A Dreadful Splendor (4)

I needed to get away from London and her damp alleys; away from Miss Crane and her lipstick smiles that hid a heart of coal; away from all the grieving families; away from all the death.

“Dying is the easy part,” Maman used to say, her French accent smoothing the edges of the English words. “It is those left behind that suffer.”

The familiar ache rose from the depths of my heart, but I didn’t let it linger. I flattened the memory with all the rest, pushing it far down until I couldn’t recognize it, like the mucky bottom of the Thames.

There was a rattling cough to my left. Several feet away from me, an elderly man in an elegant wool coat held a handkerchief to his face. I could make out white eyebrows beneath the rim of his beaver hat. His other gloved hand gripped the top of a cane, carved into the shape of a golden serpent’s head with two red eyes that could be rubies. A rare item like that would fetch far more than Mrs. Hartford’s ring and bracelet.

“I’m sorry, sir, but there is nothing I can do,” an officer said to the gentleman.

“You must understand,” the old man said. “My lord insists that the case be reopened.”

The young officer grimaced. “We have no new evidence.” He paused, looking for a moment like he wanted to add something, but remained silent.

Constable Rigby moved down the long desk and muscled the younger officer to the side. He spoke to the gentleman. “The coroner’s inquest was thorough,” he said. “Unless you have anything new to offer?” The hint in his voice was obvious.

With a sigh that held the whisper of a wheeze, the gentleman produced an envelope from his coat pocket. “I believe this may help convince your superiors to revisit the case.” He then placed it into the waiting palm of Constable Rigby. At least the copper had the sense not to count the money in front of everyone. Instead, he nudged the younger officer my way. “Take this one to the holding cell in the back,” he ordered. “I’ll see to this gentleman personally.”

The rounded face of the younger officer seemed to shrink a bit.

Constable Rigby noticed. “Only thing scary about Miss Timmons is the sound she’ll make when the noose chokes her.”

My back straightened. “I hear the dead,” I told him. “They say otherwise. Mark my words, Rigby, I’ll be leaving the station tonight before your shift is over.”

“Is that a fact?” he said, showing a row of crooked teeth. “What’s in my pocket, then?”

“I only know what the ghosts say to me. They care not for what’s in your pocket—only what’s in your heart, or in your case, the lack of.”

“Ghosts?” The younger officer swallowed, but his expression was one I intuitively recognized—reluctant hope mixed with grief. There was also kindness in his eyes, something I could use to my advantage.

I squinted at him. “I sense someone with you,” I said. “A woman.”

He stayed quiet, but his cheeks reddened.

“Her hair is”—I paused and tilted my head, like I was trying to focus—“pulled up.”

He sniffed. “Is it grey?”

“Stay quiet,” Constable Rigby interrupted. “She’ll use any information against you.”

I continued, “She’s older. Someone close to you. Her eyes are—”

“Blue?” the officer offered.

I shook my head. “No, concerned. She worries about you. This is a relative, someone important in your life.”

“Mum,” he said, the word escaping his lips like a prayer.

“For the love of Christ almighty,” Constable Rigby grumbled, now completely ignoring the gentleman in the elegant attire. The rim of the beaver hat inclined my way, but not enough for me to properly see his face.

The young officer leaned closer to me. “She never wanted me to join the police. She was afraid for my safety.” His voice dropped. “Can she tell you, well, I mean, is there any way she can warn me if I’m going to . . . you know.” He drew an invisible line across his throat with his finger.

“No,” I said gently. “But she’s so very proud that you always help people when they need it most.”

He cleared his throat, suddenly reaching for my file on the desk to tidy the papers. “I always wanted to hear that from her,” he admitted.

When I spoke next, I filled my voice with every ounce of supplication I could muster. “Is there anything you can do to help me?”

His eyes grew large.

Constable Rigby pushed him to the side. “Doing your spooky mind tricks, are you, Miss Timmons? Well, tell me, then. What ghost is lurking around me?” He snorted. “Who’s my guardian angel?”

“Your guardian angel?” I lifted my chin. “No one,” I said. “Absolutely no one.”

His grin melted into a hateful scowl. He ordered the younger officer to take me to the cells. Only when I turned my back did I let the smile creep into place.

“Hang from the gallows, Genevieve Timmons,” Constable Rigby called after me. His voice bounced off the stone walls, echoing his words like a promise.



I stood in a familiar cell. My hair hung halfway down my back; the officer had removed all my pins. It would be tricky to pick a lock now.

Tricky, but not impossible.

There were several other women here. I recognized Drusilla from Miss Crane’s boardinghouse. Her voluptuous pink dress stood in stark contrast to the grey walls. I sat down beside her on the cold bench. It didn’t take much imagination to know why Drusilla had been arrested.