The agents demon, p.9
The Agent's Demon, page 9
“It’s my duty to protect you,” I reply automatically, and he blinks. “You’ll need a hat, too,” I add, and head out of the library, pleased when I hear Steel follow.
Chapter thirteen
Smog squats in the city streets, filling the air with the stink of coal. I breathe through my mouth where I can, holding my breath when the foul air becomes too much. Steel is a tall impression of black at my side. A Homburg hat sits at an angle on his head, giving him a rakish air. With his dark spectacles, he could be an aristocrat's son dressed incognito, seeking adventure among the working class of the East End. It’s as good a disguise as any.
Nevertheless, this will be a test for him as much as it is for me. I try to keep my eyes on his figure and on the road ahead.
It’s an easy walk to the East End. Just as well: there aren’t many cabs willing to travel into Whitechapel right now, despite the rich young men who want to test their mettle against the district’s killer.
We pass St. Botolph’s Church and head into Whitechapel proper, where the houses crowd together and the alleys bloat with people. Raucous shouting from an alleyway indicates a bar fight has spilled into the streets.
A few people glance at us as we pass. My gait lengthens and I inhale the mixture of cooked meat, sweat and refuse that makes up the aroma of east London. Here, I’m just another woman trying to make her way in the world. A weight falls away from my shoulders.
“What are we doing here?” Steel asks.
“We’re looking for a woman called Pearly Poll.”
He looks around with a clear expression of distaste. “And how are you going to find her in this?”
I raise my eyebrows at him. “We are going to look.”
Without waiting for an answer, I turn down a narrow alley that leads up to Spitalfields Market. It’s early afternoon, and the streets are filled with beggars, bare-footed children playing games, and the occasional street juggler.
This part of the city is crammed with more people than it has the space to serve, and most of them will have to barter for a space at a lodging house for the night. Others won’t be able to afford even that, and will spend their nights tied to a pew, or out on the streets. I smooth my hand over my simple wool jacket, remind myself that this is no longer my home. I can leave whenever I want.
“These people...” Steel murmurs. “Why are they all here? Don’t they have...?” He makes an oblique gesture, as though the words he wants can’t fit into one sentence.
“They’ve nowhere else to go, Mr. Steel,” I reply. “The Empire takes chunks of the world for itself, promising protection and safe haven in exchange for the scars it leaves behind. When people draw upon that promise, this is what they’re rewarded with.”
It’s the most I’ve said to him since he arrived, and he looks surprised at me, or at the words themselves. He makes no reply, and I focus on our hunt. It’s not in my power to fix all of London’s troubles, but I can attempt to solve this one.
The buildings open up around Mitre Square. It’s almost as busy as the market, but I see a couple of women standing on the corner, chatting. Their clothes are well worn, and they stand in a way that displays the curves of their bodies. One calls out to a man who walks by. He curses them and hurries on. I head in their direction.
“Good afternoon,” I greet them, drawing their attention.
The nearest, a pretty woman with dark, curly hair, sizes me up. She has a faint bruise under her eye. “Bugger off,” she says. “This corner’s taken, you hear?”
A soft snicker comes from Steel. I give the woman a rueful smile. “I’m not working. I just wanted to ask you a few questions. About the murder.”
Their faces close off. “Move on, luv. We’ve talked ourselves ’oarse to the coppers. We ain’t interested in talking ’bout it no more,” the first woman says. Her companion stares warily at Steel.
I turn and gesture at the square. He quirks a brow and moves away, standing at a nearby alley.
“I’ll be honest with you,” I tell the women. “I’m not working for the police. My colleague and I are with a private organisation.”
“Colleague, eh?” the other woman says, smirking. “Must be hard to get any work done, eh, luv?”
“I'll just bet it’s hard.” This is accompanied by a lascivious wink in Steel’s direction.
I don’t turn to see how the demon reacts to that. “My name is Hazel,” I offer. “I understand that Mary Ann Connolly saw a man with Martha the night she died. I’d like to talk to her.”
