Odette Speex: Time Traitors Book 1 (27 page)

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Doctor Tannen stood with shirt sleeves rolled up and wiped his hands on a clean linen cloth. “Where did you say you found him?”

“I didn’t,” Hershel responded tersely.

The doctor looked from under his eyebrows at the Bow Street runner and said in his most medically detached tone, “You do know he’s been violated.”

“It was rather obvious.” Hershel mimicked the doctor in tone but felt anything but detachment.

He had been cursing his incompetence continuously for the last eight hours. He wished he’d been less cryptic with Cara, less circumspect in his reasoning and investigation. Clearly things were happening beyond his comprehension, and he didn’t like it one bit.

Hershel was by nature a cautious man. Not to be confused with cowardice. He was actually exceedingly brave. His upright moral code was a source of fun for his fellow runners—hence, his nickname. But none questioned his courage. In fact he had confronted on many occasions the rampant corruption that ran through the nascent London police force, and not just the lowly beadles. He reported corruption wherever he found it, even once not so subtly suggesting a prominent magistrate guilty of bribing a witness.

He was fortunate to have in his corner the staunch support of the powerful Sir John Fielding, magistrate of Bow Street. But even Sir John had warned him many time to moderate his zeal lest he find himself with no employment and several powerful enemies.

Hershel walked over to the south-facing window and looked out into the doctor’s small garden. It was dark, and his reflection stared back at him from the scrupulously clean glass. Sir John was a man Hershel admired with single-minded devotion. He knew him to be honest and compassionate. So his dismissal of Hershel’s concerns regarding the attacks on the group at Exeter Street was troubling. Hershel had never known Sir John to treat so serious an offense lightly. In fact, Sir John reveled in debate and discussion. He often mulled over evidence and matters of law to the point of obsession. But, in this case, he avoided any discussion of the crimes, and ordered Hershel to investigate them as simple robberies gone wrong. Whenever Hershel tried to bring the subject up, the typically mild and patient Sir John grew tense and snappish.

So Hershel did the only thing he knew how to do. He followed his instincts. And those put him on the trail of one Ethan Graham. Ethan’s involvement with Odette and Cara was highly suspicious. He knew Graham by reputation. While it wasn’t exactly common knowledge that Graham was a spy, it was certainly a well-respected rumor. His association with Sir Archibald Brandon should have been confirmation enough. But Hershel found a large portion of polite society chose to pretend the identity of the King’s spymaster a mystery. Being inquisitive and observant himself, it would have shocked him to know that this ignorance was not pretense but disinterest.

He turned back to the room and said, “I found him in Whitechapel. In the back alley of an establishment by the name of Princess Persephone’s.”

Doctor Tannen’s expression remained impassive. “That would, of course, explain the tearing around the rectum and bruising along the buttocks.”

They both turned to look at the injured man lying on the narrow cot. His face was badly battered. His torso tightly bound in cotton stripes in an attempt to stabilize several broken ribs. He groaned weakly and licked his swollen lips but did not wake.

Hershel had a strong sense of moral certainty regarding his profession. Nevertheless, he had the ability to suspend judgment in search of answers. He believed that there was always an objective truth the facts would reveal if one looked hard enough. He prided himself on a level of professional impartiality that allowed him insight where others were blinded by prejudice and preconceptions. So he was disturbed by his reaction to Ethan Graham, his inability to feel sympathy for the man.

Hershel had been following Ethan for the better part of the day when toward evening he saw him enter White’s accompanied by Lord Winter. He had settled in to loiter inconspicuously among the cabbies and general bustle of the street when, not ten minutes later, Ethan reemerged. This time he was accompanied by two large gentlemen, one on either side of him. The darkened street made it difficult for Hershel to see their faces, but they were both fashionably dressed with hats pulled low over their brows. All three entered a hackney which turned toward Piccadilly.

Hershel’s knowledge of London streets was unparalleled. While he was not a London native, his incessant nighttime rambles had introduced him to many of its secret byways and shortcuts, as well as several close calls with the metropolis’ rougher elements. He used this knowledge to keep track of the carriage and get a read on its general direction. 

