Chapter 17
Cynda flung herself sideways in a desperate attempt to avoid the slicing hooves. The uneven pavement slowed her movement, digging into her ribs as she rolled. Straw and dirt clung to her.
With a shout from the teamster and the snap of the harness, the horses abruptly stopped. Cynda’s roll to freedom ended as one of the enormous hooves trapped her trailing mantelet and skirt beneath it, the truncheon in her pocket embedding itself into her side.
Get away from them! the teamster yelled.
Once on her hands and knees, Cynda furiously tugged at the trapped garments without success. She didn’t dare strike the horse’s leg or the beast might bolt, pulling the wagon over her. She fumbled with the mantelet’s clasp. The effort only tightened it around her neck, causing her to gag. Ducking, she wrenched the short cape over her head. It caught on her hat, pulling the hatpin free with a sharp stab. Throwing all her weight into the effort, she ripped the skirt from underneath the hoof and landed hard on her backside.
Freed, Cynda gave a crow of triumph.
Startled by the sound, the nearest Shire skittered toward her.
One of the massive hind hooves shot out and clipped her shoulder.
The blow drove Cynda flat onto the filthy pavement, knocking the wind out of her. She heard another shout as the horse kicked again. Digging her fingers into the bricks, she crawled away from the panicked beast.
The commotion caught Keats’ attention. He hurried toward where he’d last seen Jacynda.
What has happened? he asked, trying to see over the crowd.
Some fool woman threw herself under the wagon! a man said, pointing toward the street.
Keats pushed his way through the crush of bodies to the kerb.
He found chaos. One of the uniformed teamsters battled with a huge horse in an attempt to keep it from bolting. The beast threw its head back, nostrils flaring as the man clutched the bridle. The other horse had no such counterweight, but harnessed to its mate, it could not rear into the air. Instead it shied sideways into the street, leather straps straining from the pressure, its eyes wild.
Screams rose around them, terrifying the horse further.
Keats thrust his paper and flowers into a woman’s hand and rushed into the street, heedless of the danger. He launched himself at the panicked animal. The horse’s hooves struck the ground in a shower of sparks. He grasped the bridle. The beast shook its massive head, viciously wrenching his arm. He dug in and began a spirited tug-of-war.
Steady, steady! he called.
The horse flung its head again, preparing to rear. Finding resistance, it fought him. Keats continued to offer soothing words and a strong counterbalance. Finally, the beast began to settle. He brushed a hand along its nose. That’s it. Nothing to be worried about.
Continuing to soothe the horse, Keats stared into the crowd, trying to catch Jacynda’s eye. When he couldn’t spot her, a sense of foreboding rose.
Oh, God, she wouldn’t…
Still holding the bridle, he leaned out into the street in time to see a figure rise from the cobblestones.
His mouth fell agape. The straw and muck-covered figure wavered for a second, then righted itself. When Jacynda turned toward him, he sighed in relief.
Thanks for your help, mate, the teamster called from his perch.
After a nod, Keats relinquished control of the horse and hurried toward the bewildered woman in the middle of street.
Cynda brushed the hair from her face and surveyed the scene.
Wide eyes stared at her from all directions. So much for staying out of the limelight. A hansom cab passed unnervingly close, reminding her it was dangerous to loiter. Spying her hat, she picked it up. Mindful of the horses, she turned away to bang it against her thigh in an unladylike gesture and plopped it back on her head. A gasp came from some of the females in the crowd, followed by a wolf-whistle.
Why am I so cold?
Before she could address the issue, Jonathon hurried to her side, the trampled mantelet in hand.
Giddy with the euphoria of survival, she beamed at him.
Well, that was fun, wasn’t it?
Are you all right? he blurted. His eyes tracked toward her backside, his eyes widening in surprise. You’re…exposed.
Cynda turned to survey the damage––the back of the skirt was gone, as were most of the petticoats. By Victorian standards, she might as well be nude. She took the mantelet from her companion and wound the garment around her waist, replacing some of the missing fabric. The appreciative whistles ended.
Better? she asked.
Jonathon gave a shrug, mischief in his eyes. Well, it depends.
I rather liked it the way it was.
Surveying her handiwork, she chuckled. Who knows: maybe in a couple of months this will be all the fashion. A horrible thought overtook her and she tapped at her breast for the interface. It was gone. Casting her eyes on the ground, she found it near a pile of trampled manure. Forgetting her makeshift garment, she bent over and the wolf whistles started up again.
Cynda cleaned off the watch and tucked it away as her escort watched in amazement.
Jonathon leaned closer and flicked some straw off her chin.
Your shoulder is bleeding.
She’d known about that, but hoped if she ignored it the thing wouldn’t hurt. Jonathon’s observation ended the delusion; the arm roared to life with sizzling ripples of pain.
Staring at the wound, she groaned. You just had to mention it, didn’t you?
The teamster called from the top of the wagon. What in heavens were you thinking, miss? Jumping in front of the beasts like that. I can’t stop a team that fast!
She angled her eyes upward. Telling him the truth would draw the cops and land her name in the Daily Telegraph.
You’re absolutely correct! she called back. I’m sorry for being a nuisance. As she lowered her eyes, they caught Jonathon’s. He looked skeptical.
We should go, he said, tugging on an elbow. As they approached the kerb, the young lad who’d admired the team raced up, his mother in tow.
You forgot these, sir! he called, thrusting out the roses and the paper.
