A Study in Death (Lady Darby Mystery, A Book 4) (24 page)

I debated the best way to tell him as we descended the stairs toward the lobby and went to collect our outer garments. Gage was helping me into my pewter gray cloak to match my tarnished silver dress when one of the porters hurried toward us, his heels rapping against the floor tiles.

“Lady Darby?” he asked.

“Yes, that’s me.”

He sighed in relief and held out a letter. “This was delivered for you.”

I stared at it a moment, feeling alarm race through my veins. I snatched the letter out of his hand.

“Thank you,” Gage told him as I broke open the seal. “What is it?” he asked, leaning over my shoulder to try to read. “Your sister?”

It took me a moment to respond, for that was exactly what I had thought the missive was about. “It’s . . . from Bonnie Brock.”

He reached out to take it from me, reading the same words I had.

Maggie is in trouble. Come to the White Hart Inn at Grassmarket. My men will meet you.

BB

“Well, of course we aren’t going.”

I glared at him. “Of course we are.” I pulled the letter from his hands and refolded it.

“Don’t be foolish, Kiera,” he reasoned, following me across the
lobby. He threaded his arm through mine, slowing my steps. “You owe this man nothing.”

“No,” I agreed. “But if he was desperate enough to send me a note, then his sister must truly be in distress. I’m not going to just ignore that.”

He ducked his head against the wind, holding his hat on his head. “But why on earth should he send for you? The man isn’t to be trusted. He may mean you harm.”

I waited until the footman had helped me up into Gage’s carriage and Gage had settled in beside me before I replied, “Because Maggie recently lost a baby.”

He opened his mouth to argue, but then stopped as he grasped the implications.

I straightened my skirts, tugging at the pleating. “He admitted he’s concerned for her. She’s been low in spirits and health. If he thinks I can help, then I’m not going to turn away.”

Gage’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “When did he tell you all of this?”

I ran my hand over the embroidery, trying to decide whether I could lie, and if I should. I sighed, electing for honesty. “He came to see me yesterday.”

“Kiera,” Gage growled in a low voice.

“I was walking home from Lady Rachel’s and he appeared out of nowhere,” I snapped. “What was I supposed to do? Scream for help?”

His expression was thunderous. “You should have told me.”

I turned to stare out the window at the darkened street. I knew he was right, but I didn’t want to admit it.

“How often does he take you for an afternoon stroll?”

I scowled at his sarcastic tone. “Now who’s being ridiculous?”

“I don’t know.”

I huffed. “Think what you want. But I’m going to Grassmarket with or without you.” I glowered at the seat in front of me, before grudgingly adding, “But I would rather you come with me.”

Gage was silent a moment longer, and then thumped the roof of the carriage with his fist.

I inhaled in relief as he gave directions to his coachman. Much as I wanted to be sure Maggie was well, I didn’t really want to descend into that part of Old Edinburgh alone. Grassmarket, which ended on the west side at West Port, had been the haunt of Burke and Hare, and was currently the hangout for any number of criminals.

We rode in silence as the carriage turned left to climb up the hill to Old Town and then sharply descended toward the Grassmarket. Grassmarket sat in a hollow directly below the south side of the castle. The shambles stood at the west end of the market where traders and cattle drovers gathered, while the remainder of the wide street was lined with inns, taverns, and lodging houses.

The smell was something to be avoided at all cost, a mixture of the caustic scents of pitch and hemp and dye, and butchered animals. I journeyed here from time to time on market days to purchase linseed oil and other paint supplies, and always left as quickly as I could. But aside from the other night, I’d never ventured into this part of the city after dark. From the grim look of anticipation on Gage’s face, I suspected he had.

He ordered his carriage to let us out at the east end of the market and wait for us there. As I climbed from the coach, he tugged my cloak tighter around me, hiding my gown, and instructed me to tuck my mother’s pendant down my bodice. I did as I was told, even removing the jeweled comb from my hair and placing it inside the inner pocket on my cloak. Once he was satisfied I looked as inconspicuous as possible, he pulled me close to his side and we set off down the street.

