Sweet Revenge Read online

  “Always welcome.” She started off in her slow but sure fashion. “Don’t be a stranger, missy. Lot of big mouths on Bouverie Street, but most with hearts no bigger than pebbles.”

  Victoria nodded politely, struggling not to choke on a crumb that had lodged itself in her throat.

  Wordlessly and without lifting his head, her father passed her his old navy canteen. Victoria took a grateful sip, then choked. “There’s vodka in this lime juice, Da.”

  “I ran out of—”

  “Rum, I know.”

  “You live how you like, lass, and I’ll live how I like. A wee nip now and then never hurt anyone. No lectures. As for that note of yours, Mrs. Grundy’s right. Go to the Stepney peelers if you’re curious about the Rag Man. Meself, I’d be more curious to know who wrote the thing. Your Mr. Bock got anything to say on that score?”

  “Nope. But Mr. Woodbury does, and he’s right. Everything about my note is too common and readily available—the paper, the cutout letters, even the tape, all drugstore stuff. And the phone calls are even less concrete, since I’m the only one who heard them. Until I’m attacked, I’m not in official danger.”

  “Sounds like the law and all. Do the cauliflower for me, will you, lass? And stop sneaking bits of bun to the dog. She’s had her breakfast.”

  Victoria abandoned discretion and simply gave the dog the bun. Her father saw entirely too much, whether he said so or not.

  He was proud of her accomplishments—she didn’t doubt that for a minute—but the life that went with it, no, that he didn’t like. Nor did he understand why she’d chosen it.

  But that was irrelevant right now. She had a far more pressing problem—and only one direction, it seemed, in which to turn.

  “The Rag Man.” She tested the odd name on her tongue. “Why put something like that in a threatening note? The name does have a familiar ring to it, but I’m positive I don’t know any Rag Man.”

  “The person after you might,” her father said shrewdly. “I’ve bumped into a note writer or two in my time. Not a wholesome lot overall. Sometimes they’re harmless, but it only takes one who’s twisted in the head and you got yourself a whole lot of trouble.”

  Victoria heaped cauliflower on the growing mound. “What have I got, Da?” she asked softly. “Tell me what you think—the truth.”

  His weathered hands shook slightly as he picked up the note she’d brought. “I think,” he replied in a voice she seldom heard him use, “that this one’s as twisted as they come. My old senses say you got trouble, lass, serious trouble.”

  VICTORIA HAD an excellent view of Tower Bridge from her fourth-floor flat off Tower Bridge Road. She had deep, comfortable sofas, oil paintings on the papered walls, an antique coffee table and a computer she seldom used. Her wardrobe ran the gamut from Catherine Walker and Ralph Lauren to the faded jeans and T-shirts she wore whenever she worked her father’s cart. In short, she had everything she needed, except for—and only due in part to the recent threats she’d received—that elusive thing called peace of mind.

  It was late when she returned from Brixton Market, dark but clear and warm, muggy for London in May. She dropped her leather backpack on the floor by the door and headed automatically for the answering machine. No flashing red meant no messages. So much for being in demand.

  Well, she wouldn’t be, would she? she thought impatiently. She couldn’t make up her. mind what she wanted, not only from life—although she thought she’d figured that out years ago—but also from the people she might have called friends. She moved in legal circles these days, yet whenever she attended a related social function, she invariably found herself wishing she were in a Lambeth pub instead. It made no sense.

  With a grunt, she flopped into the nearest chair, undid her ponytail and shook out her near-black hair until it fell in a mass of loose waves and curls about her shoulders. She didn’t need a mirror to know that she looked like a blue-eyed Gypsy. Her mother had actually considered calling her Gypsy Blue. Thankfully her father’s saner will had prevailed. “Victoria” might not be unique, but it was better than “Gypsy,” especially when your goal in life was to become a lawyer.

  “Yeah, right,” she murmured to her Yorkshire terrier, Rosie, who was jingling into the living room. “A lawyer with a psychopathic note-writer on her case.” Her normally smooth brow furrowed. “I wonder if I did screw up, Rosie. Maybe when I worked for the crown attorney’s office.”

  Rosie yipped twice, but only because the phone was ringing.

