“Everyone is watching you,” Seth said. “They think you’re just a daft, useless drudge.”
“What do ye know of anythin’?” she muttered, pulling her scarf tighter around her head as she peered into the Daily Bread Bakery. Her mouth watered as she stared at the fairy cakes in the window, tiny round treats with frosting in all colors of the rainbow. They were so beautiful—if only she could have just one . . .
As she stood gazing through the window, she thought she heard a faint moaning coming from Warden’s Close, the alley next to the bakery. Thinking it was just Seth trying to trick her, she ignored it—but no, there it was again.
“Where do you think you’re going?” he demanded as she crept around the corner into the narrow passage.
“Aw, shut yer trap,” she muttered, walking slowly between the buildings and listening for the sound.
Sure enough, there it was again—coming from behind the bakery. She searched the cramped rear corridor for any sign of life. All she spied were a few trash bins, discarded radish greens, and an old set of rusty bedsprings partially covered with an oilcloth. Turning to leave, she heard it again, coming from behind the bedsprings.
Stepping carefully over the piles of rubbish, she lifted the oilcloth and peered around the corner of the bedsprings. There, lying between them and the wall of the building, was a young lad of about ten. He lay very still and appeared to be dead. But was it not his moaning she’d heard coming from the alley? His blond hair was lank and long, his features marred by the purple blotches beneath his eyes, though even with that and the grime on his cheeks, she could see he was quite a handsome boy.
“Get away!” Seth sputtered. “They’ll think you killed him, you stupid cow!”
Ignoring him, Lucy reached out to touch the boy’s face, and was shocked to see his eyes open as he gasped for air. Startled, she fell backward, hitting the cobblestones hard and smacking her tailbone smartly on the paving stones.
“God take me fer an idjit!” she muttered as tears spurted into her eyes. She didn’t pause to rub her bruised limbs, more concerned about the boy in the gutter than her own injuries. Pulling herself onto her hands and knees, she crawled toward him. His eyes were closed again, and she saw no further sign of life. She cradled his head in her lap and stroked his forehead, brushing the long yellow locks of hair out of his eyes. His lips were blue, his skin alarmingly white, the flesh mottled like marble. “Come on, then,” she whispered. “Kin ye breathe, then?”
She imagined she should be doing something to resuscitate him, but she couldn’t think what it might be. She loosened his collar, revealing the angry purple bruises around his neck. Lucy knew enough about death to recognize the signs of strangulation.
“Who did this to ye?” she murmured, and to her surprise, the blue lips parted in a feeble attempt at speech. She leaned her head over his, her ear to his mouth. “What is it?”
The words were little more than a breath of air, thin with the approach of impending mortality. “Ma . . . magi . . .”
“Louder,” she urged. “What are ye tryin’ to say, lad?”
But the next breath that left his body was his last. A slow wheezing sound escaped his lungs, and his lips closed forever, leaving Lucy crouched on the unforgiving ground with his cold, lifeless form cradled in her arms.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
Ian Hamilton awoke to a chill and clinging dawn. He closed his eyes again for what seemed like just a moment, but when he opened them again, the gray light had blossomed, intensifying the pounding in his head. From the angle of the sun, it looked to be midmorning. He took a ragged breath and rubbed his eyes, startled by the sound of an engine nearby. He turned his head to see Bacchus staring at him through half-closed eyes, purring loudly. Glad for the animal’s presence, he reached out to stroke its fur. The cat leaned into him, rubbing its face along Ian’s fingers.
“It’s late,” he said, throwing off the covers. “Come along, let’s get us both some breakfast.”
As his feet touched the floor, there was a rapid knocking at the door. Cursing, he threw on his dressing gown and opened the door to see a wild-eyed Sergeant Dickerson, his face still creased from sleep. The disarray of his uniform suggested he had dressed with some haste.
“Dickerson,” Ian said. “I thought this was your day off.”
“Ye’d better come right away, sir.”
“What is it?”
“It’s a young lad—done same as t’others.”
“Where?”
“Warden’s Close, sir, just off the Grassmarket.”
“Have you seen the body?”
“No, sir—I came here straightaway soon as I heard.”
Ian let loose a low curse. “Fetch a cab—I’ll be out directly.”
“Yes, sir.”
Five minutes later, Ian was out the door, leaving behind a disappointed and hungry cat. Resigned to fend for himself, Bacchus slunk out of the kitchen in search of a live breakfast. Luckily for him, Edinburgh had no shortage of vermin, four-footed or otherwise.
The fetid stench of rotting cabbage assailed Ian’s nostrils as he alighted from the hansom cab, striding past the brace of patrolmen guarding the crime scene. Edinburgh was an odiferous city, and the recent thaw had brought out its less savory smells. A crowd of people had gathered, craning their necks trying to peer into the alley. Several individuals, employees of the Daily Bread, wore white bakery aprons. Ian recognized several other onlookers as newspaper men.
“Is it another victim of the strangler, Detective?” one of them called out.
“What can you tell us about the victim this time?” said another.
“How long before you lads catch him?”
Ian ignored them, striding down the narrow wynd leading to the rear of the bakery. The victim lay on his back behind discarded household items, some rusty old bedsprings, and a cracked butter churn. Only the boy’s legs were visible from where he stood; he was clad in oversized boots and undersized trousers. Ian turned to the sergeant.
“Who found the body?”
“Daft Lucy, sir.”
“Where is she now?”
“Waiting for you at the station house, sir. She were fair upset, so Constable Bowers took her there fer a cup o’ tea.”
“That’s all we need—a delusional madwoman as a witness.” Ian took a step toward the body as the pounding in his head intensified. When he saw the fair hair and familiar face, a groan escaped him.
“Oh, no,” he moaned. “No, no, no.”
“What is it, sir?” Dickerson asked, his freckled face crinkled in concern. “You know this boy?”
Ian knelt beside the body and gently brushed the blond hair from the high forehead, the skin cold and white as ivory in death. “His name is Freddie Cubbins.”
“Looks to be a street Arab.”
“Quite right, Sergeant.” He bent over the boy and gently searched his grubby clothes. He found it right away, slid neatly into the left vest pocket: the ace of diamonds. He held it up for Dickerson to see.
The sergeant peered at the card and frowned. “He’s changed suits, sir.”
“He’s started a new hand.”