“Stay close,” he leaned down to murmur. “And avoid eye contact.”

I nodded, dropping my gaze from a man who hobbled past.

The sliver of the waxing moon was shrouded with clouds, making the deep shadows at the edge of Grassmarket vast caverns of darkness. From these caves emerged guttural sounds and bursts of raucous
laughter, and the occasional groan of satisfaction. Even the better-lit establishments contributed a higgledy-piggledy of noises to the night, many of which I had no desire to investigate. The cobbles were broken and uneven in many places, making us mind our steps even more than usual.

It felt absurd to admit how relieved I would be once we found Bonnie Brock’s men, but I knew that while we were under his protection, nothing would happen to us that he had not sanctioned. I wondered how we would recognize them, and then I realized they would see us long before we would spot them, even with a description. My cloak and gown might be dark-colored, but they were still obviously high quality, and Gage might be wearing black, but the stark white of his shirt and the height of his hat would reveal him as a gentleman from twenty feet away.

Out of the gloom, the sign for the White Hart Inn suddenly emerged, swinging in the wind. We picked up our pace, and were but a few paces from the door, when a voice shouted out of the darkness.

“Oy, that’s Lady Darby, the butcher’s wife.”

I stiffened at the coarse voice’s pronouncement. Our steps halted as a pair of large men stumbled out of the inn, blocking our path as they turned to look at us. I felt the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end as an untold number of eyes peered out of the darkness at me.

“She mun’ be gatherin’ fresh meat for the sawbones up in High School Yards,” another voice accused.

As aware of the growing danger as I was, Gage tried to guide me around the two ruffians standing in front of the entrance to the White Hart Inn, but they would not allow us to pass. So instead he swung me around, trying to hustle me back toward the carriage. I looked about, wondering where Bonnie Brock’s men were. Or was this them, calling out allegations sure to incite the crowd? But I couldn’t understand why Bonnie Brock would do such a thing. It made no sense.

Our way was swiftly obstructed by a brute with a cauliflower ear and his scrawnier companion. “Noo, where do ye think yer goin’?”

“Prowlin’ our streets for easy pickings?” another man charged.

“Mayhap we should show ’em what we did to the last fellow.”

Gage pulled me in another direction, shoving aside the hand of a man who tried to grab me. But we were thwarted again by a growing crowd of people, their faces red with anger and too much drink.

I clutched tightly to Gage’s arm, looking all around me, searching desperately for a way out. This was one of my worst nightmares come to life. Being surrounded by a mob that believed the vicious rumors that had circulated about me after Sir Anthony died. Rumors that I roamed the streets at night, luring fresh victims to their doom on my late husband’s or another anatomist’s dissecting table. That the tales about me were so close to the truth about Burke and Hare did not help my case, particularly in this part of Edinburgh, where the notorious criminals had prowled.

An older woman clawed at my arm and Gage reached over to push her back. Suddenly someone shouted, and a large man ripped Gage away from my side. I dug in my reticule for my pistol, remembering it too late as a pair of arms grabbed me from behind.

I
screamed as a gun fired to my left.

“Hush, lass,” a familiar voice murmured in my ear.

I swung about to see Bonnie Brock’s face hovering over mine, his arm wrapped around my back. He towed me into the shadows at the edge of the street.

“Gage,” I gasped, resisting.

“We’ve got him, too. Noo, move.”

We darted between two buildings and then right and then left again into the Vennel leading steeply uphill. I hurried along beside him as fast as I could, even though I quickly developed a stitch in my side. At some point we slipped into another close and then through a door and up a dark flight of stairs.

In the room at the top, Bonnie Brock released me and crossed to the dusty window to peer down at the Vennel below. He murmured to one of his men, who stationed himself at the other window, pistol drawn.

