The next day by noon, I found myself in Whitechapel.
In most respects, the borough remained that decrepit area in which castoffs and undesirables lodged. The usual gangs of thieves and troublemakers strode the streets, and Changlings walked, floated, or flew on their way to the various activities which made up their daily life. Ladies of ill repute plied their wares with catcalls, and ruined buildings nearly rotting from lack of care marked nearly every visible spot.
Yet things had changed as well, and not for the better. The gangs seemed more vigilant than usual, and not simply due to added zeal for money. Lowly courtesans huddled at the corners and looked nervously into shadows, as if they expected a monster—or worse—to appear and come for them. Even the architecture of the forgotten place seemed to loom a bit more solemnly over the people who scurried on their way.
All these details made themselves startlingly apparent the moment I stepped away from the tube station. Eyes snapped toward me, and many continued to study me even when I had expressed no hostility or threat to anyone. It occurred to me that as a relative stranger in Whitechapel, I might be more suspect than anyone else for the role of the Dollmaker, and I tried my best to avoid the fierce study of my fellow visitors while I gained my bearings.
The warehouse owned by Lady Hermiter lay along the riverfront some distance to the south of the tube station. I had little idea of where Patricia currently hunted today; it had been my intention to send her some short message to make her aware of my plans, but the messenger I employed found that she had abandoned her residence. It was a tactic often used by my bounty-hunting friend, though it was due less to unfriendly attention than it was to convenience. She preferred to be near to her hunt, and I had little doubt that she now lived somewhere quite close to Whitechapel. That is, if she had avoided moving within the borough itself.
Unsettled by the thought of Patricia living in such a dismal place, I hastened my stride. The morning had already been wasted resolving some of the petty details of the cases which I had obtained by the Pevensleys. It had been rather a simple affair for two of the cases—the butler had turned out to be a known accomplice for several successful burglars, while the habits and friendships of a bachelor of marrying age are incredibly straightforward to decipher. Lord Pevensley’s trade contract would take a slightly longer amount of time to recover than I had originally expected, but my sources of information had led me to believe that in two days it would be in the hands of a certain criminal I knew well. At that point, it would be simplicity in and of itself to relieve him of the document.
As I walked, absorbed in the thoughts pertaining to those cases, I gradually became aware that I was being followed. To rid myself of the suspicion, I turned right at the next crossroads and stopped. I tilted my head to consider the crooked mess of street signs, as if I was befuddled by their chaotic instructions. In truth I was studying the figures who followed me along that same street, waiting for someone to react in a manner that would give away their ill intentions.
Three men came around the corner and continued on down the street. Several more either turned in the opposite direction or continued forward. My attention was caught, however, by a pair of figures who came to a nearly complete stop when they saw me standing still. The larger—and most likely, more experienced—of the two immediately seemed to recognize my tactic and shoved his partner forward along the road, as if hoping to recover before I noticed them. I watched in partial amusement as they shambled on past the crossroads, where they likely stopped and waited for me to move on.
I pondered for a moment. Either Lord Devonshire had once again employed his men against me, or I had attracted the attention of some gang of toughs who believed me to be the Dollmaker—or at least an easy mark. In either case, there was very little likelihood that they would be content to allow me any peace. I would either need to confront them directly or contrive some means of preventing their pursuit.
As I looked about me, however, I found my chosen street curiously devoid of any possible route of escape. There was a handful of branching alleyways, but an alley is usually a poor place to confront an adversary. A possible lack of an escape route, confined spaces, and isolated circumstances combine to limit the options of even the most skilled of persons. The same reasons make it an even poorer place to encounter two adversaries, especially when their capabilities remained in doubt.
There were several shops along the avenue, and while one of them might have been an ideal place to try to evade my would-be pursuers, I was unwilling to involve a shop owner in my personal disputes. The damages, of course, could become quite expensive, after all. No horseless carriages rumbled along the cobblestones, either, which meant that none was going to provide a vehicle for my escape. It seemed, for a moment, that my options were limited to a direct conflict between me and the men in the middle of the street, a possibility that I did not want to succumb to at the moment.
