Read Shadows of London free: the opening chapter

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 a… gambling debt. A rather large one. She doesn’t want it becoming public.”

So, it wasn’t just a lost locket. It was something more. Something potentially scandalous. Eliza’s interest piqued.

“I’ll take the case,” she said, her voice firm.

---

Mrs. Gable, finally satisfied with her portrait, paid Eliza with a handful of coins. Eliza quickly tucked them into her worn leather pouch.

“Thank you, dear,” Mrs. Gable said, adjusting her bonnet. “It’s… acceptable.”

Eliza offered another polite smile. “You’re welcome.”

As Mrs. Gable bustled away, Finn explained the details. Lady Blackwood lived in a sprawling mansion in Mayfair. The locket was gold, oval-shaped, and contained a miniature portrait of a young man. It wasn’t the value of the locket itself that mattered, but what it represented.

“Who would steal a locket like that?” Eliza asked.

“That’s what Lady Blackwood wants you to find out,” Finn replied. “She suspects someone within her household. A disgruntled servant, perhaps. Or someone with a grudge.”

“And if I find it?”

“You return it. Discreetly. And receive a generous reward. Enough to keep you in charcoal and canvas for a good long while.”

Eliza nodded. The offer was enough to overcome her reluctance. She needed the money. And she was, despite herself, curious.

“Where do I start?”

Finn handed her a small, folded note. “The butler, Mr. Harding. He’s the one who reported the locket missing. Pay him a visit. Be polite. Observe. And see what you can find.”

---

The rain had stopped, leaving the streets slick and gleaming under the gaslights. As Eliza walked away from Covent Garden, heading towards Mayfair, she passed Maeve O’Connell’s flower stall.

“Eliza, love! A miserable day for selling blossoms, isn’t it?” Maeve called out, her voice bright and cheerful.

Maeve was a fellow Irish immigrant, a lifeline in a city that often felt cold and indifferent. She was also fiercely independent, running her stall with a shrewdness that Eliza admired.

“Just taking on a new job,” Eliza said, pausing at the stall.

“Ah, the shadow collecting? Still at it, are you?” Maeve grinned, arranging a bunch of violets. “Dangerous work, that. You should be painting proper portraits, lass. You’ve got the talent.”

“Talent doesn’t pay the rent, Maeve,” Eliza said with a sigh. “Besides, someone has to find the things that fall through the cracks.”

Maeve handed her a single violet. “Keep it. For luck.”

Eliza tucked the flower into her pocket, a small splash of color against the grey of her coat.

“Thank you.”

“Be careful, Eliza,” Maeve said, her expression suddenly serious. “Mayfair isn’t like Covent Garden. Those people play a different sort of game.”

Eliza knew Maeve was right. Mayfair was a world of wealth and privilege, of secrets and lies. And she, Eliza Crane, was about to step right into the middle of it.

As she walked on, the scent of violets mingled with the lingering smell of rain and soot. She glanced down at her hands, rough and calloused from years of work. Hands that could sketch a delicate portrait, pick a lock, and navigate the dark alleys of London.

She was a shadow collector. And tonight, she had a new shadow to pursue. But something about this case felt different. Something darker. Something that promised to pull her into a web of secrets far more dangerous than she could imagine. And as she neared the grand houses of Mayfair, a chilling thought occurred to her: she wasn't just collecting a lost locket. She was collecting trouble.

She wasn't just collecting a lost locket. She was collecting trouble.

The address Mr. Harding had provided led to a stately Georgian townhouse, its facade darkened with age and London grime. A single lamp cast a pale glow on the polished brass knocker, shaped like a lion’s head. Eliza smoothed the folds of her simple grey dress, trying to appear less like a street urchin and more like a respectable, if modestly dressed, artist.

The butler, Mr. Harding, was exactly as Finn had described: tall, impeccably dressed, and with an air of dignified disapproval. He answered her knock with a precise, almost frosty, “Yes?”

“Good evening, Mr. Harding,” Eliza said, offering a polite curtsy. “My name is Miss Eliza Crane. I understand a locket has gone missing, and I was hoping to offer my…services.”

Harding raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Services? You’re a detective, Miss Crane?”

“Not precisely,” Eliza replied, choosing her words carefully. “I have a particular skill for finding things. Lost or misplaced items. I was told you had reported a loss.”

He hesitated, clearly assessing her. Eliza held his gaze, projecting an air of quiet confidence she didn't entirely feel. “Indeed. A rather sentimental piece. Belonging to Lady Beatrice Ashworth.”

“I understand it’s a gold locket, oval shaped?”

“Yes. With a miniature portrait inside. A likeness of her late husband, Lord Ashworth.” Harding’s voice was devoid of emotion. “It was taken from her dressing table sometime yesterday afternoon. The household staff have been thoroughly questioned, of course, but nothing has been found.”

