Nearby, the sergeant laughed.
Móirín tossed him a smile. While policemen were best approached with a great deal of wariness, she had found it also helped to be on friendly terms with them. And the sergeant had, unknowingly, proven very helpful just then, reminding her that they could be overheard. It was crucial she relay her message privately.
“Is there a place we can talk?” she asked Parkington. “Won’t take but a moment of your time, but I need to tell you something without ears hovering over us.”
“I ought to call Sergeant Ott that from now on: Ears.” He looked at his superior. “What do you think? Care for a new moniker?”
The sergeant shook his head, his grin not slipping. “Find a quiet spot so the woman can tell you what she’s come to say.”
“There’s a room in the back,” Parkington said. “You can say your piece there.”
She followed him down the corridor, past the cell. There was only one prisoner being held, and he was sleeping. Sitting outside his cell was another police constable who looked as though he meant to follow the prisoner’s lead at any moment. It was a quiet night at the police station, which served her purposes just fine.
The room they stepped into was small. A single narrow window high on the wall would have been the only source of light during the day, but, as it was quite late at night, there was no light in the room at all. Parkington left the door open, then struck a lucifer match and lit a lantern on one of the smallest tables she’d ever seen.
The cramped room likely wasn’t used for much. Perhaps a constable would sit inside to read a report or jot down a note or two. Móirín had a hidden room at the DPS headquarters where she both did her work as the Dread Master and drafted the penny dreadfuls she wrote under her various pen names.
With the room now lit, Parkington closed the door. The bottom scraped the floor as it settled into the doorframe, a sign that the door fit tight. ’Twould be more soundproof than one with a large gap at the bottom. The glass window appeared to be without gaps or cracks. If they kept their voices quiet, they were unlikely to be overheard.
Parkington must have realized the same thing because when he spoke, he did so in a low voice. “What is it you needed to say to me?” He was handsome enough when there was amusement in his eyes, but when he’d intelligence there as well the man was a right distraction.
She needed to keep her focus. “I’m certain the Metropolitan Police is eager to capture the one known as the Mastiff.”
Parkington’s expression turned somber. “The whole of Scotland Yard is eager to capture him.”
She’d suspected as much. “If you’ll send a couple of constables to the churchyard where Dr. and Mrs. Milligan were buried earlier today, you’ll find him.”
“He ain’t likely to gad about anywhere for long,” Parkington said.
“He will this time.”
His eyes narrowed. “Why’s that?”
“Because he’s dead.” As much as she enjoyed a dramatic reveal, she knew they hadn’t a great deal of time to enjoy it. “He was discovered tonight by someone visiting the graves of the Milligans, and he had clearly been murdered. Unless someone has moved his body, which is entirely possible, you’ll find him there.”
Móirín didn’t know if it would suit the purposes of the Tempest to keep the Mastiff’s death a question mark in the minds of the police, which would justify the work of moving the body. She hated not knowing, not being able to predict what this newly revealed enemy meant to do next.
“I realize you’re likely to think this a reason for relief and celebration,” Móirín said, “but ’tisn’t.”
“Why not?” Parkington watched her closely but without the doubt many others in his profession held against the poor, especially when those poor were women.
“The ones that found his body were not the only ones there. Another person was hovering nearby, enjoying the sight. Have you come across, scrawled on walls, or falling from the lips of criminals, ‘The Tempest is coming’?”
Parkington nodded. “Everywhere.”
“Gemma Milligan was the first to suggest that the Tempest was a person, rather than a symbol of chaos. She was proven correct. The one who calls herself the Tempest has proudly confessed to killing the Mastiff. She indicated she has been directing his criminal network all this time. ’Twas, in fact, hers, and he was merely doing her bidding. The Mastiff is dead, but he was never the one London should have been most terrified of.”
“Scotland Yard needs to be looking for a woman called the Tempest?” He repeated her words of warning.
“’Tis crucial that they do. She’s slippery. We know of at least two names she’s gone by: Serena, a woman who claimed to be held against her will by the Mastiff, and Clare, a woman who claimed to be working for a demanding and dangerous madam. There are likely other identities she has assumed over the years. Seems blasted good at it, in fact.”
“That’ll make her harder to identify.”
“Fletcher Walker wants—needs—your help.” She knew Parkington had worked with Fletcher quite a lot, so bringing up his name would redirect any suspicions Parkington might have about Móirín’s involvement. “And the people I’ve looked after for years, the vulnerable and hurting, are being targeted by this network of criminals. Stopping the one running it is important to me.”
“It is to me as well. Helping people is the whole reason I do what I do.”
If only Móirín could truly trust that. She wanted to, but she didn’t dare.
“And Fletcher sent you to deliver this message to me?” Parkington smiled a little. “That must be a lowering thing for you.”
“You have no idea,” she muttered dryly, pleased to see his grin grow. He really was a good sort: personable, intelligent, reasonable and, as his gorgeous green eyes continually reminded her, rather handsome. ’Twasn’t his fault her past made him something of an enemy to her. Life was simply unfair like that.
“Your timing is good,” Parkington said. “Tonight’s my last night as a patrol constable. Tomorrow, I move to Scotland Yard’s Detective Department. This Tempest, I suspect, will require quite a bit of investigating to sort out.”
That was a bit of a lucky break.
“It’s important that you do not tell anyone that I told you this, or that Fletcher and the other authors you’ve worked with in the past are connected to this at all—”
“You like to, at times, insinuate that I’m a simpleton, though I don’t suspect you actually think that I am. I can tell you that I do know how and when to keep a secret.”