Then my eye fell upon a ladder placed just within the lip of the nearest alleyway. A smile grew on my face, and I started toward the alley immediately. Behind me, the men abandoned their pretended study of a nearby store to follow in my wake. I kept my pace casual, as if I had still not noticed their approach. It was an illusion that I allowed them to have until I had drawn even with the alleyway. At that juncture, I sprinted toward the ladder and started up it for the roof of the building.
Behind me, the alarmed shouts of my followers filled the street, and I heard them reach the foot of the ladder mere moments after I had. The old metal construction rattled and shook, and for a moment I feared that it would rip free of the stone which provided it support. Fortunately it lasted just long enough for me to gain the top of the building, with my pursuers nearly at my heels.
Their chase came to an end a moment later when I leaned out over the lip of the building, my pistol in my hand. The first man caught sight of the movement and froze, his eyes growing wide at the barrel of my weapon. His partner nearly clambered over the top of him before he stopped. He growled a foul curse and started to berate his fellow. Then a glance in the direction in which his terrified friend was staring silenced him as well.
I tried to remove all evidence of gloating from my tone. “My dear gentlemen, I am afraid we are at an impasse. You seem rather intent on following me, likely with all kinds of mischief in mind. I, on the other hand, would prefer that your malicious plans not come to fruition. May I ask you how we shall resolve this dispute?”
Lest they forget the strength of my bargaining position, I gestured slightly with the pistol. Both men grew pale, and I became concerned that the one further up the ladder would allow himself to slip free and knock both of them to the ground. Luckily, the man seemed to recover well enough as his companion spoke up. “Your pardon, sir. It seems you were not the person we were looking for.”
He started to descend the ladder, but another gesture with the pistol stopped him. “Might I inquire which gentlemen you sought? Perhaps I might help find the man for you.”
This time the lower man seemed to grow stubborn, but the higher one, with his eyes still locked upon the pistol, spoke. His words spilled out in a rush, as if he felt haste was rather important. “We were thinking you were the Dollmaker, sir. We were going to follow you to see and maybe get the reward. We’re sorry, sir. Very sorry.” He stopped with an audible gulp as his partner prodded him in the leg.
I sighed and turned the pistol away. “As am I, for any inconvenience I may have caused you fine gentlemen. May I wish you good day and a fine search.” They remained on the ladder, the upper man still terrified and the lower apparently uncertain. With an impatient gesture, I sent them on their way. “Thank you. You may go.”
Both men started down the rickety ladder, the metal once again sending up a chorus of clanks, bangs, and rattles that could have woken the dead. I watched their undignified retreat, amused by the urgency of the upper man as he nearly trod on his companion below. As they sprinted for the mouth of the alley, I stood and brushed off the knees of my trousers. The dust of the rooftop flew away after a little effort, and I took one last look at the roof before I started down myself.
Which is when I found myself staring into the barrel of a very fascinating pistol from a very unfortunate perspective. It was an intensely modified weapon, one which reminded me in some fashion of Patricia’s tendencies. This gun was of entirely foreign manufacture, with solid steel forming the body of its barrel and trigger. Its grip was encased in a bronze shell, with a sizable gearwork engine attached to the top. A set of iron sights protruded above those gearworks, showing its user to be a rather traditional sort of shooter.
Gazing at me across those iron sights was a hard-eyed gentleman. He had blond hair that seemed rather long, and stood slightly taller than me. His lanky frame was draped in the kind of rough clothing that showed a dusty disregard that had not been reflected within his weapon. The pale hide was covered with the residue of his travels, but what mattered far more than anything else to me at the moment was the familiar way his finger rested upon the trigger of the pistol.
“Hands where I can see them, friend.” An American, by the twang in his voice. I repressed the urge to sigh. It was rather annoying to see so many violent foreigners showing up on London’s shores. “Keep that pistol steady and pointed down. Don’t want to have to shoot you.”
