In Victorian England, flower seller Constance Piper goes searching for the truth behind a new rash of murders in London’s East End . . .   In November 1888, the specter of Jack the Ripper instills fear in every woman who makes her living on the streets of London. But there are other monsters at large, those who shun fame and secretly claim their victims from among the city’s most vulnerable . . .   Options are few for unmarried mothers in Victorian England. To avoid stigma, many find lodging with “baby farmers”—women who agree to care for the infant, or find an adoptive family, in exchange for a fee. Constance Piper, a flower seller gifted with clairvoyance, has become aware of one such baby farmer, Mother Delaney, who promises to help desperate young mothers and place their babies in loving homes. She suspects the truth is infinitely darker.   Guided by the spirit of her late friend, Emily Tindall, Constance gathers evidence about what really goes on behind the walls of Mother Delaney’s Poplar house. It’s not only innocent children who are at risk. A young prostitute’s body is found in mysterious circumstances. With the aid of Detective Constable Hawkins, newly promoted thanks to Constance’s help with his last case, Constance links the death to Mother Delaney’s vile trade. But the horror is edging closer to home, and even the hangman’s noose may not be enough to put this evil to rest . . . "...the author paints the words/pictures with the skill of a master. The use of two very different protagonists is inspired, and her remarkable cast of characters kept me turning pages until the end." — Historical Novel Society    "Harris successfully dramatizes the desperation of Victorian women faced with untenable pregnancies, and her portrait of the unconventional partnership between Piper and Tindall feels fitting for its séance-loving era. Fans of paranormal Victorian mysteries will be rewarded. " — Publishers Weekly Tessa Harris is the author of the acclaimed Dr. Thomas Silkstone Mysteries, including Secrets in the Stones and The Anatomist’s Apprentice, as well as the debut Constance Piper Mystery, The Sixth Victim . A graduate of Oxford University with a History degree, Tessa has also been a journalist and editor, contributing to many national publications such as The Times and The Telegraph . She has also acted as a literary publicist for several well-known authors. Readers can visit her website at www.tessaharrisauthor.com. The Angel Makers By TESSA HARRIS KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP. Copyright © 2018 Tessa Harris All rights reserved. ISBN: 978-1-4967-0657-7 CHAPTER 1 London, Saturday, January 12, 1889 CONSTANCE Two blasts. Two blasts from a copper's whistle is all it takes. I shudder to a halt, my breath burning my throat. Behind me is my ma's beau, Mr. Bartleby. I hear his heavy footsteps pull up sharp. I turn to see his anxious eyes clamped onto the back of my head; his mouth lost under the thatch of his big moustache. We both know what the whistles mean. They've found something. My stomach catapults up into my chest. Two more blasts cut through the fog like cheese wire, then it all kicks off. The air's filled with the shouts and sounds of men running: a dozen pairs of boots trampling over wet stones. "Flo!" I call softly at first, then louder. "Flo!" Then again, until I'm screaming her name over the mayhem that's breaking out all around me. More whistle blasts. More footsteps. More shouts, too. "Clarke's Yard!" I hear someone yell. Clarke's Yard? I'm knocked off balance. Could she be there? She's not supposed to be there. Clarke's Yard is where they found poor Cath Mylett just before Christmas. We're out of Whitechapel, in Poplar, up toward East India Docks, but this is still Jack's patch. There's some who think it was him who strangled poor Cath just a hundred yards up ahead. I'm not so sure. Knew her, we did. She was Flo's good friend and we was with her the night she was strangled. But what's Flo doing up here now? Mr. B's caught up and we swap looks. Neither of us says a word before we both break out into a run. The high street looms through the patchy smog. Buildings are blurred and smudged, but we can see a couple of coppers making a dash. They're heading for the builder's yard. There's boarded up shops lining the road, but in between an ironmonger's and a tobacconist's I know there's a narrow alley that leads to workshops and stables at the back. Daytime it's safe — as safe as anywhere can be in this part of London. Come the night, it's a different story. It's where men pay to have their way. That's where they found poor Cath. I'm hot and cold at the same time and my heart's barreling in my chest. The air's so thick with grit and grime, you could spread it on your bread. I throw a glance back at Mr. Bartleby as I run. He's no spring chicken and he's gulping down the dirty murk like it's going out of fashion. "Over there!" I pant. I pause for a moment as, nar