The Heartbeat Thief (19 page)

She’d figure it out, parchment or no parchment. Everything she’d done since arriving in Whitechapel, she had done on her own. The cage had been left open the moment she left Mrs. Branson’s place. She was free. Senza packed up her belongings, leaving out only her nightgown, her hair brush, and the next day’s dress before locking the door, bolting the window, and crawling into bed.

Tomorrow. Seemed like such a big thing, for the first in a long time. Tomorrow was unknown but she was going somewhere, doing something, starting over on her own.

She woke before noon, knowing Mary never made it out earlier than that. The streets were roiling with horrified buzz. Faces ghastly white and drawn.

Oh, no. Another murder? She caught pieces of whispers and speculation.
Another unfortunate woman, this worse than any of them…

Today. Senza pulled her coat tighter around her. They were leaving today. It wouldn’t be soon enough.

She rounded the corner onto Crispin Street and strode to the crowd around the pump. Nowhere was the sight of Mary’s fire-gold hair.

Streams of people, heading to the market.

“Mary?” She called, hoping she’d just missed her. She reached out to grasp at a sleeve. “Mary Kelly. Have you seen her?”

The woman shook her head and disregarded her. But Senza caught the looks that darted her way, the people who’d heard her ask for Mary. They wore the same horrified look as the whisperers had—

Oh, no. Senza reached for another, stealing a heartbeat and seizing their attention. “Where is Mary Kelly?”

“You ‘aven’t ‘eard, ‘ave yeh? Poor fing.”

Senza yanked another heartbeat loose, not caring if the victim felt it, and turned on her heel, running on the power of the adrenaline of the stolen pulse.

She ran three blocks without slowing, straight to Millers Court. Looking down the soiled alley, she saw the crowd of policemen, the milling masses of onlookers. Out of breath, she burst into the courtyard. The acrid smell of sick surrounded her. A young cop stumbled out of Mary’s door, and he noisily retched against the wall beneath her papered window.

The solid wall of spectator that parted when the policemen carried out a stretcher, a lump under a reddening sheet, a mass of matted fire-gold hair dripping out from beneath.

Mary. That was all that was left of Mary.

The funeral was brief, and sparsely attended. But Senza had made sure she had flowers and a proper stone. The girl’s passing had scraped a tremendous scar across Senza’s tattered heart but she dug deep, to that unfathomable well of grace and decorum that masqueraded as strength. Not exactly the calling she’d once thought would come of her years of good breeding.

It appeared she’d been bred to bury the ones she loved.

She wandered the streets waiting for night to fall. At the Christ Church, she left a generous handful in the donations box before lighting an entire row of red candles for her fallen friend.

It had been years since she’d gone to a church with sincere intention and, for the briefest moment, she considered lighting a candle for all the others she’d lost.

A painful squeeze crushed the air from her lungs. There would never be candles enough.

She sat in the back of the church long after dark, only leaving when the acolyte apologized for needing to lock up. Out on the steps, she looked slowly around at the broad expanse of Commercial Street. What an apt name. Around the corner to her right stood Dorset Street, where more fortunes were stolen and more dignity was sold than could ever be imagined.

Life was business here. Everything had a price.

She narrowed her eyes and scanned the area, the shadows deep and crawling. Everything, that was, but one. And that one was so valuable as to be truly priceless.

Senza tucked the hem of her skirt into the sash around her waist, in the way that Mary had done to announce her occupation. Ripping off her collar and the modesty lace from her neckline, she stuffed the fabric down into her corset, adjusted her bosom, and went out in search of one man, for one reason.

Revenge.

Her beauty did not go unnoticed. She was clean, and fresh, and fairer than a rose in the Queen’s garden. And she was for sale.

She endured offer after offer, shaking her head and scoffing. None of them were the right one. She’d know him when she saw it.

She remembered the long knife Bannick had flashed at her, and the reports in the papers. A long knife was the probable murder weapon. Bannick hated Strickland, and would try to ruin him—what better way than to kill off Strickland’s workers?

