“I just hope he does not expect us to take to the bloody roofs next,” Bertie muttered. And this did cause Miss Murdock to laugh, the picture in her mind of the foppish Lord Tempton clambering up a drain pipe or some other accessory to the rooftops causing her quite a bit of amusement. But Bertie, a little more loudly, asked, “Are we headed for the waterfront then, lad?”
And Steven said, “Aye. Down by t'pool.”
“The pool!” Bertie gave soft exclamation with horror in his voice.
“What is the pool?” Miss Murdock asked, and lifted her skirts to jump over some ancient garbage that lay across her way.
“Where the locks hold the waters for the ships to dock, Miss Murdock. And if you can not know what an unsavory part of town it is, then let me present you with a picture of scores of rough, muscle-hewed dockworkers, dirty and sweaty and smelling of gin, whose idea of a night's entertainment is to drink each other into the gutters and to have knife fights where the winner is the one who has lost the least amount of parts of his anatomy.”
“Oh,” Miss Murdock said, then, “I am sure they can not all be so bad. And it will be dawn soon. They will have gone home to their families by now, I am sure.”
But Steven answered before Bertie could argue further. “Nay, miss. For it is a right gin row down here. But ne'er fear, for we are only a mew away from me house, 'n' 'though we mays not avoid 'em's that drink entirely, we should only run into a couple of 'em back here with their pieces of comfort for t'night, 'n' they'll pay us no mind. Bein' busy 'n' all.”
And Miss Murdock said, “Pieces of comfort?”
“Never you mind, Miss Murdock!” Bertie hastened to say. He added to Steven, “Is there not some other route?”
“Coo, no,” Steven returned looking over his shoulder at Lord Tempton as though he were daft. “For if they'rn't busy with that 'n' all, then they'll be the ones that are still lookin', 'n' if they see the Miss there, they'll be swarmin' 'round us like she were a week's worth of wages. For she's clean y'know, 'n' they t'aint used to seein' one that t'aint needin' a dip in t'Thames to freshen' her up some.”
Miss Murdock, perceiving at last what they were discussing, said to Bertie, “I assure you, I would rather take a route where I do not have a gaggle of dockworkers chasing after me because I am 'clean'.
Let Steven continue in what way he thinks best.”
And Bertie only sighed, muttered that if St. James ever discovered any of this night's piece of work that he would probably not even have the decency of calling Bertie out, but would kill him on the spot.
Miss Murdock gave a soft laugh. “I begin to see why St. James thinks so much of you, Bertie, for although you are reluctant and let it be known you have your doubts, you do not argue in the least!”
And Bertie said in a doleful voice, “I shall only lose in the end at any rate, and it all goes so much quicker if I merely complain along the way.”
But Steven drew to a stop in front of them, and he turned his gray eyes to them in warning and they fell silent. “We live down this row, miss,” he whispered, “but we'll have to go quiet and cautious like, for the street frontin' t'river is just there at t'end also. They'll be some few of t'men 'bout, but what e'er happens or ya see, don't scream. For they'll come runnin' then, 'n' it t'won't be for t'helpin' ye.”
And Miss Murdock pulled the turned-up collar of St. James' dark coat a little closer about her face and nodded as she did so. “I understand,” she whispered back. “Thank you, Steven.”
Bertie took her arm, and if he had been complaining before, now he only seemed resigned to the task ahead of him. He put his other hand beneath his unbuttoned coat, which surprised Miss Murdock very much, but then, of course, St. James would have never tolerated Lord Tempton if he had not thought he were prepared in a pinch.
Then Steven moved out again, and they turned on to the narrow street that he had indicated. The houses were (and Miss Murdock could think of no other word in her mind) unfit. There was no walk way, and the small, clapboard shacks' doors opened directly onto the street, so that one only would step over the flooding, stenching gutter and into the front room, or possibly, the only room, from the smallness of them.
The smell had been building as they walked, but now it seemed more pronounced, each division of its compound identifiable. First and foremost, the smell of human excrement. And there was a rot to the smell also, as though death came here in many forms, large and small. From rat and cat to stray dogs and used up horses. And to man also, from gangrenous injuries or premature failings brought on by drink and damp or from his fellow sufferer.
And as they walked, huddled together, there were forms, deep in the shadows, and if Miss Murdock did not wish to look at them, she was not going to not look at them, for now, she felt, was a time when delicacy of sensibility could very well get one killed. For if she did not look to discern for certain that it was only desperate activity between man and woman, then she could not discount the fact that it may be a danger of which she should be aware.
And as she walked, she had the sudden wondering if Andrew had thought to include this little street upon her tour of London? Or if he were even aware of it and others like it.
She thought of St. James. She would swear that he knew of them, and that in fact, he had moved through them, and she wondered if he had ever been touched by the desolate hopelessness of these people in these streets of the night, doing acts that were meant to bring hope but using them only to assuage despair. And rather than being shocked, she was only moved to feeling very, very helpless.
And if her mind somehow connected the two, acts of hope reduced to assuaging despair and St. James, she did not yet understand it. She only knew that it was the same helplessness she had felt when she had cried, clawing at his chaise lounge.
