He entered the door, feeling half-starved and filthy, not dissimilar to the residents of this building, and started climbing the stairs. While there had been people in the front hallway, the staircase was deserted but for the ground-in remains of vegetables on the steps. He recognized potato skins and wondered why anyone here would be so wasteful of food.
Behind the doors, he heard people talking, babies crying. Tobacco smoke drifted into the hallway from under doors. He slipped on some kind of leaf and grabbed for the wall. After he knocked it off his shoe using the edge of a step, he continued climbing.
He didn’t expect to see the door of Manfred Cross’s flat open when he arrived on his floor. Didn’t Lady Elizabeth have any sense of safety? He reached into his sock and pulled out the knife he kept concealed there, then crept along the wall, darting swiftly across the passage until he was against the doorjamb. He peered into the front room and saw no sign of movement, only devastation.
A fainting couch and a wooden table were the main furnishings of the room. The table was heaped with kitchen wares, likely dumped from the cupboards, but the couch had been overturned, the upholstery slashed.
He listened intently but didn’t hear any suspicious noise. Creeping forward, he peered into the single bedroom. While empty of people, the bedroom was full of feathers and mangled fabric. The mattress had been slashed and torn from the frame. The bedclothes were strewn around the floor, along with clothing scraps. The wardrobe gaped now, empty, and a small chest had been dumped on its side.
Of Lady Elizabeth Shield there was no sign. He didn’t see bloodstains either. But now he thought about the vegetable matter on the stairs. He went back into the outer room and found no sign of any foodstuffs, only tableware and cooking paraphernalia, a little spilled salt. Had Lady Elizabeth been attacked on the stairs while returning with supplies? If so, some resident would likely have stolen her basket.
He made a quick search of the place, to see if he could find anything the robbers had missed: the jewels that Cross had stolen or personal documents. Luck struck when he stepped near the bedroom window and felt a board creak. He used his knife to pry it up and found a bag containing a quantity of coins and a fine emerald necklace. A second bag contained some silver serving pieces and a sapphire ring. Shite. Dougal tucked the contraband into his coat. He’d take the silver and jewelry to the High Street police station but save the money for the use of Lady Elizabeth or Cross.
Dismissing the idea of speaking to neighbors about what had happened because of his certainty that they would say nothing, and also mindful of the expensive items on his person, he went back down numerous flights of stairs, noting that the vegetable matter trail started the floor below the Cross flat and didn’t end until the steps just above the front lobby. A pity, that. She might have left a trail out of the door.
He saw a constable’s trademark blue cape and reinforced top hat across the street and made his way to the man.
After introducing himself, he explained the situation. “The debris seems fresh, and no one has stolen the contents of the flat as of yet. Have ye seen anyone carrying off a girl, or a girl running?”
The constable shook his head, but his heavily lidded eyes and the dark circles beneath them didn’t give Dougal confidence that he would have noticed anything. “Nothing like that. I pass this way every two hours.”
“That’s a long span of time in which something could happen.” Shite again.
The constable agreed.
Dougal went to the central police station and asked to speak to his usual contact, a detective who had been trained by the great James McLevy. Thomas Tippett was nearly thirty years into his storied career and showed it in his ponderous weight and heavy jowls.
Dougal, well known by the officer on duty, was sent back to Tippett’s desk. The great man chewed on a cigar, his Wellington boots propped up on an open desk drawer. He appeared to be cogitating.
Dougal dumped his two sacks on the desk, the contents rattling satisfactorily. Tippett opened his eyes, lazy as a cat.
“What ye got, boy?”
“Evidence relating to the Cross case.”
Tippett poked one fat finger into the larger of the sacks. He lifted it and the emerald necklace came up, dangling from a yellowed fingernail. “Where did ye find it?”
“Under a floorboard in Cross’s bedroom.”
“Ye were paid for your part in the case. What were you doing sniffing around the flat?”
Dougal hooked a chair with his boot, pulled it over, and sat. “I have a private case, had it for nearly a year, in fact. Lady Elizabeth Shield ran away from her London home, presumably in pursuit of Manfred Cross, on Easter Sunday last year. She was last spotted here in Edinburgh with Cross, then vanished.”
