I—”
“I shouldn’t have brought it up,” Ben said. “We have a job to do, don’t we?”
And so they waited, Pimm doing his best to keep a watchful eye while at the same time not watching women disappear into alleyways with men. He liked women as much as anyone, and he’d been to some of the nicer brothels once or twice—though not since his days at Oxford—but what pleasure could there be in rooting in an alleyway? Then again, his working day didn’t involve hauling crates or laboring in a factory, and he had more to look forward to at home than stinking rooms filled with children he barely knew and a wife who was probably none too pleased to see him come home. Perhaps a moment of pure, unthinking, convulsive pleasure was the best men such as these could hope for, and attractive enough to overcome the fear of the Affliction. There were only several hundred verified cases over the past few years, though there were surely many more that had never been reported to the medical establishment.
This kind of alley work couldn’t be much fun for the women, though. He’d heard there were some girls in this business who genuinely enjoyed the work—or at least found it less objectionable than other forms of labor—but he couldn’t imagine any woman going to work for Abel Value in these ugly alleyways with any motivation other than total desperation.
A shrill whistle sounded thrice, and Ben and Pimm raced together in the direction of the sound. Two short blasts, and one long, the agreed-upon signal for catching the murderer in the act. Sound bounced around damnably among the cramped taverns and warehouses in the area, but Ben seemed to know precisely where the sound had come from, so Pimm went along at his heels. Perhaps it was a false alarm—Value’s men were on edge—but if not, Pimm dearly hoped he’d be able to prevent Value from killing the murderer. The perpetrator needed to be taken to the police, if only because his victims surely had families, and they deserved to know the killer had been caught. If the man didn’t confess, the girls would simply be presumed to have disappeared, gobbled up by the streets of London, and wasn’t uncertainty even worse than the knowledge that you’d lost a daughter or sister?
They found the whistle-blower gasping and clutching his forearm, leaning on a wall near the motionless body of a red-haired girl, lying face-down in an alley. “Bastard had a knife, he cut me,” Value’s man said, removing his hand to reveal an open gash on the meaty part of his bicep.
“Which way did he go?” Pimm said.
The man gestured, and Ben shook his head. “Never catch him, sir. Five steps past the mouth of the alley, there are ten different directions he could go.”
Pimm looked the whistle-blower over thoughtfully. “Ben, would you mind checking our friend, to make sure he’s… quite well?”
“I get you,” Ben said. “All right, Solly, turn out your pockets, there’s a good lad.” The big man’s tone was entirely affable, and Solly frowned, but did as requested. He had nothing on him but a few coins, a bit of string, and a little pen-knife, which Ben passed to Pimm. The detective removed a small alchemical device from his coat pocket, shaped like a pocketwatch, and opened the metal cover. A bright, intense light shone forth from the device, focused through a lens of clear glass. It was impossible to touch the device without thinking of Ben’s (alleged) cousin, burned to death by acid in the creation of this little wonder, or one like it. Pimm shone the light on the knife and carefully examined the blade and clasp. Not a spot of blood on the metal or in the crevices, and when Pimm touched the blade with the ball of his thumb, it was nearly dull as a spoon—a thing carried more from habit than utility.
“He has no other weapons?”
Ben shook his head. “I wouldn’t even call that a weapon, m’lord, but no.”
“It’s unlikely he cut himself to lead us astray,
“I shouldn’t have brought it up,” Ben said. “We have a job to do, don’t we?”
And so they waited, Pimm doing his best to keep a watchful eye while at the same time not watching women disappear into alleyways with men. He liked women as much as anyone, and he’d been to some of the nicer brothels once or twice—though not since his days at Oxford—but what pleasure could there be in rooting in an alleyway? Then again, his working day didn’t involve hauling crates or laboring in a factory, and he had more to look forward to at home than stinking rooms filled with children he barely knew and a wife who was probably none too pleased to see him come home. Perhaps a moment of pure, unthinking, convulsive pleasure was the best men such as these could hope for, and attractive enough to overcome the fear of the Affliction. There were only several hundred verified cases over the past few years, though there were surely many more that had never been reported to the medical establishment.
This kind of alley work couldn’t be much fun for the women, though. He’d heard there were some girls in this business who genuinely enjoyed the work—or at least found it less objectionable than other forms of labor—but he couldn’t imagine any woman going to work for Abel Value in these ugly alleyways with any motivation other than total desperation.
A shrill whistle sounded thrice, and Ben and Pimm raced together in the direction of the sound. Two short blasts, and one long, the agreed-upon signal for catching the murderer in the act. Sound bounced around damnably among the cramped taverns and warehouses in the area, but Ben seemed to know precisely where the sound had come from, so Pimm went along at his heels. Perhaps it was a false alarm—Value’s men were on edge—but if not, Pimm dearly hoped he’d be able to prevent Value from killing the murderer. The perpetrator needed to be taken to the police, if only because his victims surely had families, and they deserved to know the killer had been caught. If the man didn’t confess, the girls would simply be presumed to have disappeared, gobbled up by the streets of London, and wasn’t uncertainty even worse than the knowledge that you’d lost a daughter or sister?
They found the whistle-blower gasping and clutching his forearm, leaning on a wall near the motionless body of a red-haired girl, lying face-down in an alley. “Bastard had a knife, he cut me,” Value’s man said, removing his hand to reveal an open gash on the meaty part of his bicep.
“Which way did he go?” Pimm said.
The man gestured, and Ben shook his head. “Never catch him, sir. Five steps past the mouth of the alley, there are ten different directions he could go.”
Pimm looked the whistle-blower over thoughtfully. “Ben, would you mind checking our friend, to make sure he’s… quite well?”
“I get you,” Ben said. “All right, Solly, turn out your pockets, there’s a good lad.” The big man’s tone was entirely affable, and Solly frowned, but did as requested. He had nothing on him but a few coins, a bit of string, and a little pen-knife, which Ben passed to Pimm. The detective removed a small alchemical device from his coat pocket, shaped like a pocketwatch, and opened the metal cover. A bright, intense light shone forth from the device, focused through a lens of clear glass. It was impossible to touch the device without thinking of Ben’s (alleged) cousin, burned to death by acid in the creation of this little wonder, or one like it. Pimm shone the light on the knife and carefully examined the blade and clasp. Not a spot of blood on the metal or in the crevices, and when Pimm touched the blade with the ball of his thumb, it was nearly dull as a spoon—a thing carried more from habit than utility.
“He has no other weapons?”
Ben shook his head. “I wouldn’t even call that a weapon, m’lord, but no.”
“It’s unlikely he cut himself to lead us astray,
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