The Kidnapped Bride (Redcakes) Page 3

  She squeezed out her skirts yet again and hoisted her basket. Her legs felt like iron weights as she lifted each one to the next step. When she reached the next landing she only had one flight of stairs left to go. Just then, a rivulet of freezing water dumped from her hat down the back of her neck. She bent her head to stop the water and batted at her neck, still climbing.

  On her landing, she smelled a stronger odor of sweat than was ever present in these passages and bounced against a hard figure. She stumbled and caught herself against the wall.

  Looking up, she found a tall ruffian with blackened, jagged teeth smirking back at her. Had she seen him at the market? She couldn’t be sure but had the sick feeling she might have.

  “What’s yer name, lassie, eh?” he said in a strong city accent.

  “Move aside, please,” she said crisply.

  “Ain’t ye a hoity-toity one,” said a smaller man, who she hadn’t even seen before because he was hidden behind the larger one.

  She edged around the wall, hoping to get past them. The larger man reached for her basket. She pulled it back, dislodging a potato from the open sack.

  “No,” she cried. She couldn’t afford to waste even one.

  The smaller man laughed and kicked it down the steps.

  Should she drop her basket and run? But with her sodden skirts, she couldn’t get up or down the steps fast enough. Her palms itched with sweat, making it harder to hold the basket.

  “Yer master will be upset when ye get home without the marketing, lassie,” said the bigger man. Laughing, he punched the underside of her basket, sending the contents flying. “Guess you’d better run away.”

  The smaller man ground her greens under his boot. “Ye can’t go home tae that Freddie now. We’ll have to take you in.”

  Sweat sprouted on her back at the sound of Freddie’s name. “You know Freddie?” she asked hopefully.

  The brutes both laughed. “Now that he’s out of the picture, we thought we’d have a look around.”

  Was he dead? Not Freddie, who had been her friend, if not her lover. A cornered animal, she tossed the basket at the bigger man and twisted against the wall, again trying to get around them. One of them grabbed the back of her coat and pulled her back. She screamed and scratched her fingers against the wall. There was no banister to grab on to. He tugged as she scrambled, upending her, until even with her new, worker’s muscles, she found herself crumpled on the filthy boards. She crawled forward, reaching for the steps, screaming for help. But this was a land, not some gentle establishment in England.

  No one cared. The same thing had probably happened to other maids before. She wouldn’t risk opening her door if she heard screams either.

  The larger man grabbed her and tossed her over his shoulder. She battered his back with her fists and continued to scream as he moved down the staircase, calling for Mrs. Shaw, who couldn’t possibly hear her with her elderly ears. Just before they reached the street door, the smaller man said something she couldn’t understand.

  His fist was a blaze of grime toward her face. Pain exploded in her jaw, on the side of her head.

  Then she felt nothing.

  Dougal stared up at the land on Monday afternoon. Directly upon arriving at the station, he’d taken a hansom to Lady Elizabeth’s residence, planning to retrieve her and leave immediately on a train south. He’d preferred a change of clothing and a bath, not to mention a warm meal, but he didn’t want anything else to go wrong.

  Frankly, he’d been embarrassed that he hadn’t recognized the girl when he’d seen her at the door. His heated imaginings of the beautiful aristocrat hadn’t left room for her turned into a saucy maid-of-all-work.

  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?”
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br />   “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 brea
thing. 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

  The 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.”