Page 68 of A Murder in Trinity Lane
The taste of her still lingered in my mouth. Her witch’s scent still clung to my skin. The little fool. She drove me mad. What had she been thinking? She could’ve been killed—or worse. She had no idea what the men who haunted this cesspool did to women. And she’d rushed into it without the slightest hesitation. For what? To discover who’d murdered Elsie Leonard?
There were other ways. Smarter ways. She should’ve come to me. Asked for my help. But she hadn’t. And that infuriated me more than I cared to admit.
A knock tapped the trapdoor above the cab.
“We’re here, Guv’nor.”
Not quite. We were still two streets off—as I’d requested. I had no intention of announcing my presence. Not that I had anyhope of blending in. Dressed as I was, I stood out by a league. Should’ve thought of that earlier. Too late now.
I climbed down, turned up my coat collar, and pulled my hat low. Then I walked the rest of the way, every sense sharpened.
The alley off Saffron Hill was narrow and blackened with soot, bracketed by the skeletal backs of warehouses and shuttered shops. I found the door exactly where Finch said I would—crooked, warped, and unmarked. No sign. No knocker. Just rot and rust and shadow.
I rapped twice.
A moment passed before a metal panel slid open with a clack, revealing a sliver of yellowed eyes and pipe smoke. “You ain’t one of ours.”
“No,” I said. “But I’m no constable either.”
He grunted. “Don’t look like you’re down ’ere to slum it.”
“Never said I was.”
The panel slammed shut. A heartbeat later, the door creaked open, and I stepped into The Grinning Rat.
The name wasn’t a metaphor. A carved wooden rat grinned down from the beam above the main floor—two fangs, one gold, one missing. Inside, the heat hit like a blow. Sweat, smoke, spilled gin, and the burn of desperation.
The room was low-ceilinged and dim, lit by greasy oil lamps and a hearth that hadn’t been cleaned since the Great Fire. Men hunched over cards and dice, sleeves rolled, faces tight. A girl in stockings and a wine-stained corset leaned against a post—bored, bruised, and already half-drunk.
The Rat stank of loss. Of men who’d bet too much and didn’t know it yet. Smoke hung thick in the rafters. Dice clattered somewhere behind me. Laughter, mean and sharp, echoed off the stone walls. No one looked twice as I crossed the floor.
Mulligan was at the far table, counting chips with the slow confidence of a man who didn’t need to cheat to win. His coatsleeves were rolled, the scars on his knuckles catching the light. One of his men leaned in to whisper something, but Mulligan waved him off as his gaze slid past him—straight to me.
Recognition flickered in his eyes. And a hint of surprise.
“Well, well. Didn’t think I’d see you again so soon, Your Grace,” Mulligan said, his voice low and dry. “Figured you’d still be off licking your wounds.”
“I heal fast.”
He leaned back in his chair, giving me a long, appraising look. “That so? Then what brings you crawling back?”
“Someone I know’s been gambling here.”
Mulligan’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Come to make good on his markers?”
“I came to ask what he owes.”
He grinned—his teeth too white for the rest of him. “A tidy sum.”
“How tidy?”
“Let’s just say—tidy enough that he’ll be coughing up interest for the rest of his privileged little life. If he keeps it.”
I stepped closer, set my hand on the back of the nearest chair, but didn’t sit. “I want a number.”
He shrugged. “It grows by the day. That’s how these things work. You know that.”
“Then give me a name. Who’s holding the debt?”
