Ashes To Ashes - C.J. Archer Page 0,2

finding out who was behind the murders and stop them before they killed again.

"Is there anything else you can tell me?" Lincoln asked.

"Nope." Billy held out his hand and Lincoln placed another pouch onto it.

"There'll be more of that if you can find out anything else of note about the toff, or the gunman he hires."

"Aye, sir. I'll be all ears and eyes."

"Breathe a word about this meeting to anyone and I'll slit your throat."

"You got to catch me first." Billy danced away then turned to run.

Lincoln silently cursed the entire criminal classes for their arrogance and sprinted after him. He caught Billy well before the lane opened up onto the main street. He twisted the scum's arm behind his back and clamped a hand over his mouth. No one would have seen—Whitechapel wasn't known for its working streetlamps—but there was a chance someone had heard Billy's muffled cry of pain.

"As I was saying," Lincoln said with quiet menace, "do not tell a soul. I know where you live. I know where your family lives. No one will be harmed if you abide by my rule of silence."

Billy nodded quickly and Lincoln let him go. "H-how do you know where I live?"

The fellow was audacious to ask. "I make sure to investigate all my informants…William John Hamlin."

Billy rubbed his arm and backed away, almost tripping over his own cap, which had fallen off when Lincoln caught him. "Blimey," Billy muttered. "Jim were right about you. He said you was the devil himself, hidin' in the shadows, watchin' and waitin' for someone to wrong you. And when they do…" He sliced his finger across his throat to mimic a knife cut.

Lincoln picked up Billy's cap, careful to keep the man's feet in his line of sight. Billy didn't move, not even a shifting of his weight. It would seem he had no intention of crossing Lincoln, or he would have taken the opportunity to attack.

"You're not the first person to mistake me for the devil." He handed Billy his cap, but didn't let go immediately. "I doubt you'll be the last." It was difficult to glare at the man in the dark, but hopefully Billy heard the threatening tone and understood the implications if he tattled. Lincoln let go of the cap. "Good evening."

"Er, uh, good evenin', sir." The stutters and the "sir" were a good sign that Billy the Bolter would be complicit.

Lincoln watched as Billy backed out of the lane. When he reachedthe end, he fled. Lincoln didn't follow. Instead, he returned to the back of the lane, hopped into the cart, then leaped over the wall. The yard on the other side was empty, the shabby tenements surrounding it dark. He quickly scanned the area then exited through the archway and onto the street. He ran down another alley, then another so narrow that his shoulders skimmed the walls on either side.

He turned a corner and pulled up quickly as two constables approached from the other direction. Fortunately they had their heads down, bent into the breeze. If Lincoln hadn't been so distracted by his thoughts, he would have been more cautious. He came across another two constables on patrol before leaving Whitechapel altogether. The police had become more vigilant since the Ripper murders. It was too little too late for the victims.

Seth and Gus waited for him with the carriage outside Liverpool Street Station. They both nodded when they saw him but didn't speak. Gus took up his position at the back and Lincoln climbed inside the cabin without bothering to lower the step. Seth wasted no time in driving off and they were soon speeding through the poorly lit London streets to Highgate. They skirted Hampstead Heath and rolled through the iron gates of Lichfield Towers.

Lincoln spared a glance for the house as Seth drove around the side of one broad wing to the stables and coach house, although Lincoln avoided looking up at the central tower, as he always did these days. There were no lights lit in any of the dozens of windows, no smoke drifting from the many chimneys. It was grayer and grimmer than ever, like it was going into hibernation for winter. Some would call it an impressive example of Gothic architecture, a magnificent English mansion, but to Lincoln it was nothing more than a roof over his head. He would have been as satisfied living in the cellar of a burnt out building, as Charlie had done for years before