Chapter 9

NINE

A brisk autumn morning dawned seven days after John had found Miss Latimer in the conservatory at Bradford House to tell her that he was not, in fact, dead. Her immense relief at seeing him had been palpable, but he couldn’t help worrying about the agonized guilt in her expression when she realized that a man had died for her actions. She had probably already come to realize in the days since that another murder had been committed in the name of finding whoever had put Archie Neville in Newgate.

She would be devastated. No. He shook his head as he pushed open the door to the warehouse for sparring practice. She would be angry. She would blame herself. And John couldn’t let that happen. But dammit, how was he to stop Archie from his streak of vengeance if he barely saw the man? He was certainlynot involved in the rash of killings and violence Archie was meting out upon the residents of the East End as he sought out those who had got him jailed – John hadn’t come close enough to insinuating himself in Archie’s inner circle enough to be tasked with performing shakedowns and threats, let alone murders. The failure to get close to the Bruisers’ leader had his bosses at Whitehall worried, especially now with the explosion of violence, and John’s stomach was in knots as he nodded towards the Devil, who was already in the ring with another one of the ranks, a burly dark-skinned man who ducked and weaved to avoid the Irishman’s swift strikes.

John threw his coat over the back of a chair and took a moment to surreptitiously watch the two fighters as he warmed up, noting carefully that the Devil, while quick for a man so large, nevertheless favoured his right knee. The other man, named Alexander Turner, lacked reach in his arms but had a powerful hook. When they finally drew apart, the Devil turned and nodded at John, who had finished warming up and ducked under the ropes.

Alexander stepped out of the ring as John shook out his shoulders and tilted his head side to side to loosen the muscles in his neck. The Devil, a man of few words, simply nodded at him, and John raised his fists in response, ducking back immediately when he attacked with a straight strike. They danced about the ring for a while, John taking advantage of the Devil’s weak knee by keeping him moving to the right. The Devil had noticed and frowned as he parried a hook and struck out, landing a blow on John’s shoulder. John shook it off; the Devil wasn’t going to waste his energy on a sparring match and had pulled the punch, but John had been on the other end of one of the Irishman’s real hits and his nickname was well-earned.

It was only in the ring, with sweat beading on his skin and his breath growing short, that John was able to momentarily forget Miss Latimer and the haunted look in her eyes as she realized the grave consequences that had come with sending Archie to the one place he surely belonged. And as he jabbed and grappled and parried, the sweat slicking down his back and his muscles burning, his focus narrowed on the man opposite him. That was until someone cleared their throat behind him and broke the trance. The Devil, facing the person behind him, immediately dropped his arms and stepped back, his expression blank. John, shaking his head and blinking to refocus his attention, turned.

Archie Neville stood in the shadows beyond the ring, hands in his pockets, bowler hat pulled low over his brow. He jerked his head towards the door and the Devil dutifully stepped out of the ring and gathered his shirt before disappearing. John now met Archie’s shadowed gaze as he stood in the empty ring, chest heaving as he fought to catch his breath. The Bruisers’ leader slowly withdrew his hands from his pockets and shrugged out of his tweed overcoat. He set it carefully over a nearby chair and, never speaking a word, removed his jacket and waistcoat and began to loosen his tie. As he raised his arm to unbutton his cuff, he finally spoke.

“You still good to go?”

John drew in a deep breath to slow his racing heart and released it before shrugging.

“I reckon.”

Archie nodded as he tugged off his undershirt, revealing a massively muscled chest adorned with a dozen tattoos of varying quality. The most prominent, indelible over his heart, was a crudely drawn square in black ink to symbolize the fighting rings most of them had come from, the one given to all members of the Bruisers once they reached their one-year anniversary. John had several months to go until it would be his turn, though he hoped the operation would be concluded before it came to that. There was a slew of others; women in various states of undress, the five dots given to those convicted clustered between his thumb and forefinger, a heart curling around his right bicep, but on his left arm, a small set of initials, VL. It didn’t take much work to conclude that this particular tattoo was for one Violet Latimer. Every muscle in John’s stomach tightened at the thought of her, of her name marked upon that man’s skin; the man who had threatened her, taken her life from her and would kill to get her back.