“There is no need for that, good sir.” He raised an eyebrow. Perhaps he had expected me to be as shaken as the men I had just encountered, but I had faced men with guns before. Very likely I would again quite soon. “I have no quarrel with you, nor should I think that you have one with me.” A sudden suspicion wormed through me. A foreigner might be a useful tool in Devonshire’s hands, especially an American. Given their violent tendencies, all sorts of mischief might be passed off as a mere inclination to do harm rather than provoking suspicions of a larger scheme. “Might I ask your name, sir?”
The man’s eyes crinkled, and his lips nearly twitched into a smile. “I’ll ask the questions around here, partner. What are you doing in Whitechapel?”
His question nearly convinced me to relax until I remembered Dirty Tim’s promise to advise Ms. Hermiter of my arrival. Whoever this man was, he could still be in the employ of my enemy. “I came to visit a friend of mine who happens to be in the area. Unfortunately, the two men I just discussed the situation with believed me to be the Dollmaker.” I allowed a wry smile to twist my lips. None touched his face.
Indeed, if anything his expression darkened. “And are you?” Again his finger brushed that slender trigger as if hoping for the chance to pull it. My smile evaporated, and I met his gaze without flinching.
“Of course not, sir. Anyone will be ready to attest that my visits to Whitechapel are infrequent at best, and in any case I would be too often recognized by those who are my foes. Any of those facts would exonerate me quite easily, as the constabulary would certainly say.” His stance did not relax, and I entertained a hopeful suspicion about my opponent’s true vocation. “As would the gentlemen offering the bounty as well.”
At that phrase, the trigger finger loosened up considerably, and I began to feel more sure that the gentleman was merely another hunter looking for the Dollmaker rather than one of Lord Devonshire’s men. Unfortunately, his finger did not instantly leave its position. The hunter’s eyes glittered over his sights, and he addressed me in a speculative voice. “Now, I don’t suppose any of those foes you have would pay money if I turned you over to them, would they?”
I strove to maintain an appropriately nonchalant tone. “Why, no, good sir. They are not that sort of people. Merely a few disgruntled business associates with whom I have quarreled. I sincerely doubt they would resort to that kind of thing.” In truth, I could name at least ten different people who would lay money at this hunter’s feet if he could lay me at theirs, but I saw no reason to inform the man of the subject. His eyes held a truly pitiless zeal that I have recognized occasionally in the most mercenary of men, and it would not have boded well for me if he knew such things.
Despite my attempt to dissuade him, the man remained unmoved. “You might be surprised what a businessman might say if he was given the opportunity. Now just who might these fine associates be?”
With a cross expression, I folded my arms. “I see little reason to tell you, sir, while you still threaten me with that gun of yours. Perhaps if you would set it aside, I would be more willing to discuss things with you. Besides, surely you would not recognize their names simply by my mention of them.”
The hunter smiled. “I’ve been in Whitechapel for a while, actually, and I believe I would have met at least one or two. If not, then no harm done. Go ahead and name them; we’ll see.”
Now I found myself at an impasse. If the hunter was telling the truth, then there was little chance of my convincing him through deceit. I could lie anyway, of course, but that would run the terrible risk of confirming his suspicions that I was either a person of some interest to other, unmentioned persons, or that I was the Dollmaker after all. Somehow I sensed that I would at that point find out first-hand exactly what capabilities the man had grafted into his oversized revolver, and I suspected further that I would highly dislike it.
Given the risks, that route would remain closed to me. Fortunately, Daniel had provided me with more than a few other items which might convince him to let me alone. At least one of them lay within the reach of the fingers of my right hand, a fascinating little device that I believed capable of rendering the man blind in seconds. Daniel had given it to me after hearing of my difficulties with Dirty Tim, and I mentally thanked him as I began to prepare to hurl it at my opponent. As if sensing my decision, the hunter started to tense, his finger tightening again on his trigger.
Just then a voice called out in the chilly fall air. “Sorry, Billie, but you’re going to have to let this fish go.”
Despite myself, I turned in surprise. I found Patricia on a rooftop across the way, her carbine up and aimed at the hunter. At that moment there could hardly have been a more beautiful sight in the world, though she only spared a short glance to smile in my direction. When I looked back, I discovered the revolver still leveled at me. My interrogator had not turned as I had, but his face had turned to stone. “Trish, this one seems a little shifty to me. We should take him in at least.”
