A Dreadful Splendor (3)

“Constable Rigby.” I glowered.

He ripped the bag from my hand. “I’ll relieve you of those, thank you.”

A second officer had handcuffs at the ready and took great pleasure in shackling my wrists.

“And don’t even think about reaching up to that pretty hair of yours for pins,” Constable Rigby warned. “These here cuffs are pick-proof.”

I stayed silent, knowing there was no such thing—at least not for me. But I was stunned by this ambush. How could they have known where I’d be?

Footsteps came clamouring down the stairs behind us. “Thank heavens,” Mrs. Hartford’s daughter said, out of breath. “An officer.”

He tipped his hat, then opened the velvet bag, allowing her to see the contents. “I assume these are yours,” he said.

She looked at the jewels and gave a huff, either too embarrassed or too angry to admit she’d been tricked.

Constable Rigby smiled with greasy satisfaction. “All of London’s been looking for this one,” he said. “Slippery as an eel she is.”

“Common swindler,” she sneered, handing him my card.

I rolled my eyes at her description. A swindler? Yes. But I was hardly common.

He peered at the card and chuckled. “Esmeralda Houghton?”

I had worked on that card all last night in my tiny room, making sure the ink would be dry for today. Of all the names I used, this one was my favourite. It had been inspired by the heroine of The Hunchback of Notre Dame, my favourite book. My only book.

Mrs. Hartford’s daughter leered at me, nose crinkling as if I were a rotten carp at a fishmonger’s stall. Her earlier ghoulish anticipation had tarnished to a spiteful pride. I shouldn’t have felt slighted; it was obvious from the beginning that my presence in her home was a necessary unpleasantness. But I had at least been entertaining, and she had been a true believer not five minutes earlier.

“Take this forgery away at once,” she commanded.

Her crass hypocrisy touched my last nerve. “If I’m a fake, then I suppose you’ll have no interest in hearing what your father’s ghost told me.”

She huffed, but stayed in place.

“He whispered into my ear just as your candle went out,” I said, leaning my face closer.

“And what did he say?” she enquired, her hand moving to her throat, searching for the string of pearls she was no longer wearing. I knew then that I had her.

The word popped into my mind. “‘Fireplace,’” I said.

Her brows came together.

Constable Rigby tugged me back roughly. “Don’t let her fool you,” he said to the daughter. “Lies come as natural to this one as breathing. You and your lot are lucky. You’ll read about her in the paper tomorrow. This here is Genevieve Timmons, wanted for theft, larceny . . . and murder.”

She blanched and took a few steps back. By this time the entire kitchen staff and the rest of the family had filled the space behind her, bearing witness to the entire scene. Constable Rigby tightened his grip on my arm and leaned over me, close enough that I could smell the kippers he’d had for lunch. “You’ll not slip away from me, you little eel,” he hissed in my ear. “I’m making sure you swing from the gallows this time.”

I stayed silent as the officers led me to the paddy wagon waiting on the edge of the cobblestone. There was nothing I could say to defend myself. Everything he’d said was true.





Chapter Two




The police station smelled of London’s back alleys in the early morning, heavy and full of drowsy desperation. I waited, still in handcuffs, as Constable Rigby took his time scratching an update into my file. I already knew what was written there. I turned my face to the side, blinking away the memory of a motionless body, its head caught at an ugly angle.

“Your days of crime are over, Miss Timmons,” he said, not bothering to keep the salacious pleasure from his voice. He was drawing out the process for my benefit; I was usually in my cell by now. “We’ve set a date for your trial. Hardly worth having, really. There’s enough evidence to fill the courtroom. You’ll draw a large crowd on hanging day.” He dipped the quill in the ink pot, then added his signature with a flourish.

I let out a yawn to show him I was unaffected by his gruesome delight. In truth, I’d known about the particulars of my death for years. I could recite the fortune-teller’s warning by heart. I was to die with water in my lungs, not hanging at the end of a noose—at least Constable Rigby wouldn’t bear witness to that. At the moment, I was most concerned for my bag. I inched my neck forward, trying to see if it was behind the desk. I hated the thought of Constable Rigby laying his grubby hands on Maman’s ghost book.

“I’ll make bail,” I said. Miss Crane had eyes and ears all through out London. News of my arrest would have reached her by now. It was Miss Crane who had learned of the Hartfords’ fretful state from a regular visitor at the boardinghouse. She had promised I could take enough from those rich fools to keep my room for another three months without needing to entertain customers like the other girls.

But three months’ worth of rent was also the last bit I needed to get away for good. A train was leaving from Paddington station tonight, and I still had every intention of being on it. I hadn’t been planning my escape all these months only to be blocked at the last moment by Constable Rigby. I could still make it, I assured myself.