John’s skin prickled with rage as Archie slipped under the ropes marking the boundary of the ring, but his expression remained blank as the other man took up a roll of linen and began to wind it about his huge hands, all the while his gaze fixed on John. His eyes were unreadable, but John could sense the fury in the Bruisers’ leader. A muscle in his jaw twitched as Archie strolled across the ring as though he hadn’t a care in the world, tucking in the ends of the bandages on his hands and flexing them as he raised his darkgaze. The corner of his mouth kicked up as he drew a line in the dirt floor between them with the toe of his boot.

“Will you come up to scratch?”

John did not miss the goading tone in Archie’s voice, but he smiled easily and raised his fists.

“Let’s go.”

Without hesitating, the other man immediately drew his right arm back and slammed it forward again in what would have been a devastatinghook had John not ducked out of the way just in time to feel the whistle of air as Archie’s fist swung past him. There was no pulling back on that punch, and there was no pause before the next as Archie swung again, and again, crossing easily over the line he had drawn as he pressed forward. John feinted and parried, giving ground to the other man as he took a moment to collect his thoughts and turn his analysis to Archie’s form, to find a weakness. He leaned back to avoid another sharp strike, then straightened, and struck out with a swift right hook, finally landing a blow on Archie’s shoulder. The other man shook it off, but his brows drew together in a menacing scowl as he took a moment to collect himself before he gave a quick, shrewd smile, stepping back and lowering his arms a fraction. John straightened, cautious, but kept his fists raised.

“Any word on my Violet?” Archie asked suddenly as he bounced from side to side, rolling his immense shoulders, and shaking out his hands. John shrugged and raised his fists once more as Archie did the same.

“Heard a girl fittin’ her description was seen workin’ Narrow Street by the docks. I’m headed there after practice.”

Archie shook his head, jabbed, missed. “You go there, you’re not comin’ back. Limehousers are out for our blood.”

John didn’t respond that this was because Archie had already had two members of the Limehouse Gang murdered and dismembered, though the Bruisers denied any involvement. He instead struck out with a quick left hook, then a back fist that caught Archie on the shoulder. Once again, he shook it off and feinted left.

“She’s not here, Archie. You want her found or not?”

The other man laughed. “If you’re willin’ to die to find her, you go right ahead. I’ve a dozen other fighters who’ll take your place.”

John grinned. “But none who can best Archie Neville,” he said as he found the gap in Archie’s stance, slipping behind his strike to hook his arm across Archie’s chest and throw him backwards over his hip, unbalancing him and sending the Bruisers’ leader to the ground with a deafening thud.

It was a calculated move, and John stepped back to wait. A moment passed, the dust settled, and he finally lowered his arms, his chest heaving as Archie recovered himself and glanced up. For a passing instant, John thought the gamble had paid off; the corner of Archie’s mouth turned up in a grudging smile as he pushed himself up off the ground and brushed the dust from his trousers. He gave a short laugh.

“Tommy said you were good.”

John remained silent as the other man shook his head, as though in disbelief, and began to unwrap his hands. He laughed again.

“Didn’t think you’d have the guts to do it.” When he finally looked up, he was no longer smiling, but John didn’t look away as his lips turned up in a sneer. “But if you can’t find one fuckin’ whore in this city, then you’re no bloody use to me. You’ve a week.”

John again said nothing, though he did clench his jaw together as the other man turned and stepped out of the ring, his silence a rebuke, to gather his things and leave through the warehouse door, slamming it behind him.

The knot in John’s stomach tightened and he cursed into the silence. Now what?

Days passed, locked away in Bradford House, and Violet began to growangrier and angrier. Her rooms, lovely and well-appointed though they were, began to feel suffocating. The gardens, once her favorite part of the estate, began to bore her. Even her art suffered. She would set up her easel with a fresh canvas, ready to be inspired, but nothing would come. She made a few half-hearted attempts to paint the massive oak tree she and Della had picnicked under, but always ended up abandoning the work.

In the mornings, as she breakfasted with the staff, she would draw one of the newspapers scattered upon the tabletop towards her and find article after article about the increasing violence happening in Covent Garden and the surrounding areas. Another mugging, a business ransacked, a fire set. No one was ever caught, and there were never any suspects, but Violet knew who was responsible. Archie would burn the rookery to the ground to find her. And no member of the Limehouse Gang was safe from the cloud of suspicion that one of them had turned him in.

