Ashes To Ashes: A Ministry of Curiosities Novella (The Ministry of Curiosities Book 5) (10 page)

Lincoln set Gus on watch out the front while he and Seth headed down the nearest lane and through an archway to the large courtyard at the back of the properties. The buildings surrounding the courtyard were in such poor state that a strong breeze might have knocked them over. The dense, still air reeked of feces and something rotting.

A man exited from the back of Mrs. Fenton's house and pissed on the slick cobbles. He swayed on his feet and didn't look up. If he had, he would have spotted Seth and Lincoln.

When the man tucked himself back into his trousers, his elbow nudged aside his coat to reveal the handle of a pistol.

Lincoln signaled Seth to fetch Gus.

"You're going to wait for us to return before you approach him, aren't you?" Seth whispered.

"Yes."

With a nod of approval, Seth returned down the lane. Not even that movement alerted the man to their presence. He rocked back on his heels, licked his fingers and dragged them through his greasy black hair.

Lincoln stepped out of the shadows. He got to within four steps before the man looked up. "Jack Daley?"

The man reached for his gun, but Lincoln was too fast. He snatched the pistol and pointed it at the man's temple.

"Are you Jack Daley?" he asked again.

"Who wants to know?"

"The person who holds this gun at your head and has no qualms about pulling the trigger."

Daley had a high forehead and a moustache so thin that it looked like an outline of his top lip. His clothes were new and his jaw smooth. He'd recently come into money. He sized up Lincoln with a sneer. "You ain't got the bollocks."

Lincoln shot him in the foot.

Daley screamed and crumpled to the ground. A woman came to the door, gasped, and hurried back inside. The tumbling of the heavy lock was almost as loud as Daley's cries.

"It's dangerous to keep your weapon loaded," Lincoln told him.

Daley's only response was to change from screaming to whimpering. Lincoln aimed the pistol at his other foot.

"Unless you want me to make you a cripple, you'll answer my questions. Are you Jack Daley?"

"Aye! Bloody hell, man, what'd you shoot me for?"

"I know what you've done to the people in these parts. I know they fear you. Perhaps now they'll hear you limping toward them in time to get away."

Lincoln heard Seth and Gus's running footsteps before they entered the courtyard. "Jesus," Gus muttered, staring at Daley's bloodied boot. "Did you shoot him?"

"He wasn't answering my questions."

"Fair enough, then."

Seth marched up to Lincoln. "You said you would wait."

Lincoln watched his men grab Daley and haul him up to stand on his one good foot. "I lied."

Seth rolled his eyes. "Has he confessed?"

"To what?" Daley spat. He tried to pull away but Seth and Gus held him too tightly and his foot must have pained him. He gave up with a wince and whimper. "What do you want?"

"I want to know who hired you to kill Patrick O'Neill," Lincoln said.

Daley went even paler. "You the pigs?"

"The police don't shoot suspects. They waste time with protocol. I prefer to get my answers quickly. Did you kill Patrick O'Neill?"

"No."

Lincoln cocked the pistol.

"Don't shoot!" Daley squeezed his eyes shut. His moustache almost disappeared up his nostrils. When the gun didn't go off, he cracked open one eye. "Is it me you want or the man who hired me?"

"You're not important to me."

Daley blew out a breath and stood a little straighter. "It were a blood nut what paid me. He told me who to shoot and where to find him. I didn't know it was the circus strongman, did I? Are you with them? Are you one of them circus freaks?"

"Do you know the redheaded man's name?"

"No, but I know what he really looks like and he ain't no true blood nut. Nor a toff, neither." His lips curled into a vicious smile. "He wore a disguise. He's got short, brown hair and don't need the glasses he wore when I met him."

"Where can I find him?"

He shrugged.

Lincoln pointed the gun at his head and Daley shut his eyes again and tried to shrink away. "You must have followed him to see him remove his disguise," Lincoln said. "Tell me where I can find him."

Daley went to shift his weight only to receive a rude reminder of his injury. He grunted in pain. A waxy sheen covered his pale face.

Lincoln pressed the barrel of the gun harder into Daley's temple. He was so close to victory he could taste it, but he had to be careful not to show how much he needed this information. "If you remain silent much longer, I'll kill you. If you tell me where to find this man, I'll let you go and you can leave London alive. That's your choice. You have three seconds in which to make it. One. Two."

"All right!" Daley screwed up his face. Despite the cold, sweat beaded at his hairline. "I saw how much ready he carried on him, so I thought I could relieve him of some of it. To give to the poor, see."

Gus snorted. "We ain't stupid."

