Something was wrong; Hastings usually drank one brandy before supper. Ronald had just poured the old warhorse his third.
Stinton, though a fool, had somehow sensed the unease, his button polishing a means to compensate. Cartwright was oblivious, as usual.
A tap on the door. Ronald exited and then returned nearly in the same breath, bearing a message. He bent low to speak a few words in Hastings’ ear. Cartwright’s pencil-scratching and the crackle of the fire made it impossible to overhear any of the whispered conversation. The steward placed the message in the man’s beefy hand and stepped back into the shadows.
Cartwright tapped the pencil against his cheek in thought, puzzling over the next word. Stinton shot a nervous look at Livingston, then at Hastings.
Ill news? Stinton ventured, his button polishing forgotten.
Humpff? Yes, quite, Hastings replied. He crumpled the note and tossed it toward the fire. It bounced off an andiron. Livingston retrieved the ball of paper and after rubbing it between his fingers, pitched it into the blaze.
Settling into his chair, he gave his fingers a quick sniff. Fish.
So what have you done, Hastings? he asked, wiping his fingers on his trousers and then tenting them in front of his face. To his annoyance, the smell remained.
The older man’s eyes narrowed. A business venture has not gone as planned—nothing more.
Liar. Would this business involve…us? Livingston asked, including the others in a sweeping gesture.
Hastings’ expression darkened. In some ways.
In what manner did it not go as planned? Livingston persisted, his hands now resting on the arms of the leather chair.
I dispatched two men to have a discussion with our young doctor. I thought that if he were presented with the consequences of his rebellion, he would fall in line and accept our generous offer.
Ah, the two fish market bullies.
How did you reach that conclusion? Hastings asked, clearly piqued.
I am aware that you employ thugs on occasion, especially those who work at Billingsgate Market. It was rather easy to deduce, what with the barely legible scribbling on the note, the crude variety of paper upon which it was written and the unmistakable scent of rotting fish.
Hastings took an unseemly slug of brandy. The plan did not work as I had envisioned. One of the ruffians has a broken kneecap and the other some difficulty with his throat so that he is unable to converse above a whisper.
Hence the note. And the doctor?
I gather he was injured in some way, though not seriously.
Good lord, Hastings, what have you done? Cartwright asked.
We never agreed upon violence.
I felt it worth the gamble. If we frightened him, perhaps he would take our offer and leave London.
Livingston scowled. Given your ill-advised behavior—without our consent, I might add—you are fortunate he has not come in person to deliver his displeasure in a more forceful manner.
Nonsense, Hastings huffed. I’ve seen his type before. All bluff. He just needs to be brought down a peg or two.
The more you apply pressure to Doctor Montrose, the harder he will push back, Livingston warned.
Hastings waved dismissively. You attribute too much to this fellow,
Livingston leaned forward in his chair. You misjudge him.
Though the doctor is a man of conscience, he has a level of violence within him that would astound you.
That I doubt, Hastings huffed.
What do you know of the fellow? Livingston challenged.
That he is a physician who works with the poor and disdains our traditions. What more do I need to know?
That he has already killed one man.
Hastings’ mouth dropped. Surely not.
It is a matter of documented fact. We have made our offer in good faith, and he has sent us packing. Harassing him will only cause more harm. That would not be in your best interest, Hastings.
The two men eyed each other.
You are junior here, Mr. Livingston.
Not any more. Livingston glanced toward the clock. Sixteen minutes. He rose, straightening his jacket.
I say, Stinton began, we cannot have one of us running roughshod over the others.
Livingston swung toward him; Stinton quailed. On the contrary, Hastings has put the spurs to the two of you more than once.
Cartwright’s eyes widened, but he wisely kept his mouth shut.
Stinton gnawed on a lip, his eyes darting around like a hare in a trap.
Livingston gave a sharp nod. If you will excuse me, gentlemen, I have another engagement. I suggest that you all have another glass of brandy and help Cartwright complete his puzzle.
In the anteroom, the steward handed Livingston his cloak, top hat and cane.
Thank you, Ronald.
My pleasure, sir. Do you need me to arrange transport for you, sir?
No, I shall walk.
As you wish, sir.
In the other room, Cartwright’s edgy voice protested, Did you hear what he said? How can he treat us that way?
He is too arrogant by half, Hastings grumbled to the clink of the brandy decanter’s glass stopper edging out of the bottle. As for the doctor being a killer, I don’t believe it for a moment.
As Livingston descended the stairs, a smug smile kept him company.
What a delightful trio of morons.
