Shadows of London: A Victorian Mystery

Shadows of the City: The Collector's Call

The rain smelled of soot and something else, something older, rising from the stones of Covent Garden. Eliza Crane barely noticed. Her focus was fixed on the curve of Mrs. Gable’s chin, the way the light caught the silver threads woven through her dark hair. Mrs. Gable sat stiffly on a rickety stool, pretending not to mind the damp seeping into the skirts of her best gown.

“Just a little more to the left, please, dear,” Mrs. Gable instructed, her voice a thin, reedy sound.

Eliza adjusted the charcoal, sketching the lines with a practiced hand. It wasn’t glamourous work, portraits for a few shillings in the bustling market, but it paid. And it allowed her to practice. To refine the skill that everyone, including her own brother, dismissed as a foolish fancy.

“Hold still,” Eliza murmured, her own voice rough from disuse. She preferred silence when she worked. Let the charcoal speak.

The market thronged around them, a chaos of vendors hawking apples and flowers, costermongers pushing their barrows, and shoppers haggling over prices. A blind man played a mournful tune on a fiddle, his cup rattling with a pitiful few coins. The air vibrated with noise and the scent of rotting fruit. Eliza tuned it all out. She had learned to.

It had been necessary. Growing up in Lambeth, she’d learned to build walls around herself, to block out the shouts, the smells, the constant reminder of everything she lacked. A girl with a talent for drawing wasn't valued, not like a boy who could work a trade. Her brother, Thomas, had made that clear enough.

“Almost finished,” Eliza said, offering a small, professional smile to Mrs. Gable. “Just shading the eyes now.”

Mrs. Gable sniffed. “I do hope it captures my likeness. My husband is… particular about such things.”

Eliza knew what that meant. Mrs. Gable wanted a portrait that would please her husband, not one that showed her. A portrait that reinforced her position, her status. It was always about status.

A gruff voice interrupted her concentration. “Crane? You still at it?”

Eliza didn’t need to look up to know who it was. Finnigan “Finn” O’Malley. A man built like a brick wall, with a perpetually shadowed face and a network of contacts that stretched across the city's underbelly. He was also, unfortunately, one of her best sources of work.

“Trying to earn an honest living, Finn,” Eliza replied, keeping her voice even.

“Honest being a relative term,” Finn chuckled, leaning against a fruit stall. He smelled of stale beer and pipe tobacco. “Got something for you. If you’re interested.”

Eliza glanced at Mrs. Gable, who was now examining her reflection in a small hand mirror. “I’m currently occupied.”

“This won’t take long,” Finn insisted. “A simple retrieval. Discreet, of course. Pays well.”

Retrieval. That was her other line of work. She called herself a “shadow collector.” Others called it something less polite. She found things. Lost items. Stolen keepsakes. Things people didn’t want to involve the police in finding.

“What is it?” Eliza asked, carefully laying down her charcoal.

“A locket. Belongs to Lady Blackwood. Apparently, it went missing from her dressing room last night.”

Lady Blackwood. One of the wealthiest women in London. This was a step up from lost spectacles and stray dogs.

“And you think I can find it?” Eliza raised an eyebrow.

“You have a knack for finding things others miss. And a way of moving unnoticed. The police are poking around, of course, but Lady Blackwood prefers a… private solution.”

Eliza considered. She didn’t particularly like working for the wealthy. They always treated her like a servant, an invisible presence. But the money was tempting. She was behind on rent, and winter was coming.

“What’s the catch?” she asked, already knowing there would be one.

Finn’s expression darkened. “There's talk. Whispers around Mayfair. About Lady Blackwood and ...