Lord of Darkness (Maiden Lane #5)(43)

His jaw clenched at the thought. Any other woman would’ve stayed far away from this area of London after that first trip. Not Megs, though, and he hardly thought the events of last night would keep her away either. No, she’d declared that she would go back to St. Giles—and continue to do so until she found Fraser-Burnsby’s killer. It might possibly be bravado, but he didn’t think so. His wife was setting a course of suicide.

Damnation. He wouldn’t let her own stubbornness lead to her hurt—or worse. Somehow he needed to find a way to send her back to the country, and the sooner the better.

St. Giles in the Fields church loomed up ahead, the tall steeple bisecting the full moon. Godric crossed to the brick wall surrounding the little graveyard. There was a lock on the gate, but it hung open.

Carefully, he pushed open the gate.

The hinges had been oiled and he slipped inside the churchyard without sound. The wind picked up, bending the branches of a single, pathetic tree and moaning around the headstones. Some might find it eerie, but Godric knew there was far more to fear in St. Giles than where the dead slept.

A very human grunt came from near the opposite wall, and Godric smiled grimly: He hadn’t come in vain tonight. He slid from shadow to shadow around the perimeter of the graveyard, not speaking until he was within feet of his quarry.

“Good evening, Digger.”

Digger Jack, a small, hunched man who happened to be one of the most notorious resurrectionists in London, straightened with a gasp.

His companion, a brawny, lumbering lad, was less sanguine. “It’s the Devil!”

The lad threw down his shovel and sprinted for the cemetery gate with impressive agility, given his size.

Digger Jack made one abortive move, but Godric laid a heavy hand on the other man’s shoulder before he could run. “I need a word with you.”

“Awww!” Digger moaned. “Now, why’d ye ’ave to go an’ do that? Ye’ve scared off Jed. ’Ave ye any idea ’ow ’ard ’tis to find a lad wif a strong back in St. Giles? I’m gettin’ on in years, I am, an’ the lumbago’s been botherin’ me somethin’ fierce. ’Ow’m I to do me work wifout ’is ’elp?”

Godric raised an eyebrow behind his mask. “Sad as your tale of woe is, Digger, I can’t find it in myself to pity you when you’re in the very act of exhuming some poor corpse.”

Digger pulled himself up to his full height of something under five foot two. “Man’s got to make a livin’, Ghost. ’Sides,” he continued, narrowing his eyes spitefully, “leastwise I’m not a murderer.”

“Oh, let’s not start a game of name-calling.”

The other man made a rude noise.

“Digger,” Godric said low, his patience at an end, “I’m not here for your opinion of me.”

The grave robber licked his lips nervously, his eyes sliding away from Godric’s. “What yer want, then?”

“What do you know about the lassie snatchers?”

Digger’s bony shoulders lifted. “Just talk ’ere and there.”

“Tell me.”

Digger’s hard little face contorted as the man thought. “Word is, they’re back.”

Godric sighed. “Yes, I know.”

“Uh …” Digger toed absently at the edge of his half-excavated grave. Clods of earth tumbled down, making no sound. “Some say as ’ow they’ve taken near on two dozen girls.”

Four and twenty girls missing? In any other corner of London, there would’ve been a public outcry. News sheets would’ve printed outraged articles, lords would’ve thundered their ire in Parliament. Here, no one had bothered to even notice, it seemed.

“Where are they taken to?”

“I dunno.” Digger shook his head. “But it’s not a regular bawdy house, like. Don’t no one ’ear from ’em again.”

Godric’s eyes narrowed. Digger didn’t appear to know that the girls were used in a workshop. The place must be well hidden. A secret kept very close.

“There’s a wench, though,” Digger said as if remembering, “’oo ’elps to catch the lassies.”

“Do you know what she looks like?”

“I knows better’n that,” Digger said with a hint of pride. “I knows ’er name.”

Godric cocked his head, waiting.

“Mistress Cook is what she goes by—or so I’ve ’eard.”

It wasn’t much, but it was better than nothing. Godric produced a silver coin and pressed it into Digger’s grimy palm. “Thank you.”

Digger perked up at the sight of money, although his tone was still a bit surly when he answered, “Anytime.”

Godric turned to go, but hesitated as a thought struck him. “One more thing.”

The grave robber heaved a heavy sigh. “What?”

“Two years ago, an aristo was murdered in St. Giles. His name was Roger Fraser-Burnsby. Do you know anything about the matter?”

If Godric hadn’t spent years questioning informants of dubious reputation, he’d have missed the slight stiffening of Digger’s body.

“Never ’eard of ’im,” Digger said carelessly. “Now, if’n ye don’t mind, I ’as me work to finish afore sunup.”