Mews was a gravedigger, of sorts. He buried bodies. Lots of them.
“I don’t mind if you kill him. Ripps,” she said lightly. “Deserves it for riffling through my underthings. As if he’d think I wouldn’t know.”
“I’ll take care of everything, Mrs. Bean,” Fletcher had said, holding onto her hand.
Her face pinched together and then Grandmam had….sobbed. A sound Fletcher had never once heard in his entire life.
“My Freckle. Forgive me. I—should have told you sooner about it, but—I was afraid. So afraid. Not for me, but for you. There’s nothing more dangerous than an ambitious man. His,” she had choked out, blood spilling over her lips. “Secretis in the book. All of it. Terrible business. I needed an advantage. In case,” but another round of coughing left her gasping for breath and washed out against the pillows.
Fletcher thought about those words now as he walked towards Pye Street. This morning, he’d merely thought Mrs. Bean out of her mind with pain, remindin’ him for the dozenth time about Lark and that fuckin’ book.
Before he could question her further, the floor had creaked announcing Mary’s return and effectively ending the conversation. The maid stood in the doorway with a tray, a pot of steaming tea, and a bottle of brandy.
“Mrs. Bean I’ve brought your tea.”
“Took you long enough,” Grandmam snapped as she’d taken Fletcher’s hand once more. Surprisingly strong, given her illness, she had pulled him close and pressed a kiss to his cheek. “I love you, my Freckle. Not good at sayin’ I know,” she whispered in his ear. “I’ll drag things out here as long as I can. Now, off with you,” she had said louder, pushing him aside. “See if the apothecary can make me more of that syrup for my cough. Be quick about it.”
Eyes flinty, with a hardness Fletcher hadn’t seen in Delores Bean since before she fell ill. Not to mention there wasn’t an apothecary in The Devil’s Acre. She was giving him a reason to be gone, one Lark wouldn’t question, nor anyone else.
Mary had rushed over with the tea tray. “Don’t worry Fletch. I’ll tend to Mrs. Bean. You go to the apothecary.”
“A word, Mary, if you will.”
He’d taken the girl aside and explained that Mrs. Bean wanted to make sure she was cared for and gone from The Swan.
“Fletch.” Mary had brushed away a tear.
“I’ve a friend in Cheapside,” Fletcher had told her. “Mrs. Baldwin. She runs a boarding house on Wood Street and is in need of an extra hand. The position is yours if you want it. Or you can take your chances here.”
A hurt look had crossed the maid’s homely features. “But won’t you need me, Fletch?” At the shake of his head she let out a small sound. “You’re leavin’.”
Fletcher hadn’t answered her, just hurried out of The Devil’s Acre, already thinking of Helen and whether she would leave with him. He’d planned to sup with Mrs. Bean tonight and possibly get a confession.
Quickening his steps, Fletcher turned off Pye Street towards the alley where The Swan sat. Fletcher struggled to keep his steps even, but the sense of impending doom, the dread that he’d failed Mrs. Bean grew stronger the closer he came to the brothel.
There were eyes on him, but none more than usual which Fletcher took as a good sign no matter how his stomach twisted about.
He entered The Dancing Swan walking into the main parlor so Mary wouldn’t have to run down from tending Grandmam to answer the door. It was early, and most of the girls would still be upstairs. But oddly, there was no sign of Ripps, which put Fletcher instantly on edge.
Because if the big man wasn’t here,where was he?
He pulled one of the knives from his boot and slid it up into his sleeve. Opening the door in the wall, Fletcher entered his side of the house and peeked in the kitchen. A half-chopped cabbage sat on the worktable, along with a pair of withered carrots. But no Mary. Could the maid have decided to cut her losses and already left for Wood Street?
Fletcher silently made his way across the floor to the stairs, making sure not to put his weight on the ones that creaked. Wailing floated down from above.
“Bloody hell,” he breathed, grabbing at the wall as he raced up the stairs, already knowing, deep inside, what he would find. She’d tried to tell him earlier, hadn’t she?
Running up the rest of the stairs, Mary suddenly bolted out of Grandmam’s room, weeping hysterically and ran right into Fletcher, nearly knocking him over. He grabbed her around the arms. “Mary?”
“Oh, Fletch,” Mary sobbed. “Where have you been?”
Out chasing a foolish, stupid dream.
“The apothecary, remember?” he lied. “Took longer than I thought. The syrup—”
“It don’t matter, now.” Mary burst into a fresh wave of tears. “Mrs. Bean—she’s gone, Fletch. I stayed with her the whole time. So did Ripps. He left to find you.” Another wail.
I’ll bet he did.