“May I speak with Lady Ashworth?” Eliza asked.

“Lady Ashworth is…distraught. She is not receiving visitors.” Harding’s tone brooked no argument. “However, I can relay your offer. Though I confess, I’m not certain what a young woman like yourself can accomplish where the Metropolitan Police have failed.”

Eliza suppressed a sigh. The usual dismissal. “I work…discreetly, Mr. Harding. Often, people are more forthcoming with someone outside of official channels.”

He considered this for a moment, then finally nodded. “Very well. I will inform Lady Ashworth of your presence. Please wait in the small drawing room.”

The drawing room was opulent, but strangely lifeless. Heavy velvet curtains blocked out most of the light, and the furniture was arranged with a studied formality. Eliza ran a gloved hand over a mahogany table, noticing a fine layer of dust. It spoke of a household where appearances were valued more than genuine warmth.

She spotted a small easel tucked into a corner, draped with a cloth. Curiosity overcoming her, she lifted the fabric, revealing a half-finished watercolor painting of a rose. It was technically proficient, but lacked…spark. A perfect imitation of life, but devoid of its soul.

“She paints,” Eliza murmured to herself. Interesting.

“Mr. Harding informs me you are here to assist with the missing locket,” a cool voice said from the doorway.

Eliza turned to face Lady Ashworth. She was a striking woman, perhaps in her early forties, with dark hair swept back in an elaborate style. But her beauty was marred by a weary sadness, and her eyes held a haunted quality. She wore a black velvet gown, and a heavy air of mourning seemed to cling to her like a shroud.

“Lady Ashworth,” Eliza greeted, offering another curtsy. “I am Miss Crane. I understand you’ve lost a valuable and sentimental piece.”

“Valuable, yes. But irreplaceable,” Lady Ashworth said, her voice barely a whisper. “That locket contained the only portrait I have of my husband. He…he died last year.”

“I am very sorry for your loss,” Eliza said sincerely.

“Thank you.” Lady Ashworth sank into a chair, her gaze fixed on a point beyond Eliza. “I don’t understand how it could have happened. The house is locked up tight every night. The staff are all trustworthy, or so I believed.”

“Perhaps it wasn’t a member of the household,” Eliza suggested gently. “Perhaps someone gained access unnoticed.”

Lady Ashworth shook her head. “Impossible. The only visitors we’ve had in the past week were Mr. Finch, the solicitor, and…and my cousin, Lord Harrington.”

“Lord Harrington?”

“A rather unpleasant man,” Lady Ashworth said with a shudder. “He’s always been…interested in my estate. He made several veiled suggestions about my financial situation during his visit. He thinks I'm frivolous with money.”

Eliza filed the information away. A potential suspect. "Did he have access to your dressing room?"

“He was shown into the drawing room, which is adjacent. But not the dressing room itself, no.”

“Could you describe the locket in detail?” Eliza asked, pulling a small sketchbook and charcoal pencil from her bag. “I find it helpful to visualize such things.”

As Lady Ashworth described the locket, Eliza’s hand moved swiftly across the page, capturing the shape, the delicate engravings, and the presumed likeness of Lord Ashworth. It wasn't just about creating a drawing for identification; it was about understanding the object, its history, its significance to the owner.

“And was anything else disturbed?” Eliza inquired.

“No, not that I noticed. Though…now that you mention it, a small sketch was missing from my drawing table. One I had been working on.”

“A sketch?” Eliza’s pencil paused.

“Yes. A portrait of my gardener, Thomas. It was just a practice piece, nothing significant. But it was gone.”

Eliza felt a prickle of unease. A missing locket, a missing sketch…it felt connected. A pattern was beginning to emerge, but she couldn’t quite grasp what it was.

“May I see the dressing room, Lady Ashworth?”

“Of course.”

The dressing room was a lavish space, filled with perfumes, silks, and glittering jewelry. But even here, the atmosphere was one of sadness. Eliza examined the dressing table, noting the empty space where the locket had been. She ran her fingers along the polished wood, searching for any sign of a struggle, a dropped object, anything that might provide a clue.

Her gaze fell on a small, silver-framed photograph on a nearby table. It was a portrait of Lord Ashworth, a handsome man with a kind face. But something about his eyes…they seemed to hold a secret.

Eliza picked up the photograph, studying it intently. And then she noticed something peculiar. A faint smudge of charcoal on the back of the frame.

She turned the photograph over, examining the smudge more closely. It wasn’t just charcoal. It was a tiny, almost invisible, sketch. A miniature portrait of a woman. Not Lady Ashworth. A different woman. A woman with fiery red hair and a defiant gaze.

Eliza’s heart quickened. This wasn’t just about a lost locket. This was about something far more complex, and far more dangerous. And she had a feeling that the shadows she was collecting were about to lead her into a very dark place indeed.

The sample ends here.