Page 16 of Molly Boys

He was lying, Archie was sure of it. He had no doubt he’d seen the dead lad but it hadn’t been in the pub. There was something else there, something he was holding back. Deciding not to press more just yet, he inclined his head and slipped his notebook back into his pocket.

“We should proceed.” Dr Shaw turned to look at Richard. “Do you need to be excused? You don’t have to assist today, not if he was a friend of yours.”

Richard drew in a determined breath. “No, I need to.” He looked up at his mentor. “I need to know what happened to him. I need to make sure whoever did this to Charlie is punished. Please let me stay.”

“If you’re sure.” Shaw nodded with a glance over to Archie. “You staying, Inspector?”

Archie shook his head. “You don’t need me looking over your shoulder. Let me know when you have the report. I’ll be back at the station house. Oh, and Mr Lowcroft?” Richard glanced over and met his eyes. “I may need to question you further.”

Richard nodded slowly,although the set of his mouth indicated he wasn’t happy at the prospect. “Of course, Inspector.”

Archie headed back toward the door but paused at the last moment and turned back to the two men. “Oh, there is one more thing.” He lifted one hand as if just remembering. “I spoke with a witness earlier who seemed to think that Mr Wakefield here wasn’t the first victim.”

“What?” Richard murmured.

“It’s possible that whoever killed your friend may have killed before. Once you have a full accounting of the boy’s injuries, it would be helpful if you could check both the mortuary records and the university’s to see if any cadavers have been donated bearing similar markings on the body.”

“We will, Inspector,” Shaw nodded.

“Good evening, gentlemen.” Archie inclined his head and walked out of the room, leaving the gruesome business of Charles Wakefield’s autopsy in the capable hands of the surgeon and his student.

4

Jack didn’t stop running until he was far away from the inspector. It hadn’t been hard to give him the slip. Clambering across rooftops was easy for him, as was picking pockets. He may not look like much but there wasn’t anywhere Jack couldn’t sneak in to lift an item or two to sell in The Old Nichol. It was how he survived.

He didn’t know who his father had been, and his mother was long dead, an unfortunate who’d met her end at the hands of a rough punter, or so he’d been told. As a babe, he’d been passed back and forth between whoever had cared enough to see he’d been fed. That had all changed as soon as he was old enough to earn his way and that meant being of use to Leland Rackstraw. He ruled The Nichol with an iron fist and nothing happened within its boundaries without Rackstraw’s knowledge or permission.

Leaning against a chimney and looking around to make sure no one was watching, Jack reached into his pocket and pulled out an old, tarnished fob watch. He flipped the face open and saw words scratched into the inside of the cover. He didn’t know what they meant—he couldn’t read, after all.

He held the watch up to his ear and listened. He liked the sound of the ticking. He sat for a moment enjoying the soothing clicks until a violent shiver wracked his small body.

Small, fat, fluffy white flakes began to descend around him. He looked up to the sky, blinking as they caught on his eyelashes. Shoving the watch back into his pocket, he felt for the coins with relief.

He’d have to hand the watch to Rackstraw, that was the rule. Everything he stole was given up in return for protection. He hoped the watch would be enough that he’d be able to sneak the pennies for himself. It had been so long since he’d had a hot meal. Just the thought of a warm bowl of stew, even the thin broth-like type with stringy meat that they usually served in The Nichol, had his stomach clenching painfully with pangs of hunger.

He shivered again, his fingers and toes numb as he pushed away from the chimney setting off at a fast pace to try and keep himself warm. He still had a distance to cover across Whitechapel before he reached the boundary of Bethnal Green Road and crossed into Friar’s Mount.

He clambered back down to the street and set off once again. Usually, he preferred to keep to the rooftops—it was safer—but with the snow coming down hard, it was easier to slip and fall.

Darting through the packed and narrow streets in the dying light, he kept his head down and his shabby jacket pulled tight, even though it didn’t keep the cold at bay.

When he finally reached Bethnal Green Road, he headed for the one place he knew Rackstraw would be. The sooner he handed over his bounty the quicker he could slip away and find some warm food and hopefully a place to sleep for the night.

He cut around a corner and saw The Black Goat. It was a grim-looking place with grimy windows and soot-covered bricks, where Rackstraw held court as if he were a king and the rest of The Old Nichol were his loyal subjects. Only he ruled by fear. There was nowhere in the slums that Rackstraw didn’t see, nothing that escaped his notice. All of them lived by his rules, his laws.

Jack crept across the cobbles, his light feet barely leaving a mark in the freshly fallen snow. He’d never liked going to The Goat. It made his skin prickle but despite being so young, he’d learned the trick was to not show fear. It was the only way to survive. Instead, he straightened his spine and jutted his chin out obstinately, drawing his false bravado around him like a cloak so they wouldn’t see the scared boy beneath.

The door of the pub clattered open, spilling light and noise out into the rapidly darkening night. Jack darted around the men exiting the pub, slipping through the door unnoticed. A miasma of stale tobacco and the smoky tallow of the candles and oil lamps hung in the air.

He weaved among the press of bodies, small enough to slip by more or less unnoticed. As the crowd parted he saw Rackstraw, his black hair glinting in the dim light, his dark eyes shrewd as he lifted his beer to his lips. His brutish face was unreadable and sported a dark stubble gracing his jaw. A wicked-looking scar ran from his temple to his cheekbone, the puckered flesh silvered with age but no less mean-looking.

He lounged lazily in his plain wooden chair as if it were a throne, watching the room. Suddenly, like a predator scenting fresh blood, his eyes locked on Jack, narrowing slightly.

“Well if it isn’t little Lightfoot.”

The entire room fell silent at his words. His voice was low and raspy, and should’ve been lost in the rowdiness of the room. Instead, every word instantly hushed. When Rackstraw spoke, no one dared speak over him.

The air in the room felt heavy as every eye turned toward Jack, watching like jackals to see what would happen next. His belly shook but he couldn’t show weakness; he bravely drew up to his full height, despite how small he was, and stepped forward. The crowd parted and he marched straight up to the man they all feared.