Brilliant. The very board that approved petitions under the Torrens and Cross Acts.
Nick snorted as he rose to his full height. Corruption was a rich man’s game, with the poor always paying the price for it.
Dixon grabbed his ankles. “Please, sir, I’ll do anything. Only protect me from him! I promise, I’ll serve you well—”
Nick kicked free. “This is Whitechapel, lad. We’ve got standards hereabouts.” He nodded to Johnson, who pulled open the door.
“What should I do with him?” Johnson asked.
Nick paused. Alas, in this part of town, men kept their word. “Let him go, with a coin for the dentist.”
The stairs held steady as Nick descended them by twos. The balustrade felt solid as rock beneath his hand. He’d no objection to the improvement acts, in principle. Once, this building had deserved condemnation, too. A broken skeleton with eight people to a room, it had trembled in the breeze and flooded at each rainfall. Only the desperate had lived here, knowing it was just a matter of time before the building collapsed and became their grave.
But Nick had fixed that with no interference from meddling lawmen. He’d won the deed in a card game, then rebuilt the place himself. He’d started by knocking down the subdivisions by which the former owner had extracted maximum rent for minimum space. Built new rooms, and allotted two or three to each family. That small trick had turned the male tenants into heads of households, which in turn qualified them as voters. Nick had entered their names in the parish lists. Come the next election, they had voted for him.
He’d controlled the Whitechapel vestry for four years now. Wasn’t a single local man who didn’t answer to him. Meanwhile, the parish officers would sooner condemn their own houses than one of Nick’s.
But those buildings Dixon had condemned were tricky. Whitechapel’s western border poked like a sore thumb into the neighboring parish of St. Luke’s. No coincidence, Nick supposed, that the plots to left and right, which stood in St. Luke’s, had been razed a year ago. Pilcher obviously had plans for that street. But if he thought he could dip into Whitechapel to effect them, he had a hard lesson coming.
On the landing, a tenant stepped aside, bowing. Nick nodded as he passed, sparing a glance for the polished window that looked onto a sea of fine, new roofs. This entire block—and the nine or ten streets around it—would stand till kingdom come, thanks to him. As for how he paid for the constant improvements—whether his coin was earned through fair means or foul—his tenants did not care. As long as the roof kept the rain out and the rent stayed reasonable, they’d bow to him gladly, of their own free will.
That was how he wanted it. What good was respect earned by force? That wasn’t respect at all.
In the street, he came to a stop, drawing a long breath of the pungent air. The smell of fried oysters was coming from Neddie’s, the pub where he always broke his fast. But today, he lacked the appetite. Irritation had killed it.
Thundering footsteps approached from behind. Nick didn’t bother to turn, because a knot of men outside Neddie’s had raised their hands in greeting, and in their faces, he saw no alarm. This place, these people, were his. If a threat was coming, they’d be charging to meet it, weapons in hand.
Johnson joined him, breathing heavily. The Englishman wasn’t built for speed, but he could slip into places that an Irishman found . . . uncomfortable. Nick had hired him as an experiment. How far did money take you, without the ties of kinship?
So far, it had gone a nice distance. “Shall I make inquiries into Pilcher?” Johnson gasped. “Can’t say I know the name, but somebody will. At the docks, maybe.”
“No, that’s fine.” Johnson knew the docks better than almost anyone, for he had been one of the Royals, once—that group of men chosen first for work each morning at the quays. It was there that Nick had first met him, as a boy of ten or eleven.
So perhaps the experiment wasn’t so pure, after all. They shared a kind of kinship, even if it wasn’t one to cherish. Dock work could be a sight more brutal than torture, depending on the cargo—or the victim.
Today’s torture should have brightened his mood. He’d gotten a name, at last. Why, then, did he feel so befouled?
Bloody toffs. They looted and despoiled without a care for the cost. Nick had seventy-six tenants in those condemned buildings. Their fates never troubled a man like Pilcher.
“I could follow him,” Johnson offered. “He’s heading for the high road.”
