“Hysterics,” answered Handy.
“Ahh,” said Spyder, an all-encompassing “ahh” that clearly meant she’d committed a sin.
An unforgiveable sin.
“I am not hysterical!” She didn’t shout, but it reverberated as if she had.
Roland snapped his head toward her and raised his manacled hands. Chained or not, he managed to point a finger at her. A stream of Latin flowed out of his mouth, competing with the bubbles. Loose hair covered one eye. The other glared at her. Passion possessed him, and he jumped atop the bench, swinging his arms like a scythe.
“Get down.” Mr. Handy reached to pull Roland off. “You crazy nit.”
Roland smacked him in the head.
Mr. Handy went for his throat.
“Don’t!” Miri cried. She turned to Mr. Spyder. “Do something.”
Barely flicking his eyes her way, he strolled back to the desk and sat.
Mr. Handy cut into Roland at the knees. Her brother fell forward, his face making a sickening crack against the floorboards.
“Please!” cried Miri.
Spyder lifted his hand, examined his fingernails, then nibbled on one as if there were no chaos erupting in front of him.
Roland wailed and flailed about. Blood snaked a trail down his chin from a cut lip. Handy kicked him.
“Mr. Spyder, do you intend to sit there and watch my brother take a beating?” Miri reeled back a step. “This is insane!”
“Exactly,” he said.
At that moment, Mr. Beeker and an enormous fellow, presumably Mr. Graves, entered the room. Beeker handed Spyder a long stick with a loop of wire at one end, matching one that Graves held.
“Thank you,” said Spyder.
He turned toward Miri, lifting the stick as one might a butterfly net. She threw her hands up—but too late. The loop cleared her head, settling on her neck. Wedging her thumbs between wire and flesh, she tugged.
Spyder yanked it tighter, as one might do to a naughty pug on the end of a leash, then looked past her. “Graves, the one on the floor is yours. Put him … somewhere. Good night, Mr. Handy. Mr. Beeker, see Mr. Handy out, would you?”
Then he pivoted and dragged her along.
The wire bit into the back of her neck. Either she followed willfully or got decapitated.
He tugged her through a door and down a dimly lit corridor. She choked on a scream. If rot began in one’s bones, then the outside of Sheltering Arms had been an accurate indicator of the inside. Great patches of plaster from the walls lay in crumbles underfoot, leaving gaping holes that exposed the lath bones of the building. The floor rose and fell at whim, sometimes requiring a step up or down to resume walking. Soot darkened the upper halves of the walls and ceilings, adding a cavelike effect to the corridors.
Spyder paused, withdrew a key from his pocket, and opened a door. Monkey shrieks and howling gibberish shattered her ear bones as he pulled her through. The noise crawled through every part of her, invading the smallest spaces, then swelled until she might burst.
They entered a large area ringed with more doors. Each contained a slit at eye level, just enough to peek through. Nearing one, Spyder leaned forward for a look. The stick between them forced Miri to remain behind. A sharp thud jarred the door, and Spyder reared back, key in hand.
Gooseflesh rose on Miri’s arms, and she was suddenly glad for the stick separating them. She had no desire to look through that peephole.
Another thud smacked the door. Louder. More violent.
Spyder set the key in the lock.
Was he seriously going to put her in there? Tears welled. Her throat clogged.
“Please …” That she managed to speak was a miracle. “Anywhere but in there.”
He glanced over his shoulder at her. That he’d heard her choked voice was miracle number two.
The key slid out from the lock. Miracle three.
Miri exhaled a heartfelt sigh. “Thank you.”
Spyder pivoted so fast, the wire cut into her neck. She ran to keep up with his long strides. They exited the big room with all its teeth-rattling noise and ascended a narrow stairwell. By the time they reached the top, she could hardly breathe. It opened onto a small landing with one door. A solid door with no peepholes, and no noise behind it except for—
Miri listened hard.
As Mr. Spyder inserted the key into the lock, a clicking sound came from the other side, like a crayfish scuttling backward over rocks. Many of them. An army with snipping and snapping pincers.
