“Just know the Vicar’s as guarded as ever,” Remy warned.
“Of that I have no doubt. This time, however, I’m going to catch him.”
“For a four-year-old crime?” Dearborn asked. “Will he actually be convicted?”
Remy chuckled. “You forget that Harry here used to be a barrister. He’ll ensure he has the evidence necessary for a conviction.”
“I did forget.” Dearborn looked to Harry. “Why’d you make the change? I’d think being a barrister would be a more comfortable occupation.” He snorted. “Certainly more profitable.”
It was a question Harry was asked rather often. “I wanted to get out on the street and ensure justice.” It wasn’t that he hadn’t liked being a barrister. He’d just found it…boring. He’d considered purchasing a commission and going to war, but his father had convinced him to stay and make a difference here at home.
Remy took a drink and set his tankard on the table with a clack. “What evidence do you have, Harry?”
“We know it was arson—the circumstances of how it started are documented, if you recall.” At Remy’s nod, Harry continued, “Every person we interviewed said the Vicar started the fire.”
“Sounds like you’ve got him,” Dearborn said with a grin.
“Except no one could provide a consistent description of the Vicar. They didn’t see him. They just reported they knew it was him, meaning they were probably repeating a rumor.”
That had frustrated Harry most of all. It had also troubled him. Why could no two people describe him the same way? He was tall. Or of average height. Oddly, he was never short. He had blue eyes. Or brown. Or gray. He wore a patch on one eye. His hair was dark or fair. Or he was bald. He had a scar. He had a tattoo. He walked with a limp and used a walking stick.
“The Vicar is a powerful figure,” Remy said darkly. “It wouldn’t surprise me if those people didn’t describe him out of fear.”
Dearborn frowned. “But they name him, so that doesn’t seem to make sense.”
No, it didn’t, which was another reason the crime had lived in Harry’s mind. There was just something wrong with it. Now that the Vicar had reemerged, perhaps Harry could finally put it to rest.
“Why is he called the Vicar?” Dearborn asked.
“It’s a nickname,” Remy said. “Some say he listened to the confessions of his fellow criminals before putting them out of their misery.”
Dearborn blew out a whistle. “So he’s a murderer beyond just starting that fire?”
“It’s more than likely,” Harry said. “Men like him have no moral code.” Instead of making him angry, that made Harry sad. What had happened to them to make them that way?
“So you’ll try to catch him?” Remy asked. Harry nodded, and Remy went on, “I’ll assist you in whatever way I can—just say the word.” He leaned back and crossed his arms. “Now tell us about the fortune-teller.”
Harry thought back over his unproductive meeting with Madame Sybila. “There isn’t much to report yet.”
“Did she discern your future?” Dearborn asked. “Will you be head of Bow Street one day?” He grinned.
Harry shook his head. “She refused to provide her services. Seems she’ll only help women, so I either need to dress as a woman or find a woman to see her and report back to me.”
“There is no chance you could pass for a woman.” Remy laughed, and Dearborn joined in.
Harry cracked a smile as he nodded. “Which means I’ll find someone to help me. Furthermore, she insisted she doesn’t tell the future.”
Remy snorted. “Well, that’s hogwash. What else does a fortune-teller do?”
“Precisely,” Harry said. “But I’ll get to the bottom of her scheme. Then I’ll put a stop to it.”
“I’ve no doubt.” Remy lifted his tankard. “To honesty and lawfulness.”
Harry and Dearborn joined him and repeated the toast.
Yes, he’d find out precisely what Madame Sybila was up to, and then he’d shut her down before she could do real harm to his mother or anyone else. Hopefully, she hadn’t already.
Chapter 2
“He’s been over in front of Somerset House for more than an hour.” Mrs. Kinnon, the owner of The Ardent Rose perfumery, closed the door of Madame Sybila’s small room after stepping inside.
“Thank you for being so observant.” Selina Blackwell set the bonnet over her honey-brown hair and tied the lavender bow beneath her chin.
Mrs. Kinnon blinked, her age-heavy lids briefly obscuring her dark eyes. “What kind of friend would I be if I didn’t?”
Selina smiled at the woman she’d known as long as she could remember. “You have always been—and will always be—a wonderful friend.”
Mrs. Kinnon came forward and gently pushed Selina’s hands away from the ribbon. “It’s not straight.” She’d always tried to be a mothering influence since Selina didn’t have one.
“Was he alone?” Selina asked. She’d recognized him from the numerous times she’d walked along Bow Street on her way between her house and the perfumery. He was often in the company of other Runners—either outside the magistrates’ court or in the window of the Brown Bear pub across the street.
“As far as I could tell. But you never know with those Runners. Far too cunning for their own good.”
Indeed, and Selina suspected Harry Sheffield was shrewder than most. She’d expected him to return, though maybe not as quickly as the day after he’d come to see her, and was grateful to have friends looking out for her. It was a strange feeling after so many years of just her and Beatrix, a luxury really.
Apprehension roiled through Selina. She wanted to get out to The Strand and see him for herself. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust Mrs. Kinnon… Well, maybe it was that, at least a little. With the exception of Beatrix, trusting people was hard.
“There.” Mrs. Kinnon stepped back with a satisfied nod. It was astonishing how elegant and respectable she looked now compared with the woman Selina remembered from her youth. Gone was Mrs. Kinnon’s wild, dark hair, replaced by a smooth silver that was always coiled neatly into a knot. And her clothing was impeccable and modest, a far cry from the cheap, coarse gowns she’d sewn for herself, along with the few gowns Selina had owned as a child. “Now you look like the proper lady you’re supposed to be.”
Selina was absolutely not a lady, and she had no notion what she was supposed to be. Dead, probably. The dark turn of her thoughts threatened to paralyze her. But she wouldn’t fall. She couldn’t. She mentally chided herself. Returning to London after so many years was playing havoc with her equilibrium.
As if that’s all it is.
Selina ignored the voice in her head as she picked up her gloves from the table. Her Madame Sybila costume was safely stowed behind the hidden door in the corner that opened to a tiny closet. She’d also draped a curtain over it just to be sure it remained hidden. “Thank you, Mrs. Kinnon. I’ll see you tomorrow.”