identified the six women who had worked closely to aid people from the slums, ensuring that charity was bestowed on needy children and adults, up and down a huge stretch of the River Avon.

Stephen had sent an urgent telegram to Inspector King with the names, knowing he ought to be able to make more headway with the officers at Bath constabulary than Stephen could.

But, for now, the next step was Stephen’s.

Keeping his head purposefully low, with eyes shielded beneath the brim of his cap, he descended the worn steps into the darkness beneath the bridge’s long-reaching shadow. The grunts, snorts and coughs of the destitute surrounded him as he walked, his gaze darting left and right as he headed for the clump of trees he’d been previously shown by Herman Angel.

He put his hand around the cudgel in his pocket and ducked into the foliage.

He’d barely stepped a few feet inside, before he knew he wasn’t alone.

The movements were subtle… the stench of unwashed skin and acrid breath, not so much.

Forks of moonlight illuminated two sets of eyes as they watched him from below the brims of their hats and the scarves pulled high over their noses.

Trepidation gripped him and Stephen tightened his fingers on the cudgel. ‘I want no trouble. Just looking for a friend.’

‘Piss off.’

The man who’d spoken remained seated on the ground, but his associate slowly rose to his feet, bent almost double, his bones seeming to creak in the enclosed space. He lifted his hand to his scarf.

Stephen’s shoulders tensed as he planted his feet more firmly and slightly apart.

The man lowered his scarf and pushed up the brim of his hat, his eyes widening in warning.

Herman.

Stephen carefully kept his expression hostile and gave a slight nod, understanding.

‘Who are you looking for?’ Herman demanded. ‘There isn’t anyone worth looking for down here. Why don’t you do as my friend asks and piss off?’

Stephen squared his shoulders. ‘I’ve been given a coin or two to help someone. A coin or two I’m willing to share if you can help me.’

The vagrant on the floor shifted, causing the stench from his clothes and breath to rise in an invisible cloud. ‘And what’s stopping us from picking you up and shaking the bloody coins out of you?’ He flicked his head towards the entrance, his gaze on Herman. ‘Get rid of him.’

‘One question.’ Stephen raised his hand. ‘That’s all I’ll ask and, if your answer is good enough to send me on my way, I’ll go.’

‘I said, pis—’

‘Why don’t we take the offer of a laugh when it presents itself?’ Herman stepped in front of Stephen and eyed him from head to toe, obscuring the other man’s view. He winked. ‘What’s your question?’

Whatever happened next, they would watch each other’s backs.

‘The gentleman who gave me the coin has been asking questions about a murder.’

‘What murder?’

‘The murder of a young woman who used to come around these parts offering food, blankets and the like. Seems she got killed for her efforts. You hear about that?’

Herman shook his head. ‘Not me.’ He spoke over his shoulder. ‘You know anything?’

The second man raised an earthenware jug to his lips and drank deeply before lowering it and swiping the back of his hand across his mouth. ‘He’s talking about that toff’s wife. Why would anyone care about her, if her bloody husband don’t?’

Stephen’s tensed, adrenaline raising the hairs on his arms. ‘It could’ve been her husband asking about her.’

‘Doubt it. He’s married again, so clearly he can’t give a fig about what happened to his first missus. Married himself a right nice piece, too. She owns Pennington’s, of all places. How in God’s name he managed to snag her, I don’t know. Used to own a shop on the bridge. Now look at him. Seems to me he didn’t deserve his first wife. I hope the way she went, what happened to her, haunts that toff day and night. Might as well have been his hand around the knife that stabbed her.’ The man’s voice was taunting, evil, and laced with nauseating glee.

Herman’s jaw was a hard line and Stephen’s blood simmered hot beneath the surface of his skin. He hadn’t mentioned a knife.

‘So, you have no idea who killed her?’ Stephen took a step forward, brushing past Herman. ‘Seems wrong to me that any man should raise his hand to a woman, let alone stab her and leave her to die in a place where she was trying to do some good.’

The man’s eyes narrowed. ‘You’re talking like you actually care about her. All women got motives. There’s was no more charity in Lillian Carter than the rest of the do-gooders who come around here, handing out bread and water as though they’ll get themselves a better place in heaven than the rest of us. Shit-stirrers, the lot of them.’

It was all Stephen needed to hear.

His blood pumping, he lunged for the man, drew him up by his coat collar and slammed him against the slimy, wet wall. Once, twice, three times, until the man’s breath rushed from him between cracked lips, his head swaying from side to side in his drunkenness.

Stephen clenched his teeth. ‘Who killed her? Give me a name. I mean it or, so help me God, I won’t be responsible for what happens next.’

‘Piss off.’

Before Stephen could do anything, a fist whistled past his face and smacked into the vagrant’s cheek. His head snapped back, hitting the wall with a crack.

‘Goddamn it.’ Herman shook out his fingers. ‘Just cough it up, man. Who killed her?’

Stephen shook the man again. ‘A name. Now.’

‘I don’t know his bloody name, all right?’ The man’s bloodshot eyes burned with anger. ‘He lives in Victoria Park, but you’ll never get to him. He’s got a gang. A whole load of them who watch his back. You’re wasting your bloody time.’

‘What does he look like?’

‘Big, broad fella. Menacing. Hair as black as night and his eyes…’ The vagrant shook his head. ‘Are eyes no man or woman wants to look at. You’ll know him when you see him, trust me. He’s a bloody giant among thieves.’

Revulsion twisted Stephen’s stomach. To think of a man of this described size preying on women was more than he could stand. How in God’s name had he managed to get away with killing? Not once, but three times. Were people so afraid of him they would rather turn a blind eye than help take him off the streets?

Stephen loosened his grip and shoved the man again. He looked at Herman.

Before Stephen could so much as open his mouth, the other man’s fist caught him on the jaw, the strength of the blow vibrating through his teeth. As he shook the pain from his head and the stars from his eyes, the man shoved past them, sending Herman stumbling backwards and Stephen lurching to the side.

He was out from the cover of the trees and away.

‘Goddamn it.’ Stephen rubbed his jaw. ‘We’ve got no chance of catching up with him. He probably knows the shortcuts from here to oblivion better than we ever will.’

‘Maybe, but at least you’re another step closer in your investigation.’ Herman smiled. ‘Even if you’ve got a bruised jaw and ego to go with it.’

Stephen took off his cap and pushed his hair back from his forehead. ‘Funny, Herman. Really bloody funny.’