I stood bent over, gasping for air as I clasped my side. When a hand came to rest on my lower back, I glanced up sharply, and nearly crumpled in relief to see Gage staring down at me.

But my respite was short-lived.

“What the bloody hell were ye thinkin’?” Bonnie Brock rounded on us to demand. His finger shot out to point in the direction of the stairs. “Those people woulda tore ye to shreds.”

“You
told
us to meet your men there,” I snapped back in between breaths. “So if anyone’s to blame, it’s you.”

“
What?
You’ve gone daft, lass. I dinna tell ye to meet me anywhere.”

I whipped out his letter from the pocket inside my cloak and held it out to him.

He scowled over the few lines and then crushed the paper in his fist. His eyes, when they lifted toward me, burned bright with a restrained violence that made the skin along my arms bristle. “I dinna send this to ye,” he said in a low voice.

I glanced at Gage, who watched the man with a furious frown.

“Then who did?” he demanded.

“I dinna ken.” His eyes narrowed. “But I mean to find oot.” His gaze focused on me again. “Who delivered it?”

“I don’t know. The porter at the Theatre Royal said someone had delivered it for me. I didn’t ask for details. I didn’t know I needed to.”

“Dinna fash yerself.
I
will.”

I reached out to grab his arm. “Don’t harm him. He was only doing his job.”

He looked as if he wanted to disagree, and I squeezed tighter. He relented with a sharp nod.

“What of Maggie?” I searched his face. “Is she well?”

He grimaced. “As well as can be.” He lifted his hand clutching the crushed missive. “She’s no worse.”

“Now that we have that cleared up.” Gage stepped between us, pulling me closer to his side. “How are we going to return to my carriage?”

For a moment, I was worried Bonnie Brock was going to take out his wrath on Gage by punching him, or worse. Gage must have sensed
it, too, for his muscles braced, as if ready to spring back at him. But Bonnie Brock audibly inhaled and exhaled, and the tension passed.

“One of my men told yer driver to move to Greyfriars Kirk. I’ll take ye there when we’re sure the way is clear.” He waited a second, as if expecting Gage to argue, and then returned to the window, peering through the dirty glass.

Periodically we could hear shouts outside, and I wondered if the crowd was still searching for me or if general mayhem had broken out. Many of them had already been foxed, or at least half-sprung, so I didn’t suspect it would take much to rile them into a frenzied mob intent on bedlam.

I wrapped my arms around my middle, grateful for Gage’s steady hand at my back. I felt like such a fool for falling for whoever’s ruse it had been to lure me to Grassmarket. The note was clever, but if I’d paused long enough to think, I would have looked closer at the seal and realized that Bonnie Brock would never sign his name, even with simple initials.

I watched as he conducted a hushed conversation with a few of his men. If he hadn’t arrived when he did . . . I shivered in remembrance of the woman’s clawing hands. I didn’t need much of an imagination to envisage what would have happened next.

Shaking aside the frightening thought, I glanced about me for the first time at the sparse furnishings and dirty floor. It looked like a room in a temporary lodging house, for there were few personal possessions I could see. I had been curious where Bonnie Brock kept his lodgings, but this did not seem to be the place. It wasn’t befitting his image as the head of a large criminal gang, nor did it reflect the comfort I suspected he enjoyed.

Two of his men crossed the room to the door while he turned to tell us what they had decided. “Stumps and Locke are gonna cause a distraction doon at West Port. Give ’em a few minutes.” He propped his foot up on a rickety chair and leaned into it, seemingly oblivious to the way it swayed.

“Did your men inform you we’d come to Grassmarket?” I couldn’t resist asking, pondering the providence of his being there just when we needed him.

“Nay. I happened to be nearby conductin’ a bit o’ . . . business.”

What this business was, I wasn’t about to ask. Especially not when the amused lilt to his words suggested he wanted me to.

“I thought this part of the city was under your control?” Gage challenged. “From where I’m standing, it sure doesn’t look like it.”

