Page 17 of The Ladies Road Guide to Utter Ruin (The Ill-Mannered Ladies #2)

17

I crept back down the steps to where Evan stood.

He raised his brows: See anything?

I nodded and mimed pushing a cart, my charade interrupted by a clank and thud above—my guess, the hidden compartment being slammed shut.

“Finally,” Reed’s voice said. “You sure know how to make a simple job damn hard.”

“Screw you,” Gib said, without heat.

Then one of them made a huff of effort and the yard was full of the sound of heavy footsteps and barrow wheels grinding across the cobbles toward the lane. We both stood motionless, listening as the sound of the men and the cart’s progress slowly receded.

When they had, by my reckoning, turned into the side lane, I told Evan what I had seen.

“So, they can move through London without anyone knowing, even when it is daylight,” I concluded.

“Even so, I still think they’ll want to get rid of her before dawn,” Evan said. “Let’s follow them.”

I was all for discovering the truth, but it was going to be a dangerous enterprise. These brutes could realize we were tracking them and confront us. Not to mention the ever-present threat of Mr. Mulholland and his noses. Our search had stumbled across something far more perilous than just a clue: a woman had died in hideous circumstances; another was sorely injured. Perhaps not by the hands of these two dustmen, but they were a part of it. This was no longer something we could handle alone.

By the time we peered around the edge of the wall into the laneway, Gib and Reed were turning the cart into Bedford Street and I had come to a realization that was not going to sit well with Evan. I touched his arm, drawing his attention from Bedford Street and our quarry.

“I think we must speak to Mr. Kent about the girls and the wager book,” I said. “As soon as possible.”

He stared at me, perplexed. “Why would we do that? The man is trying to hang me.”

Admittedly, that was true. “But we have new evidence and Mr. Kent is a reasonable man. Once he has seen it, I am sure—” I stopped. Was I sure? “I believe he will rethink your guilt and investigate with us. He is known for such attention to the facts and he has helped us before.”

Evan crossed his arms. “The last time we offered him facts, he said he did not care and tried to shoot me.”

True again. But another glaring truth cut through all else. “There is no one else official we can trust in the Runners or the Home Office, is there?”

It was Evan’s turn to concede the point. “What do you propose, then?”

A plan had started to form. “We meet Mr. Kent at my house as soon as we know the full story here. Then we can present our case about the club—tell him where the body of poor Miss Hollis ends up—and show him the wager page.” I clicked my tongue in irritation. “I should have taken the most recent page, too, with Miss Hollis in it.” I shook my head. “No, someone would have noticed. Perhaps it is better that it stays where it is.” He still looked unconvinced. “Mr. Kent will help us, Evan. Besides, you will be able to see Hester too. A visit from you will help her recovery. I am sure of it,” I added, trying to seal the deal.

Evan sighed. “I must see Hester. I owe it to her and so much more.” He looked down the laneway again. “If we are to involve Mr. Kent, we need to give him incontrovertible proof of a body. Come on, we must not lose sight of the cart.”

He was right. Evidence was everything.

We made our way swiftly down the laneway and peered around the Bedford Street corner. The quiet, emptier streets of the early hours were giving way to a trickle of barrowmen, cooks, and maids heading toward their morning business in Covent Garden. It would not be hard to slide in among the foot traffic and follow our quarry. I spied Gib and Reed and the cart as they trundled past Dorothy the flower seller.

Dorothy. Now, there was an interesting thought.

“We’ll slip in after these two,” Evan said, tilting his head at a pair of market women who were walking past in loud, animated conversation.

We stepped in behind them, keeping our quarry in sight about twenty yards ahead. As we crossed the corner of Maiden Lane, that interesting thought blossomed into part of the plan.

I stopped beside Dorothy. “Go on ahead, I will be right behind you,” I said to Evan.

“What?” He stopped, caught between staying with me and staying with Gib and Reed as they headed toward King Street.

“Trust me.”

He looked down at the old flower seller and gave a nod. “I’ll wait on the corner for you,” he said, and continued behind the two market women.

I crouched beside Dorothy.

“What you want?” she said, clutching her patched purse. “I’ll scream bloody murder if you touch me coin.”

“No, Dorothy, I do not want your coin. Do you remember two ladies talking to you a few nights back?”

“You know my name?” She watched me warily. “You talkin’ about the ladies who gave me two shillin’s?”

“Yes, that is right. I’m one of them—Lady Augusta—but I’m disguised as a man.” I peeled off part of my whiskers. “See, it is false hair.”

She studied me through narrowed, rheumy eyes. “Well, glory be!” she finally said, wheezing a laugh. “What you doin’ dressed like that?” Then she frowned and looked over at the club. “Ah, to do with that place, ain’t it? I just saw a girl come out in her chemise with a sack on her shoulder. Never seen a mort move so fast. Her in bare feet and half-strangled too.”

