I've been here six full
weeks, and though the inn is clean, there's a certain lack." He shifted closer still. "Of the
female persuasion, if you understand me. What I'd not give for a sweet blond whore,
young, mind you, and up for a bit of rough play."
Griffin took a long, slow pull of his ale. Swallowed. Said nothing. Six full weeks.
Parsons had been in Northallerton an inexplicably long while.
Hunting, or hunted?
HIS WICKED SINS
Page 51 of 103
"Well, I'll take your silence for a no." Richard waved a hand. "So we'll talk of what's on
every mind in Northallerton, and likely every village for miles around. No doubt you've
heard of the missing maid, a blond girl from the telling of it. Speculation as to her fate is
on every loose tongue."
Griffin heard an undercurrent to the casual none, a challenge. "Do you join in the
speculation, Richard? Do you present your thoughts and suppositions on her
whereabouts?"
"Do you, Griff?" Richard's fingers drummed a staccato beat on the table, slid to his
waist to toy with his silver watch, then strayed to the buttons of his waistcoat. "I say she
ran off with her lover." Then he laughed, the sound low and menacing. "Strange how
history repeats and repeats, eh? Wonder what the local constabulary would say to know of
a fifteen-year-old tale from Ratcliffe Highway…"
When Griffin made no reply, Richard laughed again, an ugly sound. He slapped his
knee, relishing the private joke. "And here we are again, the two of us, so many years on,
sinning in a pub, speaking of butchered blond whores."
"The girl was no whore, but a maid at Briar House." Griffin held his neutral tone with
effort. "And the niece of my housekeeper's husband."
"At Briar, you say?" Richard made a tuneless whistle. "Well, that is a thing. Can't
imagine you would find a welcome there." He paused, nodded slowly, watching Griffin
for any hint of reaction.
Griffin said nothing, merely drank his ale. No, he would find no welcome at Briar
House, the home of his dead wife's parents. He had married Amelia Holder, and he had
killed her. Little more to be said on that.
With a pull of his mouth, Richard leaned back in his chair and needled further. "And the
niece of your housekeeper. Hunting a bit close to home, dear boy?"
Still Griffin said nothing, and Richard's expression grew crafty and mean.
"Someone's scratching at an old wound, Griffin. Making inquiries in London about
bodies and ghosts best left buried. You wouldn't know aught about that, would you?"
"Not a thing," Griffin replied, his mask in place, though emotion churned beneath his
surface calm. Someone was stirring up old venom, poking at things best left buried. Who?
Why?
"You know nothing about that, hmm, but you do know something about Briar's little
missing maid. You say she was no whore. Interesting choice of words and tense…"
Richard's gaze grew sharp. "So she is dead, is she, Griff? She is dead."
Tossing some coins on the table, Griffin rose and stood staring down at Richard, his
once boon companion.
"She is dead," he said softly, his blood running cold as a winter stream.
She was dead. They both knew it.
Just as the two missing teachers had been dead, and the whore at Covent Garden, and
the barmaid in Stepney, and so many others in between.
Turning away, Griffin strode from the Red Bull with the sound of Richard's dark
laughter biting at his back.
* * *
HIS WICKED SINS
Page 52 of 103
He hummed as he worked, running his fingers through Sarah's long blond hair.
Yesterday, he had made a liniment: an ounce of vinegar, an ounce of powdered
stavesacre, a half ounce each of honey and sulfur, and two ounces of oil, all in a mix. He
had rubbed the treatment along her scalp and the roots of her hair, taking care to work it in
well.
His mother had used this recipe. Repeated it again and again to rid the hair of vermin.
She had sworn that he and his brother were crawling with vermin. He had never seen a
one. Not on his own
weeks, and though the inn is clean, there's a certain lack." He shifted closer still. "Of the
female persuasion, if you understand me. What I'd not give for a sweet blond whore,
young, mind you, and up for a bit of rough play."
Griffin took a long, slow pull of his ale. Swallowed. Said nothing. Six full weeks.
Parsons had been in Northallerton an inexplicably long while.
Hunting, or hunted?
HIS WICKED SINS
Page 51 of 103
"Well, I'll take your silence for a no." Richard waved a hand. "So we'll talk of what's on
every mind in Northallerton, and likely every village for miles around. No doubt you've
heard of the missing maid, a blond girl from the telling of it. Speculation as to her fate is
on every loose tongue."
Griffin heard an undercurrent to the casual none, a challenge. "Do you join in the
speculation, Richard? Do you present your thoughts and suppositions on her
whereabouts?"
"Do you, Griff?" Richard's fingers drummed a staccato beat on the table, slid to his
waist to toy with his silver watch, then strayed to the buttons of his waistcoat. "I say she
ran off with her lover." Then he laughed, the sound low and menacing. "Strange how
history repeats and repeats, eh? Wonder what the local constabulary would say to know of
a fifteen-year-old tale from Ratcliffe Highway…"
When Griffin made no reply, Richard laughed again, an ugly sound. He slapped his
knee, relishing the private joke. "And here we are again, the two of us, so many years on,
sinning in a pub, speaking of butchered blond whores."
"The girl was no whore, but a maid at Briar House." Griffin held his neutral tone with
effort. "And the niece of my housekeeper's husband."
"At Briar, you say?" Richard made a tuneless whistle. "Well, that is a thing. Can't
imagine you would find a welcome there." He paused, nodded slowly, watching Griffin
for any hint of reaction.
Griffin said nothing, merely drank his ale. No, he would find no welcome at Briar
House, the home of his dead wife's parents. He had married Amelia Holder, and he had
killed her. Little more to be said on that.
With a pull of his mouth, Richard leaned back in his chair and needled further. "And the
niece of your housekeeper. Hunting a bit close to home, dear boy?"
Still Griffin said nothing, and Richard's expression grew crafty and mean.
"Someone's scratching at an old wound, Griffin. Making inquiries in London about
bodies and ghosts best left buried. You wouldn't know aught about that, would you?"
"Not a thing," Griffin replied, his mask in place, though emotion churned beneath his
surface calm. Someone was stirring up old venom, poking at things best left buried. Who?
Why?
"You know nothing about that, hmm, but you do know something about Briar's little
missing maid. You say she was no whore. Interesting choice of words and tense…"
Richard's gaze grew sharp. "So she is dead, is she, Griff? She is dead."
Tossing some coins on the table, Griffin rose and stood staring down at Richard, his
once boon companion.
"She is dead," he said softly, his blood running cold as a winter stream.
She was dead. They both knew it.
Just as the two missing teachers had been dead, and the whore at Covent Garden, and
the barmaid in Stepney, and so many others in between.
Turning away, Griffin strode from the Red Bull with the sound of Richard's dark
laughter biting at his back.
* * *
HIS WICKED SINS
Page 52 of 103
He hummed as he worked, running his fingers through Sarah's long blond hair.
Yesterday, he had made a liniment: an ounce of vinegar, an ounce of powdered
stavesacre, a half ounce each of honey and sulfur, and two ounces of oil, all in a mix. He
had rubbed the treatment along her scalp and the roots of her hair, taking care to work it in
well.
His mother had used this recipe. Repeated it again and again to rid the hair of vermin.
She had sworn that he and his brother were crawling with vermin. He had never seen a
one. Not on his own
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