Eve Silver (32 page)

She was alone then, on the streets of Whitechapel in the darkness of the night and the fury of the storm. Had it been only short months ago that she had survived such nights by huddling in a doorway?

She ran through the narrow alley, until she reached her sister’s door. She banged with a closed fist on the portal, wondering why there were not more people about. This was night, the time that Mrs. Feather’s House did its business. She had expected a crowd. She had counted on a measure of safety in numbers.

Why, oh why, did no one answer the door?

With each strike of her hand against the wood, her desperation grew, her imagination conjuring horrific images of what might have already come to pass.

At last, the door opened, and she fell across the threshold into Abigail’s arms. A relief so keen as to be almost painful shot through her at the sight of her sister, safe, alive. She would save her. She would not fail her as she had failed Mama. Her sister had been lost to her once, but having found her, she would not lose her again.

“Darcie!” Abigail cried, half carrying her into the house.

“L-l-lock the door,” Darcie said, her teeth chattering, her entire body shuddering from the cold. Now that she was here, her strength seeped away and her legs crumpled as she sank to the floor.

 “My God, you’re soaked through. I’ll get you something dry.”

“The door!” Darcie cried, and Abigail only shot her a look before turning the key in the lock. Then she hurried up the stairs, leaving Darcie sitting on the hallway floor. She was back within moments, bringing with her a simple day dress and clean underclothes. Together, they managed to get Darcie out of her sopping garments and into dry clothes. Abigail was taller and fuller of figure, but the gown was warm and dry, and Darcie was grateful.

Wrapping her arms around Darcie, Abigail held her until her shivers subsided.

“Come to the kitchen. I shall make tea.” Abigail sent her a measured look. “When you have come to yourself then you can tell me what possessed you to come here on such a night.”

“Where is everyone?” Darcie asked, looking around at the dark and deserted house as they walked toward the kitchen.

“Gone. All gone.”

Gone. They were alone. Just the two of them. It was not what Darcie had expected. “Are all the doors locked?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“And the windows?”

Abigail’s brows rose. “In this part of town? I keep everything locked up tight.”

Of course she did. Only a fool would not, and Abigail was no fool. She had survived in Whitechapel. Nay, not merely survived. In her own way, she had thrived.

“I’ve closed the house to business,” Abigail said. “Dismissed the maids. Sent the girls away.”

“Closed the house?” Darcie could hardly fathom it. “But why?”

“I see myself differently now. Since Sally. I see something different in my future.” She shrugged. “People change.”

“What will you do? How will you survive?”

“Practical girl.” Abigail gave a short bark of laughter. “Sit.” She waved in the direction of one of the kitchen chairs.

Darcie sank down, rubbing her hands along the outsides of her arms. She was starting to feel a thaw in the bone-numbing chill that had penetrated her body.

“I always knew there would come a time when I would close Mrs. Feather’s House. I’ve saved enough to live a quiet life, if I’m careful, and I counseled my girls to do the same. In the end, I am the product of Steppy’s teachings, and all those times he instilled his merchant’s instincts have stood me in good stead.” She offered a wistful, sad smile. “I thought I’d find somewhere in the country. Somewhere that no one has ever heard of Mrs. Feather.” She set the tea things in a row, and then paused to glance at Darcie over her shoulder. “I’ll go somewhere where the widowed Mrs. Finch will find a place.”

“Oh, Abigail.” Darcie felt overwhelmed. The idea that her sister would leave London was certainly no cause for celebration. Having so recently been reunited, Darcie had no wish to be parted from her. But greater than her sadness was the unmitigated joy that coursed through her. Abigail would be safe. She would no longer be subjected to the desperate life she had led. Instead, she could find a place…

As though continuing Darcie’s thoughts out loud, Abigail said, “A garden.” She laughed. “Can you imagine, a garden with flowers?” She winked at Darcie. “Maybe I’ll even marry a Vicar.”

Strangely, Darcie didn’t find the thought to be so very impossible. She looked at her sister in the dim light of the kitchen. Her face was devoid of makeup, her hair braided down her back in a single plait. Darcie thought she looked wonderful. Clean and fresh. It was symbolic of a new start.

