The same thing happened on occasion when pulling a nightshirt on or off. A bit of a crackling feeling would emerge. The spark would follow, only to disappear as quickly as it had appeared. Could not the various lights he’d seen on bogs and on faces be related to this?
And thus he spent weeks rubbing together various materials, pulling out strands of his own hair, applying various substances, attempting to determine what, precisely, could force the spark of light to return. Linen rubbed against skin sometimes worked. No matter the amount of hair he pulled, only that left upon his head ever showed any success, and that only rarely.
He might have continued his experiments indefinitely if not for the whisperings of two strangers he passed on the street as he returned from seeing a patient, something he did with less frequency. The two men were discussing the widely held belief amongst those of the lowest classes that human bodies could produce light ... after death.
Chapter 17
Gemma had never imagined she’d one day find work cleaning a wax museum. But Madame Tussaud’s displays were interesting, and the job paid a fair wage. Baker Street weren’t in the rummest part of London, but it was a far-sight better than other places she’d worked and lived in. And it was reliable work. She’d soon have money enough for leaving London.
You ought to try making things right between you.She’d not managed to rid her mind of her discussion with Stone. He’d insisted Baz didn’t know how to bridge the gap. And he’d implied that Baz wanted to. Móirín said it weren’t such a lost cause as it seemed.
But what if they were wrong? What if she rebuilt that bridge only to have it crumble beneath her again? And if there was hope of building on their fondness, that’d make it all the harder to leave London when the time came. But if she didn’t leave, her family would eventually find her. And if she was with Barnabus, finding her meant they would find him. Sometimes life didn’t allow for any good options.
She left Madame Tussaud’s that afternoon and made her way toward Welbeck Street. She could have gone back to the Donnellys’ flat by a different route, but Parkington patrolled Welbeck. There was safety in that.
She passed by the cart of a fruit-and-veg monger, one she saw every day and who had shown himself to be friendly.
“What have you today, Peter?” she asked.
“Near about anything that strikes your fancy.”
The Donnellys weren’t exactly living in clover. They were alsodevilishly stubborn and wouldn’t let her add to the household coffers while staying with them. She’d fetch a spot to eat on her walk home but also snatch a bit of veg to toss in the larder.
Peter had a fine selection of carrots, good size, still firm and fresh. She paid her coin and held out her hand for the carrots. But, along with them, Peter gave her a small envelope.
“From a mutual friend,” he explained. “The papers you’s waiting on.”
Papers. From Mr. Sorokin, she’d wager.
“What do I owe you for these?” She lowered her voice but not so much that it would be suspicious.
“Our friend said he’d square with you.”
She nodded. It was proper dangerous for the street mongers to carry extra chink around with them. It’d be best if Peter were left out of the money exchange.
Not wanting to risk revealing the contents of the papers to someone who might be passing by, she tucked them carefully into the pocket of her coat and continued on her way, joining up with Welbeck Street and heading south.
Behind her, someone else made the same turn—a man in a green hat pulled low. That in itself weren’t unusual. The street was busy; people were about. But she’d seen that hat a few streets earlier. The man ought to have passed her while she was gabbing with Peter.
Gemma made an unplanned turn down Bentinck. It was nothing but homes of the working class. Only someone who lived in the area was likely to turn in that direction.
She didn’t look back; she didn’t need to. She heard his footfall. Another quick turn was mimicked by him. The roundabout route took her back to Welbeck, which was crowded with an absolute press of people.
Green Hat was still on her trail.
She could try losing her shadow in the crowd, but she mightbecome stuck among them with no path out. If she ducked down a quieter alley, that might simply make her an easier target.
Gemma weaved around people and ducked behind carts. Now and then, she glanced back. Green Hat was always there. Every time.
She didn’t dare go directly to the Donnellys’ house. She’d not bring danger to Brogan, Vera, and Móirín. And Baz came by often enough; he might be there as well. But she couldn’t keep wandering the streets forever, hoping to shake him. She slipped her hand in her pocket, comforted by the knife she had at the ready.
A few quick turns brought her to a narrow lane that ended at a churchyard. No passage. No escape. She’d been taught to fight. Seemed the time had come to do so again.
Gemma planted herself in the middle of the road, took her knife from her pocket, then turned to face the man in the green hat.
He tipped his hat back. The late evening sun lit his face. She knew him: Uncle Silas.
“You know my father taught me to fight.” She tightened her grip on her weapon. “I ain’t opposed to a chivy duel even if you are family.”