Chapter Twenty-four
He awoke with a start, but he lay very still, and did not even open his eyes. There had been a disturbing element in his dreams. And although his first instinct, perhaps his first honed survival skill, was to not linger between sleep and wakefulness, but to be alert in an instance, to open his eyes, scan, assess and act if necessary, he for once, this one time, fought this instinct and lay grasping at his dream.
Some rich muckety-muck an' his wife.
He puzzled over this sudden invasion of Lucy Crockner's voice into the wisps of his dream. His dream had nothing to do with her and what she had told him, had it? No, he was certain that it had not, for his father had been in it and his uncle Morty, and they had been searching for someone. Yes, searching for their killer (their killer? Uncle Morty had died in an accident). And his only concession to wakefulness was the frown that turned down his lips, but he still did not open his eyes, but remained suspended between sleep and wake.
Not their killer. No, they had not been searching for their killer, but for his father's—No. Searching for Dante's killer. They had been searching for who had killed the son of one and the nephew of the other.
An' his wife. . . 'n' a lad.
His gold eyes snapped open, and St. James rolled and sat up in the bed. He stared without seeing for a moment, only the picture of his own thoughts before him, and then in a cold rage he pulled himself from the bed, far from rested, and asked himself with harshness, “How could I be so bloody, God damned blind?” Then through a zig-zagging of thought process that bore him around a countless score of other issues, he added, “And damn it, I have not protected her in the least! But have only added fuel to the fire by putting that confounded announcement in the paper.”
He went to the door in only his shorts, tightening the laces with hard yanks and tying them as he went, and upon opening the door, bellowed into the activity of his house, “Effington! Damn it, Effing-ton, I have need of you! Now!”
Then he turned, went to his wardrobe and pulled from it his normal attire of plain riding breeches and simple shirt with only lace at the cravat and cuffs.
“Milord?” Effington asked from behind him, and for once there was not
the usual affront in his voice that was there when he felt as if he were being ill-used.
St. James raised a brow at this unexpected ease of disposition,
but only said, “Have you that missive I gave to you earlier?”
“The one for a messenger of the Queen?”
“Yes.” St. James pulled on his breeches, his chest twinging in protest at his rapid activity.
Effington watched him without bemoaning his lordship's lack of helplessness. He pulled the sealed envelope from the inside pocket of his starched uniform. “I have it, of course.”
“Very good,” St. James replied, and he took the envelope from Effington and tore it across. He walked over to the fireplace and threw it into the flames.
Effington observed this activity, and then seeing that his lordship had every intention of continuing with putting on his shirt, advised him, “You need a shave, milord.”
“Haven't time, Effington.”
“I assure you I can shave you in the little amount of time that you can explain to me what I am to tell the Queen's man when he arrives.”
And St. James threw down his shirt, struggled into his high, gleaming leather boots instead, stamped his feet into them and said as he did so, “You've got two minutes, and you shall have to endeavor to do it while I compose a new message.”
Effington poured water into the basin. “And one also for your grandmother, as I am sure she is worried?” he asked.
“Yes. Damn it. One to my grandmother as I am sure she is worried.”
Effington gathered towel, basin and razor as he followed his employer who went bare-chested to the secretary in his room. “If you can wait just one second, milord, I will get the shaving cup.”
But St. James was pawing through his stationery. “No, I'll do without, Effington, for I have little care if it is not close or if you nick me. Just do not do me fatal injury is all I ask,” and he opened a bottle of ink, dipped his pen and began writing.
And if Effington had a difficult time of it shaving his lordship, especially along his throat, as St. James only tilted his head first in one direction and then the other, and would not at any time forgo his writing to give his valet more access, he did not complain, but only did the job with as much efficiency as he could muster.
St. James muttered as he paused in thought. “I no longer know who I can trust, damn it! Years of eliminating possible culprits and I am back at the beginning, where every face could be a murderer.”
Effington said, “And you trust me with a razor to your throat, milord?”
“Yes. God damn it! I trust you with a razor to my throat. Now do be quiet for you are distracting me.”
“And I am sure you can trust Miss Murdock,” Effington continued despite orders to the contrary.
And St. James gave him a lethal look from his heavy gold eyes. “Yes. I am sure that I may. Unfortunately,” he continued, going back to his writings, “I very much fear she should not have trusted me. Damn it!”
“And Lord Tempton?”
“If Bertie were going to kill me, he has had his chances.”
“And Tyler?”
“With my life,” St. James returned. But he appeared to be gaining a degree of lesser agitation and Effington persisted.
“Your grandmother?”
St. James hesitated in his writing. Then said, “Too old and too vulnerable. Too without knowledge of my actions and my suspicions, of which I am at fault. I can not trust her to not make a decision that although well-meaning, may be all the same fatal. And I worry all the more for I fear that if she gets wind of this, she will act rather than trust me to finish it.”
Effington struggled to follow his lordship's movements without cutting him. “Young Mister Tempton?” he asked.
“No,” St. James returned. “Too young, too impetuous, too impressionable.”
“Earl Larrimer?”
