by C. J. Archer
The constable rolled his eyes and muttered what sounded like "Bloody women," under his breath.
The door nearest me burst open and Nunce himself barreled through. "Fetch a doctor!"
"Sir?" the bobby asked.
"A doctor!" Nunce pulled out a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed his sweating brow.
My blood chilled. "Is the doctor for Mr. Glass?"
Nunce narrowed his gaze at me. "You're from Glass's house."
"I'm his aunt's companion. She's Lord Rycroft's sister."
"No need to tell me again. His friends keep on saying it, too, and I don't bloody care if he's the Prince of Wales. He's not going nowhere until he faces trial. Unless he dies, of course. It ain't looking too good for him."
Oh God. I clutched my throat, and gathered my scattered wits. "Please, Inspector, I need to see him. For his aunt's sake." I had an idea, and before he could refuse me entry, I said, "I have his medicine."
"What sort of medicine?"
"It's in this vessel." I pulled out the watch. "I know it doesn't look medicinal, but American manufacturers like to make their medicine bottles into novelties. So Mr. Glass tells me." Please don't ask me to open it.
"I'm not sure it'll be able to help him," Nunce said. "He's unconscious."
I covered my gasp with my hand. Tears welled in my eyes. "It's not too late. Please don't let him die, sir, when help is at hand."
He lifted the barrier. "Come through."
He had the constable check me for weapons. When he gave the all-clear, I hurried after Nunce, along lime-washed corridors and past wooden doors, all closed. Each door housed a small rectangular panel designed to slide open and allow communication between those inside and those without.
Someone thumped on one of the doors as we passed, and others called out, their voices muffled by the thick walls. Up ahead, three constables surrounded a door. One looked through the panel and was calling to the person on the other side. There was no answer.
"Still out of it, sir," the bobby said when Nunce inquired after Matt's state.
"May I administer the medicine?" I said. "I'm a trained nurse," I added as inspiration struck. "That's why I'm companion to his aunt. She requires nursing from time to time."
He hesitated.
"Come now, sir. What do you think will happen? Your constable has checked me for weapons, Mr. Glass is incapable of standing, let alone fighting, and I am a mere woman surrounded by policemen."
"Sir, it looks like he has stopped breathing," the constable at the door said.
The blood drained from my face. I bit on my lower lip but couldn't stop it wobbling.
"Open the door," Nunce said. "Let her in."
The constable seemed to take an age to find the right key hanging from the ring at his belt. Finally he placed it into the keyhole and unlocked the door. I pushed it open myself and ran to Matt, stretched out on the floor on his side. The red gash on his lip and the blue-black bruise around it stood out starkly against his deathly pale face. He was so still, I feared it was too late. Then he exhaled, albeit weakly.
I heard the policemen come in behind me, but none spoke as I pressed the watch into Matt's hand. I cradled his head and shoulders in my lap. With my back to the policemen, and his hands covered by my skirts, his exposed skin was shielded from sight.
Inch by inch, his body warmed, beginning with the hand that held the watch. I kept his fingers wrapped around it so that he didn't drop it, and watched as the glow chased away the sickly pall all the way up to his hairline.
His chest expanded. He sucked in a deep breath and spluttered. I felt the breath against my throat and smiled through my tears.
"Thank God," I whispered. I held him close, not sure if I should let him go yet. If he was still glowing, Nunce would see. Besides, it felt so good to hold him. I had never held a man like that before.
His body felt warm now, alive with his steady breathing, and no longer limp. His free hand closed over mine, so solid and wonderful. Neither of us wore gloves.
Nunce cleared his throat. "That's some strong medicine."
Matt withdrew his hands from mine and slipped the watch into his pocket while his body was still hidden from view. His veins immediately stopped glowing. He looked up at me and smiled the most dazzling smile, which tugged something deep inside me. I smiled back. He was alive. That was all that mattered.
"Give me a moment," he said to Nunce. "I've just been brought back from the dead by a beautiful angel. Forgive me if I'd like to savor it as long as possible."
One of the policemen chuckled.