“The coppers have talked to her already,” the dark-haired woman says. “They ain’t done nothing about it. That man’s gone free and God help the next woman he drags into a dark alley.”
“Annie, hush,” the other girl says. “You’re right,” she tells me. “Poll said she saw them with Martha. But she didn’t see ’em with Mary Nichols, God bless her soul.” Mary was the most recent victim. But just because they weren’t seen doesn’t mean they weren’t present.
“Poor girl,” the woman called Annie says. “We’ll have a drink for her, tonight.” They nod together.
“Is Poll with you?” I ask.
Annie shrugs. “She’ll be round ‘ere somewhere. If she ain’t off with a glass o’ gin. She likes her drink, that one.”
“Don’t we all,” comes a murmured agreement.
“What does she look like?”
“Light brown ’air, striped skirt,” Annie replies. “She ’as a green necktie she likes to wear.” They trail off, scanning the square for a mark, their attention moved on.
“Thank you,” I say, and leave them to it.
Turning around, I see no sign of Steel. Tensing, I sweep the square for any hint of danger. No one looks out of place, or aware that a demon was in their midst.
My chest tightens, a slow band of pressure squeezing around my ribs. It takes me a second to realise that the sensation isn’t imagined: the limit of the spell has been reached.
I hurry to the shadowed alley and stop in its mouth. Steel stands at the other end, examining the muddy floor.
“Is everything all right?” I ask, cautiously.
He looks up, his expression cool and unconcerned. “I thought I sensed something, but I was mistaken.” He wanders back, loose-limbed and casual. The band around my chest eases as he approaches.
I measure the distance between where he was standing and where I had been speaking to Annie and her friend. It was a few feet beyond the limit of the spell. I assess him, and he returns my look with disinterest. He was testing it. Trying to find a way out?
No doubt he expects me to confront him. I don’t think playing into his expectations will gain me the truth.
“They don’t know where Connolly is,” I tell him, watching for a change in expression that might indicate his thought process. Nothing: he’s a blank slate. “We’ll keep looking.”
“All right,” he agrees, amiably. Amiably because he’s agreeing to my order, or because he wants another opportunity to test the limit of the spell?
I resume our pace, walking side by side. As an apprentice, when I’d considered the possibility of becoming an agent, I hadn’t thought that I might have to guard against my own demon. How can he help me solve this case when he wants nothing to do with me?
There seems to be only one option: get him to trust me. Somehow.
For now, I keep walking. Trust will take time, and time I do not have. The case must come first.
The afternoon wanes into evening, and I start to wonder if Annie had been wrong; that Connolly wasn’t here at all. My stomach growls, eager for the dinner Maia will be preparing. I listen for the Spitalfields bells that will mark the time. Rayne will return to the agency soon, if he hasn’t already. Being here is already disobeying his order; being absent when he returns will not bode well for me.
“Is that her?” Steel asks, pulling me from my thoughts. He tilts his head at a woman with long striped skirts and a green neckerchief.
“Yes. Thank you,” I add, cursing inwardly: I’d been so immersed in my thoughts I hadn’t seen her. I shouldn’t be so distracted.
Bearing in mind the reaction from the two women earlier, I approach Mary Ann cautiously. Steel drops back and leans against the wall, sinking both hands into the pockets of his greatcoat. He puts his chin to his chest, and the roguishly angled hat conceals his eyes.
I step up to the woman’s side. “Mary Ann Connolly.”
She eyes me, startled. “Do I know you?” she asks, in a low, croaky voice that speaks of long nights with little sleep.
I pull out the warrant card Monaghan gave me. Showing it to Annie and her friend might have led to more questions than I’d like to answer, but Mary Ann is alone, and clearly nervous. This might do more to reassure her than words can. Her eyes widen at the stamp on the card.
“I’m a private investigator, looking into the recent murders on behalf of my employer,” I say, keeping the details vague. “You identified two suspects, the night Martha Tabram was murdered. Can you tell me more about them?”
