A Study in Darkness (61 page)

Thank the stars
.

Her hand slipped away, letting Gareth go as she surrendered to the abyss.

BANCROFT
’
S BACK WAS AGAINST THE WALL. THE ENGINE
that drove events in his world was powered by the struggle between himself, Keating, and Magnus. Bancroft had no magical abilities, nor did he own half of London. Coming from such a disadvantage, he had to compensate by being more ruthless than either of them. But Magnus at the moment had the advantage. He had the automatons.

If Magnus wanted Keating dead, ultimately that was fine with Bancroft. And once Keating was gone, there would be the interesting task of ridding the world of Dr. Magnus—but that would come later. One megalomaniacal despot at a time.

Bancroft had visited a different one of his clubs that night. He didn’t go to the Oraculars’ Club often. It was out of his way, a bit noisy, and the food was lacking. Furthermore, it wasn’t the most uplifting part of town. Nevertheless, that was perfect for his needs. So was the fact that Keating ate here whenever he visited his warehouses, which—according to the club’s doorman, who enjoyed a generous tip—he did regular as clockwork twice a month.

So when Keating left the club, Bancroft peeled himself from the shadows across the street and followed him. The man was guarded by a handful of his Yellowbacks. All were tall, tough men in long black coats. But just because they
were there didn’t mean there wouldn’t be opportunity to slide in and exterminate their chief. Distractions were everywhere. And the method of death had already been provided by this Whitechapel Murderer—a knife to the throat, quick and deep. Just because Keating wasn’t from the lowest rank of street whores—well, Bancroft rather liked the implied comparison.

So now he followed at a distance, hanging back enough not to be seen. The night was cold and damp, thinking hard about a fog. It made sounds echo strangely, as if every footfall were right behind one, ready to pounce. Bancroft fingered the knife sheath strapped beneath his coat. It held a long military blade he’d acquired in Austria, curved and wicked and smooth as silver butter. The hilt caressed his hand as he gripped it, giving him a confidence he badly needed.

To say the discovery of his letters had been a blow was a laughable understatement.
Alice Keating is going to pay for that
. One way or another, his son would as well. Bancroft had failed his wife, his children, and especially Anna, but that had been his private hell—the one that had driven him to both alcohol and ambition. But now the red vixen’s interference had turned his secret agony to humiliation in front of his children. Shame ran toxic in his blood now, and only anger would burn it away. Anger and action—before somehow the story got out and ruined him. She’d sworn her secrecy, but what was that worth? So it made sense to bow to Magnus’s command and slit the throat of the Gold King. After all, that’s where Alice would run to first.

Keating stopped by the tea warehouse he owned in Mitre Square. Most men would visit their property in the daytime, but Keating worked all hours. Now Bancroft didn’t try to hang back, but turned up the collar of his coat and walked past in the midnight darkness. No one would be watching for Lord Bancroft strolling along the street in a shabby coat and low-crowned hat, so that wasn’t what they’d see.

This wasn’t one of the dockyard warehouses guarded by huge steel automatons and miles of fencing. These buildings were ranged around the square with nothing but simple
locks on the heavy doors. Bancroft turned the corner, took out his picklocks, and slipped into the building next door. It was dark inside, but he felt his way along, not willing to risk a light until he was well away from the windows, and then he struck a match just long enough to find the stairs. Using the handrail to guide him, Bancroft mounted them to the top floor and slid open the window closest to the Keating’s address. Another window looked back at him from a gap between the buildings of only a few feet. Bancroft smiled. It paid to do good reconnaissance.

He wasn’t as young as he used to be, but if he could get the window opposite open, it would be no problem—all right, only a moderate problem—to slide into Keating’s place. Then Bancroft could sneak up on his quarry and slit his throat while all his Yellowbacks were lurking around the outside watching the street. People watched their backs and from the corners of their eyes. No one ever thought about killers descending from above. One learned interesting tidbits in the service of one’s queen.

Carefully, gingerly, Bancroft tested the condition of the window frame. Death by dry rot didn’t appeal. Finding it solid, he leaned out to test the distance to the other building. That wasn’t so bad, but the other window was locked. He’d need a tool …

“Murder!” someone bellowed from the square below.

Bloody hell, that was premature. He hadn’t even got started yet. Bancroft pulled his head in and strode to a window that faced into the square. An officer with the crested helmet of the City Police was already on the scene, his lantern shining on something below.
How enormously inconvenient
.

It was close enough, and at just the right angle, that Bancroft had a clear view from where he was, two floors above the storefront level. But still, he found himself squinting. He reached inside his coat and pulled out the small spyglass he carried for missions like this, pulled it open, and looked through. It was powerful, the lens pulling the scene below into sharp focus.

“Dear God.” Bancroft was not a sentimental man, nor a
weak one, but he still found his gorge rising. Something unspeakable had happened to that woman. She lay on her back, the right leg crooked and her dress pushed up to expose the abdomen. But this killer took his business seriously. Her entrails had been pulled out and most of them were above her right shoulder. Another piece about two feet long looked like it had been hacked off and placed between her body and her left arm. This wasn’t murder—it was butchery.