"Get up, Glass," Nunce said in his monotone. "Miss? If you please."
Matt stood and held out his hand to me. I took it and allowed him to assist me to my feet. He stroked my wet cheeks with the pad of his thumb. "I knew you would save me one day," he murmured. "I just didn't think it would be today."
"It wasn't me," I said. "I didn't tell them you were the Dark Rider." I wanted him to know. Needed him to know.
He touched my chin. "I believe you."
"All right then, out you go, miss," Nunce said, coming to stand beside us. "Constable Stanley will escort you."
I shook my head. This was all wrong. Matt couldn't be the Dark Rider. I had no evidence to refute his claim, except for the feeling in the base of my stomach. I rounded on Nunce. "He's innocent," I said. "You have no evidence against him, except some malicious gossip."
"That's enough from you, miss." He shooed me off with his hands.
"I will not leave! This is an outrage. You're holding an innocent man—"
"India." Matt grasped my shoulders and forced me to face him. He looked healthy, his color normal, but exhaustion still shadowed him. He needed to be home, resting properly. "There's no need to create a ruckus. Once Commissioner Munro knows I'm here, he'll see that I'm freed." He glared at Nunce. "As long as the commissioner is told, that is."
"The commissioner's too busy to listen to stories," Nunce said. "If I sent for him every time a perpetrator asked, he'd never get anything done."
Ruckus. I'd heard that word three times in as many days, whereas I'd only ever heard it used once before that, and it was in reference to a riot in America, reported in an English newspaper. The reporter, however, had been an American at the scene.
I stared at Matt. He stared back at me and frowned. "I know who it is," I whispered, feeling sick yet relieved too. "Ruckus."
At a nod from Nunce, one of the constables took my elbow and steered me toward the door. The one with the keys held it open.
"India?"
I glanced over my shoulder at Matt. He was still frowning, concern etched into every tired groove of his face. "You'll be free soon," I told him. "I know who the Dark Rider really is."
"Who?"
"Dorchester."
Matt's face darkened. "How do you know?"
"That's enough," Nunce said. "Get her out of here, Stanley."
I planted my feet on the floor and folded my arms. Constable Stanley didn't come closer. "There's a fellow going by the name of Dorchester," I told Nunce. "He's the Dark Rider." He had to be the Dark Rider and not the sheriff fellow. The sheriff had no need to hide his accent from the world and sneak around the city.
Nunce scratched his ragged beard. "Where can I find him?"
"Near Piccadilly, but I don't know exactly where. And even that might have been a lie."
"Why should I believe you, miss? Perhaps you're trying to trick me into releasing Mr. Glass, here. What evidence do you have of the Dorchster fellow's guilt?"
"He used the word ruckus."
He gave me a blank look. "So?"
"Ruckus is an American word, and Mr. Dorchester claimed to be English. From Manchester, in fact, although his accent was all wrong. I should have guessed from the beginning, but I…I wanted to believe him."
I couldn't meet Matt's gaze. I didn't want him seeing my shame. I'd wanted to believe that Mr. Dorchester liked me for me and not because I could give him somethi
ng. I was such a bloody fool. Once again, I'd been blinded by charm and my own pathetic need to be liked. The truth stung but it didn't bring tears; only anger and a resolve to make Dorchester pay for his crimes.
"A word?" Nunce grunted. "That's not evidence, miss. Go on. Out you go."
"India?" The concern in Matt's quiet voice had me looking up as Constable Stanley took my elbow. "Will you be all right?"
I straightened my spine. "Of course. Now, if you gentlemen will excuse me, I have a commissioner to visit before he goes home for the day."
Matt smiled.
Constable Stanley escorted me to the station's entrance, but I stopped dead in the doorway. Mr. Dorchester stood at the counter, speaking with the bobby on duty. "That's him," I whispered, grasping Constable Stanley's sleeve. "That's the real Dark Rider."
The pimply faced youth eyed Dorchester. "You sure, miss?"
"Of course. Arrest him."
He glanced back at the door now shut behind us. "You heard the inspector. One word isn't enough to arrest a man. Besides, he looks decent enough to me."