By the time it turned onto Long Acre, he knew it was heading north and hailed a hackney. Fortunately traffic was heavy, and it wasn’t difficult to maintain an inconspicuous tail. A promised extra few farthings assured the driver’s interest in keeping it that way.

The ride stretched on, and Hershel set his face along grim lines as they entered Whitechapel. The street itself was not particularly sordid. Nor were the primarily working class residents of this district more prone to crime than many others. However, Hershel could not say the same of the gentlemen who frequented the squalid streets and back alleys extending like rabbit warrens off the broad thoroughfare. He knew they were not there to visit the breweries, tanneries, and foundries which were the mercantile heart of Whitechapel.

He watched the carriage slow and could tell it was preparing to turn down one of the narrow side streets. He ordered his driver to stop and jumped out to continue his surveillance on foot. It was then that a large brewers’ dray swerved violently across the street sending several of its barrels crashing onto the busy walkways. People scattered like confused sheep. Hershel among them, as he frantically dodged the flying barrels, frightened horses, and panicked people.

By the time he had successfully avoided being knocked to the ground and splattered with beer, the carriage was nowhere in sight. Even now he wasn’t given to cursing. He pressed his lips tightly together and quickly calculated the number of side streets that the carriage had sufficient time to turn onto.

The next two hours were spent systematically investigating each one. Even though he was cautious, his actions still drew the unwanted attentions of an aged prostitute and bedraggled urchin. The prostitute finally gave up on the promise of commerce, but the urchin continued to follow him begging for a handout.

“What ’cha looking for Mister?” the boy finally asked. “I knows these streets like they was me own home.” He grinned ghoulishly, showing missing teeth and a starved, pinched little face.

Hershel stopped to look at him knowing full well that the streets were indeed his home.

The boy stood back and gave him a measuring up and down look. “I know what you’re looking for. You’re respectable-like. That’s why you haven’t asked no one where it is.”

“What am I looking for?” Hershel asked.

He shook his head and held out a grubby hand. “A man’s gotta make a livin’.”

Hershel smiled sadly and dropped several small coins into his grubby hand. The boy couldn’t be more than seven.

“Princess Persephone’s. It’s just off Lyon on Buckle.”

“Princess Persephone’s?”

The boy cocked his head to one side with a knowing look. “You don’t have to pretend, mister. Lots of respectable ’uns like you go there.”

Hershel nodded his head and thanked the boy. He wasn’t as well-acquainted with Whitechapel as Covent Garden. But he knew that Red Lyon Street was only a few blocks down. The coach could easily have reached it during the time he was dodging flying beer barrels.

Once on Red Lyon Street, it was a short two blocks to Buckle. Fortunately for Hershel, this street was only three blocks long, bounded on one end by a field and on the other by a small alleyway.

The tiny neighborhood coffeehouse would have gone unnoticed by most casual visitors. To Hershel’s practiced eye, the likelihood of such a small establishment making ends meet by just serving coffee was doubtful. He entered the dimly lit premises and was surprised to see several respectable-looking matrons seated at some of the tables along with the men. Women were unusual patrons of coffeehouses, and their presence here made it unlikely that this one was a front for a brothel.

He was feeling uncertain of his suspicions but walked to the counter and addressed the man busily stacking dirty crockery. “I am wishing to speak with Princess Persephone,” he said in a low yet confident tone, hoping to convince the proprietor that he was privy to the actual function of the establishment.

The man didn’t look up from his work. All Hershel could see was a bit of reddish scalp through lank, thinning hair. “And what would you be wanting with her?” the man mumbled.

“I need to ask her about a man.”

“Don’t everybody.”

“Three men, actually.”

The man looked up at Hershel with watery blue eyes and smirked. “You planning a busy night, mister?”

Hershel stilled. Warning bells clanged loudly in his brain, and he turned as nonchalantly as possible to survey the room once again. The lighting was practically non-existence, but that was no excuse for his lack of perception. He berated himself for not immediately noticing the rather large stature of the women, and the inexpert execution of their toilette. Princess Persephone’s was a molly house, and he was a fool for being caught unawares.

