“Don’t matter in the end,” Fletcher said. “The sour’s coming from the same lemon.”
Stone arrived beside them. He eyed the scene with weariness. “Another fire.”
“I’d wager from the same source,” Fletcher said.
Stone’s expression remained pensive. His eyes remained sharp. “We oughta sniff around a bit. See if we can sort out which churchyard this poor fella gets buried in.”
Fletcher looked to Barnabus. “Has Gemma ever mentioned whether resurrectionists dig up people as a matter of revenge?”
She had told him that her family had once been paid to dig up someone they knew, and it hadn’t bothered her father or uncles one bit. Digging up someone theydidn’tlike would probably be a thrill for them.
How could he answer Fletcher’s question without giving away her actual connection to the resurrection trade? He’d been fortunate that, thus far, no one had pressed for further information on that front. Fletcher was sharp, though; he’d have it sorted if Barnabus offered too much more. If Barnabus’s hypothesis about Stone was accurate, he might already know.
“She did say sometimes the payment for a grave-snatching is settling a debt,” Barnabus said. “I imagine if they felt someoneowed them a debt of honor—ordishonor, as the case might be—they wouldn’t hesitate to settle it that way.”
Fletcher looked to Stone. “Most of the churchyards in this area are full-up—don’t take new burials. He’ll be laid to rest farther afield. Let’s sort out where.”
Gemma likely knew the location of every churchyard in London. But he’d avoid asking her if possible. The topic wasn’t a pleasant one for her, and he didn’t like to see her hurting.
The man with the newspaper was no longer watching the smoking embers; he was watchingBarnabus. Nothing in his expression looked threatening or fearful. He seemed to be puzzling something out.
That happened now and then. The reason was usually that he had been the person’s doctor at some point, or the one studying him had been present when Barnabus had undertaken a rescue. As there was no anger in the man’s expression, Barnabus felt confident the reason was the former.
Out of the corner of his eye, his attention was caught by the woman who’d been standing at the edge of the alleyway. She was alone now, and she looked anxious. He watched her, trying to ascertain if she was in some sort of trouble.
Stone seemed to notice the same thing. A ray of sunlight lit the woman’s unwashed face. She looked so familiar. Where did he know her from? Was she someone he’d rescued before?
Under his breath, Stone said, “Familiar, ain’t she?”
Barnabus nodded. “But I can’t place her.”
Her eyes met his, and she studied him too. Was he as confusingly familiar to her as she was to him? Quite without warning, her uncertainty turned to fear. She spun about and began to run.
“That’s the woman the DPS has been looking for,” Fletcher said. “Serena. The one being held by the Mastiff.”
In a flash, Barnabus knew he was right. They rushed off in pursuit of Serena.
The DPS had first become aware of her plight months earlier. She was being forced to work for the Mastiff, held by threat of violence against herself and her two children. The Dreadfuls had not yet been able to rescue her from the grasp of the criminal mastermind, though they’d tried.
They followed her down the alley. She was quick, likely because she was afraid. But if they could just talk to her, they might be able to help her escape the Mastiff’s clutches.
Serena disappeared behind the ruins of what had once been the back wall of the building. Stone and Fletcher followed her path. Barnabus cut through a gap in the wall. It was a risk, as the slightest bump could send scorched walls crumbling down. But he’d spent all his childhood slipping in and through dilapidated buildings—still did sometimes—and he felt certain this one would hold.
The shortcut set him beside Serena.
“Please,” he said. “I’m here to help.”
She stopped and turned to look at him. Barnabus had seen terror and despair in the eyes of many in this city, but seeing it heartrendingly bleak and bare in her gaunt face shook him. He’d grown too accustomed to the suffering that hung in the air of London; the reality of it seldom struck him with the force it did just then.
“No one can help,” she whispered. “He’s always watching. He’ll know.”
“I have safe places you could go,” he said. “Away from his grasp.”
She shook her head, walking away from him. “No one escapes him. Not anyone.” Fear filled every word.
“We can help.”
Her movements made jerky by panic, she backed herself into awall. “I can’t. He’ll hurt my children.” She felt her way to the next haphazard gap, not looking away from Barnabus, her expression both fearful and pleading.