London, 1865
If laughter truly were the best medicine, Brogan Donnelly would have been the healthiest Irishman in all of England. Jests came as easy to him as breathing, and that was more-or-less all anyone knew of him. He preferred it that way.
On one particularly dreary early-winter afternoon, he jaunted with his usual air of revelry down the streets of London, headed for his home-away-from-home-away-from-home. Dublin would’ve been his first choice, but if he had to be in London, he much preferred enduring Town in his favorite corner of it.
Brogan walked the pavement near Covent Garden, spinning his pocket watch on its leather strap, whistling “Whiskey in the Jar,” and pretending he had no determined destination. He’d been summoned by a fellow member of the Dread Penny Society, a group of vigilante do-gooding authors most of London had heard whispers of but no one outside their ranks could actually identify. He was known in this area—a man with hair the color of burning embers could hardly go unnoticed—but he’d made such a point of appearing devil-may-care that few wondered what he was about, and fewer still cared enough to sort the mystery.
As he approached King Street, he tucked his watch in his fob pocket. He slipped up to the blue door. It was a destination no one was meant to take note of. Secrecy required he not draw attention to it, and he was blasted good at secrecy.
Brogan slipped inside. He set an engraved penny on a nearby table. The coins were tokens that granted members entrance to their society’s headquarters. There were no other pennies present, meaning Brogan had arrived first for his meeting.
“Much obliged, Nolan,” he said to the sleeping butler, slouched in a chair by the door.
The butler, eyes still closed, head hung low in a posture of sleeping, lifted his hand just enough to wave in acknowledgment. He didn’t say a word. He very seldom did.
As there was no formal meeting of the entire membership called that day, Brogan continued onward, past the usual meeting room and to the front staircase.
The unassuming town house boasted a great many odd rooms: a small-scale House of Commons, a boxing saloon, a room filled with wardrobes containing a variety of disguises. Many gentlemen’s clubs contained coffee rooms or dining rooms, and most afforded members the opportunity to purchase and be served spirits, but as far as Brogan knew, only the Dread Penny Society, in all its secretive oddity, had built for itself an actual pub.
It was small—only three tables and the bar with its bottles and barrels—and ’twas of the serve-yourself variety, but every consideration had been given to making the room cozy and comfortable. The dark wood paneling put one in mind of a centuries-old neighborhood watering hole. A fireplace adorned one wall. Curtained windows filled another. They’d even hung a shingle declaring it “The Quill and Ink.”
Brogan lit a fire, poured himself a glass of Guinness, and sat at a table to wait. His summons had come from none other than Fletcher Walker, a legend on the streets of London and the acting head of the Dread Penny Society. He’d never before asked Brogan to meet with him personally and alone. Truth be told, Brogan was more than a touch nervous.
Mere moments later, Fletcher slipped inside. “Brogan,” he greeted as he made his way to the tap.
“Can’t tell you how pleased I am to have converted you to the superiority of Guinness,” he said, noting what Fletcher had chosen to pour himself.
Fletcher sat in a chair at the round table Brogan had chosen. “What’s the scandal broth, mate?”
Brogan spun his glass slowly, almost mindlessly. “You summoned me. Best be asking your own self what’s what.”
“Fair enough.” Fletcher took a quick pull from his glass. “Last meeting we had, you made quite a speech about the sister organization you’ve been puffing up to us.”
“I did, yeah.” Too many of the Dreadfuls had families, and growing ones at that, and keeping their work a secret from the very people who shared their lives was proving harder and harder.
“And you still think it a plumb idea?”
Brogan nodded. “The ice is thin enough already. It’ll take no more than the tiniest crack to crumble the entire thing. Without a means of giving our loved ones an explanation that ain’t an entire fabrication, that crack’ll come sooner than later.”
“Supposing, once we get a gathering of the membership large enough to vote on the matter, it don’t carry?” Fletcher’s gaze turned more pointed, more studying. “What’ll you do?”
What would he do? He’d avoided requiring an answer of himself. He was too torn, truth be told. His membership in the DPS had given him a purpose in London, a sense of belonging, his only real friends in the entire city—the entire country, really. But it took a toll. It risked his connection to the only family he had left. If he lost that, he didn’t know how he’d recover.
He rubbed at the back of his neck, tense and worried, but trying to tuck that away as usual. “I can’t keep lying to m’sister.”
A grin tugged at Fletcher’s mouth. “Afraid of her, are you?”
“Anyone with sense is afraid of Móirín.” Brogan was only half kidding. “But that’s not m’reason for needing to add some honesty to this charade. Móirín’s no simpleton. She’s likely already suspicious about what I get up to with you lot. She’ll sort this eventually. Secrecy keeps the Dread Penny Society safe and able to do our work. If I can’t keep this a secret, and if I can’t do it without spinning an unending tale . . .” He swallowed back the rest of the sentence. He’d feared for some time that, without the ability to tell Móirín something real and honest, he’d have to give up the only connection he had besides her.
“Would you leave the DPS?” Fletcher pressed.
Brogan rose and paced away. He knew the truthful answer, but saying it out loud felt too final, too severing. “I’d hope it wouldn’t come to that, but . . . I’m not sure what else I could do.”
“That’s what I’d hoped you’d say.”
He turned back to look at Fletcher. “You’d hoped to be rid of me?”
“Hardly.” Fletcher pulled a folded and sealed letter from the inside pocket of his jacket. “If leaving was your answer, I was told to give you this.” He held the missive out to Brogan. “From the Dread Master.”
Brogan’s mouth dropped open. After a bit of sputtering, he managed to mutter, “The Dread Master?”
Fletcher was the acting head of the DPS. The Dread Master was the one running it all. No one other than Fletcher had any idea who he was, though theories ran rampant. Some believed he was one of the members, posing as no one terribly important. Some insisted it was Fletcher himself. Some theorized the Dread Master was someone none of them knew or had met. No matter the man’s identity, his authority could not be questioned, neither could his judgment.