by Riley Cole
Crane looked back over his shoulder. The police wagon had reached the intersection.
Meena held her breath. Would they stay on the main road? She crossed her fingers and prayed. A large wagon piled high with crates and boxes passed, obscuring her view. Once the street was clear, the constables trundled past, continuing on down the road. She sighed. Fantastic. Now she could—
The inspector rounded the corner. She ducked, pulling Crane down with her. The detective raised his arm above the crowd, pointing down the lane, in their direction. “Send a few men that way,” he ordered, and moved on after the wagon.
“Exactly what I would have done.” Crane’s voice held a touch of approval.
“I agree. Blast it all to hell.” The brim of her hat drooped. She shoved it back off her face.
Crane’s eyes narrowed. He studied her as if considering a weighty issue. Before she could protest, he snatched the magnificent piece off her head.
A plump matron bustled toward them, her arms weighted down by sacks of produce. Crane held out Meena’s hat. “We found this blowing down the street. My wife insists it’s not her colors, but these feathers look like they would go well with your eyes.” He favored her with one of his heart-melting smiles.
The woman stepped back, a wary expression on her wide face. “Well I don’t know…”
He shrugged and started to pull it back. “It’ll go to the rag man then.”
Quick as a cat, the woman snatched it. “If it’s going to the rag man, then I suppose I could.” She stuck it on her head. Ostrich plums waved in the building breeze. “Thank you.”
Crane put a hand to his chest. “Our pleasure.” He put a hand to the small of Meena’s back and started on. “That might delay them.”
They worked their way toward the edges of the crowd, moving more slowly now, so as not to attract the officers’ attention.
Two blocks on, the crowds had thinned considerably, and the horse traffic had thinned. They’d moved far off any omnibus routes. Only the occasional hansom rattled down the center of the narrow lane.
As they strolled down the pavement, a stray raindrop hit her cheek. She looked up. The sky was darker than it had been only moments before, the clouds thick and swollen. The air stilled as if holding its breath.
Meena’s neck prickled. With each step, the tingle of fear grew stronger, until her legs sang with energy.
A block later, a snarl of pedestrians and horse traffic blocked their progress. Wagons, hansoms, and clarences pointed every which way, as if a great handful of children’s toys had spilled into the street. Over the din of shouts and wagon wheels, came the rhythmic ringing of sledgehammers on steel.
The lane ahead was blocked by the construction of the new trolley line. Giant pieces of machinery made to claw away the ground stood guard, their spindly steel arms jutting toward the gray sky. The metallic scent of dust mixed with the strong odor of machine oil.
There was no clear way forward. Meena bit her lip. The congestion was worse than she had hoped. Her shoulders slumped. They were boxed in.
She shook her head, frustrated. “I didn’t expect it to be this bad.”
“Exactly.” Crane sounded pleased. He pulled her toward the stone buildings at the edge of the work zone and squeezed past a pile of construction materials into a deep doorway.
Now they were cut off from the flow of bodies surging against the barriers that blocked the street. The deep doorway cut off most of the street noise. Meena could hear their harsh breathing. She shifted from foot to foot. Her feet ached. The high-button boots she’d been so happy with before luncheon now chafed in too many places to count.
The doorway seemed too small a space to share with Crane’s large body. His deep, steady breaths filled her ears. Even more disconcerting, she could almost feel his heartbeat in the enclosed space.
And he was still holding her hand.
Meena pulled her hand away. Even then, she imagined she could feel the warm hardness of his palm against her skin. She wiped her hand on her skirt, hoping to erase the sensation.
An odd look passed over his face, but he turned his attention back to the crowds held back by the street barriers. “That was a brilliant idea.”
Meena stared up at him, cringing in anticipation of the smirk she knew he’d be wearing.
But he appeared to be sincere.
“Really?” The question was out of her mouth before she could stop it. As if she cared one whit what Spencer Crane thought of her.
“Oh yes.” He grinned, his teeth standing out against the dark shadows surrounding them. “Only a fool would get himself boxed in like this. And I doubt that inspector takes us for fools,” he continued. “He’d never suspect we’d do something so idiotic.”
Although the logic was tortured, it was oddly comforting.
But most inaccurate as it turned out. Not an instant later, she caught sight of the officer. His tousled hair was immediately noticeable as he stood almost a head taller than most of the crowd. Even though there was no way the tall detective could see her, Meena shrank back into the doorway.
Crane was looking in the opposite direction. Meena tugged at his sleeve, jerking her head toward the inspector. He flinched back, just as she had, then pushed her back further into the depths of the doorway.
Meena held her breath. The officer and two blue-helmeted constables shouldered their way through the crowds, moving straight toward their hiding place.
The detective paused and rose up on tiptoe, frowning as he tried to see over the heads of the throng ahead of him. Meena stopped breathing. She felt like a cornered mouse. The only thing to do was remain small and silent and hope the threat moved on.
Heavy drops of rain splattered here and there along the street.
The detective was it still a block away from them when the crowd halted his progress. He glared at the tangled mass of traffic in front of him and shook his head. It seemed an age before he turned on his heel and headed back the way he had come, his two constables trailing behind.
