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Digger pulled himself up to his full height of something under five foot two. “Man’s got to make a livin’, Ghost. ’Sides,” he continued, narrowing his eyes spitefully, “leastwise I’m not a murderer.”
“Oh, let’s not start a game of name-calling.”
The other man made a rude noise.
“Digger,” Godric said low, his patience at an end, “I’m not here for your opinion of me.”
The grave robber licked his lips nervously, his eyes sliding away from Godric’s. “What yer want, then?”
“What do you know about the lassie snatchers?”
Digger’s bony shoulders lifted. “Just talk ’ere and there.”
“Tell me.”
Digger’s hard little face contorted as the man thought. “Word is, they’re back.”
Godric sighed. “Yes, I know.”
“Uh …” Digger toed absently at the edge of his half-excavated grave. Clods of earth tumbled down, making no sound. “Some say as ’ow they’ve taken near on two dozen girls.”
Four and twenty girls missing? In any other corner of London, there would’ve been a public outcry. News sheets would’ve printed outraged articles, lords would’ve thundered their ire in Parliament. Here, no one had bothered to even notice, it seemed.
“Where are they taken to?”
“I dunno.” Digger shook his head. “But it’s not a regular bawdy house, like. Don’t no one ’ear from ’em again.”
Godric’s eyes narrowed. Digger didn’t appear to know that the girls were used in a workshop. The place must be well hidden. A secret kept very close.
“There’s a wench, though,” Digger said as if remembering, “’oo ’elps to catch the lassies.”
“Do you know what she looks like?”
“I knows better’n that,” Digger said with a hint of pride. “I knows ’er name.”
Godric cocked his head, waiting.
“Mistress Cook is what she goes by—or so I’ve ’eard.”
It wasn’t much, but it was better than nothing. Godric produced a silver coin and pressed it into Digger’s grimy palm. “Thank you.”
Digger perked up at the sight of money, although his tone was still a bit surly when he answered, “Anytime.”
Godric turned to go, but hesitated as a thought struck him. “One more thing.”
The grave robber heaved a heavy sigh. “What?”
“Two years ago, an aristo was murdered in St. Giles. His name was Roger Fraser-Burnsby. Do you know anything about the matter?”
If Godric hadn’t spent years questioning informants of dubious reputation, he’d have missed the slight stiffening of Digger’s body.
“Never ’eard of ’im,” Digger said carelessly. “Now, if’n ye don’t mind, I ’as me work to finish afore sunup.”
Godric leaned into the smaller man until the crooked nose of his black leather mask nearly touched Digger’s face. “But I do mind.”
Digger gulped, his eyes flaring wide in alarm. “I … I don’t know nothin’, ’onest!”
“Jack,” Godric rasped quietly. “You’re a liar.”