Tippett picked a piece of tobacco off his tongue and examined it. “Ye find her?”
“I met her,” he admitted. “I think she was posing as Cross’s maid, with a fake accent and dyed hair. I met with her family in London, ye see, and recognized Lady Elizabeth’s brother’s features as matching the maid’s.”
Tippett grunted. “Ye see Cross? You heard he was sent down to Newgate?”
Dougal nodded. “He verified my suspicions about Lady Elizabeth, but when I returned to the flat today, it had been torn to pieces. I can’t be sure, as the trail didn’t quite lead tae the flat, but there was a mess all down the stairs, as if someone had trampled the contents of a market basket.”
Tippett removed the cigar from his lips and tossed it into an overflowing ashtray. “You’re telling me a runaway English noblewoman was hiding as a maid and seems tae have disappeared?”
“Exactly. I spoke to the constable who patrols that area. He hadn’t seen anything, but he only goes by the
land
a few times a day.”
“Might have been paid off anyway,” Tippett said. “We’re having some trouble with white slavers again. Sneaking girls off by ship, selling them to Arabs who pick them up in France.”
Dougal chuckled. “That sounds like the stuff of Gothic novels.”
Tippett pulled his boots from the drawer and slammed it shut. “I’m serious, lad.”
“I was thinking more along the lines of Cross’s associates. Maybe they were looking for this lot,” Dougal said, pointing to the bags. “Took Lady Elizabeth tae interrogate her.”
“And will sell her to the slavers when they’re done with her,” Tippett opined.
“Or kill her,” Dougal said, realizing the detective was not poking fun. What mess had Lady Elizabeth gotten herself into this time?
The corners of the detective’s mouth turned down. “Exactly. What do you want from me?”
“Surely all this pinched merchandise is good for a favor or three.” Dougal offered his best winning smile.
Tippett sniffed. “How do you know it isn’t Lady Elizabeth’s personal property?”
Dougal pulled out a small, thick notebook and flipped to the beginning. He had one for each serious case. “I have a list here that the family offered of jewelry that disappeared with her ladyship. No emerald necklaces or sapphire rings. She had pearls mostly, some gold items.”
“Right. I’ll compare these items to what we think Cross stole,” the detective said. “Here, we’ll make a list right now, just in case your ladyship’s family forgot some of their goods.”
Dougal sat forward, knowing this was a necessary part of the game, though he itched for action. But he had no way of knowing where Lady Elizabeth had been taken, if indeed she had been. He might have to spend the evening knocking on doors after all.
Tippett ponderously wrote out a description of each of the ten items Dougal had liberated, muttering to himself. He wandered away for a bit, and Dougal managed to cadge a cup of tea before the detective came back with a ledger. He wheezed gently as he ran his fingers down the page, making check marks.
“I recognize everything but this silver gravy boat,” Tippett said finally, tucking his cigar back into the corner of his mouth. “Ye did good, boy.”
“What else?”
Tippett’s enormous chest rose and fell, his blue tailcoat straining. “Cross isn’t known to have any associates.”
“A fence?”
“In London,” Tippett said readily. “Best as we can tell. Never dealt with anyone locally.”
Dougal drank his cup’s contents, nearly swallowing the lone tea leaf at the bottom. “Who would want to toss the place? Who would know tae look for the swag there?”
Tippett shrugged. “You hunted Cross. What did ye tell the locals?”
Dougal drummed his fingers on the desk, concerned for a moment that he might have brought this misfortune on the lady during his search. “No. I didn’t ask anyone questions about Cross. I didn’t know it was Cross when I went through the building. That was just before he was caught in the bushes outside that ball with the diamond necklace.”
“Right,” Tippett said. “What about in the lockup? Fellow prisoners? Someone who was released since?”
Dougal nodded slowly. “That’s the most likely. He wasn’t there long, but long enough.”
“Talk to the constable there. See if he can point ye in any directions.”