“I already gave my report to the police,” she says, eyes narrowing. “What’s it got to do with you and whatever rich asshole is making you wander round ’ere?”
“We’re following up on the details, in case there’s anything the police missed.”
Her gaze sparks. “Aye, they couldn’t find their way out of a paper bag.” She snorts. “Well. Good to have a woman on it, at any rate. You work for them high and mighties in the City, do you? Fancy that.”
“It’s a small department,” I reply, with a self-deprecating smile, “and my role is unofficial.” The ploy seems to work; her posture unbends, and she slants her body to face me. “You told the coroner that you met two soldiers that night,” I prompt her.
“That’s right. A private and a corporal. They had white bands round their ’ats.”
I nod, pulling out my tiny notebook. “And it was the private who went with Martha?”
“S’right. I identified them for the investigator. He said it weren’t them.” She scowled and shook her head. “But I knows what I saw.”
“Could you identify them again for me?”
She laughs at that. “Bless you, luv. You should have seen the Major’s face when I first walked in. Me, with all their soldiers? Nah, they won’t let that happen again.” Mary Ann’s eyes are tight, the corners wrinkling as she grimaces. She doesn’t want to go through the process again any more than this Major does.
“I understand.” The police or the regiment will have a record of her identification; I don’t need to force her to revisit that night. “Thank you for your help.”
“You just catch the bloke who did this,” she replies, grimly. “It’s ’ard enough working these streets already. Now we have to worry about a bloody killer, too.”
“I’ll get him.” The words slip out before I can stop them. Promises are for children; Turner taught me that. We don’t make them if we can’t keep them.
But I can’t ignore my conviction. Somehow, I’ll find a way to keep this promise.
I return to Steel, who examines me from under the brim of his hat. “What now?” he asks.
The sky is darkening. I wait, and after a moment the bells ring out the hour: six o’clock. Staying any longer is too great a risk, both in terms of the danger that walks these streets, and in disobeying Rayne’s orders.
“We return to the agency,” I decide.
“Aren’t we here to catch a killer?”
“You have good ears.”
“Hound,” he reminds me. “That’s why you called me, isn’t it? To sniff out a murderer? So, let’s get to it.”
I waver, caught between my orders and my desire to do as he says. Common sense blankets my conviction. Wandering the streets of Whitechapel with no leads and no clues is going to have us walking in circles.
“We go back.”
Steels pushes off the wall. “As you wish. Lead the way.”
I narrow my eyes at him, half in suspicion and half in warning, and sweep in front to start home. Tomorrow, I’ll visit the regiment, and I’ll find the private who met Martha Tabram. And, hopefully, I’ll find her murderer.
Chapter fourteen
Rayne is not waiting when we return. I breathe a sigh of relief as I remove my hat and gloves. The grand clock in the hallway strikes half past the hour. Dinner, and then I’ll go through the inquest report again, see if I can find any other clues.
Steel turns towards the dining hall once I’ve put away my things. I hesitate. Normally I eat in the kitchen, the same as the other apprentices; the dining hall is saved for agents. But I’m an agent, now.
The demon is already at the door, so I follow him inside. Three long tables stretch across the middle of the room, although only half of one has been set with cutlery and plates. None of the tables are occupied.
“Rayne and Jacob must still be out there,” I say, more to fill the silence than to begin a conversation.
“All the better for my stomach,” Steel murmurs, making a direct line for the sideboard, which has been laid out with steamed vegetables, baked fish and small buttery potatoes. There’s also a dish of Maia’s turmeric-spiced rice, dotted with tiny pearl onions. Steel takes some of everything. Amused, I trail after him.
“Did you not eat in Paris?” I ask, wondering if his plate will crack under its load.
“Generally, people prefer that you buy food rather than steal it,” he replies, dryly. He chooses a chair set against the wall, balancing his plate on his lap. He eats with dedication, leaving no room for conversation.