I frowned up at him, not understanding his belligerent tone. Did he
want
to fight with Bonnie Brock?

“No one controls the mob,” he responded with a hard glare. “’Specially no’ an Edinburgh one. Unless yer bent on violence. But then ye’d better be careful it dinna turn back on ye.” He turned his head to the side, shielding his face from our view with the fall of his hair. “But dinna worry. They’ll hear o’ my displeasure tomorrow. And whoever started it willna be capable of doin’ so again.”

One of his men stationed near the window grunted something unintelligible, but Bonnie Brock seemed to understand him.

“Come,” he ordered, moving toward the door.

My stomach swirled anxiously, and I glanced back at Gage for reassurance before following Bonnie Brock down the stairs. We paused at the bottom for a few seconds before finally plunging out into the street.

He led us down a series of back lanes, darting between buildings as we wove our way toward the church. From time to time, shouts rang out in the distance, but most of our journey was accompanied by only the scurry of our feet on the cobblestones. At an intersection with one of the wider lanes, two of Bonnie Brock’s men peeled off to confront a pair of men standing a few feet away. We did not wait to see the results of the scuffle, but from the movements of one of the men, I suspected a knife was involved.

When finally we darted through the gate leading into the grounds
of Greyfriars Kirk, deftly picked by one of Bonnie Brock’s men, I noticed, I breathed a sigh of relief. However, it was prematurely done. Bonnie Brock pulled me into the shadows clinging to the wall to the right of the gate. The stone at my back was cold through my silk gown and cloak.

“Watchmen,” he told us simply.

I nodded, aware of the precautions the burying grounds near the anatomy schools in Edinburgh, Glasgow, and London had taken to protect the bodies of the recently deceased from resurrectionists. Being so close to Surgeons’ Hall but a few blocks away, Greyfriars Kirkyard had been one of the most frequently raided cemeteries in all of Scotland.

We hunkered against the wall for what felt like a quarter of an hour, but what must have been only a minute or two, before a man walked by a few feet in front of us. I held my breath until he disappeared back into the gloom. Then Bonnie Brock sprang into action.

“Quick, noo,” he ordered us.

We hurried down the path that circled the church to the right, past the Gothic-arched windows, their glass oily black in the dim moonlight. At the corner of the building we paused once more, but only for a few seconds before dashing across the open space between the front of the building and the eastern gate. My heart pounded in my ears, conscious without being told so that this was the most vulnerable part of our flight. When finally we dived back into the shadows along the wall, I inhaled sharply, feeling the darkness wrap securely around me like a blanket.

The gate creaked as it was opened just wide enough for Gage and I to slip through.

I touched Bonnie Brock’s shoulder. “Thank you.”

I couldn’t see his face, but I felt the warmth of his breath as he exhaled. “Go,” he snapped impatiently.

I slithered through, and waited for Gage to follow. He grabbed my hand and we ran down the short lane to the carriage waiting in the street at the end. We didn’t stop to see if there was anyone watching.
The footman was still perched at the back so Gage threw open the door and boosted me inside before following suit.

“Go!” he shouted in an unconscious imitation of Bonnie Brock moments before. He slammed the door and tumbled sideways onto the floor next to me.

We lay there breathing heavily as the coach slowly rolled forward and then turned before finally gaining speed. I closed my eyes, never so grateful to be in a moving carriage in my life. My forehead rested on my hands, and I turned to the side to see Gage propped up on one elbow, staring at the ceiling. As I watched, he turned to regard me, and though it was too dark to see the expression in his eyes, I felt a barrier there that had not existed just an hour before. Some of the relief that had been coursing through my veins vanished.

He pulled himself upright to perch on the seat and then reached down to help me up, which proved not to be an easy endeavor with my legs tangled in the voluminous fabric of my skirts. When finally I was seated across from him, doing my best to straighten my rumpled appearance, he spoke.