Dougal scratched his cheek. “Anything else?”
“I’d take yourself to Leith before the next tide goes out, make sure your lady isn’t on a ship.”
“So there really are white slavers, then?”
“Ye wouldn’t run across them much in your line. Your contacts and cases are a bit more upper crust, what with your background. They mostly take girls who are out on the street. But the problem is real.”
Dougal considered. “Have a tide table in this mess?”
Tippett pulled open a drawer and poked around. “They aren’t likely to attempt to set sail with a cargo of screaming girls in the daytime, and you’ve about missed this afternoon’s high tide anyway. Try a few minutes before three in the morning.”
“Where are they keeping the screaming girls the rest of the time?” Dougal asked.
Tippett shrugged. “Lots of grain warehouses dockside.”
“Look, I get this seems to be a lark to ye, but I’ve got a missing marquess’s sister on my conscience.”
Tippett’s round face rose from his drawer.
“Yes, a marquess,” Dougal snapped. “Ye can’t treat my case like it’s just another bunter gone missing.”
The detective’s gaze sharpened. “Why didn’t the family come to the police formally?”
“They knew she was here and who she was with,” Dougal explained patiently. “Rather soon after she ran off. Didn’t want tae ruin her reputation. She was with the nephew of an earl.”
“That jewel thief fellow is the nephew of an earl?” Tippett spluttered.
“I’m afraid so. But now the girl has no protection. I can’t let her disappear into some harem, not a marquess’s sister.”
“Ruin your reputation, a case gone bad like that,” Tippett said. He removed his cigar from his mouth again and flicked it between his fingers. “I can spare ye a couple of constables tae search the warehouses around the docks. You are correct; most of the girls they take aren’t the sort to have families asking after them.”
Blinding pain shrieked through Beth’s head when she tried to open her eyes. She quickly shut them again and lifted a groggy arm to feel her head on the right side. Her hair felt crunchy over an exquisitely sore spot. Her jaw ached. She smelled a coppery tang around her body. As she woke further, she felt something beneath her, arching her back. She rolled a little, and odors from grain and sacking beneath her drifted up to her nose. Where was she?
Images of those two horrid men on the stairs came to mind. She put her fingers to her nose and smelled putrid male sweat and tar. Struggling, she got her elbows beneath her enough to prop herself up. The only light came from chinks in the walls. Not a very sturdy structure, and definitely not anywhere in her building. The light seemed artificial, and she thought it was night.
Freddie came to mind, and she wondered if he had suffered a fate similar to this last month. She pushed up a little harder, holding her head, until she came to a sitting position. Dear God, what would happen to baby Hester if she couldn’t escape? She pressed her hands to her temples, trying to focus on her surroundings. A rustling came from her left, and she heard someone breathing. A guard? How long was she to be held here, and why?
“Hello?” she said, her voice coming out in a fractured whisper. Right temple throbbing, she attempted to stand, but she wobbled.
“Are ye tied up?” asked an anxious female voice.
Beth blinked. She had to actively consider this question. “My hands aren’t.” Gingerly, she reached for her legs. “No, no ropes.”
“I thought ye were dead when they brought ye in. Slung over Carter’s back like a deer. They must not’ve bothered. They force most of us tae drink laudanum when they drag us in, but not ye.”
“I’m glad of that, though my head aches dreadfully. Where are we?” Did the voice belong to an ally? Could Freddie be here too?
“Canna ye smell the water?” asked another, coarser voice, though also female. “We are near the firth.”
A rectangle of light appeared at the far end of the room. Beth blinked and distinguished a door. A large-framed man stood in the doorway, blackness pooling around his lantern.
“Tie these around their mouths,” he said to a confederate who stepped in behind him. “We can’t have any noise when we take them tae the ship.”
A ship? No, she couldn’t go on a ship. Hester needed her. Beth rolled onto her belly, hoping to crawl over the grain sacks and hide. But she was slow and in pain. Did these men know how many girls they had?
