Good morning, Aggie. I haven’t seen you for a while, he said politely, though he really didn’t feel sociable.
Been pickin’ ’ops in Kent. Got back ’bout a week ago.
You should have stayed a while longer. It’s safer than here,
Alastair said.
Ah, well, gotta die of somethin’, don’t ya? She tightened her grip on his arm. I tol’ someon’ to come see ya ’bout ’er chest, ya bein’ a right fine doc and all.
I would be happy to help her.
She shook her head. Ya can’t, ’less ya can raise the dead. Poor old cow. She’s the one what died in ’anbury Street.
You mean the Chapman woman?
Aggie nodded. I guess ’er chest don’t trouble ’er none now.
She gave a wan smile. See, bein’ dead’s not so bad, is it?
Alastair couldn’t repress the shiver. You shouldn’t be on the streets, Aggie. It’s too dangerous.
Well, I got no choice, now do I?
He dug in his pocket, found what coins he had and pressed them into her hand.
Buy yourself a place to sleep tonight. It’s not safe out here.
She stared at him as if he’d gifted her a pouch of gold. Yer a godsend. I don’t know what we’d do if ya weren’t ’ere to ’elp us.
A wrench of emotion struck him. If The Conclave had its way, he wouldn’t have been here tonight, or any night. You come see me if your chest troubles you again. Don’t wait like the last time.
I will. I promise. She planted a gin-tainted kiss on his cheek.
I’ll go to the doss ’ouse and get a bed. It’ll be good to be inside for a night. She wobbled down the street. He watched for a time, and then continued on his way.
Pausing at the fringe of a small crowd, he listened to a patent medicine peddler. The man’s grasp of medicine was dubious, though readily compensated by his showmanship.
Banstrom’s Egyptian Elixir! Blended from the secret potions of the Pharaohs! See clearer and further than ever! Improves your complexion and brings new vigor to your life! he bellowed with theatrical fervor.
Alastair rolled his eyes. The sizeable amount of alcohol the elixir contained would make believers of anyone. Three tablespoons, and you’d be able to see Heaven without spectacles.
Four, and you’d be as embalmed as the mummies in the Valley of the Kings.
He turned away and wandered along Wentworth toward Brick Lane. Just south of the Frying Pan, another woman’s voice called to him. He ignored her. A peculiar sensation engulfed him; she was one of his kind, en mirage.
In no mood for Keats’ antics, he growled, Leave off, will you?
She tugged on his arm, pulling him into an alley. He squared off, furious at the interruption. Before he could launch a tirade at his friend, he squinted in the darkness, studying the woman in front of him. She didn’t feel like Keats. A faint sound caused him to swing around, instinctively raising his left arm in a defensive gesture.
The truncheon blow struck his arm with immense force, arcing it into his face. He cried out, lurching backward until he impacted the brick wall behind him, his arm screaming in white-hot agony as wet warmth filled his sleeve.
His attacker moved forward, slapping a short truncheon into his broad, calloused palm. He had a scraggly moustache and the build of a dockworker. The woman was gone, the illusion replaced by the short figure of a man clad in illfitting clothes. He held a truncheon as well.
I have no money on me, Alastair said, buying time while he assessed the damage. Though bleeding, the arm did not appear broken. He clenched and released his fingers in an attempt to mitigate the pain.
Money isn’t what we want, now is it? the large man replied.
He elbowed his cohort with a rough laugh.
No, a few bob can’t buy ya way out of this one, guv’ner, the other one said. He seemed a dwarf in comparison to his companion, his shoulders barely reaching Alastair’s chest. They were a dangerous combination. What Stubby couldn’t reach, Scraggly Moustache would.
Then what do you want? Alastair demanded.
Send ’im a message, ’e said, Stubby replied. Moustache nodded with a black chuckle.
He? Alastair asked. Maybe they’d rise to the bait and supply a name.
Stubby shook his head. We ain’t stupid. Besides, ’e said you’d know anyways.
The Conclave. But which one–– Livingston or Hastings?
Is there no way we can come to an arrangement? Alastair asked. He cautiously positioned one foot, then the other to ensure he had traction.
Moustache shook his head, slapping the weapon into his palm again for emphasis. It seemed to be one of his few skills.
Do you know anything about the Welsh? asked Alastair.
