Where Serpents Sleep by C. S. Harris

rosy-tipped breasts rising gently with each breath. A faint flush of color had spread across her cheeks. It was one thing, evidently, to pose naked for Ian Kane, but something else to do it in the presence of a stranger.
     
     
    Sebastian said, “You weren’t angry that she left?”
     
     
    A muscle jumped along Kane’s suddenly tight jaw. “Whores leave all the time. They usually come back. But even if they don’t, do you think I care? There are always more where they came from.” He jerked his head toward the street below. “You can’t walk a block without tripping over half a dozen strumpets.”
     
     
    “Perhaps. Yet Rose Fletcher was undoubtedly afraid of someone.”
     
     
    “Most whores are afraid of someone. A husband maybe, or a boyfriend who’s a little too handy with his fists.” Kane cocked his head to one side, studying the sketch before him. “What I’m wondering,” he said, carefully smudging the line he’d just drawn, “is why a fine gentleman like yourself would take an interest in a piece of Haymarket ware. Surely you don’t fancy her for yourself?”
     
     
    “Not exactly. She’s dead. She was one of the eight women murdered at the Magdalene House last night.”
     
     
    The suggestion that the fire at the Magdalene House was no accident didn’t seem to surprise Kane. But then, word traveled fast on the streets. Without looking up, he said, “You think I did that?”
     
     
    “I think you’re hiding something.”
     
     
    There was a pause, after which the brothel owner appeared to come to a decision. He reached for a finer piece of charcoal. “You’re right. Rose Fletcher was at the Academy. She was there the better part of a year. I don’t know why she left. She never gave any indication she was unhappy there.”
     
     
    “Rose Fletcher wasn’t her real name, was it?”
     
     
    “Probably not. They all take noms de guerre.”
     
     
    “Do you know where she came from?”
     
     
    Kane gave a sharp bark of laughter. “Women like her are a commodity. You think I care where they come from? We’re not talking fine wine here. The provenance is immaterial.”
     
     
    Sebastian glanced toward the naked woman on the divan. The flush in her cheeks had deepened.
     
     
    “Did Rose ever have trouble with anyone at the Academy?”
     
     
    “You mean customers?” Kane shook his head. “We’re very careful with our clientele. Those who like it rough learn to go someplace else.”
     
     
    “Did she have any special customers?”
     
     
    “She was a popular piece of merchandise.” His eyes narrowed as he layered in defining detail to his sketch of the woman’s breasts. “But as a matter of fact, there was one particular customer that I know of. He was so enamored of her that he offered to buy her away from the house.”
     
     
    “Buy her? I thought you said these women aren’t slaves.”
     
     
    Kane shrugged. “She had some debts. Most whores do. They work to pay off what they owe.”
     
     
    It was the usual practice: Advance the women just enough money to keep them in a perpetual state of debt so that they couldn’t leave even if they wanted to. It wasn’t technically slavery, but that’s what it amounted to.
     
     
    Sebastian studied the man’s smooth face. He had a faint blue line, like a tattoo, that ran across his forehead. Sebastian had seen marks like that before, on miners. Coal dust settled into healing cuts, leaving a mark that never disappeared. Kane had obviously spent some time in the mines himself as a lad, before fleeing to London. Sebastian said, “What was the name of the customer who tried to buy her?”
     
     
    “O’Brian. Luke O’Brian.”
     
     
    “Who is he?”
     
     
    Kane flashed his white smile. “You think I’m going to give you everything?”
     
     
    “Actually, I’m wondering why you’ve told me as much as you have.”
     
     
    Kane laughed, his attention all for his sketch. Sebastian said, “And was Rose