“I see. But I cannot help you.”
“So you’ve said.” He infused his tone with disappointment. “Is there nothing that will change your mind?”
“No, and anyway, I can’t tell you what you wish to know. All I can do is look at your palm and reveal what I see. The same with the cards.”
“I would accept that,” he said, fixing her with a stare. He wanted to see what she could do, how she’d twisted this occupation into something that had captured the attention of women who ought to know better than to trust someone like her. Women like his mother.
“A pity I am not offering that,” she said, putting her hand on the door. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, my next appointment will be here shortly.”
“Do you lift your veil when you see a client?” he asked, wondering if he should disguise himself as a woman and return. He was suddenly desperate to see her face. Was she young, old, somewhere in between? Not too old. Her voice hadn’t yet weathered with age.
“I do not.”
“That’s a shame.” Harry accepted that he’d learned all he could today. He’d have to find a way for someone—a woman—to visit her and report back to him on precisely what Madame Sybila did. In addition to reading fortunes, she was rumored to sell tonics for a variety of purposes, though he didn’t think his mother had purchased any. If she had, he would have investigated it already.
Whether tonics or false futures, Harry had no doubt everything Madame Sybila did was fraudulent. Women like her would be better served on the stage, performing their act for precisely what it was meant to be—entertainment. Instead, she preyed on the innocent and easily charmed, giving them false hope and impossible dreams, perhaps even causing them to lose things that were very dear to them. His mother hadn’t lost a great deal yet, just whatever sum she’d paid for the fortune-teller’s “services” and perhaps a donation to the mysterious charity. Father had asked her to reconsider this “hobby,” and when she’d refused, he’d asked Harry to look into Madame Sybila.
“I’m afraid you must go,” she urged, closing the door.
He stuck his boot next to the jamb to halt her progress. “I’m sorry you couldn’t help me. I may come again—in the hope that you will change your mind.”
“I would expect nothing less.” From the sound of her voice, he was certain she was smiling. “Besides, Bow Street isn’t far.”
Once again, he felt a jolt of surprise, this one even stronger than the last. He didn’t bother prevaricating. “How did you know?”
She shrugged, stirring the veil gently against her neck and shoulders.
He narrowed his eyes slightly, then smiled as he withdrew his foot from the threshold. “Maybe you do have certain…abilities. I will consider it my misfortune that you weren’t able to help me.”
“Good day, Mr. Sheffield.” She closed the door in his face, just as he stepped back.
Disappointment curled through him, and not because he hadn’t found evidence of a crime. Madame Sybila had surprised him. Twice. She wasn’t at all what he’d expected, and that was a bloody feat.
Turning, he pushed through the curtain and went back into the shop. As a courtesy, he browsed the perfumes before nodding toward the gentleman who’d showed him back to Madame Sybila.
Harry departed the shop and stepped into the overcast afternoon. Turning to the right, he made his way back to Bow Street, pausing a few times to converse with acquaintances. As a constable, he knew many people of all walks of life. It was one of the things he liked best about his job.
How had the fortune-teller bloody known he worked for Bow Street? He went back over what he’d said. Perhaps he should not have asked how her clients could be satisfied without having their future read. However, that could also have simply been interpreted as his disappointment. Which had been real.
Ah well, he’d find another way to get to the heart of her business. And he was quite looking forward to it. There was a shocking air of integrity about Madame Sybila. Oh, he still believed she was a fraud, but perhaps she truly thought she was helping people. The fact that she’d refused his considerable sum—double what he’d offered, even—was positively fascinating.
Did money not drive her? If not, was it possible she wasn’t a fraud?
Harry didn’t go to the magistrates’ court at number four. Instead, he went across the street to the Brown Bear. As soon as he entered, he was greeted by numerous people, a few of whom were fellow constables. He paused to exchange pleasantries before making his way to a table near the wide front window where two other constables were seated. Harry called out a greeting before sliding into an empty chair.
“What news, Sheff?” John Remington asked before taking a drink of ale. A decade or so older than Harry’s thirty-one years, Remy was, in Harry’s opinion, the best constable Bow Street had to offer.
“Just came from the perfumery.”
The other constable, Clive Dearborn, a younger man who’d come to Bow Street perhaps three months prior, nodded. “Investigating the fortune-teller?”
“Trying to. What are you fellows up to?” A serving maid deposited a tankard of ale on the table for Harry. He thanked her before taking a long pull.
“We just ran into each other outside,” Dearborn said.
Remy fixed his dark eyes on Harry. “I’ve just come from Blackfriars. Heard the Vicar might be lending money out of St. Dunstan-in-the-West again.”
Bloody hell. An old apprehension raced along Harry’s flesh, quickening his pulse.
Dearborn swung his head toward Remy. “Who’s the Vicar?”
“An arsonist and a murderer,” Harry answered, gritting his teeth. “Who has yet to pay for his crimes.”
“How is that?” Dearborn asked.
Remy cupped his hands around his tankard. “Harry is referring to a fire four years ago that destroyed a flash house on Saffron Hill and killed several people inside, including the leader of a large gang of thieves.”
“Along with many innocents.” Harry hated that no one had paid for the deaths of several children and young women. “The Vicar started the fire, so he could take over the gang.”
Dearborn looked between them. “Why wasn’t he arrested and tried for the crime?”
“He’s a bloody ghost,” Harry spat before taking another drink.
“We couldn’t find him,” Remy said. “He’s exceptionally good at being evasive—we don’t even know what he looks like for certain.”
Dearborn’s brow creased with confusion. “But you know he’s leading this gang in Saffron Hill? And lending money in Blackfriars?”
“We can’t confirm either, unfortunately. The moneylending came to our attention last year, but then he went underground again,” Harry explained before leaning toward Remy. “How do you know he’s back?”
“One of my informers. I knew you would want to know.”
“I appreciate that,” Harry said. The fire had been one of Harry’s first investigations after becoming a constable. That it remained unsolved had always unsettled him. It wasn’t that there weren’t other unsolved cases, but this one was different. He’d established an informer in the Saffron Hill neighborhood, a sweet young woman who’d been hoping to change her life. Harry had been trying to help her. Then she’d died in that fire. He clenched his jaw. “Looks like I’ll be paying a visit to St. Dunstan-in-the-West.”