His Wicked Sins (9 page)

But it was something more that drew Beth's notice, something in the girl's eyes. She was

shadowed by sadness.

Staring straight ahead, the girl walked slowly along the hall, alone, without a partner to

giggle and chat with as the others had.

Looking at her, Beth felt a cheerless pang, and a whisper of terrible, cold memory, long

buried. She well knew what it felt like to be alone, haunted by horrors others could not

know.

Poor, sorrowful child.

"Except
her,"
Alice said, her voice low but vehement.
"She
has a room of her own,

when she stays. Can't have her in with the others. Can't turn her out, neither. So there you

have it."

She gave a little shudder, and Beth stared at her in surprise.

A puzzle. Beth looked at the girl and then back to Alice.

"Why do you say that?" Beth asked, feeling certain that if she could only open her eyes

a little wider, study the undercurrents of meaning just a bit more carefully, then she would

discern the answer. She always felt that way when presented with a riddle. Layers upon

layers of meaning, but eventually she would figure it out.

Her father had taught her that. He had held a great fondness for riddles and puzzles.

"Well, this is a charity school in part, isn't it?" Alice said. "Her father is generous with

his money and very, very rich, they say. The trustees want her here, and so, here she is."

Beth looked at Alice in surprise. A charity school. She had had no idea. "What do you

mean, a charity school in part?"

"Well, most of the girls come from families what pay, and some—a few—are local,

from families what could teach them to read a little afore they came here. Those are

supported by the good will and generosity of"—she pressed her lips together, lowered her

voice, and continued—"Mr. Fairfax. And old Mr. Creavy and Mr. Moorecroft, and others.

But mostly Mr. Fairfax. Miss Percy says this school is their experiment."

"I see," said Beth, though she really did not see at all.

Alice caught her lower lip between her teeth and her eyes widened. "I oughtn't have

said that, miss."

No, she oughtn't. But at this moment, Beth's greatest interest lay with the odd little girl.

"And why can that child not be put in with the others?" Beth asked.

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"Why, she's cursed, isn't she? Shadowed by death."

With questions chasing each other to the tip of her tongue, Beth drew a breath, held it,

then asked in a moderate tone, "What do you mean?"

Alice shook her head and whispered, "Cursed and doomed, just like her father."

"Cursed and doomed? What… Who is her father?"

"Didn't I say? Mr. Fairfax, rot his black, murdering heart." Alice tapped the handle of

the carpet brush against her skirt, her fingers curled so tight the knuckles were white. "A

killer, he is. A killer." She pressed her lips together and shot Beth a wary glance. "I must

go. I've said far too much already."

"Wait—" Beth cried, but Alice hurried off, leaving Beth alone in the hallway.

For a moment, she stood as she was, questions raining through her.
A killer, he is. A

killer.

She wrapped her arms about herself. A jarring chill touched her skin, as though a

window had been thrown wide or some malevolent gaze locked on her with unerring

attention. Beth spun, looking to the darkened doorways that lined the wall, to the

shadowed and dim corners, but there was no one there watching her. Each door was shut

tight.

She recognized the fear lurking beneath the surface of her composure, an oily, fetid

sludge. With determination, she thrust it aside. There was no place here for ancient terrors,

no place for her to imagine dark things and malevolent intent. Alice's words were only

words. They had neither substance nor power.

Squaring her shoulders, she followed the path the girls had taken moments past.

At the top of the stairs, Beth paused and watched the progress of that lonely little girl as

she meandered down the last three steps, her hand trailing along the polished banister.

Suddenly, the child stopped and turned to look over her shoulder, her dark eyes locking

with Beth's, sorrowful and far too wise for her years.

Griffin Fairfax was her father. And Alice had called him—called them both—cursed

and doomed.

Again, a whisper of distress unfurled in Beth's heart, a dark and chilling thing held back

by a weak, gossamer thread. She thought of the shadow she had seen earlier, the silhouette

of a man outside in the storm, and she thought of the ugly cadence of Alice's words.