Fear stopped her heart as Spyder opened the door.
He yanked upward on the stick, freeing her neck, then reached to grab her forearm and threw her in.
Miri screamed.
The women looking back at her had no faces.
30
“Move it!” Nigel shouted, fed up with Ethan’s belligerence. He gave him a hard shove to the shoulder blades and smiled when Ethan stumbled through the scarred door of Newgate prison. Once it clanked shut behind them, all his pent-up tension drained like waste down a sewer. Nigel circled his shoulders, stretching out the kinks, then tipped back his hat. Though he’d kept the brim low and his collar flipped up, he’d felt exposed trekking through London proper. Prodding an uncooperative prisoner attracted attention—a veritable calling card, letting Buck know he was back in town.
“This way.” A guard motioned for them to follow down a sconce-lit corridor. The flickering light cast freakish shadows against the stone walls, and a dull haze filled the air. If ever there was a picture of hell on earth, this was it—especially with the added scrape from Ethan’s chains against the floor. The moans muffled behind locked doors gave it a nice touch too.
Drawing alongside Ethan, Nigel nudged him. “We can still turn back. It’s not too late. Just say the word … er, sorry, mate. Forgot. Nod yer head.”
Mouth gagged, Ethan fixed his stare on the guard in front of him.
“Pigheaded fool.” Nigel flattened his lips into a sneer. “By this time tomorrow, you’ll be beggin’ me to get you out.”
He cuffed Ethan in the head, delighted that it made the blighter stagger.
“In here.” The guard directed them through yet another door, closer to the entrails of the jail. The deeper into the guts of Newgate, the more putrid the stench. Disease, waste, and death combined into a stink that violated the nostrils and ravaged the senses. Nigel flipped his collar back up and breathed through it.
They entered a large room with shelves upon shelves of leather-bound books. One lay open on a desk beside an ink bottle and several quills. Behind the desk sat a man, rather gawkish, with one eye that couldn’t seem to decide which direction it should look. It roamed free, the iris romping about in its field of white, while the other eye hooked and reeled them in.
“Name?” he asked.
Nigel stepped forward. “Nigel Thorne.”
It was a little disconcerting how one eye remained on Nigel while the other focused on the man’s quill as he wrote in the book. The pen stopped scratching, and the man looked up. For the briefest moment, both pupils stared at Nigel. “Crime?”
Gads, was the man lazy of mind as well as of eye? “No, no. I’m not the bleedin’ criminal. He is.” He hitched a thumb over his shoulder.
The man’s jaw jutted forward, baring a crooked rack of teeth, then he dipped his head and made an excessive show of crossing out his last entry.
“Name?” he repeated without looking up.
“Ethan Goodwin,” Nigel answered.
“Crime?”
“Pending.”
The pen froze in midair, and the man raised his head. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Uh …” Who could think while watching an eyeball do loop-de-loops? “Probably murder.”
Setting down the pen with one hand, the man corked the ink bottle with the other. “Who did you say you are?” he asked.
Behind him, Nigel heard the distinct scrape of chain against floor. Apparently he wasn’t the only
one Mr. Crazy-Eyed-Keeper-of-the-Books was annoying.
“I am Nigel Thorne, bailiff to the Crown, serving the parishes of Old Nichol, Ramsgate, and Walpole.” He puffed out his chest and nodded toward Ethan. “And a bounty hunter, when needs be.”
With raised brows, the man skewered both of them with a look—simultaneously. “Judging from the way you’ve got that fellow trussed up, I can see you’re capable of fancy knotwork, but perhaps you’re not familiar with the legal process. You can’t go locking up a man based on probability.”
Nigel’s impatience swelled into anger. He widened his stance. No half-blind clerk would question his authority. “Of course I’m familiar with the legal process, and I said his charges are pending.”
“What does that mean?”
“This!” Nigel rushed toward the table, intending to choke the blasted weasel until his eyes popped out. The guard’s footsteps sounded from behind, forcing him to rethink his strategy. Instead, he thrust his hand into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled bill, holding it inches from the man’s face. Neither eye would miss it at that distance.