Leaning against a cask, Livingston allowed his eyes to adjust to the cellar’s dim confines. A faint trickle of water competed with the thud of heavy boots overhead. If this room had a particular bouquet, it was of wine and mildew.
There was a noise on the stairs as his factotum descended into the gloom. William trod deliberately, as if assessing hidden dangers with each step.
Good evening, sir, the fellow said.
Good evening, William, Livingston replied. He extricated a pipe and tobacco from a deep pocket and began packing the bowl.
What do you have to report?
His subordinate cleared his throat. I followed Sergeant Keats as you asked. He seems to spend most of his time wandering the streets of Whitechapel.
Any particular route?
The pubs mostly, though he’s only drinking for show. He’s looking for someone.
Ah… Livingston applied a match to the packed pipe and took a series of puffs. The smell of fine Virginia tobacco, redolent of black cherries, filled the air. Who might that be?
An anarchist, one named Flaherty.
That’s interesting. What else?
There are six tenants at the boarding house at present; a wool merchant, an accountant, the doctor, a couple from Dover here on holiday and a lady from New York.
How did you learn that?
I spoke with the butcher. One of the landladies is quite chatty.
Livingston took a few more puffs. Go on.
I’ve watched the doctor’s clinic for a few days. This afternoon, a body was delivered there from St. George’s Mortuary.
Livingston frowned. To the clinic? You’d think it would be the other way round.
That’s what got me curious. After a few hours, it was moved on to Owens and Sons Mortuary. The doctor asked that it be cremated as soon as possible, and an urn delivered to the boarding house in care of Miss Lassiter, the American lady.
How did you find that out? Livingston asked, intrigued.
I chatted up the mortuary’s maid.
Why was she so forthcoming?
A hint of a roguish smile formed at the corners of William’s mouth. I put a bit of brass in her hand and bought her a new bonnet.
This one is brighter than most. He knows how to use people.
You’ve shown initiative.
Thank you, sir. I wasn’t the only one interested in the body––Sergeant Keats had a sharp discussion with the doctor and followed the coffin to the mortuary.
Really? Now that is interesting. Livingston took another puff of his pipe and let the smoke curl into the air. Learn what you can about this Miss Lassiter and her relationship to the deceased.
Find out what you can about the anarchist. Then meet me in front of the Lyceum Theater at 6 sharp tomorrow evening.
Yes, sir, the man replied, seemingly unfazed by the multiple requests.
Livingston fished in a pocket and tossed the man a sovereign.
That got an immediate reaction.
Thank you, sir, the fellow said. He had the good sense not to bite the coin to verify its authenticity.
Tomorrow then, William.
Sir, the man replied. He executed a slight bow, one that betrayed a clue to his background. Hiking up the stairs, he tucked the coin out of sight.
William’s speech patterns marked him as someone who’d spent considerable time amongst the aristocracy. A manservant or a groomsman, Livingston said under his breath. Probably dismissed for giving the mistress of the house better than her husband.
After finishing his pipe and tucking it away, Livingston shifted form. He had a couple of visits to make in Whitechapel and the illusion of a costermonger would make him nearly invisible amongst the masses.
Cynda found it odd how the mind recorded ridiculous details at times like this; seven steps to the black crepe-bedecked mortuary door; solid brass name plate, highly polished; Owens & Sons -
Serving Since 1863; tall man clad in deepest black with a somber expression permanently stamped onto his face.
Miss Lassiter, he said and gestured her inside. Before Cynda could question how he knew her name, she found Alastair waiting in the vestibule. His hair was carefully combed and his suit pressed. He wore a black armband. That struck her heart.
May I offer you my sincerest condolences, madam, the mortician said.
Thank you. Are you one of the Owens? she asked, struggling to make proper small talk.
Yes, madam. I am Clyde, the second son, the man intoned.
She wondered how many times he’d had to say that over the years. Always the second son. Never good enough.
I trust madam will find the arrangements to her liking.
I’m sure I will, Mr. Owens.
Alastair stepped forward, taking one of her hands. Jacynda.
The look in his eyes somehow steadied her.
Thank you for being here, she said.
It is only proper.
The mortuary was so quiet it seemed like it was shrouded in heavy fog, cut off from the outside world. The wooden floors made no squeak of protest. The viewing room smelled of roses. Gas lamps whispered along the walls. The coffin was polished pine, but of good quality. She wondered if it would be consigned to the flames with her lover.
How are you? Alastair asked softly near her ear, a comforting hand at her elbow.
Okay. So far.
Do you wish me to remain, or do you prefer privacy?