Chapter 3
T
he sound of heavy boots followed Dougal wherever he went. Mist filled the night, making his lantern light diffuse until it was all but worthless. Water splashing against piers pounded his eardrums, making it difficult to hear what he needed to—the sounds of distressed women.
Had they been searching for hours to no good purpose? Had Tippett been fantasizing about the white slavers? Yet the man was rarely wrong, improbable as his theory was. Why couldn’t Cross have had a nasty associate who’d taken Lady Elizabeth in retaliation for some slight? It would have been so much simpler.
One of the constables came running up, a lad who looked too young for his mustache and top hat. “Ach, I just spoke tae the harbormaster. Only one ship is scheduled tae leave for France tonight.”
“Which one?” Dougal asked, wiping mist from his eyes.
“
The Lady Shore
,” the constable said, pointing down the dock.
The second constable came up to them. “I canna hear anything. The sound is all muffled. No sign of light in any of the nearby warehouses.”
“If Tippett is correct, the ship with Lady Elizabeth on it will be leaving soon. He said the slavers don’t hold their cargo long because they’d have tae care for the women and they might escape.”
“Ach, then it’s got to be
The Lady Shore
,” the first constable said.
“I agree. Let us pray we are correct. Keep a keen eye out; they’re likely tae have guards watching.”
The three men formed a vee, with Dougal in the lead. He’d returned to his flat earlier, long enough to retrieve his two pistols and load them. With a packet of sandwiches and a canteen of water, he was ready to go to the train station immediately upon acquisition of Lady Elizabeth. The scenario was unlikely to play out so easily, unfortunately.
He held up his hand to stop the constables when he saw the telltale sign of a cheroot flaring mistily through the fog, across from the ship.
The Lady Shore
towered over the dock, and the gangplank was down
.
She could hold a goodly amount of cargo in that hold. Was the man standing in the doorway of a building opposite part of the crew?
“Let me walk by casually first,” he said to the constables. “You’re in uniform, so stay back. I’ll double around the back of the warehouse and return.”
The two men immediately melted against the dingy wall of the closest building. Dougal walked confidently on, wishing he had a cigar of his own. He was too well dressed to be crew, and no passengers were likely to be about. A warehouse owner, perhaps, checking on something?
He kept his pace steady as he walked by the man. His gaze drifted quickly over him. He hoped to memorize the villainous, pockmarked face. Nothing but grain sacks were evident through the warehouse door behind the meaty body, though they seemed heaped into odd piles instead of stacked neatly.
That seemed odd enough to warrant further investigation. He kept walking, past two more rickety buildings, and then moved along the side of one to return on the back side. He hoped to hear women’s voices, crying, pleading, something, as he slowly walked through the wynd. Nothing. But Lady Elizabeth and any other unfortunates could have been loaded onboard while they were checking other buildings.
Finally, he reached the windowless back of the building where the man was standing. Dougal peered in through a hole left by crumbled mortar, holding up his lantern. Waiting with his breath held for the sake of utter stillness, he scanned the room, glancing over the oddly piled grain sacks. At the very least the owner was careless of his goods. When he didn’t see any movement, he kept walking along the building and was rewarded by finding an ancient wooden door that would open onto the wynd. A padlock kept the hasp in place. He pulled out his picklocks. The simple lock offered up its mysteries in only moments, and he soon had it off the door. Mindful of the man on the opposite side, he put his whistle in his mouth, ready to alert the constables if he needed them, and closed the shutters on his lantern.
He tensed as he pulled the battered old door open, afraid it would squeak, but the hinges were oiled, suspicious in itself. Silently, he crept in, breathing as shallowly as possible. He saw the man in the doorway through the warehouse. Someone in the street called out to him and he stepped away.
Dougal took the opportunity to slide open one of his lantern shutters an inch and swept it across the room. He saw a strange, heavy shadow behind one waist-high mound of sacks and crept forward, half his attention on the open front door.
A faintish hitch of sound met his ears. When his ankle was grabbed, he nearly lost his balance and fell to one knee. He reached for a pistol as the lantern swayed.
“Lower it!” hissed a female voice next to him.
