Death and the Cyprian Society by Pamela Christie

horrible, and the man would appear to have strangled on it. But round his neck was the mark of a rope, and Arabella’s calculated swoon into Frank’s arms was only half-feigned. He set her on her feet again, and helped her to a table as far away from the coffin as possible.
    “What happened to him?” she asked.
    “Poor sod was hanged this morning. At Tyburn.”
    “At Tyburn! No one has been hanged there for more than twenty years!”
    “I never said it was a lawful hanging, miss.”
    Wordlessly, they turned to gaze out the back window at Execution Dock. The gibbet there was still used for the occasional pirate, but just now the noose hung empty. Arabella shuddered. And as she was turning round again, a man the size of a troll came up to her, his hat clutched to his breast.
    “Name’s Gun Jensen, missus. I knows ’oo you are. Just want to say it warn’t right, what happened to Tom.” This voice, raised in anger, would surely have shattered ceiling beams. “But never you fear! We found the rat what done it, alright! And Tom’s been avenged!”
    What should she say? Arabella thought wildly of Feben, with her wardrobe of character accents. Feben would have been up to this. What was it she said? “Every individual is a thousand different people.” Keeping her head down, and her face covered, Arabella replied, in a tight, tense voice, “’Oo was it, Gun? ’Oo was it killed my Tommy?”
    “Nobody as you’d know t’ speak to, ma’m; just a hen-hearted coward for hire. Now ’e’s outta the way like, an’ you can rest easy. But we won’t. We aim t’ find the bastard as ordered it, an’ we won’t stop lookin’ fer ’im till ’e’s found. You have my word on that!” He turned his head, spat to one side, and without waiting for Arabella’s thanks, he trudged back to the bar.
    “That was brilliant, miss,” whispered Frank. “All the same, I think we’re both a bit out of our depth here. We’ll have one drink, for form’s sake, and be on our way. The barmaid told me just before you arrived that Tyke won’t be here.”
    “Actually,” said Arabella, “I’d rather we left now , if you don’t mind.”
    “All right. We needn’t stay. Let’s get outside where we can walk and talk. No one will bother us, now they think you’re Greely’s widow.”
    “But that is one of the reasons I wish to be gone; I’m worried lest the real Mrs. Greely should pop in and denounce me as an imposter!”
    She signaled to her coachman, who followed them outside. It was a relief to raise her veil again, and Arabella thrilled to feel the fog’s cool tendrils slither across her cheeks—most welcome after the overheated atmosphere of that hellish room.
    “Follow us, please, Trotter,” she said. “Not too closely.”
    “There was really no need to worry, miss,” said Frank. “I’d never have taken such a risk, if I didn’t know for certain that Mrs. Greely wouldn’t be visiting the Prospect tonight.”
    “No?” asked Arabella. “With her dead husband lying there in state? What could possibly take precedence over that? Where is Mrs. Greely?”
    “At home, miss. Having her twelfth child.”
    “Oh, the poor woman! How will she care for her family alone?”
    “I shouldn’t worry about that, either, miss,” said Frank. “Greely was something of a legend in these parts. You saw the way those ruffians treated his supposed widow!”
    “Yes,” said Arabella. “And I am accustomed to celebrity, as you know. Usually people crowd around, vying for a chance to talk to me. But this lot didn’t even dare! I felt like a queen!”
    “Mrs. Greely is a sort of queen, down here,” said Frank. “The criminal community will take good care of her family, and see to it that the kiddies all grow up to be first-class smugglers, like their pa!”
    Arabella stared meditatively at the toes of her shoes as they walked toward the bridge, the carriage following at a discreet distance. This was a terrible part of town. The