Daley cleared his throat. "I followed his coach to Kensington. It left him at the Queens Arms, and he walked down the mews. I followed. When he thought no one was watching, he removed his wig, glasses and some padding round his middle under his clothes and stored them at the back of one of the stables. I was so surprised I forgot why I followed him. By the time I remembered, he were climbing the ladder to the rooms above."

"Not the main house?"

"No. I thought he'd come down again, but he didn't. His lamp went out and that were it. No one stirred again 'til morning."

"You stayed the whole night?"

"Aye. I were curious, see. I asked the stable lad who the cove was, and he said Mr. Thomas Rampling."

"Is he a servant?"

"No, just a cove that knows the coachman."

"Did he have anything to do with the household?"

"Don't know. I didn't ask."

"Did you ask if he'd had contact with others aside from the stable staff?"

"Why would I?"

"Who did he pay you to kill next?"

"A woman named Metzger. Lives at forty-four Brick Lane, Spitalfields."

Lincoln lowered the gun. The name was familiar. She also had a file in the archives.

Daley's tongue darted out and he licked his lips. "Who're you? Why'd you want to know all this?"

Lincoln nodded at Seth and Gus to let Daley go then walked away. He didn't look back, but he heard Daley shout for Mrs. Fenton to unlock the door.

"Gus, find a policeman and tell him Jack Daley shot Patrick O'Neill," he said. "If by any chance he's not caught, find the Metzger woman and get her to safety." He tucked the gun into the waistband of his trousers and covered it with his jacket. He might need it again.

"
I
ain't seen
him all day." The stable boy leaned on his broom and shrugged lanky shoulders, as if he wasn't surprised by this event. "He comes back late and sometimes goes out again at night."

"Why is Rampling staying here?" Lincoln asked. "Does he know the master of the house?"

"He's cousin to the coachman, also a Rampling. John Rampling." He nodded at the glossy black carriage, where a pair of boot soles could be seen in the window.

Lincoln thanked the lad and opened the cabin door. The boots dropped, and the fellow wearing them sprang upright, his eyes wide. When he saw it wasn't his master, he yawned and lay down again.

"What'd you want?" he growled.

"I want to ask you about your cousin, Thomas Rampling," Lincoln said. "What business is he conducting?"

"No business." The coachman folded his arms over his chest. "He's a drifter, just comes and goes."

"Do you know when he'll be back?"

"Nope."

The rumble of wheels and click clack of hooves on cobbles announced the arrival of another vehicle. The stable lad went out to greet it, but John Rampling didn't stir. Lincoln was about to question him further, but a shout from the boy interrupted him.

"Mr. Rampling! Mr. Rampling, come quick! It's your cousin."

Rampling stretched and sat up again. "What is it now?"

The boy swallowed. "He's dead."

The coachman blinked. "Can't be. I only saw him last night."

The lad glanced over his shoulder at the cart that had stopped behind Lincoln's coach. A police constable stood beside it, squinting into the shadows of the coach house.

Lincoln felt everything inside him tighten into a ball. His heart sank. Every time he got closer to getting answers, the trail went cold. The two grave robbers, Captain Jasper, the man who'd killed Drinkwater and Brumley…all died after their identities and secrets were uncovered by the ministry. Their deaths weren't coincidences, and certainly weren't accidents. Someone was a step ahead of Lincoln—and that infuriated him.

Seth was first out of the coach house, followed by Rampling and Lincoln. "This is John Rampling," Seth said when the coachman simply stood at the end of the cart and stared at the lump beneath the gray blanket.

The constable nodded a greeting but got none in return. "He was pulled out of the river this morning," he said as he lifted the blanket.

The bloated face of the dead man was clear evidence of how he'd died. If that wasn't enough, his clothes and hair were still wet.

The coachman gagged then threw up on the cobbles. The policeman went to cover the deceased again, but Lincoln stopped him. He inspected the victim's face.

"Are there any marks on him?" he asked.

"A cut on the back of his head," the constable said. "He was probably standing on a pier when he lost his footing, hit his head and got knocked out." He shrugged. "Slipped into the water and drowned, is my guess."

"Oh God," the coachman moaned. "I can't believe it. Tom's gone."

"We found a note on him addressed to these mews so came here directly. Can you confirm that this is your cousin, Mr. Thomas Rampling?"

John Rampling nodded. "Where are you taking him?"

"Mortuary in Chelsea."

"Who was the note from?" Lincoln asked.

The constable settled his feet apart and glared at Lincoln. "Who're you in relation to the deceased?"

Lincoln was still considering the most efficient method to relieve the constable of the note when Seth said, "Mr. Rampling would like to see it."