He closed the lantern shutter, but not before seeing the slack faces of two sleeping women above the open mouths of the sacks. “Lady Elizabeth?” he whispered.
“Ooo’s that?” said the voice. “Are you with those slavers?”
He bent over one of the women he thought was sleeping to make sure he could feel breath. When he put his palm over her mouth, he felt a soft exhalation. “No. I’m looking for Lady Elizabeth Shield.”
From his left came a strained female voice. “Manfred?”
“He’s not with me,” Dougal said. “But we need tae leave quickly. I have constables waiting.”
Immediately, the lump he was closest to started crawling toward the back of the room. He watched the shape tumble as her knees were caught in her skirts, but she righted herself and kept going. Soon, another dark shape detached itself from a pile of sacks, but instead of moving backward it gave a little grunt of pain and collapsed. Why weren’t any more of the shapes moving? Were they exhausted? Drugged? Dead? He could not help them all.
Dougal holstered his pistol and crawled over. “Are you ill?”
“My head hurts,” said a cultured voice with a Scots accent. “They hit me terribly hard and I seem to be too dizzy to walk.”
He set down his lantern. While it wasn’t the accent she’d used as a maid, he was willing to believe Lady Elizabeth capable of endless deception. “I’ll pick you up,” he said, feeling around on the floor.
The first thing his fingers touched was a lock of hair. He kept reaching until he found her shoulders, then found her knees with his other hand. When he had her slight body against his chest, he handed her the lantern. Then he heaved to his knees, then to his feet, and ran, crouched, to the door.
When his boots touched the bricks in the rear, the other woman gently closed the door.
“Where are them constables?” she asked.
“Take the lantern,” he instructed. “We’ll have tae circle the buildings, thanks to that wall blocking the way.”
A half-seen hand snatched the lantern from Lady Elizabeth’s grip and the woman trotted back the way Dougal had come. He could see the hitch in her step as her bare feet caught sharp edges and stray rocks. Had the villains taken her shoes?
He considered leading them to the Leith Central Railway station. It was only a mile to the first Edinburgh station from there. But at this time of the night, no trains would be running. No, it was best to get the girls to the constables at the police station, and hope Lady Elizabeth would depart for London with him as soon as they’d told their tale and divested themselves of the other victim of the white slavers.
The lady in question turned her head slowly, taking in their surroundings as they moved through the wynd. “I don’t remember being brought here,” she whispered.
He shushed her. As much as he wanted to hear her story, this was not the time.
They were past the warehouse prison and halfway down the length of the next building when he heard a door fly open and bang against stone.
“I ken there were more,” said a nasally voice.
Dougal froze and did his best to become part of the wall. In front of him, the woman did the same. He was grateful both women wore dark clothes.
“They aren’t ’ere now,” said a second voice.
“I’m not imagining ’er,” said the first man. “Ye ken, the pretty one we took from Cross’s flat. ’Is maid.”
The other man swore. “You’re right. And I willna ’ave that trip be taken for nothing. We found no valuables in the flat.”
“So where’s the girl, then?”
Dougal took a step forward, bumping the ambulatory girl. He heard her sharply exhaled breath. She crept forward, but he knew they were done for. If only Lady Elizabeth could walk. He balanced her against his shoulder and found her arms, trying to get her to understand that she needed to clasp them around his neck so he would have a hand free. After a moment, she seemed to understand and wrapped slim arms around his neck. He put his right hand to his holster, creeping forward all the while, and found his first gun.
One shot, two men. If he’d had two hands free, he could have taken them both, but he didn’t dare risk the words to ask her if she could walk. He suspected the answer anyway. She’d tried to walk before and failed.
Could he prop her against the back of the warehouse? No, she’d risk being shot. Really, she might be safer on the ground, crawling like a child.
He crept another step, trying to block her body with his shoulder as much as he could, while keeping his gun ready to fire.
“Oy!” called one of the men.
The blood froze in Dougal’s veins. Had they been spotted? He stepped again, the other woman’s breath harsh in his left ear.