Nick glanced back, spying Dixon’s hobbling retreat. A lick of humor lightened his mood. “Maybe you could even catch him, at that.”
Johnson went red. Folks in these parts, now that they’d grown accustomed to him, had taken to calling him Blushes. It was a natural wonder that a giant with a pierced ear and a head as bald as a pirate’s could color more brightly than a girl. “I wouldn’t let him get away, sir.”
“No need.” Pilcher’s henchman wasn’t the problem. A vestry or district could submit petitions under the Torrens and Cross Acts until they ran out of ink, but it took approval from the Municipal Board of Works for a building to be condemned.
Pilcher sat on that board, but a single vote could not do anything. He must have powerful allies—which meant that Nick needed allies there, too.
Nick faced front again, surveying the road. A gaggle of children were playing by Lola’s Alley—truants, all. No matter how many times the school board rounded them up, they slipped free. “You see Mrs. Hollister hereabouts of late?”
“No, sir.”
It was her job to investigate truancies for the school board, and force children back to school. Should that fail, the new laws gave her the right to summon parents before the board, where they would be fined an amount they could not spare.
“Ho!” Nick yelled. “You lot!” He strode forward, and one of the children, Tommy Ferguson, took note, calling the others’ attention in a hurry.
They clustered into a panicked herd at Nick’s approach. “Who’s keeping you out of school?” he said. Sometimes a newcomer, not grasping the way of Whitechapel, made the mistake of pulling his child from class in order to earn. Then, sure as dominoes toppling, the likely suspects followed suit, bunking with glee.
“It’s a holiday,” Tommy Ferguson said, brazen as brass.
Nick eyed him. “Does your ma know you for a liar?”
The boy winced. His ma, Mary Ferguson, was as broad-beamed as a ship, and didn’t spare a smack for sass. “Don’t tell her, sir! I’ll go!”
“Take the rest with you. Five minutes, Tommy. If I see a single one of you in the road, it’s your mother I’ll be speaking with next.”
Tommy had a talent for leadership. With gasped apologies, he harried the pack down the road, making them scramble.
“Who’s the little one?” Nick asked Johnson. A small girl, more bedraggled than the rest, was barely keeping up, her bare heels kicking as she trailed around the corner.
“New to the street,” Johnson said. “Mother’s a fur stripper. Don’t know the dad.”
“She had a beggar’s bowl under her arm. And no boots.” There was no call for that. He’d seen to it that the Whitechapel vestry covered the school fee for parents who could not pay it, and supplied the boots that the law required schoolchildren to wear. “You speak with her mother. Go gentle, though. She may not know there’s help for her.”
“Aye. I will.”
Satisfied, Nick straightened his hat. Nothing else looked amiss. Brisk business at the cookshop on the corner, women hanging the washing out the windows—he grinned at Peggy Malloy’s coy greeting—and men making smart progress toward their destinations, no loitering in sight.
Once this quarter of Whitechapel had looked different—violent, ugly, choked with rubbish. But now it boasted orderly streets, solid tenements, quiet nights, and schools with no seats to spare.
He frowned. He’d been feeling restless of late, uneasy for reasons he couldn’t quite place. Everything was going very well—so well, in fact, that he’d l
eft off with petty crime entirely. His legitimate businesses were turning a far handsomer profit, to say nothing of his gambling palace. But contentment too closely resembled carelessness. And carelessness always led to a fall.
Perhaps this was where it started: some upstart toff from St. Luke’s.
“Do this,” Nick said. “Gather Malloy and the rest of the boys. I’m calling a meeting.”
Johnson nodded. “At Neddie’s?”
“No, we’re done with bloody business for a time. I need a proper meeting.” Nick bared his teeth in a smile. The Municipal Board of Works shaped the entire city. One seat was reserved for Whitechapel, but he rarely tasked his man to attend the meetings. Malloy lacked the allies required to sway the board’s decisions, and most of the votes didn’t interest Nick anyway. He had no care for matters in Southwark or Clerkenwell; the East End was his territory, no farther.