And St. James paused again in brief and searching thought. “No. Too ruled by emotion,” and then in a scouring undertone, “as I am myself at this late date. Damn it, Effington! Finish! And when you are done, pack me a bag, for I will be leaving in short order to fetch Miss Murdock.” He put a sudden weary hand to his eyes, frustrating Effington's efforts all the more. “And whatever I am to do with her, I do not know!”
“Milord, you will have to remove your hand.”
St. James moved his hand and read over his missives, then addressed the envelopes for them and folded them inside.
Effington put the razor aside, picked up a towel. St. James took the towel from him, gave his face and neck two swift swipes as he rose from his chair, and then flung the towel onto the chair he had just vacated.
“I will not be back up,” he told his valet. “So, if you would, take my bag down to the stables. I will be taking the curricle and you may deposit my bag there.” St. James put on his shirt as he spoke, buttoned his cuffs and flipped the lace down over his pale wrists. “Go, man,” he said, his voice softer as Effington seemed to be hesitating, torn between packing a bag as asked and his natural instinct to do up the buttons of milord's shirt and to tie the lace of his cravat.
Effington stirred into action and as he hurried to the wardrobe he observed St. James tucking his unmatched pistols into his waistband. “Luck to you, milord,” he said.
And St. James replied with bitterness, “And I shall need it, Effington, for I have been very stupid about this, chasing a phantom culprit and a complicated motive when it has all been quite simple and clear from the very beginning.”
With those words, he gathered his great coat and put it on. And the tight wrap of his fresh bandages that Effington had changed earlier that morning constricted him to a degree. But as he moved his left hand in a quick motion of testing his ability to the butt of one hidden gun, he was satisfied that he could draw it with effectiveness and would probably tear out no more than one or two stitches in the true effort.
Then he gathered up the two sealed envelopes, entrusted one to Effington, and the other he placed in his pocket. He left the bedchamber and if the thought crossed his mind that at this point, he had no idea how he was to do what had to be done, and still endeavor to walk back through that portal, he did not entertain it.
He only knew that first and foremost, he must fetch Miss Murdock and the rest of it would have to come to him as he went along.
And he was quite unawares that Effington's singular thought was that St. James, for once, had not started his day with a drink.
“Tyler?” St. James called into the dimness of the stables once he had entered. As he had expected, Tyler had found chores needing done to the fore of the stable and his answer was immediate.
“Aye, milord.” He appeared out of a stall but a brief ways down the center aisle. “It's barely ten but I figured you'd be 'long shortly at any rate.”
“I've slept too damned long as it is,” St. James said and Tyler narrowed his eyes at the tone of his lordship's voice.
“You've found somethin' then?” he asked.
“Something that has been in front of my face for far too long. And which has been pointed out to me twice in as many days. And still I was too blind to pick up on it!”
Tyler spat with force into the gutter. “You'll have to 'splain it to me then, milord, for I haven't t'clue.”
St. James moved forward with purpose. “We'll talk while tacking up, for I have need of you to go to my grandmother's and give her this,” and he handed Tyler the envelope he had brought down with him.
Tyler pocketed it. “Aye.”
“And you shall need to speak with her also, and tell her that you need a bag made up for Miss Murdock with several changes of clothing and whatever items her lady's maid deems necessary, but it must be done quietly and without fuss.”
“And her lady's maid also?” Tyler asked.
“No.”
“Damn it, milord! Your grandmother will not have it. You 'spect me to persuade her to readyin' Miss Murdock for some unknown journey, undoubtedly with you,
and not have her lady's maid present?”
St. James turned upon his groom and his words came out as nearly a snarl, “I have little care how you accomplish it, Tyler! I don't care if you allow that the maid is coming and then you pitch her in the gutter along your route of return. Just see that you have the bag and no maid!”
Tyler shifted his cud of tobacco. “Aye.”
St. James strode further down the aisle then opened the stall door there. He paused as he caught the horse inside. Tyler moved to gather saddle and St. James had the horse out of the stall when he returned. Tyler tossed him the bridle and began the saddling. And they each moved as though they had worked together in this manner many times before. “After you complete that little duty,” St. James continued, “I will need you to go to the same undertaker that you took Steven's father to. You'll be meeting with his mother there.”
Tyler said, “Bloody hell, I will! When and how did she come to be in to this mess? Is Steven with her?”
St. James paused in his bridling of the horse, and it lipped his shoulder softly. “I do not know where Steven is. As of last night, neither did she.”
Tyler looked at him with disbelief but his hands never paused in the sure working of saddle straps. “She be t'letter writer, then?”
“Yes. And I spent a damned uncomfortable time with her, for it is not at all pleasant to tell someone that is worried about their husband that they need not worry any longer for he is dead. And that I killed him.”
“Bloody goddamned mess,” Tyler muttered and brought down the stirrup iron as he finished his task. “Shoulda ne'er told her, milord! Any information ye got from her can only be suspect now, for I dare say she'd dearly love to see ye in difficulty.”
St. James examined this remark, his eyes brooding, then he said, “I think not. T'is a long story and I won't go into it now. And the damning revelation is one that I had already had told to me, by her husband before he died.”
In the Brief Eternal Silence Page 46