The clerk pinched it with thumb and forefinger, then secreted it away like a squirrel with a nut. He uncorked the ink, picked up the quill, and mumbled as he wrote, “P-e-n-d-i-n-g.”
“Duration?”
Nigel glanced back at Ethan. Cold steel glimmered in his gaze. Good thing he couldn’t voice that rage. Persuading such a mule could take longer than he thought. He turned back to the desk. “Indeterminate.”
Crazy eye slapped down the pen. “Believe it or not, Mr. Thorne, Newgate has certain standards, one of which being accurate records. I must know the expected length of sentence, or how will we know when to release—”
Nigel held out another bill.
The man plucked it away as fast as the first. “Indeterminate,” he said under his breath as he wrote.
Chains rattled again. Nigel ignored them. “Now about this man’s stay, I’d like it to be … memorable.”
“Hmm …” Tapping the quill against his chin, the man let both eyes wander. “Memorable as in holiday to the countryside, or as in suffering through a severe case of the pox? Either way, it will cost you.”
Nigel’s anger flared as out of control as the man’s ridiculous eyeball. He emptied his pocket and slammed the contents down on the table. “A pox on you and on Ethan Goodwin!”
He spun and stalked out the door, not giving the record clerk or Ethan a second glance. He had half a mind to leave him in there to rot. No one would know or care. He didn’t slow his long strides until the grey fortress spit him out onto the street.
“See? That man can’t get outta there fast enough … hey—hey, Thorne!”
“Hey, Duff,” Nigel answered before he turned around, so familiar was the snuffling voice.
Duffy’s long snout twitched, usually a sign he was thinking hard. Either that or Nigel smelled funny, which could be the case after the last few days of hard travel. Duffy held the collar of a ragtag boy in one of his hands and scratched behind his ear with the other. Yep, definitely thinking hard.
“But I thought you were gone. What you doin’ in Newgate of all places?” Duffy’s arm stretched as the boy made a run for it, yanking him back without a pause. “Did you find that fella you were lookin’ for finally?”
“O’ course. I always find my man. Ol’ Ethan Goodwin is locked up at last.”
The boy snaked up his head and stared at Nigel. Raw contempt sizzled like burning coals in the lad’s gaze.
An eerie chill shivered up Nigel’s spine. “Quite the l’il criminal you got there, Duff.”
“What … this?” Duffy’s big teeth shone, and he leaned forward, lowering his voice. “I’m not really going to jail him, just put the fear o’ God in the boy for fighting in a street brawl in Old Nichol. Some kind of scuffle over sweeping rights and—ow!”
Duffy jerked up his hand. Nigel reached to grab the little hooligan, but the thin material of the boy’s shirt ripped off. Knees pumping, the lad zigzagged down the street.
“Ow, ow, ow!” Duffy pressed one hand against the back of the other. Blood rained down each of his fingers. “The blighter bit me good.”
Nigel whistled low. “You better get that looked at. Human bites is worse than a dog’s. I learned that one the hard way.”
He rubbed his forearm over the ridge of a poorly healed scar. “You ought to know better than to drag around a street waif, especially one from Old Nichol. Since when does anyone care about street fights in that slum?”
“A reverend started some kind of holy reform down there. Trying to save souls, I guess. Cockamamie idea, if you ask me. Some souls ain’t worth the savin’. Anyway, it’s riling up some of the residents. They’re starting to care ’bout things like brawls and brothels and such. Ain’t wantin’ ’em, that’s what.” Duffy paused and lifted his top hand to peek at his wound. Blood oozed afresh. He blanched and pressed it tight again. “I got to go.”
Nigel watched the hedgehog toddle off. Even in a hurry, the man waddled.
He turned and headed the opposite direction, down Canal Street to his own flat, all the while thinking on Duffy’s bit of news. If Old Nichol was getting cleaned up from the inside, then the brothel madams, the gin guzzlers, or the gamblers couldn’t be happy about it. Preachers were bad for business. He scrubbed at the itchy days’ growth on his chin. A little holy water would flush out the vermin, all right, forcing them elsewhere … which could be to his advantage. Maybe Buck was gone already. If not, it wouldn’t be long.
