“Who is he?”
He expected her to refuse him that information, but she did not hesitate. “His name is Hezekiah Grant. He is, by most points, a somber and pious man. However, as of recent he has begun to act quite oddly.”
“What is behind all this?”
“The Ascendant said that we had the opportunity to obtain some explosives that we might pass onto certain sympathetic Transitives in Russia.”
“Why stir up trouble with them?” he asked.
“We believe the rise of certain factions will not prove advantageous for Britain. Our loyalty is not only to our kind, Malachi, but also to our nation. The Twenty discussed it and decided the plan had value. Then he enlisted that anarchist, Flaherty, to steal the explosives, even going so far as to kidnap the man’s daughter to hold him in check.”
“That was not part of your plan?”
“Heavens no,” she said. “I can only imagine the terror in that child’s heart. We are very upset at this news. It is clear now that he does not intend to convey this merchandise to the appropriate people but has his own scheme for its use.”
“How many of the Twenty do you know by name?”
“Only a few. We hold privacy as our greatest shield. I suspect the Lead Assassin knows some of the others as well.”
“What of him?”
“I must admit I first thought him an abomination. My opinion has changed as of recent. His true name is hidden from us.”
Defoe had one last question. If he did not ask it, he would implode. “Do you truly love me, Adelaide, or was it all a ruse to make me trust you?”
Her eyes misted over as she nodded. “Yes, I do love you. I realized very early on that our trysts were more than just the pleasure between a man and a woman.”
In the beginning, he’d not come to this house for anything but time spent with a beautiful courtesan, one of the perquisites of the job. The nights he’d spent with Adelaide had changed his mind. A few hours in her arms were not enough. He wanted more.
“Does the Lead Assassin know of your feelings?” he quizzed, still unsure of her loyalty.
“I suspect he does.”
“Was he one of your gentlemen?” Defoe asked peevishly.
“Not that I am aware.”
“Will the Lead Assassin try to fulfill his contract against me?”
“He will have to, eventually, or face being killed himself. If he delays, there is no guarantee the Ascendant will not dispatch another. Apparently, he has already done so in another matter.”
“I see.”
Adelaide rose. “I will press for the Ascendant’s removal. I will not risk your life, Malachi.”
He drew her close to him, wincing when she put her hand on his healing wound. She laid her head on his chest. This was not a courtesan with a customer, but a trembling lover, fearing rejection. He had encountered many lying women over the centuries.
His heart told him that Adelaide Winston was not one of them.
~??~??~??~
Monday, 5 November, 1888
Newgate Prison
Keats stared at the ceiling, waiting. His pocket watch rested on his chest, the cover open so he could consult the dial. In a few short minutes it would be his birthday, but there was little cause for celebration. Last year he’d been a blissfully happy man, having just successfully completed a complicated case involving international forgers. Now he was thirty-three years old, and had fallen further than even his father could imagine.
The cell door opened and Alastair entered. Keats swung his feet over the edge of the bed, surprised to see his friend so early in the morning.
“I know you’re probably not in the mood,” Alastair said with a muted smile, “but I did want to visit you on your birthday.”
He remembered. “Not much to celebrate, is there?”
“That remains to be seen,” was the reply. The doctor turned to the two guards. “May we have some privacy? I need to examine the prisoner’s wounds.”
Once the door closed behind the pair of them, Alastair took a seat on the bench, placing his Gladstone and a newspaper next to him. He gestured for Keats to remove his coat and shirt.
“There’s no point,” Keats protested, working on the shirt buttons. “Tomorrow morning, it will no longer matter.”
Alastair didn’t reply as he continued his examination, carefully palpating along the broken rib. “Healing very nicely,” he remarked. “Your head wound is much improved. There’s still a scar, but your hair hides most of it.”
“Stop being so damned positive, will you?” Keats barked. “We both know—”
“Until that final moment, I will keep hope,” Alastair thundered back. “You can be all gloomy if you want, and Lord knows you have the right, but nevertheless I feel this will be resolved.”
“How can you be so sure?” Keats asked.
“Jacynda has returned. I received a note from her late last night.”
He started in surprise. “Is she herself now?”
“It would appear so. The letter was most coherent. If she can be restored to us, so can you. She’ll not let you hang, Keats.”
For an instant, he felt hope. “So you say,” he conceded, pulling on his coat. “How is Lord Wescomb?”
“Improving. He has been writing letters to everyone who carries any weight. And lest you think you’re forgotten…” Alastair handed off the morning paper.
Keats scanned the newsprint, then blurted, “They’re bringing the matter up in Parliament tomorrow morning?”
“Indeed. Questions are being asked in the newspapers as to why the explosives were not allowed into testimony. Why your execution is being rushed. Why the government is not providing any answers. The city is in an uproar.”
Keats tossed the paper aside. “It won’t matter. Parliament won’t convene until after I’m dead.”
“Perhaps enough pressure will be applied to stay the execution until we get this sorted.”
Keats scoffed. “You honestly believe that?”
“I refuse to give up on you,” Alastair said firmly. He packed his stethoscope into the Gladstone and snapped it shut. “I’ll be back this afternoon to see you.” He dug in his pocket and placed a pouch of tobacco on the bed. “Happy Birthday, my friend. May it be one of many more.”
“Thank you,” Keats answered softly, picking up the gift. “For everything.”