He turned back to the proprietor with what he hoped was an appropriately licentious leer. “Indeed. They asked me to meet them here. Two large men and one of medium height—all fine gentlemen.”

The man was wiping the crockery with a dirty rag, once again looking down at his work. “They came in over an hour ago. The smaller one… he looked a bit peaked.” He jerked his head in the direction of a door at the rear of the coffeehouse. “They’re in a room. Third door down on the right.”

Hershel nodded his thanks and headed for the door. His heart was beating heavily against his chest, and his mouth was dry. He wasn’t sure what to do next. He was in no position to confront them openly. But, if at all possible, he wanted to identify the two larger men. It wasn’t often that knowledge like this came his way.

Buggery was a capital offense. That a spy in the employ of the Crown was a sodomite left him open to blackmail and treason. It also gave Hershel some leverage in dealing with Ethan Graham. He certainly wouldn’t want this information getting back to Sir Brandon.

When Hershel reached the back room, the door was ajar and the room unoccupied. He cautiously pushed the door open and walked into the windowless room. It was sparsely furnished with a large canopied bed and wooden dresser. The bed had clearly been used. The sheets were in violent disarray with blankets pulled off and lying partially on the floor. Closer inspection showed a quantity of blood splattered over the bed linen.

Hershel recoiled in revulsion and walked out again into the hall. They couldn’t have left by the coffeehouse, or the proprietor would have seen them. He walked further down the darkened hall and found a door that let out into the back alleyway. It was pitch black as he stepped out blindly into the night. The stench of offal and night soil hit him forcefully as he tread his way carefully back toward Red Lyon Street.

Almost to the end of the alley, his foot thudded against a soft object that groaned audibly. Hershel squinted against the darkness and knelt down next to the prone man. Terribly beaten, with his trousers pulled down around his ankles, Ethan Graham was barely recognizable.

Given his condition, Hershel was pretty sure this was one assignation Graham had not agreed to. Hershel struggled to pull up his trousers and brought him around enough to look drunk. He hailed a hackney and quickly dismissed as too public a nearby hospital. Regardless of Graham’s true nature, the fact that he had been repeatedly sodomized would most definitely result in an investigation—thus, their appearance at Doctor Tannen’s surgery.

“I assume due to your position as a runner, I will find it unnecessary to report this crime to the authorities?” Doctor Tannen asked.

Hershel nodded wearily.

“Good,” the doctor replied succinctly and returned to the matter at hand. “He’ll need someone to sit with him for the next few hours until dawn. Other than a few broken ribs, I don’t believe there are any internal injur—”

“I’ll do it, doctor. I’m not likely to get much sleep as it is.”

“Alright, then. I could use a few hours myself. If he turns pale, starts breathing shallow, or vomits up blood be sure to wake me.”

Hershel laughed humorlessly. “Right you are.”

Alone with the injured man, Hershel pulled a low stool up against the foot of the cot. He had just sat down when he heard his name.

“Mister Gordon,” Ethan uttered in a hoarse whisper.

Hershel leaned forward and put his elbows on his knees. “Have you been awake this whole time?”

“Could I trouble you for some water?” was Ethan’s reply.

Hershel spent the next ten minutes painstakingly spooning small amounts of water between Ethan’s cracked and bleeding lips. Finally he lay back on the pillow with a grimace of pain.

“Ah, the simple pleasures,” he croaked. “How good water tastes when one is parched.”

“Simple ones don’t seem to be your only pleasures, Mister Graham.” Hershel couldn’t help himself.

A painful smile twisted Ethan’s lips. “Whatever my predilections, Mister Gordon, I think we can both agree that I was an unwilling party to this particular… ah… pleasure.”

Hershel sat back sharply and swallowed hard. He was disgusted by the very thought of what had happened to Ethan and even more by any connection the man might have to Cara. He knew them to be friends, perhaps more than friends. Resentment simmered beneath his surveillance of Ethan Graham.

He drew in a deep breath. Hershel was not a man who feared self-knowledge. Only through understanding his own motives could he see others more clearly. Only then could he deduce the facts and uncover the truth.