“I’m hunting the Ripper.”
Now, I watched his eyes widen, the black depths flashing more than a little concern. Heartwarming enough, but not at all the regard I needed from an ally. “Why?” he asked me, the yellowed whites of his eyes vanishing again as they narrowed just as quickly.
To the point. I did enjoy Ishmael’s company so. “He’ll lead me to the sweet tooth.”
He did not ask me why again, allowing the previous word to linger.
“I’ve accepted commissions on both.” Not entirely the truth, but I could not admit so much. There was more I did not say than that which I did—that the sweet tooth had murdered my husband, that he was likely a collector, that Zylphia and the sweets demanded his turning over for Menagerie justice, or that the Veil had done the same —for very different reasons.
I was desperate to rob the fiend of his arrogance, his pride, but I could not stop there.
These things would reveal too much, and allow for too many questions.
I was not prepared to answer any, so I gave him the barest of facts.
“The tooth carved up a number of sweets, and hurt one just recent. He’s wanted for Menagerie justice.” Bordering Limehouse meant that Bakers understood the politics. It was one reason they’d been allowed to flourish east of the Veil’s district.
This seemed more than enough information. Ishmael leaned back, his thick lips loosely working as he mulled the knowledge. A spurt of laughter from a golden-haired twist set a riotous chortle among the men surrounding her, and I glanced once to find her in a man’s lap, his hand ‘twixt her thighs.
I was grateful for the mask of the large goggles, for I wasn’t positive that my cheeks did not burn hotly at the wanton, drunken display. I turned back to my friend as nonchalantly as I dared.
Finally, he asked, “What do you want of the Bakers?”
“Eyes and ears,” I said readily. “Nothing more. You wander the whole of London low, still, yes?”
A short nod, but no explanation. While the gangs remained true to their territory, there were many forays into other districts and boroughs. Not always for related activities, but the rules drawn between gangs were not widely known and I dared not pry. Baker business was not mine.
“The Ripper operates most in Whitechapel,” I told him. “I need more eyes than I possess.”
“For what?”
That, I wasn’t positive. I had no description to give, and no certainties to share. I propped my elbows upon the table, folded my forearms over each other. “I am less sure of this,” I admitted. “He operates at random, but he prefers dark places and rooms occupied by a single fen at a time, rather than many.”
I think my casual use of what little cant I knew tended to amuse Ishmael, rather than impress. He often let it slide without comment, as he did my use of fen for a dollymop’s profession.
“I once ran across what I think was him in Dutfield’s Yard, just after a killing,” I continued. A shiver plucked icy fingers down my spine at the memory. Zylphia and I had interrupted the beast before he could do more than slit a woman’s throat. In a fury, he’d gone on to murder another—and do such terrible things to her body as defied sanity. “He’s quick to kill, fast to run, and knows the streets a good sight better than most.”
Silence, pregnant with thought and anticipation, fell between us. The pub only became the noisier for it.
Finally, he stirred. “I like you, girl,” he told me, seriously enough that I made no quip for it. “So I’ll be clear. You’re asking for carriers to look for things what have no real knowing.”
He wasn’t saying that it was impossible. He was warning me that I’d owe for answers I may never get.
“I know,” I said, shrugging helplessly. “All I can say is that your folk have the way of the street, and you might know when a thing is off enough.”
“You sure you’re willing to pay?”
“Yes.” Of that, I had precious little uncertainty. Whatever earned me the Ripper’s trail—the sweet tooth’s capture—would be worth the owing, especially to Ishmael.
The thick ridge of his eyebrows furrowed deeply. “Then it’s done. We’ll keep ears and eyes on the East End.”
“In return?”
He shook his head, the pub lights glancing off his dark skin like a spark off the midnight river water. “We’ll deal in blood for blood.”
It wasn’t an indication of bodily fluids, not as such. I was not being asked to fight, spill blood, or die. The term indicated whatever service he’d ask of me, it was one I was already capable of providing. It could include helping him crack a particularly difficult case, or run with the Bakers for a specific goal. It may even include use of contacts, should he have need. A fair barter: his eyes and ears for my abilities, no more and no less.
It was all I could ask. “Thank you,” I told him.
“No thanks, girl. Just be careful.”
“I will,” I said, but I don’t think that he believed me. His gaze did not soften, and the worry shaping his flat, broad features did not ease.
I took my leave with no more words exchanged, aware that Ishmael could not show untoward friendship with a collector—especially one who had unwittingly gotten a young Baker kinchin slaughtered by that same rival collector I hunted already. That had been the first blow I’d suffered from my rival. Would that it had been the last.
I did not envy Ishmael the delivery of the large Mr. Coventry, but if anybody could achieve a victory, I would put my pounds on my friend.
I was quite proud of myself, for I’d managed to fool Ishmael into looking beyond my personal well-being and focus instead on the task I’d laid before him. Leaving him mulling over his part in our agreement, I made my way through the loud, cheerful pub and into the street. Eyes watched me depart, and there were more along the path I walked to leave Baker territory, but they left me alone. Small favors, and I would take them.
The Bakers were rather more agitated than usual. I suspected a conflict on the horizon. Too bad for Limehouse, trapped between them. I’d tried to warn Hawke and earned nothing but trouble for my efforts. So be it.
I’d do the rest of this on my own.
The remnants of my opium calm wore off at a rapid pace.
I first recognized the signs when my fingers began to shake, and my throat began to ache despite the respirator I re-affixed over my mouth. What I’d considered an ague seemed instead to be directly correlated to the amount of opium I had eaten recently, and how long it had been since I last indulged.
This was concerning, but not a trouble I could mull over while I was so focused on the task at hand. There would be time to worry later.
Or so I assured myself as I made my way out of Poplar and into Whitechapel.
According to the brass pocket watch I found myself checking at too-often intervals, it was half past one and long past the time when sensible working men and women found their beds.
Fortunately, much of Whitechapel claimed residents neither sensible nor working. Or at least working for an honest wage. Prostitution had not seen much of a decline since the Ripper’s deadly antics began, and though the dollymops attempted to stay beneath the lamplight, men who paid were men well worth following.
I witnessed more than enough opportunity for the Ripper to strike simply by walking along a main thoroughfare.
I was left alone, solicited only by the most daring of the doxies, and usually with a teasing tone that suggested they expected no response—a type of contest, to see who among them was brave enough to solicit a collector. Many were too thin, some with hair that had been pulled loose from pins by prior arrangements seen to in the dark, and others shivered in the cold. October was not a kind month for the hungry. It would only get colder each day. Many was the soiled dove who would freeze to death come winter.
Were it not for my own collector’s profession, I could have been among them. The marchioness had already
