Chapter 2
Detective-Sergeant Jonathon Keats sat in the dining hall, just one of many laborers enjoying the substantial food at cheap prices. Of course, he wasn’t there in any official capacity. To the locals he was known as Sean Murphy, and while one eye was on the newspaper, the other searched for anyone who resembled a constable. Caution had quickly become second nature.
With the babble of voices, Keats found it hard to concentrate on his paper.
QUESTIONS ARISE IN MAYFAIR CASE
Did Scotland Yard Shield One of Their Own?
Keats Still On the Run
As if I ever would have had relations with such a despicable woman. The thought was repulsive, enough to make him regret the meal he’d just eaten. In his opinion, Nicci Hallcox was not a beauty, even en mirage. If anything, it was that she represented all that was dark within the human soul. Yet for many, he had to concede, that darkness was an irresistible lure.
As it happened, Nicci considered his revulsion to be a challenge. The last time she’d suggested he spend a night in her bed, she’d dangled a most appealing bait: information about the cache of stolen explosives Desmond Flaherty had so boldly carted off. Instead of taking that bait, Keats had stomped off, swearing he’d find the explosives without her help. In doing so, he’d fanned her wrath and that of her drunken butler.
My first mistake.
There was the scrape of a chair on the wooden floor as a dockworker seated himself farther down the long table. “I heard some toff got burnt up,” he remarked before tucking into his food.
The fire in Wapping was on everyone’s lips. Any blaze that started within a warehouse was of interest in the docks. Keats busily scanned the newsprint until he found the article. To his surprise, he noted his best friend, Alastair Montrose, had been present.
Probably trying to find me. A pang of remorse shot through him. The last few weeks had seen their friendship grow as they’d stood by each other in their darkest hours.
If only I could send him a note, let him know what has happened. But he dared not. Inspector Ramsey, in particular, would be watching the doctor closely, no doubt monitoring his mail for just such a letter.
The article went on to suggest that the sole victim was none other than Hugo Effington, the warehouse owner and well-known bully.
Keats let out a frustrated sigh. Another avenue of enquiry dead. Literally. Effington’s many warehouses made likely hiding places for the stolen explosives. Although Nicci had probably known for sure, Keats hadn’t been willing to pay her price. Now she was dead as well, strangled by someone who had visited her later that very night. Nicci’s butler had testified at the inquest that her last visitor had been Keats, but it could have been any Transitive mimicking his form.
No one would believe that at that very moment he’d been squaring off with five Fenians, been knocked senseless, and then transported into the countryside packed in a coffin, of all things. It sounded absurd. If someone had told Keats such a yarn, he would have laughed heartily as he hauled the miscreant to the clink. Instead, it was his head on the block and his career in tatters.
Folding the paper, he tucked it under his arm with a frustrated sigh. “Ready?” he asked his companion.
Clancy Moran nodded, pushing his bulk away from the table. He had burly arms and a strong body, courtesy of years of work on the docks. His brown hair was unruly, sticking out from around his cap.
“Sounds like a bunch of hogs at the trough in here,” he remarked.
“Hey, watch your mouth!” someone growled.
Clancy glared at the offender, who paled and stammered an apology. Moran was not someone to be trifled with, and most of the dockworkers knew it.
“That’s better,” Clancy replied, sending the man’s hat spinning onto the floor. “Got no manners, do ya?” The fellow pulled on a weak grin and then tucked back into his food, sensing it was prudent to play the fool.
Clancy had told Keats there was a job for him, one that didn’t involve heavy lifting. Until his broken rib healed, that would be the only kind of task he could handle. Besides, Moran wasn’t going to let him get too far out of his sight. Not with the bargain they’d struck.
“What did you say I’d be doing?” Keats asked as soon as they were outside.
“Tallyin’ goods. Someone’s got to count all them barrels and such.”
“How’d you get me the job?” In the last few days, neither of them had been able to find much work. Suddenly, Clancy had them both employed.
“I called in a few favors. This place just lost a man.”
“Lost?” That didn’t sound right.
“He left Rotherhithe all of a sudden,” Clancy added, a mischief in his voice. “Truth be told, I had a kindly word in his ear.”
Keats groaned. It was clear: Clancy had threatened the clerk. The Fenians were respected in the docklands and few would cross them. Clancy Moran was one of them, but at the moment he was Keats’ protector. The lure of the sizable reward kept the big man at his side, at least until Keats could locate the explosives. Then he’d turn himself in and Clancy would get the reward money to start over. It was ironic: a copper being protected by the very sort of man he was sworn to arrest.
Noting his disapproval, Clancy added, “Stop grumblin’. It’s the best way I can keep an eye on ya. If someone else turns ya into the rozzers, they get the money. Remember, that’s our deal.”
“I know, but…”
In an effort to console himself, Keats’ thoughts drifted to the night before. His mind’s eye still lingered on the curve of Jacynda’s calves as she’d removed her boots in his room. He recalled the rising desire between them, the potential of energetic lovemaking, what would have been the final consummation of their ardent feelings for each other.
Then it had all gone wrong, so horribly wrong.
“Ya all right?” Clancy asked.
Keats nodded, not wanting to explain. Instead, he went in a new direction.
“The newspaper said that Hugo Effington was inside that warehouse that burned last night.”
Clancy raised a bushy eyebrow. “Hell ya say. Well, I won’t be sheddin’ no tears, that’s for sure. Nasty bastard. I heard he hit a foreman once, split his head right open with one blow. Poor fella didn’t die. Best if he had.”
“What had he done?” Keats asked.
“Asked about a wagon that came in the night before. He thought somethin’ was a bit dodgy about it. Effington hit him without a by-yer-leave.”
What was Effington so desperate to keep hidden?
Explosives.
“Do you know the fellow’s name?”
“Dillon, or something like that. Some said he’s not been right in the head ever since.” There was a hopeful pause. “Effington burn to death?”
Keats gave his companion a curious look. “No. The papers say he was knifed first, right in the heart.”
“Surprised they could find it,” Clancy remarked with a laugh. “Pity. A bastard like that needed a taste of hell afore he died.”
“The Devil wouldn’t want him. Too much competition.”
Clancy eyed him. “Yer a cynical one, aren’t ya?”
“Can’t be anything but,” Keats remarked. “You think we can find this Dillon, the one Effington hurt so badly?”
“Why?”
“He might know something about Flaherty.”
Clancy nodded. “I like how ya think. Come along, let’s have ya meet yer new boss. And don’t go chappin’ my ass if I don’t move fast enough to suit, ya hear? Those barrels are heavy.”