Free Ill-Fame (A Detective Harm Queen Novel Book 2) by Erik Rivenes

carriage on the wood plank sidewalk. “For the price of that lady’s dress, you could buy brand-new stumps for a dozen gimps. Why does she deserve that and they don’t deserve stumps?”
    “Need I remind you that you shot a captive girl? I didn’t bring you here to engage in discourse over goddamn social disparity or the price of wooden legs. You’re here to help me. To redeem yourself, Pock. Save your hypocritical cheek for another time. You can actually do some good today. Make up for some of the pain and misery you’ve caused in your worthless life.”
    The words had some effect. Pock shut up, and stared sullenly down at his lap.
    Much better, Queen thought.
    Quiet.
    Then Pock looked up, and he spoke in a low, scratchy voice.
    “I’m trying, Queen.”
    “Trying what?”
    “Trying to be good.”
    “So good that you bit someone’s finger off?”
    “I couldn’t control myself. It got away from me. That boy, with his slick hair and his smug face, he ignored me. Didn’t want to hear what I had to say.”
    Queen didn’t know how to respond. He’d never expected that from Pock. He’d never expected anything at all.
    “When we get there, stay in the wagon. Do you understand?” was all the detective could think of.
    Pock nodded, and dropped his head.
     
     

CHAPTER 9
     
     
    She awoke to a cool draft from the open window. She looked next to her in the bed. He was gone, as she’d asked. Already she felt his loss in the pit of her stomach. It had been a detestable way to end their relationship.
    A quiet knock on the door interrupted her thoughts. When she answered and saw Maple, she felt horrible. The poor girl was dirty from head to toe, and swaying with exhaustion. Still, the young chambermaid managed a smile.
    “I did it, Miss Boyce. I delivered them.”
    “Good girl, Maple. Did anyone see you go out or come in?”
    “No, miss. I was careful like you said to be.”
    “Did you bring him?”
    “Yes. He’s exactly where you asked me to put him. And here.” She handed Nellie a key. “You’ll need this too.”
    “You’ll have to stay awake a few more hours, Maple. I’m so sorry for that. Please go and wash your face and hands, and change your clothes. I don’t think anyone has missed you yet.”
    Nellie slipped on a dress and a short jacket, and put on some shoes. She looked down the hallway, watching Maple as she disappeared down the stairs. Sunday morning was the quietest time of the week. The other girls were at breakfast most likely, and the brothel’s staff was light. She tiptoed down the corridor, holding the jacket closed with her crossed arms. One of Madame Clifford’s employees was a Scottish musician, who could tinkle out ragtime music when required, and she could hear him in the reception room below, playing “Fairest Lord Jesus” on the ivories.
    She glided down the staircase into the entry room at the back door. The sunshine felt sweet on her face as she slipped outside. The back yard was empty, and she fled past the alley to the adjacent house. She knew she was taking a big chance, breaking into Madame Clifford’s personal residence, but it was a chance that might well save her life. She took out the key Maple had given her, and unlocked the door. She slowly pushed herself in, wincing as it creaked, and then paused, listening for sounds from inside.
    When none materialized, she moved to the basement door, only steps away. This one was already opened a crack, and she squeezed through, shutting it gently from behind.
    Darkness enveloped her.
    “Light your lamp,” she demanded.
    The light flickered on, and then grew bright enough for her to see the stairs. Down she went, following the source of the light with her eyes. The damp air tickled her throat, and she held back a cough.
    As her eyes adjusted, she could make him out. He was fatter now, and even in the uneven glow she could tell that his clothes were patched and threadbare. She felt satisfaction, knowing he’d fallen on hard