Abigail prepared the tea, rinsing the pot first with hot water before adding a measure of tea leaves and pouring the boiling water over top. She set two cups and saucers on the table, along with sugar and milk, and then returned for the teapot.

Deftly, she filled a cup for Darcie, adding two lumps and topping it off with milk.

“Old habits,” Darcie mused as she watched her sister’s actions.

Abigail glanced at her quizzically.

Nodding toward the cup, Darcie clarified, “You added the milk last, just as Mama taught us.”

“Ahhh, yes. I have come down a notch or two, but I have not forgotten that a lady never puts the milk in the cup first.”

Their eyes caught and held, the shared understanding of how their world had changed passing between them. The two women sipped their tea in silence, tacitly agreeing not to open the subject of what might have been.

Darcie glanced at the flame of the candle. It flickered and danced, sending jittery silhouettes across the bare walls. Now that she was here, Darcie felt uncertain. If she was mistaken in her suspicions, then her mad flight was simply the outcome of an overactive imagination. Yet, the possibility that Abigail knew the Whitechapel murderer, was in fact well-acquainted with him, was too dangerous a prospect to ignore.

Darcie stared into the depths her cup. “Abigail, tell me the name of the man who did this to you. The man who brought you”—she looked around the kitchen—”here.”

She heard the sharp hiss of her sister’s indrawn breath. “What does it matter?” Abigail asked dully. “It was so long ago. There is nothing I can do about it now.”

“Not so long ago.” Darcie raised her head and found herself staring into blue eyes dark with remembered pain. A part of her wanted to stay silent, to save her sister further grief. There was no certainty in her suspicion. She could be wrong about Lord Albright. Pressing her lips together, Darcie chose her words with care. “Does he visit you still?”

Abigail started, jerking back as though she had been struck. Her gaze slid away from Darcie’s, then returned. “I think the rain has stopped. I don’t hear the rain.”

“He hurt you. Please, Abigail, I think he might be the one who—” Her words froze in her throat as Abigail turned toward her, her face ravaged by an expression of soul-deep horror.

“Do not say it.” She moaned. “If you do not say it then maybe it will not be true. Oh, Darcie, I cannot bear for it to be true.”

Therein lay her answer.

“How long have you known?” Darcie asked.

“I do not
know,
” Abigail said. She buried her face in her hands. “But I suspect.” She dropped her hands away and then lifted her cup.

Darcie felt not a sliver of doubt. Abigail knew the name of the killer. Had lain with the killer. Had loved the killer. Lord Albright. “Abigail, you must stop protecting him. He is not worth your life.”

Abigail faltered, her cup rattling loudly in the stillness as she set it on the saucer. She rose, striding away from Darcie to the shadowed corner of the kitchen, her shoulders set in a tense line, her rapid breathing loud in the silence.

“Well,” she said with forced brightness. “These clothes will never dry if we don’t hang them before the fire.”

Suddenly, she became a whirlwind of activity, grabbing her chair and dragging it before the fire, then energetically shaking out Darcie’s sodden dress from the bundle they had left it in when they carried it to the kitchen. Droplets of water sprayed in every direction.

“Abigail, more women will die.”

As quickly as it began, the storm of Abigail’s activity stopped, and she stood, frozen, her face a mask of desperation.

“How long have you known?” she whispered brokenly.

“I didn’t know for certain. Not until this very moment. But you did, you must have.”

Abigail shook her head, her hands dropping heavily to her sides, the dress falling unheeded to the floor. “Just now, really. When you asked me about him. The pieces fell into place.” She sank bonelessly to the chair at her side, as though all her strength had been sucked out of her. “I did not know until just this instant. Perhaps I closed my eyes to it. I did not want to know.”

Darcie felt sick, for a part of her had hoped she was mistaken.

“He was here, in my house, in Whitechapel on the night of each murder,” Abigail said. “I never thought—”

Both women froze as the long, slow rasp of an unoiled hinge twisted through the stillness of the house.

Chapter Seventeen

“What was that?” Abigail whispered, her eyes wide. She brought one hand up to swipe at the tendrils that had escaped her plait while the other pressed against her chest.

