Chapter Thirty-Eight

J ack moved along the docks looking for the warehouse in question. They were not well signed, but asking for the location was not really an option. Discretion was vital, and announcing his presence by asking someone to direct him there was hardly the way to go about that.

When he finally found the building, he noted that it was locked and deserted. Not surprising, given the hour. What was surprising were the footsteps he heard approaching. Ducking into the shadows, he reached for the knife tucked into the concealed holster at his waist, prepared to meet any potential threat. But the footsteps halted nearby.

"Who's there?"

Jack recognized the voice instantly. It was none other than the Hound himself. Tucking the blade back into place, he stepped forward. "I see you received my message."

The Hound visibly relaxed as another man stepped forward. Jack knew him instantly, not by name but certainly by vocation. He was a Runner for sure. There was a look about them, a watchfulness.

"I did, and I thank you for your assistance," the Hound replied. "Have you found anything yet?"

"Sadly, no. I have not found any purloined lady's maids just lying about the place. Who is your associate, Carrow?"

The Hound laughed even as the other man bristled. "Careful, Collinsworth. You don't want to end up on the wrong side of Bow Street. Oh, too late for that. But you don't want to draw their ire."

"I'm Inspector Maurice Bates, and I'm here to determine whether Lord Ernsdale was murdered by his wife or his nephew. That is all. I do not, as a general rule, associate with criminals."

Jack couldn't stop the chuckle that escaped him. "No, I don't imagine you do. You'd be in a better mood if you did, though. We're right fun, we are."

"Enough chatter. Let's search inside." The Hound stepped forward and retrieved a tool from his pocket. He made quick work of the lock while the Runner simply stared steadfastly in the opposite direction. Once the lock gave, he pushed the heavy door open. The interior of the space was dark. There were crates of fabric stacked nearly to the rafters. There were bolts of cloth draped across tables and benches. There was not, however, a single sign of life within. The place was empty, and he would stake his life on it.

"He only said he saw them near Fincham's. Not in Fincham's," Jack mused. "Where else might he have taken her?"

The Hound gazed out through the open door toward the Thames. "I fear the answer to that question, Collinsworth."

The river was unforgiving. It carried bodies away so that some might never be found. Others sank to the bottom only to be discovered later in a state that no human should ever be in. "Let's not jump to the worst conclusion just yet... but we should check the wharfs just in case."

"We'll go left. You go right."

Jack nodded then headed off. He walked down the first quay, checking the water on either side. There was nothing. But as he started down the second quay, he heard something that sounded off. It was not the sound of the water lapping at the pilings. It was different, lacking that same lulling rhythm. Between those laps, there were distinct thumps.

He acknowledged that it might be nothing. There could be a piece of debris caught up around the pilings. Or a body. Finding the earthly remains of some poor unfortunate girl who happened to wind up on the wrong side of Simon Dagliesh was the very last thing he wanted, but he had to accept that it was a very real possibility.

Heading back toward the bank, he stepped off the boards. His feet sank into the silt, and he struggled to retain his balance as he moved deeper beneath the quay. The water was already over the tops of his boots and rising by the second. Whatever searching he meant to do under there would have to be done quickly.

There was little light as he moved from one set of pilings to the next. He didn't see the barrel until he nearly fell over it. It was half submerged, the water lapping at the sides.

Feeling foolish, he rapped softly on the top of the barrel. "Miss Foster?"

There was a muffled scream from within.

"Christ," he muttered. Retrieving the blade from his waist once more, he began prying at the staves, taking chinks out of them until he could finally pry the top free. Ignoring the splinters that sank into his fingers, he ripped it away and peered inside. His heart lodged in his throat as he stared down into wide, frightened eyes that gleamed with tears in the dim light.

Jack had always had quite the soft spot for ladies. He'd never met one he didn't like. Young or old, fat or thin, pretty or plain. It didn't matter to him. Women were almost mystical creatures to his mind, and as such, he had a kind of reverence for them that would never permit him to act violently against one or to tolerate that sort of violence from others. And Annie Foster, quietly pretty and entirely terrified, had suffered greatly.

"Let's get you out of there," he said, trying to keep his tone gentle, trying to hold back the anger he felt at seeing her so abused for nothing more than the selfish agenda of a spoiled boy who lacked honor and a conscience.