The constable glanced at the coachman who simply stared at his cousin's body, oblivious to the attention. The constable waited. After a nudge from Seth, Lincoln handed the policeman three shillings. The constable removed the note from the deceased's pocket. He handed it to Rampling, but when he didn't move to take it, passed it to Lincoln.

The soggy card was thick, like a gentleman's calling card. It bore no signature or indication as to who'd sent it. The barely legible words read: "Shadwell Dock Stairs. Midnight." Lincoln passed it back to the constable.

The policeman leapt onto the back of the cart and ordered the driver to exit the mews. Once he was out of sight, Rampling crouched down and ran both hands through his hair. Lincoln felt like doing the same.

"Do you know who wrote that note?" Lincoln asked him.

Rampling wiped the back of his hand across his eyes and stood. "Tom never told me his business. I knew he was doing some work for someone that involved wearing disguises from time to time, but I never asked what he was doing. God," he moaned. "I have to write to his mother."

Seth clapped him on the shoulder. "What was his middle name?"

Lincoln sucked in a breath. He glared at Seth, but Seth wasn't looking his way.

"James," Rampling said. "Why?"

"No particular reason."

Rampling looked up. "You didn't tell me why you came looking for Thomas."

"It no longer matters," Seth said, far more cheerfully than was appropriate considering the circumstances. He gathered the reins for Lincoln's horse and climbed onto the driver's seat. Instead of sitting in the cabin, Lincoln got up beside him.

"Aren't you going to say something?" Seth asked as they passed the Queen’s Arms.

"No," Lincoln said.

"Not even to tell me there was no point getting the dead man's middle name because Charlie's not here to call his spirit back?"

Lincoln didn't respond. Hopefully his lack of communication would shut Seth up. Unfortunately, it seemed to have the opposite effect.

"If she was here, she could summon the spirit and find out who hired Rampling to hire Jack Daley," he went on. "You do know that Rampling was most likely killed because he could identify the man who hired him, don't you?"

Captain Jasper too, although Lincoln hadn't connected his death to the current murders until recently. He could have asked her to raise Jasper, but using her necromancy like that had felt wrong, particularly when he was warning her
not
to use it.

The whip of the icy wind slapped Lincoln's cheeks, and it began raining as they passed through Camden Town. Each drop pelted down from the dense mass of cloud overhead like sharp shards of glass. Seth flipped up his hood but Lincoln had given his coat to the girl in Flower and Dean Street. He took over the reins and urged the horse to go faster.

"Careful!" Seth grabbed onto the side rail as they took a sharp corner without slowing.

Lincoln didn't slow down until they reached Lichfield's coach house. Gus was already waiting.

"Did the police catch Daley?" Seth asked as he jumped down.

Gus nodded. "Got him before he even left the lodgin' house. He was screamin' at them about gettin' his foot seen by a doctor."

Lincoln helped Gus unharness the coach then Seth led the horse to the stables. Lincoln and Gus joined him a few minutes later. While they all worked, Seth told Gus about Rampling's demise, including the fact that they could have discovered who'd hired him by now if Charlie was with them.

That was Lincoln's cue to return inside, but Gus stopped him with a growled, "If you don't want her back for your own good, then what about the greater good? She's useful."

"She's not a tool." Lincoln had snapped out the words before he could check himself.

"She ain't a parcel to be sent across the country neither!"

Seth laid a hand on Gus's shoulder. He half-raised his other hand in a calming gesture, as if he were approaching a wild horse. "Let me handle this," he muttered.

Had they discussed this between them? It wouldn't surprise Lincoln if they had. They'd taken Charlie's departure badly and neither seemed the same since. They'd certainly changed their attitude toward Lincoln. Sometimes he was surprised they still worked for him. Part of him wondered if they remained because they expected him to fetch Charlie back, or if they thought they could manipulate him into doing so.

He wasn't going to let them push him. In fact, why discuss it at all? He'd made his decision. He didn't care what they thought.

He strode out of the coach house. The rain pummeled him again and formed puddles in the low lying corner of the courtyard. He was already wet through to the bone and a few more drops didn't matter.

"You have to bring her home," Seth shouted. He was closer than Lincoln expected.

He turned to see they'd both followed him and stood in the courtyard as soaked as he was. "Go inside," he told them. "Dry off. Neither of you will be of use to me if you become ill."

"Neither of us will be of use if we refuse to work for you!" Gus shouted back.

So it had come to that after all. "Are you leaving my employ?"

Seth once again held up his hands in a placating gesture. Rain dripped off his hair down his face. He swiped angrily at his eyes. "Can we go inside to discuss this?"