But perhaps it was time he did take an interest. Bring the board into line, and while he was at it, address the question of water in Whitechapel—these competing companies had been sabotaging their rivals’ pipes, making the supply unpredictable.
“Convene the vestry,” he said. “I’ve a proposal to put to the citizens.”
CHAPTER TWO
Dear Mr. O’Shea,
Your niece, Lilah, Lady Palmer, speaks highly of your business acumen. I have a proposition that promises to profit you handsomely. Please reply at your earliest convenience.
Catherine Everleigh
Dear Mr. O’Shea,
Your silence suggests that I have given offense. I would ask you to forgive my forwardness in writing to you without the precedent of a formal introduction. I had anticipated that we would be introduced at the wedding of your niece to Lord Palmer. In consequence of their elopement, I chose instead to contact you directly. It was an egregious breach of etiquette, for which I apologize.
If you would be so good as to overlook my presumption, I would very much appreciate the chance to speak with you about a prospect that promises a handsome revenue for you. Your niece has assured me that you are a man of fine business sense. I trust you will not dismiss an opportunity for profit without first learning of the details.
Kind regards,
Miss Catherine Everleigh
Proprietor, Everleigh’s Auction House
Dear Mr. O’Shea,
As a particular friend to your niece, Viscountess Palmer (whom you once knew as Lily Monroe, but who served in my employ at Everleigh’s under the name of “Lilah Marshall,” for reasons that you will not require a reminder of), I feel compelled to inquire after your well-being.
As you may know, your niece has embarked on an extended honeymoon abroad. It occurs to me that in her absence, you might have entered into some difficulty that prevents you from replying to the letters of her friends.
For her sake, my concern mounts each day that I do not receive a reply from you. Accordingly, I intend to request the police to pay a call tomorrow on the public house in Whitechapel known as Neddie’s, where I am given to understand that your whereabouts would be known, were you still at liberty to discourse upon them. I hope very much to receive happy news from the constables of your continued health.
Again, allow me to extend my apologies for the forwardness of presuming on an acquaintance that has yet to be formally effected.
Sincerely,
Miss Catherine Everleigh
Catherine,
Not yet acquainted, are we? I can only assume you’ve taken a hard knock to your head since we last saw each other. Then again, you and Lily were feeling a mite frisky after escaping that Russian bastard, and you were chugging Neddie’s ale by the bucketful—so perhaps the night has slipped right out of your mind.
But sure and certain you seemed sober enough the time before that, when I knocked Lord Palmer on his well-bred arse at one of your auction-house parties. Perhaps it was my mistake to kiss your hand that night, rather than your sweet little mouth—otherwise you would have remembered our meeting. Alas, that’s the gentleman’s way, more’s the pity.
At any rate, I consider us thoroughly introduced. Put your mind at ease on that front.
As for visiting, don’t bother to come if it’s business that brings you. I’ve no interest in the sale of glittery bits, or whatever it is that lures toffs to your auction house like chickens toward a cliff.
However, if you’d like another taste of Whitechapel’s finest, the door always stands open to a friend of Lily’s—particularly a girl who can put away so many pints. This time, however, I won’t be picking up the bill for you—for I am, as you point out, a man of business, and I know a potential profit when I see one. (Six pints, did you drink? So Neddie swears. But there’s a legend gathering steam that says you drank ten.)
Cheers,
Nick O’Shea
P.S. I reckon you’ll have remarked that this note was delivered by the superintendent of the Whitechapel Division of the Metropolitan Police. Kind of him, ain’t it? Peelers in Whitechapel are tremendously friendly fellows. I reckon it’s because I respect them so. I make sure Neddie never charges a single one for his pints. But that’s business sense for you!
* * *
“This one’s beyond repair, I fear.”
“Don’t tell me that.” Catherine stood at a worktable in the basement of Everleigh’s, where she had spent the last hour gently chafing mastic resin across a begrimed canvas—a fine way to work out the frustration she felt. Or was it panic? The letter from Mr. O’Shea had left her livid and shaken at once.
