Not washing piled in the gutter.
“Stay here,” Syd said.
Syd crouched next to a body, her subtle touching at the turned-over wrist telling Camille she looked for a pulse.
Camille moved closer, noting a familiar profile in the dim moonlight. Upon seeing the man’s crooked nose and splotchy complexion, she pressed a hand to her throat.
Flank’s body was tossed into one of her neighbors’ doorways like garbage, his limbs thrown about at puppet-like angles too contorted for anyone breathing.
“Grinning at the daisy roots,” Syd confirmed.
Camille swallowed hard. She’d seen corpses before. London winters were hard, especially in the rookeries where fuel was scarce, fires and heat more so. When the temperatures plummeted to dangerous digits at night, coroners would come with wagons to take the frozen bodies from the streets the morning after before warmer weather caused the unfortunates to thaw.
But the stiffness in Flank’s body had nothing to do with the cold. He’d been here for hours, overlooked by others rushing on their way home from working the factories or the docks.
“Think he was visiting one of the local girls?” Camille asked.
Most of the prostitutes took up residence in St. Giles, as the rent was the cheapest in the city.
“Wouldn’t be the first time a lover’s quarrel got ugly.” Syd poked at Flank’s pockets and sleeves, finally drawing back thecollar at his neck. Ugly slashes crisscrossed the skin in a sloppy pattern. She cursed. “Not a quarrel.”
Camille didn’t hope to believe it was a robbery gone bad. Not when a clean slice to the throat was quicker and valuables were visible from his pockets.
“Has his timepiece,” Syd said, agreeing with her. She stood and backed away, leaving no evidence of her search. “A sick way to exact punishment.”
“Lucien?” The Underground leader was known for his brutal measures.
“Flank’s not his business,” Syd said. “But someone thought he was theirs. Those cuts are shallow, meant to inflict pain.”
Torture.
Camille turned into a nearby alcove and dry-heaved, thankful she’d been uninterested in eating anything all day. When she’d finished, Syd handed her a handkerchief.
She pressed the linen to her mouth. “I’m sorry.”
“For what?” Sydtsked. “Oneof us should have a conscience.” Her assessing gaze darted up the lane and back. “Let’s get you inside. I’ll make a courtesy call to Mr. Bowler on my way back to the Den.”
Knowing the sooner the coroner was called, the better, Camille nodded. “Will you be all right walking back?” The Merry Men’s headquarters was a good ten-minute walk, more than enough time for a killer to find his next victim. “You can stay here tonight.”
“Nah. Coroner’s office is on the way.” She stuck out her chin in the direction of Camille’s flat. “Go on. I’ll wait until you’re inside. Give me a signal through the window so I know you got in safe.”
“All right.” Camille hesitated. “You sure you don’t want to stay? Mr. Bowler can wait until the morning.”
Syd shocked her with a quick embrace. “Thanks, Cam. No worries. I’ll be here before you leave for the club tomorrow. Don’t step foot out your flat until you hear...” A hushed, whistling sound rushed between her teeth, like a birdcall. Her gaze followed in the direction of the Prodding Pony. She shook her head. “What a lark.”
“What is?”
Syd’s grin was too tight to be with humor. “There is one escape we all make in the end.”
Camille patted the girl on the head, which Syd allowed. “Make me a promise neither of us will meet that end anytime soon.”
Syd pushed her hand away, not unkindly. “All’s the same. Personally, I plan to meet the Devil with both arms open.”
“Then you’ll be safe,” Camille said, forcing lightness into her tone. “No Devil wants to take on a ragamuffin like you.”
Syd laughed before slipping into the shadows.
Camille crossed the street and locked herself inside her flat, praying the Devil didn’t come for any of them before the night was through. Not when Camille couldn’t shake the feeling Flank’s body had been left out in the open as an invitation to her specifically from Death himself.
