His toothless smile popped up. “I ain’t going nowhere anytime soon, Doc. I’m looking after the lot of you.”
“On behalf of the lot of us ... thank you.”
Nolan gave a quick nod, then took up his reading once more.
Barnabus set a penny etched with his initials on the table where they always set them upon arriving at headquarters, whether for a meeting or simply to pass the day. There were no other pennies on the table. The house, then, was empty.
He stood at the foot of the stairs, pondering. Where ought he to wait? The library was a comfortable and familiar place, but his mood did not match the calm feel of that space. The boxing saloon would certainly allow him to work out some tension, but it was not conducive to conversation. He could slip into the pub—having an actual pub inside a clubhouse was an odd thing, but the Dread Penny Society never did anything in the usual way—but he would be tempted to sample what was on tap there, and he didn’t dare. Gemma’s life, after all, depended on them getting this right.
His stomach rumbled, answering the question of his destination. The kitchens. That meant taking the back stairs all the way down to the below-ground level. He didn’t overly mind; he was still waiting for Fletcher to arrive.
It was strange being alone at headquarters. He wasn’t one who spent long hours here. He hadn’t the leisure time. Even then, when he knew Mrs. Simms would make certain any patients who happened by the surgery were looked after by her or sent to another doctor for care, he felt a pull away from headquarters. And not always to work on his next “Bodies of Light” installment.
He felt that same pull tonight, urging him to return to the Donnellys and sit with Gemma. He wanted to talk with her. Try to comfort her. But she was in too much danger for him, alone, to address it. He needed a word with Fletcher.
The larder was never entirely empty at DPS headquarters, though the offerings were modest. He started a fire in thefireplace, heating coals enough for roasting a potato and warming a bit of smoked pork.
He’d only just placed his humble meal on a plate when he heard footsteps approaching. He turned his attention to the doorway just as Fletcher and Stone stepped inside.
Fletcher’s mirthful smile was firmly in place. Barnabus didn’t doubt he understood this was an urgent manner; the swagger was simply his way.
“We debated where we might find you,” Fletcher said. “Stone, here, owes me a guinea.”
Stone didn’t look angry but also didn’t join in the jest.
“Henry found you quickly,” Barnabus said. “Seems I chose the right messenger.”
“Steady in a storm, that Henry.” Fletcher shook his head in appreciation. “If I thought he’d take up writing, I’d stand him for DPS membership in a heartbeat.”
“Put a bug in Hollis’s ear,” Stone said. “Educating little ones is that fella’s lifework.”
Stone wasn’t wrong about that.
The two men took seats at the rough-hewn table where Barnabus sat with his supper. Though they were waiting patiently, Barnabus suspected they were as anxious to hear what he had to say as he was to tell them.
He took his final bite of potato, then pushed his plate away. “This’ll take some explaining, but it’s necessary to truly understand.”
Both men nodded.
“Gemma grew up in Southwark. Though it’s not widely known, and I don’t think she’d appreciate me telling you this, she comes from a family of resurrectionists. They’ve been doing it for generations. They’re blasted good at it. And they’re dangerous, violent.”
“Blue bashers.” The creative curse whooshed from Fletcher. “She’s a Kincaid, ain’t she?”
Barnabus nodded. “Her father was the oldest of the three brothers.”
Fletcher looked to Stone. “The Kincaid family’ve been London’s most feared clan of resurrectionists for ages. I grew up hearing tales of them and the three brothers that run the family in this generation. They’re very nearly as feared as the Mastiff himself, though I’d say it’s a hair’s breadth difference.”
“And your wife,” Stone said to Barnabus, “is one of them?”
“She is. My marrying her was part of helping her escape her family.”
Stone nodded as if Barnabus had solved a great mystery for him.
Fletcher waved a hand, encouraging him to keep explaining.
“Resurrectionists are a hard and dangerous lot. Sometimes, when money is tight or they’re looking to be a bit more comfortable, they obtain bodies without waiting for them to—”
He knew he didn’t have to mince his words with these two—they understood the realities of poverty and crime—and yet he was talking about Gemma’s family, the life she’d been forced into. He hated the idea of tying her to it in any way.