He practically skipped home, his burden so lightened. A shave, some sleep, and a meal, yessir … he grinned, returning Lady Luck’s smile.
The stink of cabbage past its prime and one too many onions greeted him as he entered the flat. He tiptoed past Mrs. Spankum’s door. The old girl’s cooking rivaled the stench of Newgate’s. He climbed the first set of stairs, cresting the top of the landing, then paused, listening intently. Though everything was as it should be, a peculiar scent mixed with Spankum’s dinner—danger.
He spun. The stairwell was empty.
“Pish.” He grumbled, ashamed at acting more doltish than Duffy. After the second set of stairs, a distinct floorboard creaked behind him. He wheeled about. “Look, if it’s about the rent …”
The stairwell remained empty.
He stomped up to the third floor, slamming down his boot on each step to prove that fear was a bug to be squashed, not run from.
“Lady Luck, that’s what. She’s smilin’ on me now, she is. I’ll spring Ethan tomorrow, collect his money the day followin’. Lady Luck’s my little gal, she is,” he mumbled to his door, the pep talk lifting his spirits once again. “A shave, some sleep, a meal, ahhh.”
Entering his room, he gasped.
His bed, his table, even his lucky elephant—gone. All that was left were some brown water stains on the plaster beneath the windowsill and coal dust in the hearth—just dust, no coals.
“What in the—”
“Down payment.”
He whipped around into a crouch.
Buck filled the doorframe. “I come for the rest.”
A lump lodged in Nigel’s throat. He swallowed. It stayed. “Two days. Two more days is all I need and—”
“Yer time’s up, Thorne.” Buck pulled out a knife with a very long blade.
The flay-your-flesh-from-your-bones kind of blade.
Nigel ran a shaky hand across his brow. It came away wet with perspiration. “See here, mate—”
Huge veins popped on each side of Buck’s neck. “I told you once before, I’m not your mate.”
Buck charged.
Nigel turned tail and ran. Shards of glass ripped his skin as he dove through the window. He rolled onto the roof, stopping just before the edge. A shudder ran through him at the thought of what might’ve been. Apparently Lady Luck was still with him after all.
Buck blasted out after him.
Now what? Peering over the roof’s edg
e, he almost vomited. A straight drop to the cobblestone three stories below would break his neck.
Behind him, Buck growled.
Staying put would mean a slit neck. He scampered sideways, then darted up to the peak of the roof.
A sneer grew on Buck’s face, increasing with each of his deliberate steps. “I got you now, Thorne.”
“Think again, mate!”
Buck bolted toward him.
Nigel sucked in a breath, then ran full speed downward. Just before the edge, he sprang. If Lady Luck truly was his woman, he’d sail across the gap and land on the neighboring roof. Buck would never be able to do that, the big lummox.
Stretching straight out, Nigel reached for the opposite roof, fingers ready to grasp and hold on for the inevitable collision.
He reached.
And clutched nothing but air.
The world shot upward. His stomach, his kidneys, his heart and liver, all his insides ran up to his mouth, as if each organ might independently climb to safety. He flailed, wondering if rolling on impact would help.
A sharp crack sounded somewhere at the base of his neck. Everything went black.
Rolling would never again be an option.
“In you go, maggot.”
The guard jabbed Ethan forward, the momentum too much for his shackled feet. He thrust out his hands and landed on all fours. Fiery pain shot along each lash mark on his back, and he sucked in air to keep from passing out.
Behind him the iron door slammed shut, the screech of its hinges raking his eardrums. A lock slid into place, and then the walls closed in. Darkness smothered him. All the wretched reality of Newgate sank to the pit of his soul. His worst nightmare come true—and for a crime he didn’t commit.
Anger trumped panic.
He bolted up and swung around, chains clanking. Throwing his weight against the door, he hammered his fists. Hard. Bruising knuckles. Splitting skin.
“Let me out! I am innocent. Innocent! Thorne’s the guilty one, not me. Let … me … OUT!”
Michelle Griep Page 21