What had she been thinking, to correspond with such a ruffian? She knew him only through his niece, Lilah, who had served as Catherine’s assistant before her unexpected marriage to Lord Palmer. O’Shea was a notorious figure, a crime lord who controlled the roughest parts of the East End. What passing fit of lunacy had compelled her to look to him for help? She prayed he had burned her letters. If circulated, they could ruin her.
Then again, ruin was already rushing in upon her. Her brother had dismissed the accounting services of Wattier & Company; there was nobody to watch what he did with the company finances now. He continued to press Mr. Pilcher’s suit upon her, and last night, he had been waiting at home with the family solicitor, who had explained that she had no grounds on which to contest Peter’s plan of sale unless she married very quickly and thereby came into the directorship.
So, she had looked into Mr. Pilcher. He was a landlord of middling rank, whose family was too undistinguished to promote Peter’s political interests. The cause of Peter’s fondness must lie elsewhere. If she married Pilcher, she had no doubt that he would oppose her right to work here, and find some way to prevent her from overruling Peter’s decisions, as well as his own.
She released a slow breath, then surveyed the painting. The original varnish had crumbled now. She picked up her badger-hair brush, brushing away a spot in the center of the painting to reveal the wonder beneath. It lightened her mood a little. “Look here, Batten. Do you mean to give up on that?”
Batten grunted. “Three centuries of being mopped with soap and water—”
“We can fix it.” The painting was Italianate in style—not in fashion, at present, but what did she care for fashion? True collectors would recognize genius when they saw it. Her responsibility was to make them look. “Do you see her face?” In the center of the dark tableau, Saint Teresa was being pierced by the angel’s spear. She cast her eyes skyward, her expression balanced between the great agony of torture, and the desperate hope of heavenly respite.
Frowning, Batten adjusted his wire spectacles. Some of the other employees, particularly the ignorant girls whom Peter employed as hostesses to flatter the clientele, called him “The Gnome.” He was, indeed, unusually squat and boxy, with a tangle of gray curls that resisted even the thickest pomade.
But Catherine had known him since her girlhood. When she looked at him now, she barely noticed the misshapen hump of his shoulders, or the fierce jut of his brow. Instead she behel
d a man of great knowledge, able to restore paintings from centuries of abuse—and to answer with endless patience all the silly questions she had posed him as a child, when other employees had only waited until her father’s back was turned to roll their eyes and dismiss her.
She held her breath now for his verdict. She must not contaminate it with her own hopes. Business did not allow for foolish romanticism.
“I need more light,” he told her.
She went to fetch a candle from the shelf. The basement was a stupid place to have moved Batten’s workshop, but Peter had insisted on expanding the public rooms. He did not consider restoration to be a profitable line of investment; too much time expended for too little profit, he claimed. Given his way, he would have rejected any antique or artwork that did not arrive ready for sale.
Before, his attitude had baffled her. If he resented so bitterly being in trade, she had told him, he might try to behave less like a shopkeeper and more like a patron of the arts. But now she understood him better. He was done with being a tradesman. He wanted to sell the auction rooms and live like a rich man.
She would not allow it. She would rather marry Pilcher. Or Batten! A pity his wife remained in such good health.
She bit her lip, remorse assailing her as she carried the candle back to the table. Mr. Batten’s wife was a dear and friendly creature who did not deserve such ill wishes.
She held the candle steady at an angle that highlighted Saint Teresa’s striking expression. Batten rubbed his chin. “Well, you know I don’t like to give up,” he said. “It’s a very rare work . . . or was, once upon a time. But that damage in the upper left quadrant . . .” He sighed. “One almost wishes her face hadn’t been spared. Such a taunt, to glimpse what it once was!”
The canvas had undergone some very rough handling. She could not argue that. Nor could she give up on it. “What of Mr. von Pettenkofer’s method? Might that work?”