Meena let out a long breath. That had been too close a thing.
On the street, the rain pounded down. Shoulders now dappled with fat splashes of water, the workers were gathering their lunch pails and throwing scraps of wood and iron into piles at the edge of their work area. In two shakes, they had tidied the area and disappeared.
Not that Meena blamed them. They likely had homes to return to. Warm homes, with warm meals, and warm beds waiting.
Probably happy, loyal wives as well.
She—sad to say—was stuck in dank doorway, in an untenable situation, with an untenable man.
For an instant, she considered climbing the tree at the back of her house and sneaking into her own dry, comfortable bed.
As if that wouldn’t be the first place the police would look come daybreak.
She twisted her fingers in the laces of her handbag. She had no plan, nowhere to go, and no one to rely on except the least reliable man in Greater London.
Crane was squinting out at the darkening street.
Meena considered kicking him in the shin, but it might make him wonder why she was so very agitated. She settled for ignoring him.
Crane shifted his feet. “We should keep moving.”
She wished she had a better idea. The street beyond the construction area was empty now. The crowds, the carriages, even the horses, had all moved on. They’d be exposed, and vulnerable.
If the inspector changed his mind and turned back…
The rain was coming down harder now. Even in the dim light, the new steel trolley lines gleamed.
Crane conjured up a sickly smile. “It can’t be far to Battersea station, right?”
“Another mile or two I should think.” And where would they go from there?
She tried to calm her breathing, to allow her body to relax, so she would appear as if she were simply strolling down the pavement. It was hard not to run though as the rain pummeled her back and shoulders.
They stuck to the very edges of the pavement where they might gain shelter from the few awnings along the street. Once they’d passed the construction area, the buildings changed from shop merchants, like the greengrocers, candle shops, and dry good stores, to more commercial enterprises. Lawyers, small banks, and investment firms lined the lane. Mixed among them were tailors’ shops and booksellers, even a small jewelry store. But no taverns or cafés.
Nothing that would be open after dark.
Which meant there was no other foot traffic. Meena wiggled her shoulders. Rainwater trickled down the back of her neck, and her hair was plastered wetly to her head. She must look a fright. The thought only added to her gloom.
It comforted her to note that Crane wasn’t fairing much better. The thick curls atop his head had been flattened by the weight of the water. Small streams raced down the sides of his temples, collecting at his chin, where they dripped onto his collar. His fine woolen jacket clung to his chest and arms. He looked as if he’d been doused with a bucket.
With no rain coats or umbrellas, they looked out of place on the wet streets. They needed to get out of sight.
Movement at the far end of the lane caught Meena’s eye. A constable, all but invisible in his dark uniform, strolled toward them.
Meena’s heart jumped into her throat. She concentrated on calming her breathing, on slowing the racing of her heart. She took Spencer’s arm and moved in closer, hoping they would appear to be nothing more than a silly couple, drunk on love, strolling in a summer rainstorm.
Beneath her skirts, her knees shook. She would’ve liked to believe it was due to the chill, but she knew better. She’d been in a hundred other stressful situations, but never without a plan, and a plan to back up that plan.
And never with Spencer Crane.
She had no idea what to expect from the man.
“Looks like we’re in for a good soaking,” the constable observed as he passed by. His words were friendly enough, but Meena didn’t miss the way he studied them.
“Evening, Constable.” Crane chuckled. “We were having such a grand time, we walked far further than we intended to. Don’t get much time without a chaperone.” He winked. “I imagine we can catch a hansom around the corner?”
The man thought for a moment, his night stick swinging at his side. “Theater district’s two blocks down. Should be plenty of cabs on-call there.” He touched the brim of his hat, but his gaze was on the rivulets of water streaming from the ruffles of Meena’s walking dress. “Evening then.”
He moved on.
Meena untangled herself from Crane’s side. It was hard enough to think without the man emitting so much… heat. “We need to get out of sight.”
“Working on it.” The edge in his voice suggested he too was heartily sick of being wet.
The street held little appeal. Dark doorways, some shuttered, ran down both sides of the empty lane. Perhaps there was a neighborhood tavern close by? Meena strained to hear anything over the steady beat of the rain.
She nudged him. “We could make for the theater district. Get a hansom. Find a hotel somewhere.”
“Looking like this? They won’t be searching the streets in this weather, but that inspector will check the local hotels.”
Meena’s stomach dropped. “That’s an excellent point.”
The constable was now at the far end of the block. He hesitated and made as if to look back over his shoulder before continuing on.
Crane tucked Meena’s arm against his side and began walking. “We’ll have to think on the move.”
Meena tripped on a crack in the sidewalk. Her ankle twisted, and she stumbled against him.
Crane steadied her with strong arms. “Are you all right?”
“Damnation.” She stood on her good leg, slowly circling her injured foot. The pain changed from a sharp stabbing to a dull ache. It would do.
“I’m all right.” She shook her head. “I’m not sure how much further I’ll be good for, though.”
She wiped the rain out of her eyes and looked up at him. “You go on. I can fend for myself.” If he felt anything like she did, he’d been ready to be done with her hours ago. Meena steeled herself for his exit. When it came to it, Spencer Crane took care of Spencer Crane.