Thanks, lad, Jonathon said, pulling a couple coins out of his pocket and exchanging them for the items. The boy grinned. The lad’s mother leaned close and spoke to Keats in a lowered voice.
He frowned, and then nodded his understanding. He extracted one of the roses and handed it to her.
When Jonathon rejoined Cynda, he presented the remaining flowers with a decided flourish. Please accept these as an apology for my earlier…churlish behavior.
The scene had to look ridiculous. She was in shredded clothes, coated in whatever noxious stuff they left on the streets, and he was giving her flowers as if they were off to a grand night at the opera.
One thing was clear: Jonathon Keats was a hopeless romantic.
Cynda managed to choke out, Thank you, and took the roses in a grimy hand. Holding the flowers close to her nose eradicated the other smells, most of which came from her. Cheers erupted from the crowd around them. They loved a show, and they’d had a ringside seat for this one. Jonathon tipped his hat in acknowledgement, and then led her away.
She counted to onehundred and thirteen before he posed the question.
What really happened back there?
The fussing began the moment Jonathon ushered her inside the boarding house. Mildred put her hand to her mouth in shock and hustled off to collect her sister, moving at a far faster clip than her bulk would suggest possible.
Now I’ve done it, Cynda said. Jonathon nodded grimly, his jaw set. He’d been that way ever since she told him she’d tripped and fallen into the street, courtesy of her bootlaces. He’d asked a series of pointed questions and she’d deflected each one with vague replies.
Thank you for coming to my aid, she said, and for the beautiful roses. He gave a curt nod. The fury radiating off him was enough to light the darkest East End alley.
He knows I’m lying. The sisters returned in force. Cynda chose not to fight the battle and called out another thank you as Jonathon was shown the front door.
Don’t worry, ducks, we’ll take care of her, Mildred advised, and then closed the door in his face.
And care they had. As Cynda steamed away in a tin bathtub located in a room off the kitchen, she heard the sisters debating how to salvage her ruined dress. Annabelle thought it a total loss; Mildred wasn’t so sure.
Luckily I have a another, Cynda murmured. What she didn’t have was a spare life. The near-miss with the Shires had driven that point home with more force than necessary. Someone was intent on killing her, no doubt the same someone who had murdered Chris.
Why? she asked, sinking further into the water. It made her shoulder throb and burn, but the rest of her loved it. I’m not a threat to anyone.
How you doing, luv? Mildred asked, peering in. Do you need more hot water?
No, I’m just going to wash my hair and get out.
Then I’ll put the kettle on for you. You want some scones with your tea?
Cynda nodded her head. A piece of straw landed in the water.
She threw it over the side of the tub as the door clicked shut.
Grateful for the silence, Cynda sank into the tub as far as she could, the hot water a balm to her bruised body.
Someone had declared war. It was time to go on the offensive.
Keats arrived at the clinic like a gale-force wind. Unusually testy, he brushed aside Alastair’s protests at the interruption, insisting they had to talk at that very moment. Not wishing to upset his patients any further, Alastair donned his coat, offered a mumbled apology to Daniel and followed his friend outside. To his surprise, Keats crossed the street, marching up the street toward Christ Church. Alastair had no other choice but to follow him.
What is wrong? he demanded, striding to catch the retreating form. Instead of providing an answer, Keats kept marching, his boots striking the ground with considerable force, as if trying to ground his fury into the earth.
Alastair grabbed the man’s arm and spun him around. Now see here…
Keats retaliated by jabbing a finger in his direction. Someone tried to kill Jacynda tonight. She was deliberately pushed into the path of a beer wagon. Fortunately, she’s of strong constitution, or you’d have to order another coffin.
The two men eyed each other.
You don’t seem surprised about this, Keats observed.
Alastair shook his head. A few days earlier, he would have believed Keats’ rampant imagination was at play. Christopher Stone’s body said otherwise.
She lied to me, of course; told me some cock-and-bull story about tripping because of her bootlaces. Absolute humbug.
Alastair didn’t reply, not knowing the best way to play the situation. He’d never seen Keats this angry.
His silence caused the other man to explode. Tell me the truth. Did her lover commit suicide?
Alastair turned toward the clinic, hoping Keats would cool down and stop asking questions that shouldn’t be answered.
Keats’ hand caught his upper arm in a solid grip. Tell me, damn you.
You sound like a Blue Bottle. Why do you care so much?
I act like a copper because…I want to know the truth.
The truth? Alastair shook himself free. So be it, then. Mr.
Stone was murdered.
You’ve informed the police?
No. Jacynda is adamant that we not do so. There are…mitigating circumstances.
Such as?
I am not at liberty to speak on that.
Holding your silence nearly got her killed this evening.
I had no choice in the matter, Alastair shot back.
Another savage finger jab to the chest. Why didn’t you bother to mention this little discovery when you sent me on that fool’s errand?
I didn’t feel you should be involved.
The glare grew tenfold. Silly old Keats, always a bother.
Doesn’t have a brain in his head, is that it?
I would have acted differently if I’d known this would happen.
Somehow, I doubt that. Keats rammed his hands into his pockets. You must report this to the police.
Jacynda does not want Mr. Stone’s death investigated for…personal reasons. I have been unable to convince her otherwise.
A crime has been committed and as a physician––
The body has been cremated. You can raise a fuss, but it will have no effect other than to bring unwelcome notoriety upon Jacynda…and the clinic.
Keats opened his mouth to argue, then promptly closed it. He slumped against the stone wall, his eyes downcast.
Tell me what happened tonight, Alastair urged.