Death and the Cyprian Society by Pamela Christie Page A

Ratcliff Highway murders had happened near here only two years ago: a young family, and their apprentice, slaughtered like hogs in a pen. The case was never solved. Not really. But she didn’t want to think about that just now.
    “Frank,” said Arabella, “what would you have done if Mr. Tyke had appeared?”
    “Stood him to a drink and invited him to our table,” said Frank.
    “No! Would you really?”
    “Oh, yes. Then I’d have introduced him to Mrs. Greely, the most powerful person in that room, and told him to produce Miss Worthington’s letters or face the consequences.”
    “Brilliant!” breathed Arabella. “Oh, damn! Why didn’t he come? I could have had the case solved tonight!”
    By this time, Frank and the suppositional Widow Greely had arrived at London Bridge, and they decided to walk out upon it for a little way. The clammy mist engulfed them like wet smoke.
    “You see, miss,” Frank was saying, “the most vicious crimes always occur near the river, because the gangs are all based here. It’s the ideal setup for them: tiny, crooked little streets, derelict warehouses, ships moored so close together you can leap from one deck to another when being pursued. Your Mr. Tyke stays here when he’s at home, but he’s a solo operator, not a gang member; what you might call a henchman for hire.”
    “Not my Mr. Tyke!” Arabella protested. “I don’t know the first thing about him!”
    “Ah,” said Frank. “Well, he’s a man of many talents. Routinely hires himself out for ‘protective services,’ if you know what I mean.”
    “No, I’m afraid I—”
    “He roughs people up, for a price. I can’t say if he’s ever murdered anybody, but he’s certainly been in a position to do so. We’re searching for him now, as a matter of fact, in connection with a little matter involving a missing person.”
    “Oh!” said Arabella. “You wouldn’t by any chance be referring to Mr. Savory-Pratt, would you?”
    “Bless my soul! How did you come to know that?” Frank pulled out a notepad and a pencil from his breast pocket. “What can you tell me about this matter, miss?”
    “Nothing that the police don’t already know, I’m afraid; I had it from a couple of bailiffs who were watching his house.”
    “Oh,” said Frank, masking his disappointment and putting his notepad away again. “Yes. We’ve already spoken to those two.”
    The idea of tracking Tyke to his lair had little appeal for Arabella now. She suddenly wanted to go home, but they were halfway across the bridge, and her carriage waited behind them, at the end of it. She tried to tell herself that it was not so bad as all that. New gas fixtures had recently been installed along the parapet here, and their light was somewhat reassuring when one stood directly beneath them, but for the most part, they only served to heighten the effect of the deep shadows that gathered and pooled in the spaces between the poles: They were more eerie than cheery. Watery moonlight, fighting its way through the miasma, lit up the water in uncanny patches, as sinister personages materialized ahead of them, or brushed past them from behind, their features indistinct in the fog.
    “I should have liked to see this bridge in its heyday,” Arabella said, resting her arms on the parapet and affecting a heartiness that she did not feel, “when it was all covered over in shops and houses.”
    “I doubt you’d have liked it, miss. It was filthy, crowded, and stinking in those days, worse even than now. Imagine all those blokes up at the Prospect, brought to this bridge with cartloads more, and herded along till they completely covered it over. That’s your old London Bridge.”
    Despite her avocation, Arabella was averse to crime as a subject for study, except for highway robbery, of course, which she and everybody else considered dashing and romantic. That profession had all but died out now, though. The other sorts of crime were generally associated with