“We were lucky Bonnie Brock was there.” His voice was flat and emotionless.

I gave up on fixing my hair, pushing the strands that had fallen behind my ear. “Yes,” I agreed cautiously, unsure which direction this conversation was headed.

“If he hadn’t been there, I’m not sure I could have gotten us to safety.”

I tilted my head, wishing I could see his face. “Gage,” I began and then fumbled to a stop. I didn’t know what to say. What he said was true, but confirming that hardly seemed like the reassurance he needed. “I knew you were doing your best to protect me,” I told him. “It was you who fired your pistol, wasn’t it?”

“Yes. But little good one bullet could do versus a mob of people.” He turned to stare out the window with his arms crossed.

“Gage,” I gently scolded.

“The truth is I failed to protect you,” he retorted more loudly. “Yet again. And this time I was right next to you, not an estate or a village away.”

I frowned. “I was the one who insisted we respond to Bonnie Brock’s letter. Or what I thought was Bonnie Brock’s letter. That’s not your fault. There was nothing you could do.”

His head suddenly snapped around to look at me. “Exactly. There was
nothing
I could do. I’m your fiancé. It’s my
duty
to protect you. And yet I couldn’t.”

I realized then how furious he was, though that anger was directed at himself, not me.

I leaned forward to grab his hand, clutching it between mine. “I know you were doing everything you could to keep me safe. That’s all I can ever ask.”

“Yes, but it wasn’t enough.” He pulled his hand from mine. “It wasn’t nearly enough.”

I sat straighter, feeling stung by his dismissal. I was trying to reassure him, but he didn’t want to hear it. “And what about me?” I demanded. “How do you think I feel knowing that when you charge off on one of your inquiries, I can’t always be there to watch over you? I was terrified when those criminals captured you during our inquiry in the Borders.”

He scowled. “That’s different.”

“Because you’re the man, and I’m the woman. I know. But that doesn’t make it any easier to endure.”

He stared across the short distance between us. His face was still in shadow, but I could feel the weight of his gaze. When next he spoke, it was with quiet certainty. “I’m never going to be able to be confident you’re safe. It’s impossible.”

“Who of us is ever completely safe? Just look at Lady Drummond.” I gestured. “Harmless and beloved, and yet she was poisoned. Or
Alana, confined to her bed. She . . . she could die in childbirth,” I stammered and then swallowed, wanting to bite back the words, even though they were true.

“Yes, but they don’t insist on joining their husbands in investigating dangerous matters.”

“They also don’t have husbands who occupy their time as gentleman inquiry agents. But we are who we are.”

The carriage rolled over a jarring bump, and Gage leaned to the side to peer through the curtains. He rapped on the ceiling with this knuckles, and turned to shout his instructions to the driver through the slat that slid open in the wall behind him.

“We’re going back to the Theatre Royal?” I asked him once he’d finished.

He raked his hand through his hair. “We need to question that porter before Bonnie Brock gets to him. I don’t trust him not to scare him so badly he leaves town.”

I nodded in agreement, and then realized he probably couldn’t see it. “Sadly, that’s probably true.”

Whoever had chosen to impersonate Bonnie Brock by sending that letter had just made a ruthless enemy, and even though it was likely the porter had done nothing more than deliver the message, Bonnie Brock would not see it that way. Especially if the porter could not give him the answers he wanted.

As frightening as this evening had been, at least we knew one thing. Someone was intent on silencing me, and there could be only one reason why. We must be getting close to uncovering Lady Drummond’s killer. Which meant I had almost certainly already met them, had probably questioned them, and yet I had not detected their guilt.

It made me anxious to locate this man who was following me. Had he been looking for an opportunity to do me harm, observed my conversation with Bonnie Brock, and decided he’d found the perfect chance? And what of that carriage that nearly ran me over? Had that
been an accident or his first attempt to get rid of me? If so, he’d been working against me for far longer than I had even been aware of him.