Dirty, stealin’ folk.
That was rich—the last time this one had seen water was probably at his christening, if he’d even been inside a church.
They know how to fight, Alastair continued. All those centuries of battling the English.
We’re ain’t here for some bleedin’ history lesson. Ya ain’t Welsh anyway.
How do you know? Alastair punted back, flexing the fingers on his left hand. They were less numb now; the initial shock had worn off. He just had to wait for the proper moment.
Moustache spat on the ground, another one of his skills. Ya can’t understand ’em. They don’t speak right.
Alastair would have laughed if the situation hadn’t been so dire.
Stubby snorted, ’Sides, I don’t see any of their lot about. Let’s stop jawin’ and get to it, ’eh? He elbowed his companion, taking his eyes off the victim. It was the opening Alastair had hoped for.
He flung himself toward the larger target, sending him sprawling onto the refuse-covered cobblestones. Snatching Moustache’s truncheon, he rolled, ducking Stubby’s blow as it swooped by his head. Scrambling to his feet, he executed a strong backhand, cracking the weapon hard over Stubby’s closest knee. A bellow cut the air, and he dropped hard onto the pavement.
Howling, he twisted on the ground, clutching his leg.
Moustache rose, but he didn’t remain vertical for very long.
Alastair lashed out with the truncheon, catching his assailant on the shoulder. The man instinctively turned toward the blow and Alastair delivered the second strike, slamming the wood into the man’s neck. Moustache crumpled to the cobblestones, moaning.
Tucking one of the weapons under his throbbing arm, the doctor pressed the tip of the other into Moustache’s throat, applying enough pressure to make the man’s eyes bulge.
Alastair gasped from the exertion. Who…sent…you?
Don’t know, was the choked reply.
Alastair shot a look at Stubby. The thug was in too much agony to talk, tears running down his dirty face as he struggled to regain his feet. A high-pitched keening noise came from his lips.
Blast. Alastair took a deep breath to calm himself. A bit more about the Welsh. They taught me how to fight. Remember that if you decide to come after me again. Moustache had no comment, too intent on his next breath. Tell your masters to leave me alone, or I’ll bring the battle to them. That’s how it works. You understand?
Moustache gave a careful nod, the tip of the truncheon still pressing hard.
I knew we could come to an arrangement, Alastair said, backing away.
Ya bastard, ya broke me knee! Stubby whined.
Then consider yourself lucky, Alastair replied. You came out of this alive. Stubby’s eyes widened. He hobbled backward with jerky, incomplete steps, falling hard like a de-stringed marionette.
All right, you lot, out you come, a voice commanded. An arc of light split the alley, moving upward as the constable hefted the bull’s-eye lantern.
It’s the rozzers, Stubby hissed. Moustache dragged himself over to his companion. Showing surprising strength, he hauled them both to their feet. They hobbled away together, Stubby whimpering in pain with every footfall.
The lantern illuminated the twin truncheons as the cop cautiously edged into the alley.
Alastair let out a puff of air. How can I explain this? Before he could formulate an alibi, his senses tingled. He might not be able to see the figure behind the glowing lantern, but he knew who it was.
Keats. Thank God. The lantern lowered. A middle-aged constable surveyed the scene, shaking his head. His friend’s choice of illusion had been inspired. Keats? Alastair inquired softly.
Sorry, old man, I was delayed, came the barely audible reply.
Louder, he added, So what’s all this, sir? pointing toward the weapons.
Alastair went along with the charade, unsure of who might be listening. I was assaulted, Constable. I…seized their weapons.
I see. Are you wounded, sir? Keats asked, pointing at Alastair’s hand.
Glancing down, he found his palm streaked in blood. Yes, I am.
Any idea who those roughs were, sir?
Best to play ignorant. Alastair shook his head. No notion.
Robbers, then?
I would suspect. Silent words of understanding passed between them.
Sensible men are home in their beds at this hour, sir. Why are you not in yours?
How remarkable. Keats sounds just like a copper.
I was having difficulty sleeping.
Well, then, you’ve learned your lesson. Do you wish to file a report, sir?
No need, Constable. I didn’t get a good look at the fellows.
As you wish, sir, Keats replied. Come along, I’ll see you home so you can receive proper treatment for that injury. He extended a hand for the truncheons. I’ll just take these.