"There's nothing to discuss."

"Bloody hell." Seth shook his head, spraying droplets. "Don't you see that this has affected you?"

That wasn't what Lincoln had expected him to say. "I'm the same as I've always been."

Gus snorted. "No, you're not," Seth said. "You're acting erratically and have been ever since she left."

"You're mistaken."

Gus shook his head. "You don't care about your own safety no more."

Lincoln had never cared. He went to walk away, but Seth's words stopped him.

"No, that's not what I meant. I meant you've lost focus now. Answers that were once easy to obtain have become elusive. Details that were obvious are now less so. You do foolish things that jeopardize your own safety because you're distracted. You thought she was a distraction when she was here, but her absence is doubly so. Isn't it?"

Rain thundered on the tiled roof of the coach house and stables. Drips slid past Lincoln's collar and down his spine, leaving a painfully icy trail in their wake. His men watched him through the veil of rain, their gazes searching, questioning. Hoping. They didn't know for certain. They were only guessing at Lincoln's motives and state of mind.

He clung to that as if it were a buoy.

"You miss her," Seth said, more quietly. "You miss her terribly."

Lincoln squinted up into the sky, ignoring the rain splattering his face. The heavy clouds seemed to blanket the whole world, smothering every breath. He should go inside. He should walk away from his men and not answer them.

But for a reason he couldn't fathom, he wanted to answer. "Yes. I miss her." He tilted his head forward and looked at each of them in turn. He needed to get his next point across. "But it will pass."

They scoffed. Gus shook his head. "You're a fool if you think we believe that," Seth said.

"You're a fool if
you
believe it," Gus added.

Lincoln's face heated. He could feel his temper rising from the depths of him, bubbling to the surface. "How would you know?"

Neither seemed to think it a question worth answering. But the longer the silence stretched, the more Lincoln realized his question was sincere.

"I owe you much," Seth said, folding his arms up high on his chest and not meeting Lincoln's gaze. “I don't know where I'd be now if it weren't for you. I like working for the ministry."

Lincoln looked to Gus, but his craggy features gave nothing away.

"I don't want to leave," Seth went on. "But I feel I must. I can't work for someone who acts irrationally. And she kept you in check."

"In check how?" Lincoln asked.

"You shot a man in the foot!"

"I didn't kill him."

"You traversed the city over rooftops. In the rain."

"It was a shorter, faster way."

Seth threw his hands in the air. "You try," he said to Gus. "I give up."

Gus blew out a breath. "How can I put it?" He thought a moment then nodded. "I'll be direct with you, sir. If you got rid of Charlie because she got in the way, what will you do with us if we make a mistake?"

"Don't make mistakes and you won't find out."

Seth barked out a humorless laugh.

Gus rubbed his temple. "What if we're no longer useful? Will you shoot us in the foot if we don't do something you ask or do it the wrong way?"

"Or will you kill us?" Seth said, quieter.

Lincoln watched them from beneath damp lashes. Did they think pressuring him would encourage him to bring Charlie home? "If you feel you must go, then go. I won't stop you." He turned and walked to the house. He sensed them following at a distance.

He avoided the kitchen and went through the main part of the house. The salver on the table by the front door overflowed with calling cards. Had Lady Vickers had that many callers, or were some for Lincoln and Seth? His progress up the stairs was deliberately slow, steady, yet he felt like he'd run for miles by the time he shut his door. He shouldn't feel this exhausted after so little exertion. He changed into dry clothes and poured himself a tumbler of brandy, then another and another. It didn't clear his head, only made the fog denser.

If Seth and Gus left, he still had Cook and Doyle. But it wasn't the same. They weren't fighters. Their duties were in the house. And they didn't know how Lincoln worked, not like the others. They just weren't the same, damn them, and Lincoln
wanted
the same. He wanted Seth and Gus at his side, complete with their bickering and bad jokes.

He threw the glass into the fireplace. It shattered, spraying shards over the hearth, the floor, onto the rug, over tables and chairs. He marched over. Glass pierced the souls of his feet. It hurt like the devil and no amount of concentration could deaden the pain. He used to be able to master pain—not eliminate it, just mask it. But now, every cut burned, and soon his feet felt like they were on fire.

He hobbled back to his desk, leaving a trail of bloody footprints behind. He sat down and closed his eyes. Let the pain come. Let it consume him and see if it destroyed him.

And if it didn't?

He would get up in the morning and face the day and every day that came after it. He would bury himself in work to the point where
it
consumed him instead. He would find a way through to the other side.