I narrowed my eyes at her, digging my knee deeper until I felt a rib, and then gave an extra jab before climbing off of her.
I jerked my chin toward the opposite street. “Go on,” I said. “And next time put some shoeblack on your face to look like a beard, and for god’s sakes wear some gloves; they gave you away instantly.”
She scrambled to her feet, brushing the muck off her clothes, and stumbled away at a run. I sheathed the knife in the boot holster, then wiped a trembling hand over my face, breathing some life back into my cold hands.
I took off at a brisk walk, still shaken, the afternoon clouds overhead the only witness to the incident I couldn’t forget fast enough, until at last I saw the shining lights of Covent Garden.
FOUR
THE MARKET WAS FILLED at all hours with a vast range of people, and I gladly plunged into the safety of their midst. Ladies in fine dresses shopped for Christmas presents for their well-dressed children, scullery maids swarmed past the wrinkle-faced vegetable women, tailors and seamstresses haggled in the textile quarter. In my fine coat and boots no one gave me a second glance, until I slipped into the meat section of the market. Few fine young ladies could stomach these narrow passageways. Eels as long as my arm twitched on hooks above lambs’ glassy dead eyes, and stray cats licked up the salty blood pooling on the floor. By the time I reached Joyce’s Choice Meats, I was getting nothing but strange looks.
Jack Joyce, however, gave me a smile.
Joyce, an Irish ex-boxer who’d turned to the meat trade in his old age, cracked a broken-tooth grin as I approached. His previous profession had left him not only minus a few teeth, but with a permanent squint eye that never seemed to be looking in the same direction as the other. A small black dog with a white spot on his chest, notable only in his ugliness, wagged his tail as I approached.
“Hello, Joyce,” I said, and then knelt by the dog to scratch his bony head. In general, I did my best to stay away from animals. They only reminded me of my father and the dark experimentation he had done. That’s why I limited myself to plants. Roses couldn’t kill, or maim, or betray.
“And hello to you too, boy.” I picked up the dog, though he was heavy in my arms. “He’s put on a pound or two, I believe.”
“Aye. Soon enough he’ll be fatter than the queen’s old lapdog, if you keep buying him scraps. And just as lazy.” Joyce took his knobby old hands away from his fire and dug around behind the counter until he came back with some chicken bones that he tossed to the dog.
The dog had started following me around town ever since I’d first come to Joyce’s Meats six months ago. It was the meat in my pocket he smelled, and the only way I could get him to keep from trailing at my heels was to pay Joyce to keep him well-fed on scraps, a task that despite his grumbling, I suspected the old boxer rather enjoyed.
“Let’s see,” Joyce said, digging around beneath the counter. He came up with a package wrapped in butcher paper and tied with twine. “Here’s your order. Two pancreases, one liver. Couldn’t get my hands on the deer heart you wanted. I should have it next week.”
“That’s fine,” I said, slipping the package into my pocket. Just being here stirred the bones of my hands from their slumber, made them remember what Father had done to me. I flexed them, hoping to hold off the symptoms of another fit.
The dog finished his chicken bone and barked at Joyce, who stooped down on his bad knee and scratched the dog’s head. “When are you going to give this ugly fellow a name already?” he asked.
I leaned against the counter, watching the dog thumping his tail. “He isn’t my dog.”
“Don’t think he understands that.”
“My guardian wouldn’t care much for a stray in his house. I fear I’m already uncivilized enough for him.” I didn’t mention how the last dog I’d named, a puppy called Crusoe, had died under Father’s scalpel. The thought made my stiff hands ache more, and I pushed them into my coat pockets.
Joyce grinned. “Aw, you could use a companion. No reason why anyone else has to know. Keep him in a back garden. How about Romeo, eh? Romeo and Juliet, you were made for one another.”
“I was made for a flea-ridden stray?” I couldn’t help but laugh. “Perhaps you’re right. Though in any case, Romeo doesn’t suit him. Who’s that boxer you’re always talking about? The underdog. That mutt’s an underdog, if I’ve ever seen one.”
“Mike Sharkey,” Joyce said. “Pride of Ireland. He beat that big Turkish bloke four to one. What do you say, fella? Are you a Sharkey?”
I watched them playing from the corner of my eye. Joyce had always been friendly with me, and never once asked what a well-dressed young woman wanted with so many animal organs. So different from those tittering ladies at the flower show.
“Hope you’re taking care out there, miss, walking around town on your own, especially this late in the afternoon. It’ll be dark soon. You’ve heard about the murders, I wager?”
“Which murders? This is London. There are a dozen murders every day.”
His eyes went serious beneath his brow. “Didn’t read the morning paper, did you?” He rooted around in the stack of old newspapers he used to wrap cuts of meat and slapped one down on the table.
“A MASS MURDER IN THE MAKING?” the headline read.
“Three murders in the last two days,” Joyce said. “Scotland Yard says they’re connected; the murder leaves his mark at each crime scene. It’s all anyone’s been talking about. They’re calling him the Wolf of Whitechapel on account of how he carves up the bodies. One of them had a purse on him and a gold watch, but the murderer didn’t touch it. Wasn’t interested in anything but tearing that man apart like an animal.”