“The Mastiff is hiding his work better, but we’re refining our network as well.” Fletcher looked determined but not entirely confident. “Brogan’s father-in-law is proving to be a shockingly good source of information.”
Everyone’s attention turned to their resident Irishman.
“I’ve not the first idea how it is he knows so much,” Brogan said. “I’ve not even any clue where he’s been the last two months, only that he is fully sure he and the children he’s protecting would be in mortal danger if he weren’t in hiding—enough so that he missed his own daughter’s wedding. He sends me information regularly, so I’m hopeful he can discover what we, so far, haven’t managed.”
Mr. Sorokin’s connection to London’s underworld had been a source of great debate in the DPS. No one thought him a villain, but there was little else they were certain of.
Fletcher turned his attention to Martin. “Anything odd you’ve learned about this most recent blaze?”
Martin stood and tucked his hands in his pockets, not in a posture of uncertainty, but simply a trick for keeping himself more still than he usually was. “The Mastiff, assuming he is theone behind this, didn’t wait for the people to be out of their shop, as he’s done in the past. He set the premises ablaze with them still inside.”
“This fire wasn’t awarning,” Stone said. “It was punishment.”
Martin nodded. “Seems that way. He’s getting bolder. People are terrified, and rightly so. He had been threatening them into compliance. Now he’s just killing ’em.”
Slipping women free from the unrelenting grasp of madams and bullyboys was Barnabus’s particular emphasis in this organization. But a man who was heartlessly murdering people was everyone’s concern.
“Ought we to be holding off on our efforts with the public-facing organization we’ve started?” Brogan asked.
Barnabus had asked himself the same question. The two of them had been charged with creating a front for the society, an acknowledged charitable organization the members’ friends and families could be part of so the DPS needn’t tell quite so many lies. It also served as a distraction to those who might be paying a bit too much attention to what the penny dreadful authors of London were doing in secret.
The work they’d dedicated themselves to involved hampering extremely dangerous and often powerful people, thwarting their crimes, helping their victims escape. Sometimes, the work they did was not entirely legal. It was crucial for their safety, their freedom, and their ability to continue their work that their activities be kept secret from everyone outside their organization. Even their own families didn’t know of their efforts.
That secrecy, however, came with complications. Family members asked questions, pieced together unintended clues. Keeping the secret was becoming increasingly difficult. Some members had contemplated resigning from the DPS becausethey couldn’t continue the ruse needed to protect those they’d saved and those they loved.
And so the DPS had created a sister organization: the Charitable Authors League of London. In full view of all and with the knowledge, blessing, and participation of their families, they would be undertaking efforts throughout London to ease suffering and want. Running two organizations simultaneously was difficult, but the survival of so many depended on yet another deception: the lie that “CALL” was the only thing this group of writers was involved in.
But did they dare continue with CALL given the Mastiff’s growing threats?
“I think,” Barnabus said, “we’d actually do best to push ahead. CALL’s first charitable effort can be undertaken on the street where the fire occurred. We could do some good for people the Mastiff has terrorized, all while providing us cover for snooping around the ashes a bit, seeing what we can find.”
“Excellent idea,” Fletcher said. “And while we’re sniffing about, we’ll see if we can’t sort out what happened to the victims of the fire.”
“‘What happened to them’?” Elizabeth repeated in confusion. “They were killed.”
“Aye, that they were. Their bodies were recovered and then buried. But now those bodies have disappeared.”
A weight settled in Barnabus’s chest. Grave robbing was something every doctor was both familiar and uncomfortable with. It was a well-known secret that most medical school cadavers were obtained through the efforts of “resurrection men”; a bit of moral ambiguity most doctors struggled to make their peace with.
“Why would a resurrectionist bother with bodies that were damaged by fire?” Kumar asked. “No medical school or curious doctor would pay them for ...” He let the commentarydangle, likely not knowing how to complete the sentence without sounding cruel or inhumane.
The whole group looked to Barnabus, he being the only doctor among them. Exhaling a tense breath, he offeredsomeof the expertise he had on the matter. “If someone were studying the effects of fire, that person might be interested. There are, unfortunately, people with morbid interests and curiosities, but without true medical interest, who pay for bodies. Resurrectionists can also be employed for revenge. They also sometimes nip off with a body as a means of hiding something.”
“Could it be the Mastiff felt something about these two unfortunate people needed to be hidden? Perhaps some odd clue that might lead to his true identity or whereabouts?” Kumar asked.
No one seemed certain.
Fletcher shook his head, not in dismissal of the idea but in growing confusion. “What could possibly be kept hidden by stealing their bodies?”
“Seems a question that ought to be posed to the fella that did the resurrecting,” Stone said.
“I don’t have any personal connections to resurrection men,” Fletcher said dryly. “Do any of you?”
With a lump of apprehension, Barnabus realized he would need to make a confession he’d never intended to. “I do,” he said on a sigh.
They all looked at him with wide-eyed surprise.
“From your days in medical school?” Fletcher guessed.