"Can you not question him? Ask him what river flows through Manchester, or some other fact about the city that a resident should know."
"What river flows through Manchester?"
I sighed. "The Irwell. Go on. Speak to him."
He didn't budge despite my push. "I must follow the inspector's orders, but I'll get his current address off him, if that'll satisfy you."
I was about to tell him that it wouldn't when Dorchester suddenly looked our way. My heart leapt into my throat. I tried not to react, but he must have seen something in my face because he did not smile in greeting as the kind Mr. Dorchester would have done. He scowled at the constable at my side.
"Go on," I said to the young bobby. "Go and speak with him now."
I walked off and nodded a greeting at Dorchester as I passed him. He touched the brim of his hat. The exchange was so stilted and formal that I suspected he knew exactly why I was there and what I thought of him.
I rushed out, determined to get far away from him as quickly as possible. The sun had dropped behind the buildings, shrouding the street in eerie gray-green shadows. I glanced over my shoulder, but Dorchester had not emerged from the police station.
I turned on to busy Piccadilly Street, where I blended in with the other pedestrians heading home or to railway stations and omnibus stops after work. There were many routes to Victoria Embankment from Vine Street, some of which would have brought me to New Scotland Yard faster, but I remained on the busier streets for safety. Even though several glances over my shoulder proved that Dorchester wasn't following me, I didn't want to take the risk.
There was something comforting about the imposing edifice of the clock tower that housed Big Ben in its belfry. It was visible beyond the new headquarters of the Metropolitan Police, and stood confidently amid the bustle of carriages, carts and pedestrians below, just as it had done all my life. My father used to bring me to see it and explain how the giant clock operated on the same principles as my own pocket watch.
A pocket watch that suddenly chimed in my reticule. A watch that had never chimed before and wasn't designed to.
I opened my reticule, but something smacked into me from behind, propelling me forward. It happened so fast, that I managed nothing more than a gasp before a gloved hand clamped over my mouth. In the inky shadows of a deep recessed doorway, he pressed my back against the cold bricks. Although I couldn't see his face, the man had the same height, build and scent of Dorchester. He must have known I would come here, and he had taken a quicker route.
"You stupid fool," he growled in a low voice that was very different to the one I was familiar with. It was hard and cruel with an American accent. "You should have kept your nose out of Glass's business. Out of my business."
How had I ever liked this man? I certainly was a fool to believe his story. I struggled against him but he was too strong, pressing his weight against me, grinding my shoulder blades into the stones. His gloved hand muffled my cries and, after a busy burst of traffic, the pavement was now empty of pedestrians.
Panic rose to my throat. I kicked out but my damned skirts got in the way. He pressed himself against me more, blocking my legs so that I couldn't kick at all. I was pinned against the wall, unable to move or make a sound.
"If you'd stayed out of it, I could have finally got my revenge on that scum. Yes, it was me who told the police he was the Dark Rider. It was the perfect plan. He gets arrested and tried here, well away from the friends who can help him. But then I learn he has the commissioner in his pocket too, so I know I have to act fast before he's released. I went to the police station to give him my parting gift." A click echoed around the stone doorway, followed by the whine of metal on metal. Something sharp bit into my neck above my collar. He had a knife—his "gift" to Matt, intended to go straight through his heart, no doubt.
I swallowed, shut my eyes and willed for someone to walk past, to see me at this evil man's mercy. But our clothing was dark and the streetlamps were not yet lit, and nobody passed by anyway.
"But they wouldn't let me see him, thanks to you, you little bitch. I know you told them about me. I could see it in that kid's eyes—and his chief's, when he came out. I only just got away after some quick talking."
I tried biting him, but only found a mouthful of leather glove.
He chuckled. His teeth flashed white in the darkness, and a glint shone in his eyes. "Do you know the man you're helping is a turncoat? He was an outlaw, too. He's got blood on his hands, has Glass. Lots of blood."
My breath hitched. My body stilled.