He moved the glass up slightly, away from the mess of her body and toward her face. Above the woman’s scarf, he could see the throat had been slashed, and then her face hacked to shreds. Bancroft lowered the eyeglass, unwilling to look at more. And yet, he couldn’t stop himself from analyzing what he’d seen. Swallowing hard, he lifted it again, looking at the space around the body. Blood pooled, not sprayed. The woman had been dead before she’d had her abdomen ripped open—and she’d been down before her throat was cut. He took one last look, horrified and fascinated. The killer must have been seething with rage. No one chopped away a face unless they were in a towering fury.

That has to be the work of the Whitechapel Murderer
. The one he had been going to mimic with the murder of Keating. A flood of distaste soured Bancroft’s stomach. He would have done a poor imitation at best, and thank the gods for that. Assassination was one thing, this was—he kept coming back to the word
butchery
, but it fit.

And now there are police everywhere, looking for a solitary man with a knife. Good show, Bancroft
. He had to get out of the neighborhood, and quickly. A murder like this would bring an entire circus of police, doctors, journalists, and the idle curious to the square. He put the spyglass away, closed the window, and hurried down the stairs. There was a smaller side entrance, and he slipped out that way, melting away from the square and hurrying down an alley toward Duke Street. He turned north and began walking briskly, trying to cover as much ground as he could without looking like someone on the run.

Somewhere, church bells tolled two o’clock. Bancroft was reaching that state of fatigue where he felt slightly drunk.

“Mister!” A young man was bolting in his direction.

Suddenly tense, Bancroft cast a glance over his shoulder to see if there was someone behind him. There wasn’t. The lad was coming for him. Bancroft slid his hand under his coat, reaching for his knife.

“Mister, please!” He skidded to a stop a few yards away. He was in that stage between boy and man, his hair in need of a cut and his clothes one step up from rags. “I need help.”

“What for?” Bancroft demanded. Did he look like a Good Samaritan?

“My friend’s been stabbed.”

Another stabbing victim? That was plausible enough, but it could also be a ruse to get him in a dark alley and bash him over the head. “There are police in Mitre Square.”

“She won’t want police.” The young man gestured urgently. “I have to get her help.”

“Where is she?”

“Just up here.”

The lad ran ahead, vanishing into the darkness between broken streetlights. The air was growing thick with moisture, almost a mist. Bancroft kept walking, refusing to run. Viscounts didn’t take orders from street rats. But this one didn’t plan on giving up. Bancroft found him a dozen yards along, pointing to a crumpled body on the ground. “There!”

It was a full-grown woman, dainty enough but too big for a skinny boy to lift. Reluctantly, Bancroft went over, scanning the shadows for any additional rogues waiting to pounce. She was curled on her side, head bent and knees drawn up to her belly. He slid off a glove and touched the woman’s arm. Still warm. Still a chance at life.

“Where are you planning to take her?” Bancroft asked.

“Miss Hyacinth. She’ll know what to do.”

“Where is she?”

The lad pointed. “Just down there.”

Bancroft hesitated. This was probably some whore beaten up by a sailor. He’d left home to kill the most powerful man in London, not rescue drabs in distress. But he was still a
gentleman, and when not in pursuit of nefarious aims, his instinct was to abide by a certain code of conduct. Being a bastard didn’t always let one off the hook.

He tried to roll the woman—young woman, it seemed—onto her back, and then he saw the wound. Blood soaked the front of her dress, as if someone had dumped a bowl of it onto her lap. A sudden anger seized him, as if all that blood was a new enemy. His own heart started to pound.

If he was going to save her, he would have to hurry. He slid his arms under the woman’s shoulders and hips, trying to lift her so that her head could rest against his shoulder. A whimper escaped her, but her head flopped to the side. Mercifully, she was unconscious.

Bancroft got to his feet, ignoring protests from his knees and back. She was light enough, but no woman was as weightless as romances would have one believe. “Which way?” he asked, but the lad was already walking backward and pointing.

“Thank you, sir, this way, sir.”

Bancroft could feel blood soaking through his shirt. It was a good thing that he had already hidden a change of clothes at the bottom of the garden, just in case tonight’s work got messy.

They were approaching a gas lamp, the blue globe around it lending a sepulchral air. Bancroft stole a glance down at the young girl and nearly dropped her.

He was holding Evelina Cooper half dead in his arms.

EVELINA WAS FIRST AWARE OF THE SCENT OF LAVENDER AND
clean linen. And then, maybe because she smelled that crisp smell that only good bedsheets have, she felt the smooth, sleek fabric under her cheek. The mattress was soft—no lumps or hard spots—and the blankets warm. Nothing was crawling over her or biting her. In fact, she felt clean.
I’ve gone to Heaven
.

But then the next wave of sensation rolled in. She had a raging thirst, but when she tried to send out a message to her body to wake up and find water, the impulse died like a match in the rain. She was so very weak. And like a creeping fog, she had a gray, hazy sense that something awful had happened.