Nothing got past Dorothy.

“She was one of the lucky ones,” I said. “She got out. But I think I know what happens to the girls who do not.” I glanced up the road. The cart and Evan were both approaching King Street. Time was of the essence. “I need your help, Dorothy. Will you deliver a message for me? To my sister, the one who gave you the shillings?” I took out a handful of coins and offered them. “This will get you to her—take a hackney—and when you get there, she’ll give you more shillings for the message and your trouble.”

Dorothy considered the proposition. “Your sister is a good ’un—I’ll say that. You know what’s happened to them other girls?”

“I do.”

She pursed her cracked lips. “What’s the message, then?”

It did not take long to finalize the transaction. As I prepared to go, Dorothy stopped me with a grimy hand on my arm.

“They’re dead, ain’t they? The girls who don’t come out?”

I placed my hand over hers for a moment. “They are. And we are trying to stop it.”

She nodded grimly as I took to the pavement again.

···

Evan stood on the corner, alternately watching for me and looking up King Street, where, presumably, Gib and Reed were traveling.

“They are not too far ahead,” he said in welcome. “My guess is we are heading for either St. Andrew’s or Bunhill Fields burial ground.”

St. Andrew’s was closer, but both cemeteries were quite a way by foot if he was right. We started walking. I caught sight of our quarry up ahead, parting the foot traffic on the pavement with the cart. To think, all those people passing by, not knowing what was hidden beneath that wooden tray.

“What did you do back there?” Evan asked.

I told him the message I had sent to Julia via Dorothy: summon Mr. Kent and wait for us to return with evidence. “I know you do not trust Mr. Kent, but I believe he will help us.”

“It is a good plan.” For a second, Evan’s palm lightly touched my back. I wanted to take his hand—feel the solid warmth of his decency and honor—but of course I could not.

We followed Gib and Reed along High Holborn, the sky shifting into the lighter blue-gray of impending dawn. We passed the green expanse of Lincoln’s Inn Fields, then veered slightly right, along Skinner Street rather than left onto Snow Hill, which meant we were not, in fact, headed for St. Andrew’s or for Bunhill Fields.

Where, then, were we going?

It was not long before St. Sepulchre’s Church and the Old Bailey came into view, the somber gray courthouse looming over the street. Streaks of dawn pink brightened the cloudy gray sky, and the air was smoky with the smell of freshly lit hearths amid the faint foulness of the nearby meat market. London was awakening.

“What are they doing this far east?” Evan said. He craned to one side to see past the couple in front, trying to keep Gib and Reed in sight. Even with the cart and the weight of its grisly cargo, they had kept up a quick pace for the whole journey and had drawn away from us. “Wait, they are turning, into Giltspur Street.”

“What is up there?” I asked.

Evan frowned. “Smithfield meat market? You don’t think they are going to take her there, do you?”

I grimaced. I would not put anything past Gib and Reed.

I caught sight of the two men as they took the Giltspur Street corner, wheeling the cart wide, then disappearing from sight. Evan increased his pace, forcing me to skip a step to keep up. A woman humped out a huge basket of washing from a laundry, blocking our way. We skirted around her and her load and finally turned the corner.

I shoved my sleeve up against my nose: the dung and rancid fat smell of the meat market was already overpowering. The street ahead was busy—cattle driven by yipping farmers, delivery wagons, dogs fighting over scraps, hackneys stopping for passengers, barrel men carrying their goods, and the infirm lining up outside the main gate of Bart’s Hospital—but I could not see Gib and Reed amid the chaos.

I stood on my toes, searching the traffic again. They were gone. “We have lost them,” I said over the clamor of hooves and voices.

“No, they must be down one of the lanes.”

We started to jog along the path, drawing some censorious glances from those coming the other way. First, Green Dragon Yard: a blind alley with no one in it. Next, Bull Court: empty too. Finally, Windmill Court, which curved away from the road, no clear view of the whole. I followed Evan down it at a run, our hurtling panic startling a yelp from a woman stepping from her residence. Another blind alley and no sign of Gib and Reed.

Panting, I followed Evan back to Giltspur Street. “The other side of the road?” I suggested, bending with my hands on my knees to help me draw breath.

Evan stared hard at the only other option across the way: Cock Lane. He shook his head. “They would have taken Snow Hill. It is quicker.”

I straightened to see a small group of men ahead, dressed in black and wearing Clericus hats, entering a gate. Doctors. Where were they going?

Ah, of course.

“Up there. That is where they are.” I pointed to the gray stone pillars and iron gate. “It is a side entrance to Bart’s.”

If there was one place in London where one could hide a dead body, it would be St. Bartholomew’s Hospital.