He chuckled again. "So he failed to mention it to his little lady friend, eh? He hates ordinary folk knowing. Hates that he's related to the Johnsons. But that ain't the worst of it, no ma'am. You think I'm bad, but he's worse. We've both killed men before, but at least I haven't murdered my own kin."
Bile surged up my throat. I choked on it, making my eyes water and my nose run. Tears pooled but didn't spill. He must be lying.
"Murdered his own grandfather in cold blood," Dorchester went on. "Glass could have got him arrested, like the others in the old man's posse, but he chose to shoot him instead. My little brother was one of Johnson's posse. Just a kid, he was, when they strung him up." He sniffed and wiped his nose on his shoulder. "So what do you think of that, Miss Prim? What do you think of your big handsome hero now?"
His hot breath scalded my forehead. The sharp point of his blade nicked my skin. Blood trickled into my collar. I whimpered and shut my eyes. My watch chimed again, louder this time. I prayed someone heard it and became curious.
But no one walked past.
"He ain't going to rescue you now," Dorchester said, chuckling. "He's all locked up, getting a taste of his own medicine. Pity he'll probably get out, sooner or later. But when he does, he's going to find his pretty little friend was the victim of just another London murderer, right here under Scotland Yard's nose. He took someone from me, so I'm going to take someone from him."
I wanted to scream at him that I hardly knew Matt, that I wasn't important to him. But I wasn't sure it would have mattered. Dorchester hated me for being on Matt's side, for bringing attention to him now. He wanted me dead, and no amount of pleading would make a difference. With my mouth covered, I couldn't even try.
He pressed the blade again. Fresh blood oozed and trickled down my neck. I shut my eyes and prayed for my soul. There was nothing more I could do.
Chapter 16
Dorchester bared his teeth then leaned in and licked the blood on my neck. I gagged. He laughed, and did it again, enjoying my horror. Enjoying toying with the rabbit in his snare.
My reticule moved in my hand. My heart leapt and I gave a muffled cry, but I clung onto it. If I'd not heard the watch chime earlier, if I'd not heard the word magic bandied about, I would have thought a mouse had found its way inside. But a small, mad part of me knew my watch was trying to get out.
&
nbsp; My arms were pinned, but my hands had some movement. I managed to maneuver the reticule and insert my fingers into its drawstring opening to stretch it wide. My watch found its way into my hand. The silver case, usually cool to the touch, felt so warm that I could feel it through my glove.
My mind flashed back to the night of the poker game, when I'd thrown that carriage clock to knock out my attacker. A strange thought settled, one that I couldn't shake—it hadn't been my good aim or the force of my throw that propelled the clock into Dennison's forehead. It had been the clock itself, changing course to hit him. It had been magical.
Dorchester laughed again. He licked my ear then pressed the blade harder into my neck. I cried out, not because of the sharp pain, but because the watch fell from my hand. I'd lost it! No, no, NO!
Dorchester froze. The pressure from the blade eased. Then his body began to shake violently. He released me and stumbled back, convulsing. He looked like he was doing a crazed dance. He tried to speak, but no words came out. His eyes begged me to help, but I did not, even though I knew it was my watch causing him to act that way. The chain wrapped around his wrist and the watch itself pressed into his palm.
He fell to his knees as if someone stronger had shoved him down. Then he fell forward onto his face, smashing his nose into the stones.
I ran. "Help! Help me!"
Three men hurried up to me, two of them uniformed bobbies, the other declaring himself to be a detective inspector from the Yard.
I pointed to the doorway. My hand trembled and my voice wobbled, but I managed to tell them that a man by the name of Dorchester was in there. "He's the American outlaw known as the Dark Rider, and he attacked me. He—he wanted to silence me."
I could just make out their incredulous expressions in the dim light. They must have had a dozen questions for me, but they all knew the most pressing concern was capturing my attacker. They carefully approached the doorway, batons raised. I followed, not sure what we'd find.
The constable at the front lowered his baton. "Is he dead?"
I stumbled, sick to my stomach. Please don't be dead. I knew he would be hung for his crimes, either here or in America, but I didn't want to be the one to pull the trigger, so to speak. I didn't want his death to be a result of my…magic.