“As for your question,” he said, sobering, “I’d guess my investigation led me to a disturbing conclusion concerning Elvanfoot’s son. If I left behind drawings and notes in my room related to a string of murders, I must have found some connection.” His hand reached for his throat again and he shook his head. “Might be that’s what led me to the foreshore as well. But I still have no recollection of any of it.”
Edwina gave a shake of her head. She preferred to invest as little attention as possible in the mundane world of the mortals outside her shop door. Better to keep to a low profile lest trouble was on the lookout for a new perch to alight on. Still, customers were always coming in with stories of someone getting knocked on the head outside of some pub. Or someone getting cut with a knife down on the docks. The night gave cover to any number of crimes, including murder. But none of the city’s dangerous side had touched her personally until she found Ian unconscious on the shore. Now it seemed to follow everywhere they went.
“A customer complained of the recent attacks the other day. I’m sorry. I should have paid more attention.”
“You’re not fond of residing in the city, are you?”
“No, I find the air choking and the noise unnerving. But, oddly, it has been a kinder place for us to live at times.” She hesitated to reveal their father’s motivation for moving the family from the countryside, though she suspected he’d already guessed their relocation had to do with Mary’s attraction to corpse lights. “My sister and I are often viewed as outsiders, and always will be, but most people here are too busy merely trying to survive day to day to fixate on why we’re different.” Except for that damn boy. “Life is sometimes more difficult in smaller rural villages, though the air is cleaner.”
Ian’s regard noticeably shifted, as though viewing her through a different lens. She found herself slightly disappointed by the predictable turn in him, going from being a creature of interest in his eyes back to one deserving of apprehension. Curiously, he swallowed and brushed the back of his knuckles against his Adam’s apple again.
“I can give you something for a sore throat, if that’s what’s bothering you,” Edwina said, letting him know he was being watched as well.
Ian removed his hand as if he hadn’t realized he’d reached for his neck. His clear-eyed gaze had been replaced by something closer to regret as he waved off her offer. “Nae, ’tisn’t that.” He seemed on the verge of saying more when Hob jumped out of the urn holding a bundle of newspapers in his arms. “Ah, you’re back,” he said to the imp, glad for the distraction.
“So many chimneys!” Hob dropped the newspapers at Ian’s feet. “So dirty,” he said and brushed a layer of sooty grime off the sleeves of his coat.
Ian tossed Hob a biscuit for his effort, then picked up the Courier Times off the pile. “Well done, Hob. Now, let’s see if we can sort out what all this murder business is about.”
He didn’t even need to spread the newspaper open to find what he was after. There on the front page awaited the headline: BRICK LANE SLASHER STRIKES AGAIN. The report stated at least five men had been found bludgeoned over the past two weeks, all within a ten-minute walk of Brick Lane Station. Four of the five had their throats cut as well. Robbery appeared to be the main motivation in most of the attacks, as evidenced by their empty pockets, though none of the victims were considered anything more than middle-class workingmen.
Edwina opened the Daily Gazette, which appeared to carry a slightly different version of events. The details were salacious, describing the murders as ghastly crimes committed by a predator of the night. A creature so debased as to leave his bloodless victims lying in the road for any innocent passerby to discover. “Propped in full view, the latest mutilated bodies were as good as trophies at proclaiming the murderer’s aptitude for his newfound vocation,” she read aloud.
Ian looked up from his paper. “Mutilated?” He scanned ahead in his paper. “As well as having their throat cut nearly to beheading, the murdered victims each had a piece of their scalp removed just above the ear, leading some to speculate about a connection to the occult and ritual murder.”
Hob swallowed his biscuit, shrank down inside his coat, and pulled his collar over his head.
“Sensationalist drivel,” Edwina said and tipped the paper to show Ian the illustration accompanying the article she’d been reading, which displayed an artist’s rendering of a man in a plaid suit lying in a narrow alley amid a pool of blood and what she surmised was a layer of straw to wick up the moisture in a narrow, sodden walkway. The artist had inked a bald blotch above the deceased’s left ear.