Whitechapel Gods Read Free Page A

whispered over his shoulder.
    Tommy shifted uncomfortably. “But I want to watch.”
    “Do your moving before they get here,” Oliver snapped.
    “Fine.” Tommy creaked as he rose, then clanked with every step as he retreated to a doorjamb that barely contained his shoulders.
    Oliver’s eyes followed Missy’s approach to the crowd. She walked as if she had somewhere very important to be. The men all halted and doffed their hats to her as she passed. She gave them each the barest nod of acknowledgement, fixing each, Oliver knew, though he couldn’t see it, with her lingering gaze, punctuated by a twitch of the eyebrow, an ever-subtle quickening of the breath. Some stepped forward to introduce themselves even as she dismissed them with a blink and shifted to the next. This left a gaggle of befuddled men in her wake, all looking terribly unmanned.
    Oliver held his breath.
    Missy slowed as she passed the man with the handlebar moustache, a falter in her step, then a pause, the same interested look.
    The target stepped up like a dog to a strip of bacon.
    The noise of the factory above prevented any eavesdropping from this distance, but Oliver knew how it went. The man was extending his hand, offering to walk her home because it was frightfully improper for a lovely lady like herself to be wandering these streets without a gentleman escort; not the kind of place a lady would be safe, no sir. And yes, she would quite fancy an escort. Oh! Did she use the word fancy? Quite improper. A slip of the tongue.
    Inside a minute she had the gentleman hanging on her arm. The rest strode off, engaging in excited conversation over the grand fortune of their comrade and puffing themselves all around as if they’d had some hand in it.
    “Next time, I want to be the lookout,” Tommy said. Oliver could almost picture him stamping his foot like a boy of five.
    Oliver glanced back. “When you put some grease on those joints of yours, I may consider it.”
    Tommy’s face contorted in a deep frown. “A right miser, you are. A hoarder.”
    “The lion’s share, Tommy. Perks of being a regular John Bull.” He turned back to the street.
    To find it empty.
    He cast his eyes back and forth. The street was entirely vacant but for the remainder of the pub goers vanishing into the smog, and the wanderings of one stray dog.
    “Something up, mate?” Tommy asked.
    The fizzling of the gaslight and the constant smog obscured most of the street. Oliver stuck his head around the corner, risking detection, and peered into those shadows along the near side of the street, where Missy was supposed to bring the fox. Nothing. Her white neck, at least, should be visible.
    “We’ve lost her, then?” Tommy said.
    “She’s run off.” He squinted hard to see into the alleys she would have passed walking that way.
    “Maybe she wants a quick peck before we do our thing,” Tommy suggested.
    Oliver felt himself flash angry. “Not when we’re on business, surely.”
    “She might do it just to get your goat, Chief,” said Tommy.
    “At the least, she would signal us before getting out of sight,” Oliver said.
    “One would think.”
    Oliver scanned the buildings lining the street, apartments stretching the entire five storeys to the roof of the concourse. Some even went higher, tangling themselves in the braces of the next level: five storeys of twinkling lights and their attendant residents, any one of which could bring the cloaks crashing down on them.
    There was nowhere to hide once they left the alley. The lampposts shed dim and inconsistent light, but such was their frequency and the genius of their placement that there was no route down the sidewalk that would not risk detection. They could not pass for locals anyway, with Oliver’s shabby clothes and Tommy’s angular bulk sure to arouse suspicion.
    “She may have ducked off too early,” Oliver thought aloud. “Do you see a way around to the next alley?”
    “Didn’t notice one,” said Tommy.