Page 104 of A Murder in Trinity Lane
“About two hours ago,” Sister Margaret said.
Two hours was a long time. God only knew what Vale had done to her. “There’s only one place he could have taken them,” I said. “A secluded place. One he controls.”
Finch nodded slowly. “The warehouse where his lab is located.”
I turned toward the door. “Let’s go.”
Anticipating we’d have need of a carriage, I’d asked the hackney to wait.
“Where to, Guv’nor?”
When Finch gave the address, the cabbie recoiled. “Whitechapel? Not a chance. I don’t drive into that part of hell.”
“There are two sovereigns in it for you,” I said.
He squinted at my clothes. “You look like a nob. But how do I know you’ve got the coin?”
I drew the gold from my waistcoat pocket and held it up. The lantern caught the gleam.
He stepped closer, bit one, then the other—hard.
A beat. Then he grinned. “Right you are, Guv’nor.”
“Get us there as fast as you can. Lives are in peril. ” And then I climbed in after Finch.
Chapter
Thirty-Five
THE DEVIL IN WHITECHAPEL
The hackney jerked to a stop. I couldn’t see where through the tightly drawn curtains. It had been over an hour since I’d left Grosvenor Square—long enough for the storm to die down, and for every worst possibility to twist itself into my mind.
Heart pounding, I waited for the door to open.
When it finally did, I found myself before a soot-stained building wedged between a boarded-up tannery and a crumbling warehouse. The rain had faded to mist, and the late afternoon light was already waning, casting long, gray shadows. The street glistened, silent and still.
Vale stepped out first and gestured for me to follow.
I hesitated but a second. I couldn’t afford to show fear.
As I climbed down, I took in the building—no sign, no windows at street level. Just a rusted iron door with a heavy bolt and a lingering scent of chemicals in the air.
My stomach turned. Steele had described a place like this the night before. I already knew what it was. Still, I turned to Vale. “What is this place?”
He smiled thinly. “Where I do my work.”
Behind me, the hackney rattled off into the mist, its wheels clattering against the wet cobblestones. Taking with it my last hope of salvation.
Vale unbolted the door with a sharp clank and led me inside. The hallway was narrow and damp, the air tinged with rust and chemical residue. Crates, equipment, and empty glass vials lined the walls. A single gaslight flickered from a bracket, casting long, monstrous shadows.
Just as Steele had described it.
Deeper in, he opened a second door.
Inside—tied to a wooden chair—sat Marie. Her eyes were wide with fear, her cheeks streaked with tears, a gag stuffed cruelly into her mouth. Her belly strained against the worn fabric of her dress.
I dropped to my knees at her side. “Are you hurt?”