Darcie lifted her finger to her lips, motioning Abigail to keep silent. She rose and crossed the kitchen, searching for a weapon. A knife. No, that would not do. She had neither the strength nor the skill to wield such a weapon. Better to choose something she could swing like a club, something she could throw her entire body weight behind, something like… yes. Her hand snaked out and she closed her fingers around the heavy wooden rolling pin.

She felt her sister’s presence at her side, and reaching back, she groped blindly for her hand. Their fingers connected, and she held fast, deriving strength from the connection.

Seconds ticked past, then minutes, and no further sound was heard. The kitchen smelled of lye soap and mildew. Darcie wondered why she hadn’t noticed that before.

Leaning close, Abigail whispered against Darcie’s ear. “Perhaps we imagined it. Perhaps there is no one here.”

Darcie wanted to believe that. Her heart clutched and stuttered as she strained to hear any sound, however faint. She shook her head. He was here. She could feel his presence as she had that night so long ago when she had huddled in a shadowed doorway, breathing in the scent of evil, staring at the hem of his long black cloak.

“
Darcie.
” A whisper, both faint and menacing. Terror gouged her with sharp talons. Abigail’s fingers closed painfully tight on hers. “
Darcie.
”

He knew her name. He called for her.

He was here for
her.

She remembered how he had stalked her the night she first came to Mrs. Feather’s House. She had hidden from him, outwitted him. It struck her with sudden clarity that he had meant her for his victim that night. And she had denied him. She shivered, every muscle in her body held tense and ready.

All these months, the intuition that had whispered of danger had been true. But not from Damien. Oh God, never from Damien. Foolish girl that she had ever thought it so.

Darcie clenched her fingers around the handle of the rolling pin. Every nerve cried out against this imposed inactivity.
Flee,
her instincts demanded as terror built in her throat. But her mind bid her stay, for she knew not where he was, and taking chaotic flight could well lead her to death’s embrace.

Abigail pressed up against her back, shivering in terror, her fingers grasping Darcie’s tightly, to a point beyond pain.

He had killed Sally. He had hurt Mary. Because of her? Because he had come searching for her that night? The thought revolted her.

“We must run for the front door,” Abigail whispered.

The front door. Darcie frowned, turning to look at Abigail. “I told you to lock the front door,” she breathed. “Didn’t you lock the door?”

Abigail pressed her lips together, her expression infinitely sad. “He has a key.”

“The back door…” Her voice trailed away as Abigail shook her head.

“I nailed it shut and blocked it with a cabinet after Sally was killed,” Abigail whispered. “I was afraid the murderer would sneak in and kill us in our beds.”

The irony of it was not lost on Darcie.

“Up,” she ordered. “We’ll take the rear stairs. He won’t expect that. Maybe we can climb out a window, or hide.” She tugged her sister’s hand. “Come on, Abigail,” she insisted when the other woman stayed rooted on the spot. “We cannot simply wait here for death to seek us out.”

Not waiting for her agreement, Darcie dragged her toward the narrow staircase at the back of the house. They climbed to the second floor, their footsteps as quiet as possible.

“
Abigail.
” The sound of his voice drifted up the stairs, laced with the ghastly promise of his darkest longings. “Why do you run? Wait for me, Abigail. Introduce me to your lovely friend.”

Darcie shrank back against the wall, her heart pounding, numbing terror slowing her movements. She must run. She must hide. Again. She felt a sense of unreality as she was carried back to the night she had watched Steppy being stabbed. She imagined the glint of the knife rising and falling again and again until he lay motionless on the dirty floor.

Hide in the shadows. Run, girl, run.

That night she had hesitated, had almost been too slow. Below them now, she could hear footsteps on the stairs, creeping steadily closer.

“Come on.” Abigail yanked her arm, hard.

Together, they ran along the hall to the room at the far end. After slamming the door behind them, they heaved and pushed, struggling to shove a large bureau in front of the door.

“It won’t move!” Abigail cried.

“Push. Push!” They did, and the heavy piece moved a shade, enough to stop the door from opening fully. Was it enough? Could he slip through?

Terror clutching at her, Darcie spun, searching for escape. She ran to the window.