Keats stuck the truncheons under his left arm and led the way, the lantern beam dancing ahead of them. Alastair followed, clutching the wounded limb to his chest. It pounded in cadence with each heartbeat.
The make-believe constable dropped the truncheons into the first garbage heap he found. Keats dusted off his hands in a satisfied gesture.
Alastair murmured, How did you find me?
A certain titled lady asked that I keep an eye on you. She was concerned something like this might happen.
Lady Wescomb? Why would she ask you? He pushed the questions aside.
Hopefully, the Horsemen will get the message, Alastair replied.
Providing they’re willing to listen.
The pounding flung Cynda out of the dream like a slingshot.
She struggled to the door. A frowsy, dressing-gowned Mildred peered at her, eyes wide and hands fluttering in the air like startled birds.
You must come right away. He’s been hurt something awful!
she said in a forced whisper.
Who? Cynda asked, her brain still drowsy. Chris?
The doctor. They tried to rob him! Can you believe it? Doesn’t have a penny to his name and they try to rob him. You have to help. Mildred paused and then admitted, I can’t stand blood.
Neither can Annabelle. I didn’t wake her. She’d faint dead away for sure. She beckoned frantically.
Let me get something on, Cynda said. The something was her black dress. She slipped it on without petticoats or the bustle.
Ramming her bare feet into her boots, she tromped down the stairs unsteadily, struggling with the bodice buttons as she went.
Her balance failed and she grabbed the rail for support. Once the world felt upright again, she continued.
What was he doing out at this time of night? she grumbled.
Being an idiot, the policeman at the end of the stairs retorted.
He tapped his cap. Good…ah…morning, miss—
Constable, she said, fumbling her way around the newel post and toward the kitchen, still buttoning. She could hear Alastair protesting that he was fine and that there was no reason to wake Miss Lassiter.
Too late, she said, flying into the room. She abandoned her effort with the small buttons. The last five gaped open, revealing a sizeable amount of cleavage.
The injured party sat in a chair at the kitchen table, his left arm lying on a thick piece of linen. Blood seeped onto the cloth.
The cluster of sweat on his forehead told Cynda that whatever had happened hurt like hell.
Mildred wavered on her feet, putting a hand on the wall for support, her face the color of fresh snow. Propelling her by the shoulders, Cynda pointed at the stove. Make us some tea.
It’s really isn’t that bad, the doctor said, his tone surprisingly timid.
Without asking permission, Cynda began unbuttoning his shirt. To her surprise, he didn’t utter a word in protest. Where’s your bag? she demanded.
In my room.
She looked toward Mildred––it would be cruel to send the woman upstairs in her condition. The cop loitered in the doorway.
Might as well make him useful.
Give the nice constable your key so he can fetch your bag.
Yet again, Alastair complied without protest. The constable left the room on his mission, his heavy boots thumping down the hallway.
Is that it? she asked, pointing to the mess that constituted the doctor’s left arm.
I think that’s plenty, he replied.
What the hell were you doing out this time of night?
Her profanity earned her considerable attention, both from the patient and Mildred, who stared at her over a shoulder.
Sorry. I swear when I’m upset.
The doctor raised an eyebrow in disapproval, but didn’t offer an answer to her the question.
Soap? she asked.
Mildred rummaged around for a rough-cut bar and handed it over, keeping her back to the patient the entire time. Hefting fresh water into the basin, Cynda lathered her hands vigorously.
The soap burned like pure acid.
By the time the constable reappeared with the doctor’s bag, she’d dried her hands and was inspecting Alastair’s wound.
Nasty. It doesn’t look like a knife, she said, cautiously pressing on the bruised and lacerated flesh. The doctor gave a sharp intake of breath.
It was a truncheon. I blocked a blow to my head, he said, sounding rather pleased with himself.
Pity, she said, it would have caused less damage the other way.
A derisive snort came from the constable who lounged in the kitchen’s doorway as if he were family.
Cynda turned on him, in no mood for bystanders. Is Dr.Montrose under arrest?
No. The singular lack of good sense isn’t a chargeable offense or most of London would be in the clink, the man replied.
Alastair’s frown skipped in his direction.
Do you need to take a report?
The two men traded looks. No, I have everything I need, the cop replied.
Then good night, Constable. A smirk from her patient.