Patricia laughed. “Maybe you’re right, but I know him. He’s a friend.”
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With that, the man lowered his revolver and sighed. “If you say so. I still think he seems crooked, but I’ll trust you.” He turned and regarded her in a manner I found quite rude. “Did you have to put your rifle on me, Trish?”
She lowered her own weapon as well. “You did say you were a hard man to persuade when we met in the constable house, Bill Eaton. Now I’m coming over there. Don’t start anything before I get to you.” For some unfathomable reason she directed that last sentence at me. Worse, she waited until I had answered with a reluctant nod before she began her journey.
As she hurled herself down a nearby ladder, I studied Mr. Eaton. His accent and bearing had marked him as Patricia’s countryman, as had his manner of dress. The revolver in his hand might have been one of the experimental designs developed by the Americans during their Western Wars, though I sincerely hoped I was wrong. Stories abounded of the bloodthirsty soldiers who had been nurtured in that conflict over the young nation’s expansionary struggle. If such a man had come all the way to London to hunt prey, all England would do well to take care.
Even as I studied him, Mr. Eaton seemed content simply to ignore me. He had taken to fiddling with his revolver. With one motion of his hand, he slid the rotating cylinder which held the shot out alongsidel to the barrel. I watched, fascinated, as he spun the cylinder, making a rapid check of the ammunition within, before he snapped the cylinder back into place. Then he made some show of sighting down the barrel for a few moments at some distant target. The pistol was then holstered at his belt, next to a long, wide-bladed knife that had remained in its sheath during our conversation. Mr. Eaton drew the gun from its holster again, then replaced it, and then drew it again with admirable speed. All the while he offered not one word of explanation, introduction, or excuse. It was as if I had ceased to exist the moment I was no longer his prisoner.
He was still occupied at this practice when Patricia arrived, her carbine slung over her shoulder. Her face was flush after her rapid journey, and as she levered herself up I stepped forward to offer her my help.
At that moment I was shouldered roughly aside by Mr. Eaton, who raised a hand, palm out, toward Patricia. “Now wait a minute, little miss. I believe that this is my rooftop, and if you come up, you’re going to have to pay the price.”
Angered at his abrupt interference and ungentlemanly manner, I had opened my mouth to rebuke him as he so richly deserved when Patricia responded. She tilted her head to the side and smiled. “And just what kind of price are you asking, Billie? It’s not much of a roof, after all.”
Mr. Eaton folded his arms and slouched back. “Well, it’s not much, but it’s mine. Your company at dinner tomorrow night would be more than enough for my toll.”
Shocked at his indecent demand, I floundered. Surely Patricia was not going to take such forward behavior lying down. I glanced in her direction, expecting to find the familiar shades of darkening rage upon her cheeks. To my surprise, I found the hint of a blush there, as if by his rough manner he had complimented her. It dawned on me that she might be compelled to accept his invitation, if only to get him out of the way.
My mind raced with the search for a solution—merely out of a gentlemanly interest in Patricia’s welfare, of course—and my shoulders relaxed as I hit upon one. Mr. Eaton blinked as I stepped up beside him. “One moment, good sir. You forget that the roof was mine before it was yours. As such, I believe that your claim upon it is slightly premature.”
I turned away before Mr. Eaton could reply and addressed an amused Patricia. “My apologies, Ms. Anderson. My tenant has not yet been instructed in the ways of hospitality, but I would take this opportunity to present you with a formal welcome to this humble rooftop.” With a simple bow, I edged both Mr. Eaton and myself aside so she could complete her ascent. “If you would be so kind, Ms. Anderson?”
Stifling a chuckle, Patricia came onto the roof with a bound. “Don’t mind if I do, Hector. Thanks for the offer.” She stretched her arms out over her head, as if try to relieve the tension in her shoulders. “As for your toll, Billie, I guess it will have to wait for another time.”
