‘Lordy,’ a girl’s voice said. ‘Look at ’em go.’
Carlston wrenched his mouth from hers, breath short and hot against her cheek. She caught the astonishment in his eyes before he stepped away. Bereft, she rocked back; the sudden loss of sensation as if she had been stripped to her nerves and left open to the world. She touched her lips; swollen and raw.
‘I reckon that be real, Mrs Holt,’ Binny said dryly. She was standing beside the procuress. ‘I’ll take ’em downstairs if you want.’
Kate Holt gave a short nod. ‘All right.’ She eyed Carlston. ‘I’ll have that sovereign now. You got a room for an hour.’
Carlston shook his head. ‘Two hours, undisturbed,’ he said, his voice little more than a rasp, ‘and two more bottles of claret.’
Kate Holt smiled. ‘Two hours. One more bottle of claret.’
Carlston nodded and passed the coin.
Helen stared at the patched carpet on the floor, mortified. Whatever had risen within her had called something within him, and the savagery of it had been exhilarating. And terrifying. It had been just like the moment her Reclaimer strength had arrived, and when she had flung herself atop him. He had felt it too — it had been in his response — yet he had not looked at her since they had stepped apart. Was he shocked by her wantonness? Of course he was. Even she was shocked by it. Yet all she could feel was that pulse in her marrow still hammering its beat of need.
With both bottles in hand, Binny motioned to the door at the other side of the room. Helen led the way, face hot, not daring to look at the other girls as she passed. Giggles and a low whistle followed her and Carlston out of the room.
They stepped into another hallway, lit again by candles in iron wall sconces. In an effort to force her mind back to their task, Helen counted the rooms: two each side with doors shut fast, and another room at the end, door ajar. The clatter of pans and the lingering stink of boiled meat marked it as the kitchen; and, if she recalled correctly, a way out to the backyard.
Before it stood a stair alcove. Helen caught a glimpse of steps heading up to the next floor, and down to the cellar. Down to Lowry.
Binny closed the door behind them, the draught setting the candle flames flickering.
‘He’s still here.’ She edged past, motioning them to follow. ‘Come wiv me, quick.’
‘No,’ Carlston said. ‘Just tell us which room.’ He broke off and doubled over, his knuckles pressed hard into his forehead. ‘Sweet Jesus!’
Helen and Binny stared at his hunched body.
‘What’s wrong wiv him?’
Helen ducked down. Dark blood seeped from his nose. It was the same as in the salon. She tentatively touched his arm. ‘Carlston, you are bleeding.’
His hand went to his nose. ‘It is nothing.’
‘You are bleeding like before. What if the same thing happens?’
‘It will not.’ He grasped her forearm with his other hand. She could feel the desperation in his tight grip. ‘We have to get this done. I have it under control.’
He did not have it under control; she knew it, and it was clear he knew it too. Yet neither of them wanted to give up their chance at the journal. They were so close.
Helen pulled her arm free. If he lost control, maybe she could get to the journal first. She stood up, appalled by the ruthless thought.
‘Are you sure?’ she asked.
‘Yes.’ He drew a deep, shaking breath and tentatively lifted his head to address Binny. ‘Lowry?’
‘In the cellar, last room.’ She motioned to the stairs with one of the bottles. ‘Past the ale kegs.’
‘Go back inside with the others,’ he ordered. She turned to go. ‘Wait.’ He took the bottles from her, hefting one like a weapon and passing the other to Helen. ‘All right. Go.’
Binny gave Helen one last anxious look, then ran back to the door.
Helen gripped the bottle by the neck, the glass already slippery in her damp palm. She followed Carlston to the staircase. The blood still seeped from his nose; she saw the dark track of it in the yellow glow of the single wall lamp that lit their way. His breath was coming in short gasps, the pain almost palpable. She should make him go back. But how?
The worn wooden steps creaked beneath their progress, the air cooling as they descended. The earthier odours of damp stone and old wood replaced the noxious smell of boiled meat from above. Helen extended her hearing. Beyond their own respiration she heard two more sets of breathing, straight ahead, at the end of the dim vaulted passage.
‘Lowry!’ Carlston suddenly yelled and began to run.
What was he doing? He had just lost them their advantage.
She lunged after him, pressing herself into as much speed as she could gather in the short length of corridor, catching flashes of rooms on either side: beds, armchairs, and another stacked with kegs.
Carlston reached the end of the corridor. He spun around and kicked at an iron-bound door, roaring. It was the same way he had kicked the stuffed hessian bag in the salon — barely in control. Beneath the crack of the blow, Helen heard wood splintering and the rattle of a crossbar. A man’s voice cursed — Lowry — and then came the shriek of rusty metal and the clunk of wood thudding against stone. Oh, no! She knew that sound. Lowry was in an old coal room and he was opening the coal hatch.
‘He’s getting out!’ she yelled.
Carlston roared again — an animal rage — and aimed another kick. The door came off its hinges, slamming into the room beyond with a shrieking scrape of iron across stone. Carlston ran in, Helen a moment behind.
The room still held traces of its former use, a tide of black coal dust embedded halfway up the brick walls. Single candles stood alight in tin holders on the stone floor, casting a dim light across an iron bed with a thin woman curled upon it. Bloody welts on fair skin, torn chemise and matted hair. Lizzie. Was she alive? Helen saw the shallow rise of the girl’s thin chest. Alive, but insensible.
Carlston leaped onto a table set beneath the hatch: a ladder to the lane above. They both saw the flash of Lowry’s florid face peering down, a leather post bag strapped across the greyed linen of his shirt. The journal!
Carlston threw the bottle. Helen heard the smash of glass on stone — target missed — and the sound of receding footsteps on the cobbles above. Grabbing either side of the hatch, Carlston pulled himself through in one smooth movement. A sound of scrabbling across the flags and then a scream. Had he brought down Lowry?