He wanted to tell her to run, but if he spoke, they were surely done for. How much longer before they reached the edge of the building? Thick bursts of rain splashed onto his hat as they passed under a failed part of a gutter. He heard the woman’s breath catch. Had she reached the edge?
“I see ye,” said the man. “Stop moving, ye swine.”
Dougal fired, catching the man in the arm instead of the chest, as he had intended. “Run!” he yelled.
The woman broke away from him but ran straight, going deeper into the wynd instead of in between the buildings and back to the docks where the constables were. But surely they’d come running when they heard a shot. He shoved his smoking pistol into his jacket and ducked between the buildings, hearing the whine of a shot passing much too close to his ears.
Tempting fate, he set Lady Elizabeth down. “Can you stand, holding the building?”
She didn’t speak, just took a halting step, leaning against the wall where he’d placed her. He pulled out his other pistol, holding it in both hands as he stepped backward.
More shots, a scream off to the left as one of the men appeared, missing him and the lady around the building, and headed toward the first woman.
“We can’t let them get her,” Lady Elizabeth whispered.
“I have to keep ye safe. You’re hurt.”
“Get me to the constables, then go back for her.”
The hell he would. Lady Elizabeth was his prize, not some unfortunate who’d been caught in the white slavers’ net.
He heard halting footsteps along the building, probably the man he’d shot. Was his pistol loaded? He had to deal with the man, finish him. Anyone who knew about Lady Elizabeth’s presence this night would doom them. But another gunshot might bring the second, uninjured man running.
Damn the constables, where were they?
He shoved his loaded pistol into his belt and pulled the knife from his boot. It would do the business more quietly. Crouching down, he felt for stable footing on the slick bricks under his boots. When he found a dry spot, he sprang forward, finding a pair of shoulders with his free arm. He wrapped it around and held his knife to his opponent’s throat.
But it was wrong. Very wrong. The shoulders were slight. He felt a fluffy shawl rather than a coat. Spinning around, he pulled the woman into the space between the warehouses.
“Where’s the man?” he rasped, dropping his knife into a greatcoat pocket.
“He went back into the warehouse. He’s going to the boat to get help, but he was bleeding.” The voice was English.
“Were you one of the women inside?”
He felt her nod. “I was too scared to go with you. I thought it was a trick.”
“What’s your name?”
“Beth Cross.”
He frowned, his hand dropping from her throat. Beth Cross sounded a lot like an alias Lady Elizabeth Shield would use. He’d heard Lord Judah refer to his sister as Beth, and Cross was the jewel thief’s last name. But then who was the girl he’d carried? He pulled the new girl with him and followed the girl who still stumbled along the buildings.
In only a few steps he’d caught up with her and stopped her with a hand against her back. “We can’t go out that way. The man I shot got away.”
“We can’t go back; the other man is in the wynd.”
“We need to go between the buildings. Stay in the shadows. This rain will help. Can you walk without support?” He’d figure out their various identities later.
“I’m not as dizzy. The fresh air helps.”
He positioned himself between them and took an upper arm of each in a fist. “Sailor, two doxies, stumbling along,” he said. “Just shapes in the rain.”
Slowly, they stepped between the warehouses and out to the main road. He could see lanterns moving onboard
The Lady Shore
, but they hadn’t come down the gangplank yet. The man he’d shot must still be explaining his misadventures. No one spotted them.
They passed by one warehouse, then another, then a public house on the corner of two roads. He could no longer see the ship. Making a decision, he pulled the women up the street alongside the public house, hoping to make their way to the police station.
Light spilled from the door as it opened. A woman stumbled out, crying for help. Without meaning to, his eyes went to her. Could she be the first woman from the warehouse, come into the public house from a door off the wynd? Two men pushed her back as she leaned against the doorway, holding her side and breathing hard. Then a third man ran past, hulking yet puffing, like the woman, and knocked her down. He clutched at the red handkerchief around his neck with a beefy paw, but when Dougal saw the pistol in his other hand, he gripped the women at his sides more tightly and dragged them into a stumbling walk.