She thought for a moment. Please stay.
An expression of gratitude appeared on his face. Unwilling to unravel what that meant, she advanced toward the coffin, one deliberate step after the other.
The last five feet were the hardest. She paused just short of her goal.
I can do this.
Moving forward, her mouth parted at the sight.
Christopher Stone was the model of a Victorian gentleman.
Alastair had been extremely attentive in his choice of suit, ascot and waistcoat. They fit perfectly, as if her lover had been born to this century. Chris’ hair was clean and neatly styled, his hands crossed over his chest. Other than the unusual pallor, he looked quite handsome.
Somewhere in the distance a clock tolled the hour. She counted the chimes…eight. Chris was the ultimate Rover now; he’d learned how to transcend time. The clock could strike nine, ten, a thousand times and it would not matter to Christopher Stone. He resided in eternity.
Cynda bent over and tapped his arm, like she used to when he’d fallen asleep in her bed. She half expected him to open his eyes and wink at her.
I’ll miss you, Chris, she whispered. You taught me how to laugh. Now you’ve taught me how to cry. I promise I’ll get you home, no matter what it takes.
Tears crested and she leaned back, not wanting them to fall into the coffin. A crisp handkerchief appeared and she took it, dabbing at her eyes. The embroidered initials seemed stark against the white linen.
He was a very handsome young man, Alastair said.
Cynda nodded. He had a wicked sense of humor. That’s what I will miss the most. She raised her eyes upward. Thank you, Alastair. He looks wonderful. You’ve gone to a lot of effort for someone you never met.
To her surprise, the doctor’s eyes grew misty. It’s the last time you’ll see him. I wanted you to remember him in a positive way.
She touched his forearm, squeezing it. He promptly winced.
Oh, sorry. Wrong arm.
Mr. Owens will have the urn delivered to the boarding house in a couple of days. I hope that meets your schedule.
She gave a shrug. Until I find Samuelson, I’m not going anywhere.
The quiet was split by the sound of booted feet stomping along the long hallway toward the viewing room.
I assure you madam, this is not the— Owens’ voice called.
A woman stormed into the room. She appeared to be about Cynda’s age, with frowsy blond hair and worn clothes. The delicate smell of roses gave way to cheap gin.
I am sorry, Owens began.
Mind you, I knew he was doin’ me no good. She tottered toward the coffin, weaving unsteadily in her boots. I told ya this would happen if ya kept going with that tart. Now ya see, ya randy old stoat?
Madam, please lower your voice, Owens insisted, unbridled panic pushed all other expressions aside. I assure you this is not—
She weren’t no good for him, and her man, he’s a right devil.
Evil-like. But did ya listen to me? Now look at ya, all laid out like a king. Ya stupid fool.
The woman stopped short of the coffin and whirled, raising an accusing finger in Cynda’s direction. Are ya one of his luvy ladies? Don’t deny it. I know he had a string of ’em from Paree to Portsmuth. My mum always said never go with a sailor, and she were right. The woman gave Cynda the once-over. Yer a right posh one. Ya must work the Strand. Get a good bit of brass there, I hear. Toffs like the fresh ones, they do.
Cynda leaned toward Alastair and whispered. What is she talking about?
She thinks you are a… Alastair cleared his throat. Ah…
The confusion cleared. Dolly-mop? Cynda said, recalling the term Keats had used.
A curt nod. Indeed.
The woman brushed Mr. Owens aside and marched the final distance to the coffin. She squinted at the deceased, then drew back.
Bloody hell, what have ya done to him? He looks so young.
She leaned closer and then shook her head. This ain’t me Robbie.
Ya got the wrong one. Another weave and then, Nice lookin’, though. Pity, I’d a given him a go. I bet he was worth liftin’ yer skirt for.
That is what I was attempting to tell you, Madam. This is not your…person, Owens flummoxed. We do not have a Robert Stone in residence at present.
The woman clucked, shook her head, and then turned her full fury on the hapless mortician.
Why didn’t ya tell me? she snorted. She paused for a second near the bouquet of roses, pulled one out of the vase, and then made for the door. Another pause near Alastair, then a lewd chuckle. He jumped as she passed, his face coloring.
She started to sing, bellowing a bawdy tune about a sailor and a maiden.
Let me show ya my riggin’, the sailor said he.
No dear sir, for it shall not be.
For I am a maid and wish not to see.
But mine is the finest ya’ll spy in the land.
All tall and proud and made to stand.
No, dear sir, it shall not be.
A maid I am and a maid I shall be.