Senza sauntered down street after street, pausing beneath every lamp, shaking her hair out to catch the light, and making sure every man saw her.

A voice from behind. Strickland. “So. You decided to take a wage after all, poppet. Shall I assume you and I are in business together?”

“Never assume anything, Mr. Strickland. You’ll only end up disappointed. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m waiting for someone.”

“Oh, my. I detect a tone. Perhaps we should continue this discussion in private. Right this way, my lady.” He grabbed her by her shoulders and shoved her backwards down an alley. A brick alcove dead-ended the route, the pale moonlight casting a ghastly pallor on the damp ground.

“Perhaps I will sample your wares, give you a bit of professional feedback. A coupla pointers, free of charge.”

Senza smiled, cold and stiff, and dragged her fingers along his jaw, letting her pinky finger snatch away a beat from the rude pulse in his throat. Maybe she could drain him if she played him long enough, beat by beat until his well ran dry. “I never expected such gentility in this rough place.”

His heart banged like a bull, so much life in a most unworthy vessel. The naked theft didn’t even give her pause. She had no regard for this man. This man deserved to lose every last beat, even if only to the gutter.

And the gutter was where those beats belonged. The power left a greasy feel on her skin, one that lingered even after she rubbed her fingers in her skirt. The gutter was too good for his heartbeats.

“What are yeh about, now?” He narrowed his eyes and glared at her, holding his cheek. “What did you just do?”

Senza backed up a step. The glint in his black eyes caused a faint alarm to spread through her chest. “I did nothing—”

“You did something. I knows me body and I knows when something is amiss. You did something to me. A poison? Hmm? On your skin?” He leaned in close to her, nosily inhaling against her neck. “Disguised as a perfume?”

She twisted her neck away. He reeked of sweat and tobacco and something sweet, almost cloying, like rotting fruit. “I told you, I didn’t do anything.”

“You did. And now…” He grabbed her by the shoulders and walked her backwards, knocking her off balance. “I’ll do yeh like a bleedin’ strumpet needs done. Yer girly friends, they got cocky, too. I don’t need no sass, not when there’s plenty of fanny to be traded here. I’ll do yeh like those other dogs needed done.”

“If you do me, do I get to do yeh back?” She played the part of the coy whore, sassing him with her batting lashes and cocksure grin. Had to distract him from the stolen beat. If he knew what she did—

He chuffed a gravelly sound, mean laughter. He knew something. All the charm in the world couldn’t smother his suspicion.

“If yeh got the guts to do it, sure.” He pressed her back against the wall, the rough stone scraping her shoulders beneath her thin scarf. The silver blade in his hand glinted when he held it close to her face, a sliver of moon in a cold, careless night. A long blade. Just like the papers said. “But I don’t think you wi—”

His words ended in a gurgle as a long red-sheened blade pushed out through the front of his throat. Hot, sticky blood sprayed out, drenching Senza in a copper-scented sheet of scarlet.

She couldn’t even scream. The horror, fast and inevitable, played itself out inches from her person and all she could do was watch.

Strickland clawed at his neck, unable to stop the blade as it sliced all the way out the side, partially severing his head. His eyes fixed upon hers before they blanked. Senza clutched his wrist, ripping away the last struggling beats of his heart.

He dropped into a rumpled heap, dead before he struck the ground.

Standing behind him was a well-dressed young man, holding a bloodied knife.

Her legs tingled from the shock of seeing Strickland slain. The gentleman stood askance, idly cleaning his knife on an embroidered handkerchief. How could he be so nonchalant?

Then—then his face came into focus, as the blood rush slowed. His face, familiar.

“Evans!” She struggled to draw a big enough breath to speak. “You saved me!”

“I just can’t fathom what a woman like you is doing in this wretched town.” He tossed the handkerchief onto Strickland’s body.

The linen square landed on Stickland’s face, partially obscuring the neck bent at an impossible angle, eyes staring, mouth open. Senza could still see those wretched features. She always would.

