Chapter 28

Or mock with dreams.

 

Margaret could not concentrate on the second half of the tour. She could feel the strange man’s eyes on her, even in the darkness, as they walked from site to site, even with Bethany keeping her close at hand. He had known there was a doctor working with Scotland Yard on the case, a detail she knew the papers never remarked on. In fact, he seemed to know quite a bit about the investigation and the facts of the case. This realization more than unnerved her and she found herself grateful for Bethany’s incessant prattle.

“Besides,” Bethany remarked dismissively, “as if I could ever agree to marry a Frenchman, not after Waterloo.”

Margaret gave a half-smile, but kept her eyes low as they walked at pace with the rest of the group.

“Are you having fun, Margaret, dear?”

“Of course, what a question,” Margaret said, wondering if she could sound convincing enough.

“You seem preoccupied,” Bethany answered with a grave look to her face. “I’d say it was that man. He did something, didn’t he?”

“No,” Margaret answered, not wanting to alarm her friend. She had her suspicions of the man but Margaret thought there was no need to bring Bethany into it. “Tell me more about Sir Le Croix,” she coaxed. “I am interested, truly.”

Bethany eyed Margaret curiously, her hesitant gaze glinting in the gaslight over them. “Very well,” Bethany said with a sigh. Her hesitation did not last long. Soon she was chattering away regarding all gossip from her yearlong stay in Provence. Assured her friend would not noticed, Margaret looked over her shoulder, wishing she hadn’t the courage, and saw the stranger glaring at her from the back of the group. A muscle in his cheek twitched as his jaw tightened.

Margaret swallowed nervously and returned her gaze to the tour guide in front of them. She knew in that instant her suspicions held merit but her realization came with the knowledge that he knew her brother and could easily track her as well, if he had a mind to.

 

The five minutes that it took the group to walk the length of the dockyard were excruciating for Margaret, who felt like a fox being scurried into a corner by a bloodthirsty hound. Despite innumerable people around her, Margaret felt completely alone and vulnerable. She doubted anyone would be capable of coming to her aid, should it come to that. There was safety in the group, she decided, much like sheep. She’d have to be sure to stay in the middle of the herd, only breaking free at a time when she knew he would not notice.

“The girl was found here,” the tour guide explained, stopping at the corner of a tall warehouse building. The group gathered in a semi-circle, fanning out around him to have a better look. Bethany guided Margaret to one of the sides, which gave the girls full view of the group. Margaret kept her stance straight but scanned her peripheral. She couldn’t see the stranger anymore.

“Anyone know what was taken from her?” the guide asked when Margaret brought her attention back to the front. Margaret cringed at the line of questioning. The group was making a game of the child’s murder, and there was nothing Margaret could do. So scandal-hungry, the city had become a place of macabre fascination for the middle and upper classes. The papers no longer told the story the way Londoners wanted to hear it. It had become far more fashionable to visit the sites where the murderer committed the deed.

Margaret raised her gaze just as the group began to walk away. Left in near darkness, Margaret stepped forward, eager to find her safe place in the pack but felt a tug on her arm from behind. When she turned, she saw in the failing light a young boy shivering in the night’s cold. She noticed his head was shaved recklessly with taller tufts of hair in patches. Margaret instinctively reached for her reticule in order to give the boy a coin of some sort.

“Lady Margaret, ma’am.”

She started when the boy mentioned her by name and it was then that she realized who the boy was. “Ben?” She knelt down in front of him and looked him over. Without a sweater or boots, he shivered relentlessly. And then she remembered the stranger on the tour, the one she suspected had been more invested in the murders than as a simple tourist. “What are you doing here?” she said quickly. “He’ll find you.”

Margaret scanned the darkness for any sign that the stranger was near. Bethany and her family had long since left with the tour group.

“Tell Dr. Ainsley—”

As Benjamin spoke Margaret was hit from behind and pinned to the ground. A heavy hand was placed tightly over her mouth as the stranger knelt over her. Margaret tried to push him away and began to scream, but her voice was muffled against the weight of the stranger’s hand. She looked to where Benjamin stood and saw him step back into the shadows, fear punctuated on his grimy face.

Margaret could feel the cold cobbles through the back of her bodice and panic began to set in before the stranger began to soothe her like a mother would a child.

“Shhh,” he said, releasing the most vile breath she could have ever imagined. In the dim light she could see him glance to the shadows where Benjamin hid. “You like this kind of thing? Walking the dark streets to the places were children lost their lives?”

Margaret dared not move. She was finding it hard to breathe through her nose against the tightness of his grip.

He smiled. “Like your brother, I see,” he said laughing slightly. “Too curious.” The sheen of a blade caught some light and she watched as he brought it to her cheek. “Me too. I’ve always wanted to know if we all look alike on the inside, if the high-born bleed red like the rest of us.”

Margaret winced in pain as he pressed the blade to her shoulder. The blade burned hot and though she could not see, she knew he was sliding the edge down toward her chest. Margaret could see him smile as he concentrated on hurting her. His eyes fluttered toward her face, as if to check if she was in pain, and then darted back to his knife.

She clawed at him, and when her hand found his face she pushed him away. But he was stronger, and the pain was making it harder for her to move her arm.

Suddenly, his hand left her mouth and a scream escaped, piercing the mist that lingered between the buildings. Rolling to her side, she saw Ben standing over the stranger with a short piece of broken crate. He hit the stranger once while Margaret watched, but his makeshift weapon splintered on impact.

The stranger roared and lunged for the boy, who scurried away into the darkness between the buildings. Margaret grabbed the stranger’s leg and tried to pull him to the ground but the man shook off her hands and grabbed for his knife, which he must have dropped in the scuffle. He held it to her throat and he pulled her up to stand.

“Margaret?” Bethany’s voice could be heard at a distance.

Margaret saw the blade glint once more in the gaslight. She could see a line of blood colouring the edge, her blood. The man pushed her against the warehouse wall, out of breath, knife at her throat, and hushed her once more with his palm.

“Margaret, where are you?” Bethany’s voice grew closer. An echo of voices began calling for Margaret. Any second they would turn the warehouse corner and discover them, but Margaret was also aware that any second he could drive the blade into her and end her life.

A tear, pooling on the rim of her eyelid, spilled over and slipped down the crest of her cheek, landing on his fingers, which were holding her mouth closed. Licking the tear, he pulled his hand away and winked. “Another time then,” he said, before slipping between stacks of crates and further into complete darkness.

Margaret collapsed to the ground and raised a hand to her bleeding shoulder. Enough blood had gathered to cover her palm and she could feel it beginning to slip down toward her bodice. Without warning, she became very dizzy and struggled to keep her eyes open.

“Margaret!” Bethany rounded the corner and crouched in front of Margaret. “Margaret, wake up!”