He stilled. “Then who would take care of me?”
Despite herself, Meena’s heart quickened, and the weight on her chest lifted. “All right, then. It seems I’m stuck with you for a while longer.” She squared her shoulders and continued down the street. “Something will occur to us. It must, mustn’t it?”
Crane mumbled a response. Meena couldn’t make it out over the patter of the rain on the pavement.
She turned to ask him to repeat it, but he was gone.
“Crane?” She whirled around.
“Over here.” He motioned her back toward the forgettable little bookstore they’d just passed. “You do have your lock picks?”
Meena made a face. As if she’d leave the house without them.
“Look.” He tapped on the glass. A hand drawn sign hung above a sun-faded display of books.
This establishment will be closed from the 1st through the 15th of June. The proprietors will be attending to most urgent family matters. We apologize for any inconvenience.
Despite her exhaustion, Meena grinned. It was a measure of just how tired she was that they’d passed a bookstore—her favorite type of establishment—and she hadn’t even noticed.
While Crane stood between her and far end of the street where the constable had been, she fumbled in her purse for her picks.
The lock looked simple enough, just an inexpensive deadbolt above the brass doorhandles. Her fingers were so wet it was hard to grip the smooth steel, but in a trice she had her hook pick in her hand, and the door was open.
They slipped inside and dove behind the first bookshelf they came to, careful to remain out of sight from the street. The store was nothing but a large, rectangular room divided by high shelves, like a small library.
Meena inhaled. The comforting scents of leather, old books, and the inevitable coating of dust, soothed her like no amount of room dis-odorizer could.
Crane fisted his hands on his slim hips and sighed. “At least it’s dry in here.” He wandered off toward the back of the shop. “Might as well see if there’s anything useful in here.”
Meena squinted at the shelves in the last of the dim daylight filtering in from the street. She ran a finger over the leather spines just above head height and smiled. Novels, short story collections and plays. Shelf upon shelf of them. She turned to the grouping behind her. Poetry, from floor to ceiling.
But around the corner, taking up at least three book cases all of their own, the prize awaited. Row upon row of sensation novels, their clean spines straight, the gilt lettering of their titles sparkling in the meager light called to her.
A thrill ran up her spine, numbing the ache in her ankle, and the tightness of her wet, chilled skin. The day was looking up.
A whole store full of books, and whole night to read them.
“Dash it all, Crane, would you stop that infernal noise?”
Spencer dropped the pen he’d been tapping against the desk blotter and glared at Meena across the book shop’s small office. “I’m bored.”
Without even glancing up from her novel, she grabbed a book from the pile at her elbow and sent it flying toward his head.
He caught it just before it struck his temple. “The Brookhurst Diamonds.” He frowned at the overwrought font on the cover. “A tale of danger and intrigue.”
He snorted.
Meena turned another page. “Then be bored.”
He’d been watching her read for what seemed like hours. At first, he’d expected her to grow restless after a chapter or two. Then he’d given up.
They were holed up in the cramped office at the back of the shop. With no curtains or shutters on the front windows, they didn’t dare light a lamp out in the main store itself. Thank God the
proprietor had carved out an office in the back corner. After piling books at the foot of the door, it seemed safe enough to turn on the one gas lamp.
With their jackets and shoes spread out atop crates of books, the room smelled more of wet wool than of ink and paper. Still, they were dry enough, and mostly warm.
Spencer had discovered a packet of shortbread and a full bottle of brandy in the bottom desk drawer. The cookies had been dispensed with quickly, and they were swiftly making their way through the fairly decent drink.
Unfortunately, it wasn’t helping him drift off to sleep. Spencer crossed his legs. A second later, he uncrossed them and sat forward, resting his elbows on the blotter. He tapped his foot. “How’s your ankle?”
A sigh big enough to rustle the pages of her book blew out of her. Without taking her eyes off the page, she raised her foot and wiggled it for his benefit. “Perfectly fine.”
Spencer studied the brandy in his glass, holding it up to the light to admire the light amber color. Out beyond the storeroom, a clock ticked loudly. The time between beats seem to slow, almost as if the thing were toying with him.
Meena remained absorbed in her reading. For the first time in his life, he wished he’d been bitten by that particular bug. He tossed back a mouthful of brandy, propped his feet back up on the desk, and opened the damned book.
Five pages in, he ached to throw the damned thing against a wall. “This is ridiculous. Completely ridiculous.” He slapped it down on the desk.
Meena looked up from her reading.
“I can’t read this. It’s absurd. No one could break into the British Museum alone, pocket the Star of India, and rescue a woman being ravished by the evil museum director, and still—” He stopped, trying to imagine it. “What was the woman doing in the museum at midnight, anyway? It makes no sense.”
“It’s fiction, Crane. There are minor details that must be overlooked.”
He scanned a few more pages before closing it again. “Now the man is planning to slip into the Bank of England.”
“Some say the Jonquil’s done it.”
Spencer snorted. “People say a lot of things about the Jonquil, for some unknown reason.” He tossed the book onto the desk. “Not even you could get through this drivel.”