  Victoria’s instincts kicked in automatically. She made no move toward the table, just watched in silence and waited. The answering machine cut in on the fourth ring.

  At first she thought the caller had hung up. But then the same raspy whisper she’d heard on two previous occasions greeted her. It started with a chuckle that sent icy chills across her skin and had Rosie hopping fearfully into her lap. The dog’s cold nose on Victoria’s arm jolted almost as badly as the cleverly disguised voice when it whispered, “I know you’re there, Victoria. I know because I watched you today, just as I watched you last night in Talbot House. I saw you looking for me. I saw you read my note. The Rag Man can’t help you, Victoria.”

  Another chuckle…another twist of fear deep in her stomach.

  “Maybe he wouldn’t help you anyway. You’re going to die, Victoria Summers. Count the hours until justice is served. Until you are as dead as your former employer—and the one whose murderer you helped to set free.”

  OLIVER TWIST…

  The Dickens title sprang to mind long before Victoria located the building out of which the Rag Man worked. He was a private investigator these days, but he’d worked for Scotland Yard ten years ago. Undercover, Sergeant Robert Peacock of the Stepney Precinct had informed her. The Rag Man was in reality one David Alun Torbel.

  Now, that name Victoria did recognize, although it had taken several minutes and more than one prompt from Sergeant Peacock and his superior, Inspector Oliver Fox, for her to place it.

  Her former and recently deceased employer, Crown Attorney Lord Hugo Hobday, had been in charge of a case involving Torbel and another man whose name she couldn’t recall.

  “The Robbie Hollyburn murder trial,” Inspector Fox had reminded her. He was a tall man, not as ramrod straight as Sergeant Peacock, but formal and undeniably authoritative, despite the fact that he was at least fifteen years Peacock’s junior.

  “I recall the case,” Sergeant Peacock put in. He had big brown eyes, graying brown hair, narrow features and a neat little David Niven mustache. On his jaw was a small, kidney-shaped birthmark. When he spoke, he kept his hands firmly clasped behind his back. “Young Robbie Hollyburn was knifed in the back on the docks two years ago.” He surveyed her with open skepticism. “You say you worked on that case, miss?”

  Victoria dismissed the question. She’d run into similar attitudes throughout her career. No point trying to teach an old dog much of anything, especially a pompous old dog. “I worked behind the scenes,” she told them. “Lord Hobday and his assistant worked the courtroom. Torbel and the other man—”

  “Lenny Street,” Sergeant Peacock supplied with a small smile of contrition. “He was one of Torbel’s men back then.”

  “They were charged with second-degree murder.” She frowned. “As I recall, Lord Hobday didn’t think the evidence warranted the charge. He got it reduced to manslaughter. I did the paperwork. Street was sentenced to two years.”

  “He was released three weeks ago,” Inspector Fox confirmed. “Torbel’s detective’s license was suspended indefinitely, but of course he got it back in short order.”

  A young woman in uniform with tightly coiled red hair, pale features and grimly set lips passed behind the inspector carrying a clipboard. Victoria glanced at her but addressed her question to Sergeant Peacock. “I know the victim’s grandfather was Augustus Hollyburn. I saw him in court before he retired. He was a well-respected judge. Tough but fair, Lord Hobday used to say. I heard he
didn’t take the crown’s decision well at all.”

  “Yes, that’s fine, you can go, Clover,” Inspector Fox said loudly to the woman. He cleared his throat. “Judge Hollyburn wanted first-degree murder. Impossible under the circumstances, but understandable considering his relationship to the victim. At any rate, you wanted to know about the Rag Man. We’ve told you all we can. His name is high profile hereabouts—the man himself is not. Would you recognize Torbel if you saw him?”

  Victoria thought back. “We never met.”

  “In that case,” Sergeant Peacock said stiffly, “you’d best be on your guard.”

  Victoria would have pressed the matter, but both men had seemed so uncomfortable all of a sudden that she decided it might be simpler to discover the truth about the Rag Man for herself. She wasn’t an impeccable judge of character, but she noticed details. Not on the level of Sherlock Holmes, but sufficiently well to recognize that the female officer whom Inspector Fox had called Clover had been the source of the men’s discomfort.

