“I’m ready,” I said, steadying myself on the armrests as I stood up.
“You’re shaking!” George said, laughing loudly. “But I promise you, London’s in no way as frightening as the Ivinghoe woods. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if you end up loving it. Bright lights, plenty of parties . . . why, if I were a younger man without responsibilities, I wouldn’t be able to tear myself away from the place.”
“Right,” I said. His words had given me an idea. Until I’d found out who—or what—was loose in the city, London was where I was going to stay.
No matter what came, be it murderer, demon, or Damon, I was ready.
Chapter 3
A few hours later, my feet ached while my head kept spinning. My sense of duty kept me with George as we spent the morning shuttling between appointments and tailor fittings. I was now wearing linen pants and a white shirt from Savile Row, and had several more bags on my arms. Despite his generosity, I was desperate to escape George. All I could think about while trying on various clothes was the girl’s blood-soaked, ripped bodice.
“Can I give you a lift to your relatives? You never did say where they lived,” George said as he stepped off the street corner to nod his head at a passing carriage.
“No, that’s quite all right,” I said, cutting him off as the coach pulled up to the curb. The past few hours with George had been torturous, plagued with thoughts that would make his hair turn white and stand on end. I blamed Damon for poisoning what was supposed to have been nothing more than a day of pleasant diversions.
I glanced away so I wouldn’t have to see George’s bewildered expression. A few blocks away, I could just make out St. Paul’s Cathedral. It was a structure I remembered sketching when I was a child and dreamt of being an architect. I’d always imagined it as being white and gleaming, but in reality it was constructed of a dingy gray limestone. The entire city felt dirty, a thin layer of grime coated my body, and the sun was covered by gray clouds.
Just then, the sky opened up and fat drops of rain landed on the pavement, as if reminding me this was my narrow chance to follow my instincts and flee from George.
“Sir?” the coach driver on the curb urged impatiently.
“I’ll find my own way there,” I said, sensing George’s hesitation at leaving me. The coachman moved to escort George to the sleek black carriage.
“Enjoy yourself,” George said, clambering up the steps of the coach. The coachman whipped his horse, and the carriage took off down the rain-soaked cobblestone streets.
I glanced around me. In the few minutes that George and I had been talking, the streets had become almost deserted. I shivered in my fine shirt. The weather perfectly matched my mood.
I raised my hand and hailed a coach of my own.
“Whitechapel,” I said confidently, surprised as the words left my lips. I’d thought of going to the Journeyman to find Damon. And I would do that, eventually. But for now, I wanted to see for myself where the murder had taken place.
“Of course,” the coachman said. And instantly, I was trotted into the maze of claustrophobic London streets.
After much back and forth with the coachman, he dropped me on the corner where the Tower Bridge was being constructed. Glancing around, I could see the Tower of London. It was smaller than I’d thought it would be, and the flags on its turrets didn’t wave so much as droop in the constant trickle of rain. But I wasn’t here to sightsee. I turned away from the river and onto Clothier Street, one of the many twisting, dirty, dank alleys that webbed through the city.
I quickly realized this part of town was vastly different than what I’d seen with George. Rotting vegetables cluttered the rain-slicked cobblestones. Thin, slanted buildings were shoddily thrown up almost on top of each other. The scent of iron was everywhere, although I couldn’t tell whether the concentration of blood was from murder or simply from the mass of people forced to live in such close quarters. Pigeons hopped along the alleyways, but otherwise the area was deserted. I felt a shiver of fear creep up my spine as I hurried around the park and toward a tavern.
I walked inside and into nearly complete darkness. Only a few candles burned on the rickety tables. A small group of men were sitting along the bar. Meanwhile, several women were drinking in the corner. Their brightly colored dresses and festive hats were at odds with the gloomy surroundings, and gave them the look of caged birds at the zoo. No one seemed to be talking. I nervously adjusted the lapis lazuli ring on my finger, looking at the rainbow of refracted light the stone created on the gritty oak floor.
I sidled up to the bar and perched on one of the stools. The air was heavy and damp. I unbuttoned the top button of my shirt and loosened my tie to counter the stifling atmosphere. I wrinkled my nose in disgust. It wasn’t the type of establishment I’d envision Damon frequenting.
“You one of them newspaper boys?”
I glanced up at the barkeep in front of me. One of his front teeth was gold, the other was missing, and his hair stuck out in wild gray tufts. I shook my head. I just have a taste for blood. The phrase popped into my mind. It was an off-color joke that Damon would have cracked. His favorite game was to almost give himself away, to see if anyone noticed. Of course they didn’t. They were too busy being dazzled by Damon.
“Mate?” the barkeep asked curiously, plunking a filthy rag on the bar as he looked at me. “You one of them newspaper boys?” he repeated.
“No. And I think I might not be in the right place. Is the Journeyman nearby?” I asked, already knowing the answer.
“Ha! You ’avin’ a laugh? The Journeyman is that right proper supper club. Only admits the toffs. Ain’t our kind, and you won’t get in neither, even with that fancy shirt. Only option is to drown your sorrows with some ale!” He laughed, displaying one of his gold molars in the back of his mouth.
“So the Journeyman club isn’t close?” I asked.
“No, mate. Close to the Strand, near all them shows. Where the fancy folks go when they want to get wild. But they come here when they want to get wicked!” The barkeep laughed again as I glanced away, annoyed. I wasn’t going to find Damon here. Unless . . .
“Beer, please. A dark ale,” I said, suddenly
inspired. Maybe I could get the barkeep to talk and find clues to who—or what—was responsible for Mary Ann’s death. Because if it was Damon, either directly or indirectly, I’d finally teach him the lesson he should have learned long ago. I wouldn’t kill him or stake him. But if it came down to it and I had him on the ground, at my mercy, would I hurt him?