A Secret Surrender - Darcy Burke Page 0,3

tankard. “Harry is referring to a fire four years ago that destroyed a flash house on Saffron Hill and killed several people inside, including the leader of a large gang of thieves.”

“Along with many innocents.” Harry hated that no one had paid for the deaths of several children and young women. “The Vicar started the fire, so he could take over the gang.”

Dearborn looked between them. “Why wasn’t he arrested and tried for the crime?”

“He’s a bloody ghost,” Harry spat before taking another drink.

“We couldn’t find him,” Remy said. “He’s exceptionally good at being evasive—we don’t even know what he looks like for certain.”

Dearborn’s brow creased with confusion. “But you know he’s leading this gang in Saffron Hill? And lending money in Blackfriars?”

“We can’t confirm either, unfortunately. The moneylending came to our attention last year, but then he went underground again,” Harry explained before leaning toward Remy. “How do you know he’s back?”

“One of my informers. I knew you would want to know.”

“I appreciate that,” Harry said. The fire had been one of Harry’s first investigations after becoming a constable. That it remained unsolved had always unsettled him. It wasn’t that there weren’t other unsolved cases, but this one was different. He’d established an informer in the Saffron Hill neighborhood, a sweet young woman who’d been hoping to change her life. Harry had been trying to help her. Then she’d died in that fire. He clenched his jaw. “Looks like I’ll be paying a visit to St. Dunstan-in-the-West.”

“Just know the Vicar’s as guarded as ever,” Remy warned.

“Of that I have no doubt. This time, however, I’m going to catch him.”

“For a four-year-old crime?” Dearborn asked. “Will he actually be convicted?”

Remy chuckled. “You forget that Harry here used to be a barrister. He’ll ensure he has the evidence necessary for a conviction.”

“I did forget.” Dearborn looked to Harry. “Why’d you make the change? I’d think being a barrister would be a more comfortable occupation.” He snorted. “Certainly more profitable.”

It was a question Harry was asked rather often. “I wanted to get out on the street and ensure justice.” It wasn’t that he hadn’t liked being a barrister. He’d just found it…boring. He’d considered purchasing a commission and going to war, but his father had convinced him to stay and make a difference here at home.

Remy took a drink and set his tankard on the table with a clack. “What evidence do you have, Harry?”

“We know it was arson—the circumstances of how it started are documented, if you recall.” At Remy’s nod, Harry continued, “Every person we interviewed said the Vicar started the fire.”

“Sounds like you’ve got him,” Dearborn said with a grin.

“Except no one could provide a consistent description of the Vicar. They didn’t see him. They just reported they knew it was him, meaning they were probably repeating a rumor.”

That had frustrated Harry most of all. It had also troubled him. Why could no two people describe him the same way? He was tall. Or of average height. Oddly, he was never short. He had blue eyes. Or brown. Or gray. He wore a patch on one eye. His hair was dark or fair. Or he was bald. He had a scar. He had a tattoo. He walked with a limp and used a walking stick.

“The Vicar is a powerful figure,” Remy said darkly. “It wouldn’t surprise me if those people didn’t describe him out of fear.”

Dearborn frowned. “But they name him, so that doesn’t seem to make sense.”

No, it didn’t, which was another reason the crime had lived in Harry’s mind. There was just something wrong with it. Now that the Vicar had reemerged, perhaps Harry could finally put it to rest.

“Why is he called the Vicar?” Dearborn asked.

“It’s a nickname,” Remy said. “Some say he listened to the confessions of his fellow criminals before putting them out of their misery.”

Dearborn blew out a whistle. “So he’s a murderer beyond just starting that fire?”

“It’s more than likely,” Harry said. “Men like him have no moral code.” Instead of making him angry, that made Harry sad. What had happened to them to make them that way?

“So you’ll try to catch him?” Remy asked. Harry nodded, and Remy went on, “I’ll assist you in whatever way I can—just say the word.” He leaned back and crossed his arms. “Now tell us about the fortune-teller.”

Harry thought back over his unproductive meeting with Madame Sybila. “There isn’t much to report yet.”

“Did she discern your future?” Dearborn asked. “Will you be head of Bow