  All thoughts of the Stepney police, however, flew from Victoria’s mind the moment she entered what Sergeant Peacock had termed “the Rag Man’s domain.”

  The entire neighborhood could have been plucked out of a Charles Dickens novel. Old-fashioned shops huddled along the narrow Stepney streets, shabby structures for the most part, but authentic down to their beetle-browed roofs and moldering foundations. There was the usual assortment of establishments—a butcher shop, a bakery, a pharmacy, a pub called Gooseberries and a bookstore with heaped bargain bins on the sidewalk.

  Victoria longed to explore the entire street, but she settled for a glimpse, partly because she wanted to get this meeting over with and partly because she was hot. The temperature had climbed to an uncustomary eighty-three degrees with a humidity level high enough to turn her usually wavy hair into a riot of long dark curls.

  She should have put it up, she thought, pushing damp strands from her forehead. She also should have worn cooler clothes. Her sage-colored linen skirt suit and matching pumps didn’t fit either the unseasonal temperature or the area.

  But she’d had to talk to two sets of police that day, one near her apartment about the phone message she’d received last night, and the second here in Stepney. Not that professional clothing had made a speck of difference in the first instance. Her caller’s voice was disguised, the threat considered so much bluster until accompanied by a criminal act.

  That was the legal system for you, Victoria reflected with mild cynicism and a deeper shiver of apprehension. All for the perpetrator, nothing for the victim. She’d been a lawyer long enough to understand if not accept that unpleasant truth.

  People stared as she cut across the crowded street toward the cluttered side road where the Rag Man’s agency sat. Slyly, but they followed her every move.

  Aware of the interest she’d aroused, Victoria left the shops behind and started down one of the less populated side streets—assuming you could call the collection of rough, tippy cobbles a street.

  “A horse could sprain all four ankles in these potholes,” she muttered, picking her way carefully over the broken stones.

  Perspiration slid down her back, so she slipped off her jacket. Pulling her black silk tank top away from her midsection, she stared at the collection of old buildings around her. Some were constructed of wood and stone; all were smeared with great patches of mortar. They were attached mostly, like row houses with absolutely no uniformity. Tall, narrow structures adjoined long, squat ones. The stone-andmortar staircases appeared solid enough but tilted precariously to the side and often had the added detriment of no handrails.

  Checking the address Sergeant Peacock had written down, she shaded her eyes and regarded the building directly across the street. It had Little Dorrit written all over it. Despite her reasons for coming here, Victoria allowed a smile of delight to curve her lips. Nothing like this existed in her great-aunt Prudie’s Florida bayou.

  Shoulders squared, she took a deep breath and started toward the collection of brick, stone and ancient timber. Better to plunge in than stand around contemplating. That wouldn’t accomplish a thing.

  There were more people on foot than in vehicles down here. Victoria noted the ones that scurried rather than walked and tightened her grip on her purse. She heard babies crying, children shouting and men and women plying their wares in a nearby lane. She thought briefly of her father, then blocked the memory. A chat with the Rag Man, that was her goal, not to prowl through an open market.

  A pawnshop stood next the Rag Man’s agency. Both buildings had rough plaques swinging from the eaves, but only the pawnshop owner watched her mount the stairs to his neighbor’s door.

  No sign said Enter. However, in Victoria’s experience, you didn’t knock on business doors unless they were run out of private homes. With a display of confidence she didn’t feel, she reached for the handle.

  “Oy! What you about, then?”

  Victoria’s heart leapt into her throat. The speaker was so close behind her, she could almost feel his breath on her neck.

  Controlling her reaction, she turned. “I’m—” Oh, God, he was only a kid, seventeen at most, with squarish features and straight dark hair that hung in his eyes. She relaxed. “I’m looking for the Rag Man. I was told I’d find him here.”

  The boy’s eyes narrowed. His straight, prominent brow gave him a vaguely Neanderthal look, but at least he wasn’t carrying a weapon. “Does he know you, then?”

  “I doubt it.”

  “D’you know him?”

  Victoria didn’t flinch. “No. Is he here?”

  “Could be.” He surveyed her with an insolence that had one of Victoria’s fine eyebrows arching in a mild challenge. His lack of response rankled but didn’t daunt her.