A glance told me much about how Mr. Eaton had received this news. His face had grown dark with fury, and the glare he gave me would have caused many a man to worry about his welfare. I smiled easily at him, and he abruptly turned his attention back to Patricia. “Then I’ll just have to look forward to it, Trish. If you’ll pardon me, I’ll be off now.”
He turned and made his way across the rooftop with an alarming burst of speed. When he reached the nearest gap between buildings, the man did not consent to slow his pace. Instead, he took the gap at a leap, landing with an easy grace on the roof of a neighboring store. Mr. Eaton continued on in this matter until he was quite out of sight, and so I turned my attention back to Patricia.
She was watching me with arms folded and eyebrows raised. Her foot tapped rather ominously on the rooftop. “And what are you looking so smug about, Hector Kingsley?”
The use of my full name—a consistent sign of her displeasure—wrought a wince from me. “I’m afraid I am unaware of what you mean, Ms. Anderson. I thank you, however, for your timely assistance. Mr. Eaton proved himself a bit too eager in his hunt for the Dollmaker.”
“Better too eager than not eager at all, wouldn’t you say, Hector?” Despite the bite of her words, Patricia’s stance had relaxed, and she leaned back against a nearby chimney. “So what brings you out to Whitechapel, Hector? Have you changed your mind about helping me? Or am I going to have to look for another partner?” She glanced in the direction Eaton had gone, and the message was clear.
My first inclination, of course, was to respond in line with the truth. I had no need to be ashamed of my efforts to rid London of Lord Devonshire—on the contrary. I was confident that in time, Patricia and all the rest would come to view my work as beneficial to everyone. Yet the meeting with Mr. Eaton had revealed to me exactly what type of hunter Patricia might fall in with if I was not a participant in her search, and I could no more allow that than I could abandon my responsibilities as a gentleman. I nodded.
“I have indeed chosen to help you, Ms. Anderson. I would be delighted to assist you.” Though it was only a side benefit to my venture, her smile was bright and rather rewarding all on its own. Feeling a sudden flutter in my throat, I turned to consider the borough below me. “Now where shall we start?”
Nearly an hour later, my question remained unanswered.
It was not, of course, because Patricia had been silent after our departure from the roof. Since the moment that I had promised her my aid, she had kept up a steady chatter about a variety of topics, running from the quality of the weather to the possible use to which she could apply the funds we would earn from the bounty. Once, she even pondered aloud what she could talk about with Mr. Eaton, and whether he might be able to help us. Only by a hurried change of topic did I keep our conversation from clinging to that unpleasant avenue of thought, though I did note that she chuckled to herself as I diverted her.
I began to realize that Patricia had led me down a path even an utter fool could recognize as dangerous. The streets were not simply ramshackle here; rather, they seemed almost lethally foreboding, with thugs and ruffians in droves. There was no sign of a constable here; indeed, if there had been one I would have feared for the poor man’s life with so many examples of obvious criminal speciation about. I caught sight of one such sullen individual testing the blade of a knife against his thumb, and decided that it was time to find out exactly where Patricia was leading us.
“Ms. Anderson, might I ask where we are going?”
Patricia directed an amused look at me, her eyebrows raised. “Are we worried I’m wasting the afternoon, Hector? Well, don’t. I know where we are headed, and we’ll get there soon enough.”
I cleared my throat. “I would not be so bold as to suggest that any time spent with you would be wasted, Ms. Anderson, but I do wonder why we have wandered so far from the scene of the disappearances. Surely the Dollmaker would not be found here?”
Glancing about, Patricia smiled broadly. “You might be surprised, Hector.” She looked at a broken street sign and turned down an alleyway. I followed, conscious of the eyes of the thugs in the street. There were far too many curious gazes for my taste.
If she had noticed my unease, Patricia gave no sign. “You see, Hector, when you’re hunting someone, the key isn’t to know where the prey’s been or where he has been. Those things help, but where you really want to be is where he’s going to be. Find that out, and the rest falls into place.”
I tried to keep a pained expression from my face. “Ms. Anderson, might I ask how you intend to do that? I would hope that you would not attempt to act as bait for this foul murderer’s next taste.”