“My sister was most distressed when you turned up missing.” He flipped the handle of the blade around in his hand, rolling it through his fingers. “But you are a beautiful, remarkable thing. Too unique to overlook.”

Senza heard the subtle tone. Compliments, she was used to hearing. This was darker. Different. “That disgusting man was a pimp. He killed my friend, and her friends. You saved every woman in Whitechapel from the threat of this vile murderer.”

“He was a pimp, but he was no murderer. He actually did try to keep his girls alive. Dead women don’t earn, you know. But when I saw you slumming around with my bangtail, well. I knew it was just a matter of time until you realized who was sharing her room. And I can’t have you going back to Chelsea, bearing tales.”

“What are you talking about, Evans? I’m not going back to Chelsea.”

“No, you definitely are not. You, dearie, are for the pigs. Did you know? Pigs are remarkable creatures. They will eat absolutely anything put in front of them. Some men are like that, too. Too bad you didn’t learn that before you learned how to muddle up someone else’s secrets.” He looked at her, his expression a mix of pity and bruised anger. Slowly, he stalked a semi-circle around her, pinning her in place. “I can’t do you here and leave you; your gorgeous face would be all over the papers and it’d be only a matter of time before it all came back to me. No, you are going to be trimmed into a neat pile of tiny bits, and then I’m going to serve you up to the pigs in the market.”

Sudden clarity made her blood cold. The horror of it, that someone who lived a life of such wealth and privilege could be capable of such depravity, made her stomach roll. “It was you, wasn’t it? You killed those women. Annie, and Lizzy, and Kate, and—”

“And Mary Jane, that most deviant and pliable creature.” Regret lowered his brows for the briefest moment. Senza knew there was no contrition in his shriveled heart. He felt no regret for what he’d done—only that he’d destroyed his plaything, and would now do without. “I’m going to miss that one. You see,
she
—”

He lunged toward her, closing the distance between them. Lifting his hand, he brandished the blade close to her face, emphasizing his point. “Now,
she
was worth every penny. Cleaned up nice, bit of a sassy banter, actually had a brain. Could have been so much more with just a little push in the right direction. You knew that, didn’t you?”

He grabbed her chin, puckering her lips between his thumb and forefinger, and pressed the knife against her cheek. The blade bit in, sliced a shallow line. Blood streaked down her cheek like tears, cooling to a sting in the November air.

His breath was pungent, old tobacco and cheap liquor. “That’s why she told me she wouldn’t be having me anymore. She was leaving Whitechapel. She was going to be a proper lady, she said. And it was no gentleman that was stealing her from me. Oh, no. It was her best girlfriend, a beautiful angel with hair even redder than her own. She spent nearly an hour telling me all about your good and generous heart.”

Evans sighed. “And that’s when I couldn’t take it anymore. All this talk about hearts and, well, I needed to wrap my fingers around hers, get in close and deep and warm, so she knew no one would ever love her the way I did. I opened her up and spread her out and all I saw in there was me. Not you. So, it’s your fault, you see. You should have stayed in Chelsea. You forgot your place. Now, it’s too late to regret it.”

He flipped the knife around in an arc and jabbed it into her side. With a grunt, he jerked it hard toward her ribs.

Pain lanced through her, too massive to even mount a scream. She clutched at him, eyes wide, and mouth agape. Her lungs burned, her back, her side. All burned in a flash fire of screaming, silent pain.

He smiled down at her, watching her sink to the ground. Gasping, like a fish on the pier. The pain, the pain—

“Oh, oh, oh, oh.” He clucked his tongue. “That’s a good girl, now. Not much fight left in you. That’s good. Makes the rest of this easy. Soon, I’ll be the only thing I see inside you, too. But just to be safe. Let’s wreck that pretty scream of yours before it ruins our fun, shall we?”

“Please.” She gasped, clutching at his hand. One heartbeat. Two. Evans was excited, triumphant, and his heart pounded, and she took a stream of beats, crimson pearls on a string. “Please.”