I sit close enough that it won’t strain our bond if he chooses to move. Without conversation I can pay attention to my own thoughts, which puzzle over the murders.
Martha Tabram was stabbed thirty-nine times, whereas Mary Ann Nichols had her throat slit. Why the difference? Why just cut Mary’s throat?
Just, as though the horror of the crime isn’t enough.
“Here you are.” Maia enters the room and takes Steel’s plate, who, it seems, has finished first. “I was wondering where you disappeared to.”
“I went to speak to someone about the case.”
“I see.” Maia takes my plate and stacks it on top of Steel’s. She doesn’t comment on the fact that I ate less than half of my meal. “I am glad you have returned. I have set up some new rooms for you.” She puts the plates on the sideboard and wipes her hands on her apron. “Come, I will show you.”
“Thank you, Maia. I appreciate it,” I reply. I glance at Steel and he rises.
“We cannot have demons sleeping in corridors,” Maia says. She leads us up to the third floor, but instead of continuing to the fourth, where Turner and Khurana’s rooms are located, she turns onto the corridor that houses the male agents. There are doors all along the passage, more than twice the number of agents.
“We’ll be on the third floor?” I ask, doubtfully.
“This floor is the only one that contains adjoining rooms. We cannot permit a man to sleep in the same room as you, demon or not,” Maia says, with a snort.
“And Turner’s things?” Even if I can’t fit into Turner’s clothes, I don’t want to part with them.
“I have moved them. There is enough space for more dresses, if you like. The agency has a fund to keep its agents clothed and shod.”
I’d look like a horse playing dress-up. “I have everything I need,” I reply, flatly.
“You will need an evening dress, soon; Her Majesty’s agents are often invited to the Home Office’s dinner parties. But that can wait. As you say, you have the case to deal with.” Maia opens a door and nods to another close by. “That is your room,” she tells Steel. “There is an adjoining door between the two. I will give you the key,” she adds to me, and enters the room.
I hesitate before following her. “Let me know if the room suits,” I say, and Steel gives me a look I can’t decipher.
The new room is not quite twice the size of Turner’s, but it’s close. The bed is a double, swathed in a thick russet blanket, and a rug covers the floor, shielding our feet from the cold. The dresser has a mirror and a matching chair, and the two wardrobes are large and made of oak. My gaze is drawn to the adjoining door, opposite the bed.
“Here is the key.” Maia hands it to me, a small iron thing with a circular grip. “Best that you lock it when I leave,” she adds, pointedly.
I hesitate. The ritual test was instigated centuries ago, to ensure the loyalty of the summoned demon, but…could there be a chance that Steel cheated? That he’s not as safe as I’ve assumed?
I recall the frustration in Steel’s expression as he’d stood with Rayne’s blade digging into his chest, the way he’d tested the spell’s limits earlier. The binding worked, so there’s no reason to think that the limitations around causing harm did not. I take the key from Maia, anyway.
“Turner’s books are here.” The other woman indicates the box and then a pile of things next to it. “Clara laundered your clothes as well, and I took the liberty of purchasing some new things. Now, I will be in the kitchen if you need me.” She squeezes my arm as she leaves, a soft comfort.
When she’s gone, I sit on the bed and regard the room. The windows are flanked by heavy purple drapes, blocking the light from the street gas lamps. Anything that might have belonged to the agent who used to own the room has gone, and the place feels unfamiliar and uncomfortable.
Taking a deep breath, I set about rectifying that, putting away my clothes and the new things Maia selected for me: a pretty horsehair brush with a silver handle, a simple copper bowl for washing and a small jar of castor oil for my brows.
Once they’re on the dresser, I fold into the chair and rest my elbow on its back. It isn’t the room that’s making me uncomfortable, it’s the adjoining door. It shouldn’t be any different than having Steel sleep in the corridor—there’s still a wall and a door between us—but it feels much more intimate to know he’s so close.
I pick up the key, turn it over in my hand. What would Eve do? What would Khurana do, if she were in my position?