She snorted, and shifted her carbine across her shoulders. “It would be a bit hard to fit the gun in a dress, Hector, and you won’t be seeing me in skirts anytime soon.” A curious blush rose in her cheeks, but she continued in that same strident tone. “No, the plan is going to be to find his dumping site. That’s where he’ll show up again, sure as clockwork.”
Try as I might, I could not have hoped to restrain my frown. “Dumping site? You cannot possibly mean where the man leaves the bodies.”
Her face turned grim. “I’m afraid so, Hector. The murderer took another woman last night, and they are saying she’s likely already dead. If that’s the case, we’ll need to locate the place where he’ll try to dispose of her. The constables are already watching the docks, and there’s no chance he’ll ever manage to slip a dead body past all the hunters out here, so it has to be a local spot. Somewhere nobody’s noticed yet.”
I gave her as level a look as I could manage. “Ms. Anderson, your assumption that we can find such a place so easily may be misguided. It could literally be anywhere. The constabulary and many others have been searching quite diligently for weeks. Are you sure you’ll be able to locate the resting place of the Dollmaker’s victims?”
Patricia’s face showed a hint of amusement that I found most disconcerting. “Why, no, Hector, I don’t believe I can find the Dollmaker’s dumping grounds.” Her smile grew into an extremely discomforting grin that spread across her whole face. “But that’s why I’m dragging you along, isn’t it?”
Then she looked up ahead of us, and her carbine swung down with startling finality. The two thugs who had been lounging in the alleyway froze when confronted with the weapon’s muzzle. Patricia gestured slightly with the gun. “Guns down, you two. Step away from the door, and you won’t get hurt.”
They obeyed, their reluctance swept away by the threat of the carbine, and Patricia grinned at me. “Would you be a dear and watch those two for a bit? I’ve got a…meeting…to attend.” Without waiting for my response, she checked her carbine and stepped up to a small door built into the wall. I hastily drew out my pistol to cover the two thugs and jumped in surprise when Patricia raised one booted foot and kicked in the door. Her carbine was already in firing position as she stalked into the room beyond.
Three sharp shots later, a flood of shabby thugs poured out of the doorway, all wearing the instantly recognizable accoutrements of the Red Band. They didn’t spare me a second glance as they ran for the mouth of the alleyway. I motioned for the other two to join their comrades, and they did so without the slightest hesitation. From the depths of the room, I heard muffled shouts and whimpers, and pictures of ill forebodings filled my imagination. I was about to charge in after Patricia when she reappeared, beaming in contentment. “Well, looks clear here. Let’s go.”
I was compelled to run to catch up with her as she trotted for the mouth of the alley. It was hard not to glance back at the broken door. “Did you find anything, Ms. Anderson?”
“Nope. The Dollmaker hasn’t been there.” She shrugged, though she did not slow her pace. “From the looks of things, they’ve only been using that place for local business.” When we reached the street, Patricia bore sharply to the left, and I followed. “We’ll have a couple of minutes before their boys come back with heavy stuff, so we should have time to reach the Soaring Knives territory.”
Her words inspired little confidence in me. The Soaring Knives were second in power and influence only to the Red Band. They would likely not appreciate their rivals following in pursuit, but I doubted that Patricia was heading there for safety. I fought to keep my words without trace of strain or concern. “May I ask what we might do there, Ms. Anderson?”
Patricia looked thoughtful. “Well, I suppose we might swing by some of the graveyards. The Dollmaker might be using the old two-bodies, one-coffin trick.” I began to relax, sure that a group of gravediggers would be less trouble than a London street gang. Then she smiled. “Of course, there might be a few more unofficial grave sites we could visit…”
I groaned. Behind us, the yelling had begun.
The remainder of the day was spent combing through the less-reputable parts of Whitechapel searching for corpses. It was not, as one might imagine, the most enjoyable of excursions.
Those in charge of burial grounds have no great love for those of my persuasion. The very appearance of an investigator at the door of a parish priest or gravewatcher’s shed implies that something has either gone very wrong, or is about to. That day, however, I carried an advantage that prevented the usual rejection these servants of the dead typically furnished me. Patricia, with her carbine very much in evidence and her expression increasingly sour, provided more than enough incentive for even the most curmudgeonly of gravediggers to cooperate.
