Returning to his hiding spot, he surmised Mrs. Baldwin was either dead or Lark had advised that she and her boarders vacate the premises. Mary, that disloyal chit, must have run to Lark while Fletcher was with Helen in Galway’s garden. He’d found the lockbox, then waited for Mary to bring him the key, all while Fletcher was crying over the body of Delores Bean and killing Ripps.
Should have known better. You trust no one in The Devil’s Acre.
He might have left then. Let Lark have the damn book since he wanted it so much, but he’d promised Mrs. Bean and the truth,histruth, was in the book. Fletcher was certain of it. He was still debating the merits of whether to retrieve the book or simply flee to the manor house he’d purchased and forget all about Lark when he saw Helen, barely visible through a window.
Fear for her had Fletcher wanting to weep inside the barrel. How long had she been at the boarding house? It had been days since he’d seen her in Galway’s garden. She was obviously meant to lure him inside to his death. He’d always known that Lark wouldn’t be satisfied with only The Dancing Swan and Bean’s Book.
The need to get Helen, keep her safe, became paramount.
But he couldn’t just barge in, not in broad daylight. He’d wait, until darkness descended. As the afternoon lengthened, Fletcher watched Lark swagger up the boarding house steps, leaving one of his men, Blackbird, on the porch. Not an hour later, Lark departed, a smug, self-satisfied grin on his florid features. An hour or so passed. Vulture brought down a body wrapped in a quilt, tossing it carelessly into the alley, just down from where Fletcher hid in the barrel.
No. No. No.
Heart nearly incapable of beating, fear making his palms sweat, Fletcher approached the covered body and carefully pulled back the quilt.
Mary.
His relief was so great Fletcher fell back onto the hard stones of the alley, cursing at the pain in his side. Though she didn’t deserve it after what she’d done, he spared the poor girl a brief prayer. If he could, Fletcher would try to make sure Mary got a decent burial and not leave her to the rats as Vulture had done.
Mrs. Bean wouldn’t have been so charitable.
Fletcher turned towards the boarding house, pressing his body into the brick of the building beside him.
Blackbird stood on the porch picking at his teeth with the edge of a knife and sipping from a bottle of gin.
Larkdidthink Fletcher was a useless idiot, which was an advantage. He certainly didn’t think Fletcher capable of storming the boarding house and taking out both Blackbird and Vulture. Nor should he. Fletcher had done a decent job of letting Lark think he was stupid, liked gin too much and couldn’t pick a pocket to save his life. Mrs. Bean complained loudly and often that Fletcher was useless in a fight as he could barely hold a knife and only cared about bedding the girls at The Swan. None of which was true. But Ripps likely reported that back to Lark.
Lark would imagine that Fletcher would just try to sneak into the boarding house, unable to inflict any pain, and allow himself to be trapped.
Won’t they be surprised.
Just ask Ripps.
“I’m coming, Helen,” Fletcher whispered. She’d likely never speak to him again once he returned her to Galway’s house, nor should she. But at least she’d be alive to hate him.
He crept out of the barrel, two knives in his boot, one stuck up the sleeve of his coat. The pistol was still inside his coat pocket, but that meant noise. Knives were quieter.
Night had fallen in Cheapside and there were few people roaming about. The neighborhood was decent, mostly tradesmen and such, but still it wasn’t bloody Mayfair.
Fletcher moved down behind the boarding house, careful not to be seen. He slid along the edge of Mrs. Baldwin’s house. The smell of cheap gin hung in the air, following Blackbird’s shadow. It wasn’t difficult to pin the man to the wall and slit his throat, before lowering the body to the ground.
Blackbird was dead before he even knew what happened.
Fletcher dragged the body into the same alley where Vulture had tossed Mary, then returned to the boarding house. Opening the front door slowly, he stepped inside, cocking an ear at the stairs.
“Finally, Blackbird. I’ve got to take a piss.” Vulture came down the steps, reeking of gin and grabbing at his crotch. He grunted at the open door, peering through the opening. “Blackbird.”
Knives in both hands, Fletcher stood just behind the door, hidden from sight. He waited for Vulture to step closer, trying not to gag at the smell of onion. Vulture loved onions, often eating them raw throughout the day. Always made it easy to smell him coming.
“Blackbird,” he said again. “I said I’ve got to take a—”
Two knives. One throat. Vulture pissed himself and slid to the floor, spewing blood and clutching one of Fletcher’s legs. The smell of urine mixed with onions in the air.
Vulture’s eyes bulged. “You prick.”
“That’s me,” Fletcher assured him, waiting for the man to properly die.
Vulture’s hand finally went slack and dropped to the floor.
