The Reckoning. James McGee

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      Leaning forward, she reached for the teapot, the motion deepening the shadow at her neckline, as she had known it would.

      Hawkwood recognized it as part of a strategy designed to remind her visitor of his true place. Seated, she was Lady Eleanor Rain, granting him an audience. Standing, he remained the underling, the minion who, even though he was an officer of the law, meant there was not the slightest chance he would be invited to take tea. Tea was expensive – the caddy would be hidden away under lock and key – and the idea that she would consider sharing such a valuable commodity with someone she saw as being beneath her station was unthinkable.

      He watched as, with precise, almost sensual deliberation, she proceeded to pour herself a cup, using a strainer to catch the leaves. When the cup was three-quarters full, she laid the strainer to one side. Adding neither milk nor sugar, she lifted both cup and saucer from the tray and cradled them in her lap.

      Raising the cup to her lips, she took a small sip. Returning it to the saucer with exaggerated finesse, she straightened and regarded him expectantly. “Perhaps you should explain why you are here?”

      Hawkwood, tiring of the game, decided to dispense with the niceties.

      “I’m here to enquire if any of your girls are missing.”

      It was not what she’d been expecting. Taken aback by the bluntness of Hawkwood’s response, she stared up at him. “Missing? I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

      “A body’s been found.”

      “A body?”

      “A young woman.”

      “I see. Well, that is distressing, but what makes you think she might be associated with my salon?”

      “She had a rose tattoo on her upper arm. I’m told you’re familiar with such a mark.”

      She stared at him without speaking.

      Hawkwood matched her gaze. “Or have I been misinformed?”

      He watched the indecision steal across her face, quickly replaced by a more guarded look, which did not make her any less attractive. Two more seconds passed. Then, lifting a hand from the saucer, she made a dismissive gesture. “An affectation; nothing more. A mark of quality, if you will.”

      “Like Mr Twining’s tea?”

      She blanched. Then, collecting herself once more, she looked up. “Do you have a description of this unfortunate young woman?”

      “Petite, brown hair, blue eyes and young, as I said. We believe she was in her early twenties.”

      Even as he uttered the words, Hawkwood knew the description was a poor one as it probably covered half the molls in London; a fact mirrored by Eleanor Rain’s less than engaged expression.

      “And how did she die?”

      “Painfully. Beaten and throttled, then tied in a sack.”

       No point in mentioning the mutilation. It was always best to hold something back.

      For the first time a look of genuine shock distorted her features. “Murdered,” she said softly.

      “I doubt it was suicide.”

      She coloured. “No, of course not. Forgive me, it’s …”

      Returning the cup and saucer to the tray and placing her hands together on her lap, in a more composed voice, she said, “My apologies. It is difficult to gather one’s thoughts after being told of such a thing.” She drew herself up. “I can assure you, however, that all my ladies are accounted for.”

      Hawkwood nodded. “I’m relieved to hear it. Though ladies do come and go, do they not?”

      She frowned, as if the idea had not occurred to her. “They do, but surely I cannot be expected to account for the whereabouts of those who might have chosen to leave my employ.”

      “That’s true. So has anyone flown the nest recently?”

      “They have not.”

      The answer came sharply but then she took another breath and in a considered tone said, “May one enquire when the killing took place?”

      “We believe death occurred a day ago; perhaps two.”

      “Where?”

      “That we don’t yet know. I can tell you where she was found: in a grave, in St George the Martyr’s burying ground.”

      “A grave?” she said, puzzled. “Then how …?”

      “An open grave.”

      Hawkwood watched her as the image ran through her mind.

      “And she has lain there unseen until now?”

      “Yes.”

      “All that time? How terrible.”

      “Murder usually is,” Hawkwood said.

      Her chin lifted. Then, fixing him with a conciliatory look, she said, “And it is your task to discover who was responsible?”

      “It is.”

      She nodded. “Could the perpetrator strike again?”

      “It’s possible, yes.”

      “So until you find him, we are all of us at risk.”

      “I can’t say you won’t be. We don’t yet know his motive.”

      “You’re saying she could have been killed for who she was, rather than for what you think she was?”

      “Yes.”

      “And a rose is not an uncommon adornment. She could just as easily be a washerwoman as a whore.”

      “She could.”

      Her eyes clouded. In that instant Hawkwood caught his second glimpse of the woman behind the mask; a woman who, by force of will, had managed to haul herself out of the gutter and into the privileged ranks of society, all the while knowing and resenting the fact that there were elements of her previous life still buried deep within her that she would never be able to erase.

      There was fear there, too, he suspected; fear that, one day, someone would confront her and remind her of her former existence. It was the most vulnerable chink in her armour and she was wondering if this was the moment that weakness was about to be exploited. The sudden flare in her eyes was a warning sign that she would defend her reputation to the hilt if she felt it was about to be challenged.

      “Which is why we need to confirm her identity,” Hawkwood said, and watched as the fire died away.

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