Most unfortunately, our visits to each of these places bore little fruit. None of the gravediggers had witnessed burials on or near the dates that would have been necessary to be the victims of the Dollmaker. In fact, many of these humble servants had actually been actively on the lookout for the victims already, in the hopes that they could help provide an end to the scourge that was now afflicting the borough. While I appreciated the fervor which many of them expressed for the capture of the criminal, I did note that many of them seemed to take greater offense at the fact that the victims had not been laid to rest than in their premature departure from the world of the living, but I set that aside as part of the nature of the gravedigger in general.
Our next avenue of search included the more unofficial grave sites in Whitechapel, normally reserved for those who had in some way inconvenienced or otherwise fallen out with one of the various gangs in the area. We made more visits to the Red Band, the Soaring Knives, the Down-Tumblers, and even to the obscure and fading Bone and Bricks, but none of the street thugs had heard of bodies entering their hidden burial spots or leaving by their illicit smuggling routes. The sincerity of these claims was again reinforced by the fact that many of these confessions were shouted at the top of their lungs as Patricia held a carbine on them, and though I disliked the manner in which they cursed us afterwards, I felt that the information at the very least was genuine.
After the last of these peculiar interviews, we found ourselves no closer to our objective. None of the gangs had provided the Dollmaker’s corpse yard, and surprisingly few proved willing to conceal anything related to the murderer. Apparently the killer had drawn the ire of Whitechapel’s underworld; the close attention of the constabulary was not completely appreciated by the borough’s collection of ne’er-do-wells and thugs. It was a certain kind of bitter irony that it required such a terrible threat to convince the law to take action within Whitechapel, and one that did little to raise either of our spirits.
Patricia looked quite frustrated by this point, to the extent that she paced the alley of our latest encounter as if she had been a wild tigress recently caged. I observed her progress with some concern. Finally, the simple need to preserve my own skin compelled me to speak. “Ms. Anderson, please do not be upset. Our search here in Whitechapel is merely beginning. We cannot let ourselves be discouraged this early in our venture or we will not be able to find our prey.”
Her eyes flicked over to me. They seemed to be filled with a kind of inner fire that glinted in her gaze. “You’re right, Hector. We have to find some other spot. The Dollmaker can’t get away!”
She began to stalk toward the head of the alley, obviously intent on beginning her hunt anew right then and there. A glance skyward revealed that the day was already well spent, with the glow of the afternoon sun now beginning to fade. As little as I relished the prospect of observing Hermiter’s warehouse after all the efforts I had already made, I viewed the possibility of attempting the feat at night with even less happiness. There would be far less traffic on the streets at a late hour, and the guards would be even more observant for intruders. Those obstacles did not even include the difficulty added to the task by the lack of daylight. Hesitating for a moment, I coughed into my hand.
When Patricia turned sharply to look in my direction, I spoke with caution. “Ms. Anderson, while I can appreciate the need of any professional to make a diligent effort in pursuit of their goals, at this juncture I must suggest that we retire for the night and reconsider our plans. A pause might guarantee that we are more able to anticipate our foe.”
For an eternal moment, Patricia studied me with her brilliant green eyes. It seemed as if she wavered between trust and stubbornness for a heartbeat, and then her expression grew abruptly less determined. “All right, Hector, we’ll do it your way. I’ll see you back at your place tomorrow morning.”
“Until then, Ms. Anderson.” I offered a short bow, and by the time I straightened she was already striding away. Her carbine swung with every step, its muzzle still pointing back toward me like an accusing finger. When she turned the corner, I released a breath I had not remembered holding. Had she realized my efforts at deceit, the consequences would likely have been disastrous. Thankfully she had not, and now I was free to pursue my main objective. The Hermiter warehouse was waiting, and I had no intention of missing my appointment with destiny there.
Though I strolled off in the direction of the warehouse with a smile upon my face, there remained a lingering feeling of discontent. I struggled to throw it off. There was much yet to do.