CHAPTER 1
IN WHICH A STRANGER ARRIVES, TEETH ARE DELIVERED BY POST, AND POLITENESS PROVES USELESS
Westminster, 1849
“So,” the constable shouts over his shoulder. “Paris, I hear.”
These are the first words he utters since we’d left Scotland Yard, where the looks I’d received were nothing short of welcoming.
Wonderful! The newcomer. Give him the Piccadilly couple!
Upon my summoning, I’d hoped for something challenging. A case to test the limits of body and mind and bring one of society’s many monsters to some sort of justice. A difference-maker of a job. Instead, I’d been handed an assignment meant only to quell the trivial concerns of the bourgeoisie.
I give a nod that he can’t see through the bustling crowd. Paris, yes. Saint-Germain specifically, but my past is none of his business—nor anyone’s, if I’ve anything to say about it. This is a new beginning, and it belongs to no one but me, born anew the moment I had arrived in London the prior evening.
“You’re young for a private investigator.” It isn’t quite aquestion, but he fires off more of them before I can answer. An attempt to unsettle me. “Thirties? Any family in the area?”
“A great-great uncle in Penzance, though he moved here from Cornouaille, or so I’ve heard. And no, none of my own—no partner, nor children.” I think that’s what he’s asking. What a strange way to phrase his question. “I’ll be thirty-three this autumn.”
“Soon, then.”
It’s actually thirty-threenextautumn, but that does little to offset my lack of tenure, or the stubborn ghost of a beard that never quite commits to growing in. “I apprenticed for a couple years before opening my own inquiry office last May.”
“Your mentorship must’ve been an impressive one, then.” It’s not a compliment. Not the way he means it. He shoots an incredulous glance back at me, as if he must be missing something. He’s probably wondering why his commissioner handpicked me.
Not to fret; over the two-day trip here, it’s all I’ve pondered.
“My father was one of the best.” A man for the people. Not a former cop nor serviceman. He painted and travelled before returning home at his parents’ wishes, determined to break into a trade. So, he did, and made it his life’s work. The case we’d last collaborated on was the last time I saw him alive. I leave this part out, and the constable doesn’t bother to ask.
He pushes forward, already disinterested.
A low brontide rolls across the canopy of clouds. I barely keep up with his bobbing helmet amidst the throng of top hats and bonnets as we scurry across Butcher Row. Someone coughs beside me—a wet sound that has me pressing my folded handkerchief against my face. I don’t need to turn to know the woman beside me just rasped a handful of blood into her napkin.
You’re sick. Stay inside.It’s what the doctors back home would say.
D’après le journal quotidien, les Parlementaires demeurent un chef de file mondial en matière de science et de médecine en progrès. Apparemment.
“Has London treated you fairly?” shouts the constable.
“So far.” I’ve not been in town for a day, yet the chemical plumes from the textile mills and the lingering aroma of horse shit have already made a distinct impression in the form of a pounding headache in my forehead and jaw. From what I know of the place, this is among its fairer treatment of new arrivals. Clutching my hat, I put my head down, avoiding several other hacking residents as I pardon myself through the crowded street to catch up to him.
It’s my turn to ask questions. The constable hasn’t prodded too much, but if I monopolize the conversation, the less opportunity he has to pick at the details of my life. Paris is all he needs to know.
“Is this the right way to the Piccadilly couple?” I recall the map at the station. We’re headed east. “Isn’t it behind us?”
“Yes, but—right, excuse us,” he grumbles, before taking a sharp turn onto Gill Street, which, in comparison to the streets around The Yard, is a cobblestone-veined thoroughfare of high traffic indeed. I pivot to follow him and barely dodge a carriage and tittering crowd of soot-dusted children on their lunch hour. “We aren’t headed to their home. I’m bringing you to the crime scene.” Noticing my brows rise, he grins through his mustache. “You did say you were eager to start.”
“I assumed it was theft.” It was usually a matter of robbery with the sort of couple residing in an area like Piccadilly. I’d assumed such, considering the urgent manner in which my presence had been requested. Shakenawake by my own authorities and on a train to Calais not an hour later. “Stolen pearls. A ransacked cupboard.”
“No pearls amiss this time.” The constable comes to a halt so abruptly that I bump into him; he doesn’t seem to notice, or if he does, he doesn’t care. We’ve arrived at an unmarked door, the first on a row of brownstone establishments. To its left sits a shop boasting a variety of fine hats and silk scarves in the long window, its name spelt across the front in ostentatious lettering.
Lewis & Allenby.
“What was stolen, then?”
The constable turns to me, but is interrupted by a woman’s frantic cry.
“Oh, Charles. I can’t bear it!”