  “Is this a detective agency or not?” she asked when his gaze continued to rake her.

  “We take cases,” he replied in an offhanded tone.

  He looked too young to be an investigator. On the other hand, this so-called child possessed what her mother would term old eyes. Seventeen in literal years likely translated to thirty-seven in experience.

  After another candid appraisal, the boy reached around and pushed the door inward. “Come on, then,” he said, and led her in.

  She had expected a fairly mundane scene—the usual lobby with potted plants, a reception desk, a filing cabinet and someone halfway respectable to greet potential clients. She encountered none of those things. This was a huge old English storehouse, littered with stacks of papers, overflowing barrels and unsealed cartons. Some of the barrels contained fruits and vegetables, others had books with threadbare bindings, still others held patchwork bundles of cloth. Fagin would have loved it. Victoria wasn’t sure how she felt; she merely tried to take it in.

  A black cat lounged beside the telephone, which was perched precariously atop a stack of yellowed directories. Exotic green-and-purple ferns grew in little clay pots shoved into obscure wall niches. A variety of ancient tools hung on hemp ropes from timber beams, instruments for cutting, possibly eavesdropping and long-distance viewing. There were actually two desks positioned at right angles to each other with empty chairs wheeled haphazardly out in front of them.

  Victoria counted four work areas, partly screened off: the central one where she stood, which might loosely pass for a reception area, and three others—one to the left, one to the right and one directly ahead. These so-called offices seemed in much the same state as the main area, cluttered and disorganized. Old movie posters nailed to the redbrick walls added color to an already vivid jumble. Frankenstein—the latest version—Rob Roy, the entire Basil Rathbone collection of Sherlock Holmes, Miss Marple and, of course, Oliver. Evidently someone’s pride and joy, the posters had been mounted, framed and hung with an aesthetic eye. Victoria felt alternately charmed and disconcerted. Who was this enigmatic Rag Man?

  Bodies emerged from dark patches like curious rats. None of them resembled her associates on Bo
uverie Street, and all wore expressions similar to that of the boy beside her. Suspicion bordering on open mistrust.

  One of them, a tall, strapping man with longish brown hair, strong, vaguely poetic features and gentle hazel eyes strode past his cohorts and over to her. “Who’s this, Oswyn?” he asked. Deep voice, Irish-English accent, pleasant manner.

  Victoria held out her hand. “My name’s Victoria Summers. I’ve come to see the Rag Man.”

  The man’s clasp was firm. “Keiran McLehr. Do you have business with Torbel, Ms. Summers?”

  “Possibly.”

  “I’m his partner. Can you talk to me?”

  “I’d rather talk to him.”

  “Is it personal, then?”

  “It’s difficult to explain, Mr. McLehr. Is he here?”

  For an answer, Keiran nodded at the boy. “Fetch him down, Oswyn.” His gaze, faintly amused, returned to Victoria’s face. “Tell him he’s wanted by the law.”

  Chapter Two

  The law…!

  How could he know—or did he? Victoria regarded him through veiled eyes. “I’m not a cop, Mr. McLehr.”

  He smiled. “‘Keiran’, and close enough. You’re a solicitor.”

  “But how do you—?”

  “He recognizes the name, Ms. Summers.”

  It wasn’t Keiran who spoke this time, but a man on the stairwell straight ahead. Victoria hadn’t noticed him. The slant of afternoon shadows made him visible only as a pair of black jeans, boots and a wiry right forearm that looked at once slender and deceptively strong.

  She caught a flash of red as he began to descend. His tread was slow and measured, designed, she felt certain, to intimidate.

  But Victoria had seen live alligators in Prudie’s bayou. She had also come up against several of her da’s crusty East End friends. She was not easily intimidated. On those rare occasions when she was, she did her level best not to let it show.

  She watched in increasingly fascinated silence as the Rag Man traded shadow for dusty light. He wasn’t as tall as Keiran, six feet at most, nor was he as strapping. His was a leaner, more sinewy build, feline to Keiran’s canine, she decided. His hair was brown, on the long side, thick and deeply curling. She would have called those curls a mop except the word didn’t fit this man somehow.