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It would be nice to raise a family somewhere safe—if there was such a place in London. The reward for solving this case would mean he’d have better options from which to choose.
Don’t put the cart before the horse. Focus.
It was an odd case, to be sure. For the last two years, a man had been killing brothel proprietors. So far this year, four had fallen prey. The previous year, it was eleven. All the victims—it galled him to think of them as such—had been known to either peddle underage flesh or cater to clients with extreme appetites of the sort that often resulted in a violent death for the working wench.
Not long after the first few bodies had turned up, the night blossoms of Covent Garden had begun to affectionately refer to the anonymous author of the slayings as “London’s St. Michael” or, more simply, “the Archangel.” Rumor had it some of them knew who he really was. Will and his mates had tried bribery, threats, even imprisonment, to loosen tongues, but no one had given so much as the slightest hint as to the man’s identity.
And why would they? These days, most of London’s brothels were being more careful in how they treated their wares, so as not to call down the Archangel’s wrath. The few remaining that catered to clients with darker tastes had simply been forced deeper underground. Making our job that much harder. And someone was supplying flesh to them. His theory as to who it might be was one Sir Gonson had found interesting enough to explore.
Shortly preceding every Archangel-attributed murder, a prostitute had vanished from the slain proprietor’s bevy. And none had gone alone. In every case, the miss in question had been a mother. In every case, her child or children had disappeared along with her. The word among London’s whores was that the Archangel had taken them to safety before wreaking his vengeance.
Will suspected otherwise.
Outlets in which to sate London’s more aberrant consumers were fewer now than ever before, and the price for indulgence had risen accordingly. Those able to meet the demand stood to become very rich. But one couldn’t simply snatch women and children off the streets without raising a hue and cry. Stealing them from rival bawdy houses, however, was another matter.
Therein was a ready supply, already trained and accustomed to the work. And who would protest if a whore and her brat vanished? Given the Archangel’s celebrated reputation as a savior, they would go with him willingly.
No fuss, no fight. Easy prey. A few days later, he goes back and kills the proprietor, thinning the competition while simultaneously furthering his own legend.
It made perfect sense—especially in light of recent events.
A few weeks ago, seventeen prostitutes, all known to work at a particular bawdy house, had been garroted. Covent Garden’s alleys had been strewn with their bodies in a slaughter that had taken place over the course of a single night. The brothel’s proprietress was gone—most likely to the bottom of the Thames.
Will was sure it was the Archangel’s work. Someone must have threatened to expose him, and the deaths of all those whores had been his way of covering his tracks.
The anonymous tip that had led him to Madame Trouvère’s school wasn’t one that could be ignored. The first of the murders and disappearances had coincided with its opening two years ago. He suspected the school was, in reality, a through-house, and it was now his job to investigate and prove it.
If Trouvère was pa
rt of the ring of flesh traffickers, he’d find out. If it were true, he’d see her brought to swift justice at the end of a rope along with all involved—after identifying the Archangel and any other accomplices. No matter how alluring, her beauty wouldn’t save her from the hangman’s noose.
“We’re ready, sir.”
Jarred back to the present, Will followed the man out and climbed up beside the driver. The ride was a long one, with the wheels hitting what seemed like every dip and rut in the road. It became smoother nearer the school, where the thoroughfares were better maintained.
While his assignment wasn’t in the wealthiest part of town, the streets here were laid out in an orderly fashion rather than all arsy-varsy with buildings wedged between narrow, winding alleys. There were streets for shops, streets for houses, and parks between to keep them separate. And with the abundance of lampposts, he suspected crime was all but unheard of in the neighborhood.
Don’t get used to it. This is only temporary.
Mrs. Hayton, the landlady, greeted him with a saccharine smile. “Good morning, Mr. Woodson.” She proffered a key, which he took. “Your rooms are all ready for you, sir.”
“Thank you, madame.” He paused in the act of turning. “Mrs. Hayton, how long have you known Madame Trouvère?”
“Nearly three years,” she answered, her expression becoming bittersweet. “She stayed here while the school was being renovated. A nicer young woman I’ve never met—and an excellent tenant. I worried at first when she moved out, her being alone and so young, but she’s got a good head. Pity her husband died, but she’s made a place for herself. Be sure to tell her she’s still welcome to visit any time. It’s been a long while since we last spoke.”
“I’ll give her your regards when I see her tomorrow,” he promised, giving her a winning smile.
It took only a short time for the men to bring his belongings up the narrow stair and place them in his modest suite. Modest it might be, but it would do very well indeed. An oriel window provided a clear view of the school’s front door, which was seven houses down and across the street. He placed his armchair there instead of before the fire, the better to keep watch over the thoroughfare’s comings and goings.
A teacher. Of mathematics.
It was a bloody good thing he had a head for numbers and remembered a lot of what he’d learned at university. The curriculum the headmistress had outlined was basic, addressing only what a young woman would need to know to manage her income and calculate weights and measurements. A boys’ school would’ve required higher and more abstract mathematics, but her goal was to ensure only that her graduates left with enough knowledge not to be cheated of their earnings or be taken for fools at market.
Despite her youth, Madame Trouvère’s demeanor was one of almost militaristic command. Her employees had addressed her with respect. They’d also met her eyes whenever they’d spoken. That alone told him something. Most underlings strove to ingratiate themselves with an employer by displaying outward subservience, but hers behaved more like soldiers. Proud soldiers. Unity like that was rarely seen outside a veteran army regiment. It bespoke a shared purpose.
Will had seen both sides of that coin and knew not to be taken in by appearances. Thanks to Sir Gonson’s leadership, he and his mates stood unified against the wickedness that festered in the foul underbelly of their beloved city. But there were those capable of influencing others to evil, as well. Like Madame Trouvère, they were often attractive, intelligent, and persuasive. Lies flowed from their lips like honey to cozen those too simple to realize their part in a larger scheme. Some even believed they were doing good, when in truth they were but feeding the beast.
It was hard to imagine someone as lovely as Madame Trouvère being involved in such corruption, but he’d witnessed it time and again. Evil loved to mask itself in beauty. Instinct told him whatever was going on behind those walls, she had everyone involved.