The guilt made her sick. And Archie’s cruelty made her angry. Worse than angry. Vengeful. She hated that she had run away from him that night in Paris, knowing now that if she had gone with him, she might have stopped all this from happening.

Mr. Barrow hadn’t returned since his last visit, and every news story about another act of violence made her stomach clench in terror. This time it had been him. This time Archie had found him out. But no word came from the police, and so she convinced herself that he was safe, and she pushed down the fear.

But the anger remained. And the guilt was not far behind.

On a chill autumn afternoon, the sky leaden with low clouds, she stood in the kitchen near the hearth, vigorously kneading a lump of dough. Mrs. Beatty was nearby peeling potatoes for the staff dinner when Mrs. Cooper suddenly spoke up from where she sat at the big trestle table, quietly stitching a linen napkin.

“It’s a good bit of luck you’re staying here with us, Miss Latimer. It looks as though Covent Garden has gone completely to pot. Why, look here – just last night another body was found inside one of the tenements. It must be terrifyingto be a resident – not even safe inside your own home!”

Mrs. Beatty tutted in agreement, but Violet remained silent as she shoved the dough with the heel of her hand, the rage mounting inside her as she tried to hold back the string of curses she longed to shout at Archie Neville. After she slammed the dough into a bowl to let it rise, Mrs. Beatty paused her peeling to give her a worried look as Violet marched over to the table to Mrs. Cooper, who had now moved onto a small hole in one of the tablecloths.

“May I have that newspaper, Mrs. Cooper?”

The housekeeper looked slightly taken aback but nodded. “Of course.”

Violet snatched up the paper to view the article Mrs. Cooper had been reading from. Indeed, another dismembered body had been found inside a bedroom in one of the tenements, not far from where she had worked at Cora’s brothel in nearby Seven Dials, a life that seemed to have been lived an eternity ago. She read quickly, her face growing hotter as the gruesome details were listed, her stomach churning with revulsion until she reached the last few lines of the article. The victim has been identified as Mr. Joseph Pomeroy, a former member of the Limehouse Gang and owner of the Queen’s Head public house in Wapping. Witnesses are asked to contact the Metropolitan Police with information.

Mrs. Cooper looked on with a concerned expression as Violet lowered herself, shaking, into the chair beside her, never taking her eyes from the paper, reading the name over and over again. She had known Joseph – he had been a regular client of Cora’s, a quiet, reserved man who had been widowed and would visit the brothel where she worked once a week. He had been kind to Violet and the other girls. She remembered him speaking fondly of his wife; that they had wanted children but never been blessed. He had an old lurcher named Boots, on account of his white feet. Violet’s heart raced as she read more stories from the rookeries – there had been a violent assault at a bakery, and a man pushed in front of an oncoming horse and cart just a few days past, and she swallowed back a wave of nausea. Joseph – a man who surely had never laid an angry hand upon anyone in his life – was dead, and Violet would bet her life that Archie was the one responsible. No… not Archie. Joseph was dead because of Violet. She was just about to lay the paper down, sickened by the guilt curdling her stomach, when another headline caught her eye.

Edward Brill, leader of the Limehouse Gang, suspected of building a fortune through extortion and protection rackets throughout the East End over the last twenty years, makes surprise donation to the Spitalfields Ragged School. A sum of ￡1,000 was given in order that the school may stay open in the face of closure due to much-needed repairs to the facility. This follows the opening of a gentleman’s club in Soho by Mr. Brill by the name of the Brooklyn Club, said to have one of the finest menus in London and already attracting a clientele of the city’s most prestigious residents.

Edward Brill. Violet frowned down at the paper in her hands. A thought, an idea so outlandish she dared not say it out loud, began to form in her head. For a long time, she told herself it was madness; it would only bring her closer to the one place she sought to avoid, and to the one person she dared not confront. But she couldn’t stay in this house one minute longer while people died. Innocent people. There was no time left to wait for Archie to warm to Mr. Barrow – who knew how many people would be hurt or worse before then? She was going to stop Archie. She glanced up at Mrs. Cooper, who had taken up a small pair of scissors to snip at some loose threads.

“How do I get word to Mr. Barrow?”