Holding out his hand to her, she placed hers in his. It trembled like a bird's. When she rose to her feet, her knees buckled. She would have fallen back into the filthy water that was slowly filling that barrel had he not caught her. Realizing that she was too weak, too frightened or possibly injured from being cramped in that small space for so long, he simply lifted her out of it.

"I've got you," he said. "The Hound is waiting up there to see you home. Can you stand?"

"I think so," she said, her voice hoarse from having screamed for so long. "But don't let me go. Please."

"I won't. I will not let you go," he promised.

*

In the compartment beneath the carriage seat, Honoria remained silent. With every bump and rut in the road, she bit her lip to stay quiet. Above all, she stayed quiet to listen, to hear everything that Simon Dagliesh said to her sister.

"How much money is there?" Simon demanded.

Hettie's answer was soft and but audible. "I wouldn't know. Men never deign to share such pertinent information with a mere woman. I doubt Arthur swayed the trustees to part with too much of it."

"You must have some notion. Ten thousand? Twenty?"

Honoria knew the range was significantly higher. But that was not information Simon needed to have. Anything that would make him more determined to see Hettie dead in order to claim the remaining fortune was something that should remain secret for as long as possible. He was a lord, after all, and the law very rarely made men of such position pay for their misdeeds.

There was a loud rapping sound. Simon had ordered the carriage to stop.

Honoria held her breath. Sally was not a coachman. Putting her in livery did not make her one. Handling a matched pair of carriage horses was a far cry from driving a farm cart. If she fumbled the reins or revealed herself in any way, that would be the end of all of them.

The carriage wheels slowed as Honoria's heart sped up in opposing proportion. When at last it rolled to a stop, smooth as silk and in no way belying that it was not an experienced driver on the box, Honoria barely held back the sigh of relief. It was time. And failure was not an option.

*

Hettie tried to remain calm, tried to keep her gaze averted from the boot compartment where Honoria had secreted herself. She tried not to glance out the windows to see if the women Sally had gathered were now in place. If the plan was to work, he had to get her out of the carriage and take her to the place where Annie Foster was being held.

When the hoofbeats faded and the wheels finally stopped, she gathered the last bit of her courage for the part that would come next. She made no move to exit the carriage. Instead, she remained there quietly waiting for his command to do so. Appearing too eager to meet her fate would only rouse his suspicion, and he needed to think she was compliant and docile. At least for the time being.

"Get on your feet," he commanded her.

"I'm not going anywhere until I know that Annie Foster is safe."

"If you want to see Annie Foster again, you'll get on your bloody feet and you'll shut your mouth."

Hettie had no doubt that he was capable of violence. She'd always known that of him. But he seemed to be teetering precariously on the edge of it, as if he might lose control of his temper at any second. Given the scheme he was attempting to pull off, his desperation was glaringly apparent.

"You won't get away with this. You will be pursued to the ends of the earth," she said. "Even if you manage to take my life and secure your position as Arthur's heir, you won't benefit from it. There are those who will see that you do not."

"They have no power over me," he said dismissively. "I have a title. They are naught but squalling gutter rats no matter how much wealth they may have amassed! You and your sister were barely clinging to your status as genteel with your continued association with the worst sorts that this city has to offer. And in the end, Henrietta, those poor unfortunates who feed on your generosity will be the only ones who miss you. Even then, they will only miss what you provide for them. In short, no one will miss you when you are gone. Your sister will be too busy with her criminal husband to be bothered."

Hettie smiled. "You do not know my sister. Or her husband, for that matter. And you would be surprised at how many people will miss me... and the lengths to which those people will go to make certain you regret your actions this night."

His answering grin was chilling. "I'll take my chances. You want to see your maid? Fine. You can change places with her. It's a fitting way for you to shuffle off this mortal coil. Though perhaps after your brave escape from Walpole, you've overcome your fear of water."

Hettie suppressed a shiver. Her fear of water remained and might, in fact, be stronger than ever. But she couldn't let him see that. Giving him any hint of weakness would only make it more difficult. So she climbed down from the carriage with him right behind her. When he reached out and grabbed her arm, locking his fingers around it in a bruising grip, she uttered not a complaint. But as he walked her toward the docks that faced the row of warehouses, she dared a single glance over her shoulder. Sally was no longer perched atop the box, and the carriage door stood open. She couldn't see them, but she knew they were there, hiding in the shadows and watching over her as Simon led her into the darkness.