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Chapter 5

Stepney, London, January 15, 1813

H
enry Pugh paced slowly along the hallway of the Black Swan Tavern, studying the

bloody footprints that marked the killer's path. He moved carefully, pausing now and

again, searching out the place where the ghastly trail began. The footprints led in the

opposite direction of where Henry stood,
toward
the landlord's body.

Strange.

Halfway to the parlor, he froze, sickened and horrified by what lay before him.

The landlord's wife, Mrs. Trotter, was sprawled on the hallway floor, her skirt rucked

up, her limbs in immodest disarray. The top of her head was gone, caved in, and most of

her face, rendering her nearly unrecognizable. He could be certain it was she only because

her dress—drenched now in her own blood—was the one she had worn that same

afternoon when, smiling and winking, she had teased him as he had stood about, searching

for any excuse to remain where he was.

He'd been at the tavern to hear the landlord's tale of a stranger in the shadows. It was a

tale he had dismissed as unimportant. He had thought it all a ploy to bring him round to

see Ginnie. Everyone knew the Trotters loved to meddle, loved to bring couples together

and see them happily wed.

"Sweet on our Ginnie, are you?" Mrs. Trotter had asked, following his gaze to the maid,

Ginnie George.

Henry had ducked his head, felt hot blood rush to his cheeks and the tips of his ears, for

he
was
sweet on her. Raising his head, he had been helpless to stop himself from looking

at Ginnie, with her Cupid's-bow lips and wheat-bright ringlets. He was very fond of her,

and she of him, enough so that one night last week she'd let him steal a kiss behind the

tavern.

She was the reason he'd signed on for a decent living and a decent wage. A man needed

both if he was thinking to marry. Standing in the tavern, Henry had looked at Ginnie once

more and thought he was not ready for that yet, not quite ready to marry. But Ginnie made

him think that one day soon he might be.

A quick flash of her dimples and a coy look from beneath her lashes, and Ginnie had

gone off to her chores, leaving Henry under Mrs. Trotter's watchful eye, with his pulse

quickened and his palms damp.

Ginnie.

Henry battled his sorrow now as he looked at Mrs. Trotter dead on the floor. His one

consolation was the knowledge that Ginnie had gone to see to her sick mother tonight, that

she was nowhere near this hellish place.

Shivering now, and not from the cold, Henry battled the terrible nausea rolling deep in

his belly. He could scarcely bring himself to look at the horrific scene before him, let

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alone crouch down and carefully look for clues. What had made him think he could do

the job of parish constable?

He had not signed on for this, to witness the aftermath of foul murder and desecration

of the dead. He had signed on at the Shadwell Police Office for a fine and honorable

living, to break up a fight or look into a theft. Not to stand in a pool of blood, to bear

witness to such heinous acts.

The stamp of heavy boots, male voices in the hallway, and the slam of the door against

those who hovered in the street warned Henry he was no longer alone. Other officers had

arrived. Glad he was of that.

Muffled exclamations echoed along the corridor, and the sound of approaching

footsteps.

"What have we here?" Sam Loder asked as he stepped up, shoulder to shoulder with

Henry. Sam was a seasoned officer, a man of experience. Still, Henry wondered at Sam's

casual tone and seeming indifference to the brutality of the scene.

Clenching his teeth so tight he thought they might crack, Henry fought the urge to howl.

A desperate animosity came over him; he barely managed to avoid snarling a reply to

Sam's question, a demand to know if Sam had eyes in his head.

"What have we here?" Murder. We have murder

Shamed by his thoughts, he scrubbed his palm over his face.

"We've sent men to seal off London Bridge, and the Bow Street Runners have been

called in. We'll find him," Sam said. "Just as we found John Williams when he did foul

murder at Timothy Marr's shop and again at the Kings Arms Tavern."

The murders Sam spoke of had occurred two years past, before Henry's time, but he'd

heard the terrible tales repeated, and he'd seen the place where Williams was buried at the

intersection with Cannon Street. 'Twas a place where four roads met. Some claimed that a

stake had been thrust through the murderer's black heart to ensure he did not rise again,

and that burial at the crossroad was meant to confuse and confound the evil ghost if he did