Cursing prim lady’s companions, Fletcher sifted through his coat pocket, searching for the cheap vial of perfume he’d purchased earlier. Dribbling some on his collar, he strode past a girl selling meat pies, handing her the vial with his regards.
When he was a short distance from Pye Street, Fletcher pulled a flask of gin from his boot, took two swallows, making sure to spill some on himself. Then he weaved about as he entered The Devil’s Acre, to give the illusion he’d been drinking with his ladybird. The smell of the perfume and gin madehim nauseous, but it would be enough to allay any of Ripps’ suspicions. The big man had been asking too many questions lately.
Whistling loudly, Fletcher took a step into the alley that led to the backside of The Dancing Swan. Little light penetrated here, given the buildings were crowded so close together, some even leaning across the alley until their roofs almost touched. He hated not being able to see the sky. Or the sun. He’d been feeling trapped by Mrs. Bean, the bloody book, and The Dancing Swan. So he’d gone to the park to think.
Miss Cosgrove’s appearance had ruined his day. Making him want things he shouldn’t.
Fletcher’s skin prickled, though he didn’t stop his stumbling.
A pimple-faced thug marked his progress towards The Dancing Swan, leaning against the wall of the dilapidated bakery next to the brothel, though the bakery never sold so much as a loaf of bread, only gin. The boy, for he could be no more than thirteen, picked at his teeth, eyes already far too old for his young face. One of Lark’s.
Fletcher burst into song. Loudly. Took another swallow of gin. Which he hated.
Another one of Lark’s men, this one burly and older, stood at the corner, making no effort to hide, grinning at Fletcher as he passed. “Afternoon, Fletch.”
“Blackbird.” He nodded, letting his head wobble back and forth.
Bloody Hell.
He had his knives with him and a pistol tucked into the waist of his trousers, covered by his shirt. But a pistol made noise. The knives would be better. Alarm bells sounded as Fletcher continued to flounder towards the back door of The Dancing Swan where Ripps would fling the heavy piece of oak open. Ormaybe stab him. Fletcher was never too sure about Ripps these days.
Disloyal prick.
Fletcher spared a thought for Mrs. Bean, but while Ripps was most certainly working for Lark, he was unlikely to harm Grandmam physically. Oh, he’d skim her profits. Pass information to Lark about Fletcher. Look for Bean’s Book in his spare time. But Ripps was unlikely to harm a woman hacking out her life into a handkerchief.
Did Lark know about Roxboro? Stealing jewels? Or had he grown tired of waiting for Grandmam to die?
Neither option boded well for Fletcher.
Earlier, he’d taken the precaution of putting a small cache of earbobs and rings, some real, some paste, none of them valuable, in the false bottom of the rickety armoire in his room. Easy enough to find if one was looking, including Ripps who wasn’t especially intelligent. It was the sort of haul that a poor pickpocket like Fletcher might acquire. If Ripps managed to find the stash, Fletcher would drunkenly apologize to Lark, saying he only meant to buy some silks for his lady bird. Then he’d take his beating and promise to give Lark a cut of whatever he took in the future.
The stash in the armoire had one purpose, to buy Fletcher time. Put Lark off the scent.
Stumbling up to the door leading to the house he’d inhabited his entire life, Fletcher was met with silence. This time of day, The Dancing Swan was quiet, as if the fucking depravities going on inside couldn’t exist in what passed for sunlight in this part of London. Most of the girls would still be sleeping off the night before.
He rapped three times and the small slot above his head opened, to reveal Mary, who must be standing on a stool to reach it.
“A moment, Fletch.” The slot closed and the locks were thrown. The door flung open to admit him. Mary was only allowed to open the door before dark. After that, it was up to Ripps. Who there was no sign of.
“Something smells delicious, Mary.” The scent of roasted potatoes and chicken filled the air. The maid was masterful at stretching out the contents of Mrs. Bean’s pantry to feed the inhabitants of The Dancing Swan.
“I’ve made a stew. Ripps found me two chickens. Fresh bread too.”
Mary was a thin girl with teeth that protruded slightly from between her lips. So homely in fact, Mrs. Bean hadn’t even entertained the thought of Mary working at The Swan. Instead, Mary had been put to work in the kitchen.
“Mrs. Bean decided to nap before the evenin’ festivities start up.” She shut the door behind Fletcher, careful to lock everything again. “She’s a bit peaked today, Fletch. I gave her a bit of brandy with her tea. I made her a poultice for the cough, but I don’t think it’s helpin’.”
“Thank you, Mary.”
She regarded him with the adoration of a puppy. Mary had a bit of a crush on Fletcher, though he’d never once encouraged her. But he was kind and polite, treating her with far more deference than most. Respectful. He worried over Mary, wondering what type of life she’d have under Lark with Fletcher and Grandmam gone. So, he’d taken steps to ensure Mary had a place, asking Mrs. Baldwin, at the boarding house if she needed an extra hand in the kitchen. Or someone to clean the rooms and main parlor. It didn’t sit well with Fletcher to leave the poor girl to Lark.
“Where’s Ripps?” he asked.
The girl looked away, wringing her hands. “Mrs. Bean insisted on seeing to matters at The Swan today, but after, shefell asleep in the parlor. I asked Ripps to carry her up the stairs, Fletch. Don’t be angry.”
“I’m not. You can’t carry her, can you Mary?” Ripps was upstairs.
“Took her up a bit ago, he did. Said he might tell Mrs. Bean a story to help her sleep.” She frowned. “Didn’t hear him come down, but I’ve been in the kitchen. Might still be up there or next door.”
