“You know him well, sir. But then, that is no surprise. I understand that you guided him at a crucial juncture of his life.”
“I did what I could,” Victor said. “I am very fond of Joshua. What happened nearly a year ago caused both of us great pain. I know that each of us has been grieving this past year. In hindsight, we should have talked more.” He glanced at the clock. “It’s going to be a very long night.”
Another flutter of anxiety shifted through her. The faint, panicky sensation brought her to her feet. She suddenly wanted to be out of the funereal room, out of the mausoleum of a mansion. The sad, seething energy of the house was taking a toll on her nerves.
“Would you mind very much if I went upstairs to my room to wait for Joshua?” she asked.
Victor frowned. “Are you all right, my dear? You look unwell.”
“I am quite tense. I’m afraid I’m not good company at the moment.”
“Yes, of course.” Victor studied her with deep concern. “I see you did not drink your coffee and brandy. Would you care for a glass of the brandy alone? It will help calm your nerves.”
“No, I’m fine, thank you. Please call me the instant Joshua comes back.”
“You have my word on it.”
Victor opened the door for her. She hurried out into the hall and walked swiftly toward the grand staircase. The relief she experienced upon escaping the library proved short-lived. Another wave of fear crashed through her when she climbed the stairs. By the time she reached her bedroom she was in a state of near-panic. She was suddenly desperate for a breath of crisp night air.
She had to get out of the house. Perhaps a few minutes in the gardens would ease her tight breathing.
She opened the door of her bedroom, collected her cloak and a candlestick, and let herself quietly back out into the hall. The long carpet runner muffled her footsteps. She did not want to alarm Victor. She knew he would be worried if he realized that she was going outside alone at such a late hour.
The house was very silent. The household’s small staff had gone downstairs some time ago.
The servants’ stairs at the end of the hall were the closest route to the gardens. She opened the door to the stairwell, trying to make as little noise as possible.
She heard Victor’s footsteps on the main staircase just as she shut the door. She lit the candle and started down. The close confines of the back stairs caused her heart to beat faster. The need for fresh air was overwhelming. It was as if the house was trying to suffocate her.
There was no logical reason for the sparks of raw panic that shot through her, but she had survived on her intuition far too long to ignore the sensation.
She reached the ground floor and paused to blow out the candle. The wall sconces had been turned down low but there was sufficient light to reveal a door that looked as if it served as the tradesmen’s entrance.
There was a muffled squeak of floorboards overhead. Victor was moving down the hall toward the master bedroom. The faint groans of the boards should not have terrified her, but they did. The memories of the night she had stood beside Roland as he lay dying and listened to his killer returning to the scene of the crime slammed across her senses. The choking fear welled up inside.
But it had not been Victor Hazelton who had killed Roland, she thought. Why was she so frightened tonight? Perhaps the events of the past few days had been too much for her nerves. She was strong but everyone had a breaking point. She was jumping at shadows now.
She crept silently toward the tradesmen’s entrance. Her talent was sparking in reaction to her fear. In the dim light she could see the psychical fog created by the prints of the many people who had come and gone through the door—deliverymen bringing provisions for the household, carpenters and painters who had been summoned to perform repairs, coachmen, gardeners and all those who had come to the door in hopes of gaining a post in the mansion.
The decades of tracks had formed a layer of murky energy that swirled on the floor. But one set of footsteps stood out above all the rest. They glittered with a terrible iridescence. She recognized them instantly.
The man with the skull for a face had come through the door—not once but on several occasions in the past few months.
The fact that he had used the tradesmen’s entrance told her all she needed to know. He worked for Victor Hazelton.
There was another creak from the floor above and then a nerve-shattering silence. It was impossible to be certain from where she stood but intuition told her that Victor had stopped at her bedroom door.
She took out her stocking gun and opened the tradesmen’s door, half expecting to come face-to-face with the assassin. But there was only moonlit darkness on the other side.
Joshua thought that he had set a trap, but he was wrong. He was walking into one.
Forty-Four
She hurried through the empty streets, her senses skittering. Every doorway and every alley was filled with ominous darkness. She dared not take shortcuts through the parks. Her small pistol would be useless against a gang of footpads.
It seemed like an eternity before she managed to hail a hansom cab. She knew what the driver thought when she hiked up her skirts and stepped up into the small vehicle. Respectable ladies did not go about in hansoms. Only fast women allowed themselves to be seen in the swift little cabs. And only a prostitute would have a reason to be out alone at this time of night.
“Lantern Street,” she said crisply. “Hurry, please.”
“Got a customer waiting, have ye?” the driver asked genially.
But he obligingly snapped the whip. The horse lurched into a hard trot.
Twenty minutes later they arrived at the door of Flint & Marsh. Beatrice navigated the narrow cab steps down to the pavement and paid the driver. The hansom rolled off into the darkness.
She went up the front steps of the agency. Not surprisingly, the lights were off. She banged the knocker several times but there was no answer.
Instinct made her take out the stocking gun. Cautiously, she tried the door and was shocked when it turned easily in her hand. Mrs. Beale never forgot to lock up for the night.
She knew she had made a terrible mistake but by then it was too late. The subtle scent of incense wafted out into the night air.
“I’ve been waiting for you, Beatrice,” Victor said from the shadows of the front hall. “It took you long enough to get here. Always hard to find a cab at this hour, isn’t it?”
She started to step back, intending to whirl and run.
“If you don’t come inside, I will kill all of them,” Victor said. “I have nothing left to lose, you see. At this point I can guarantee you that they are all still alive.”
He turned up the lamp. She saw Abigail and Sara sprawled on the floor behind him. Both were in their nightclothes. Both were unconscious.
“The housekeeper is in the other room,” Victor said. “I have no wish to kill all three women but their lives are in your hands. I will do whatever it takes to obtain your cooperation tonight.”
“Dear heaven,” Beatrice said. “You truly do think that Clement Lancing can bring your daughter back to life, don’t you?”
“She is all I have,” Victor said. “I will do anything to save her.”
“Including sending the man you say was like a son to you to his death at the hands of an assassin?”
“Take heart. Joshua may survive the encounter. At one time he possessed considerable skill in such matters. It’s true, he has lost much of his speed and agility, but he is still formidable. If I were a betting man, I might place a wager on him. But in the end it does not matter which of them survives.”
“Because what matters is making sure Joshua is occupied while you kidnap me.”
“Indeed.”
“He will survive,” Beatrice said. “And he will come looking for me. He always finds
what he sets out to find.”
“Eventually he will find you. But it will take some time for him to track you down—a couple of days, at least. By then I will no longer need you. Our business together will be concluded by dawn this morning. Now put that ridiculous little gun on the console and turn around.”
“Why should I turn around?”
“Do it.”
She put the stocking gun on the table and turned slowly. Victor moved with terrifying speed. He came up behind her, secured her with an arm around her throat and clamped a cloth over her nose and mouth.
She smelled chloroform and tried not to breathe but in the end she had no choice.
Darkness swallowed her whole.
Forty-Five
The first wave of rumors rippled through the Red Dog Tavern shortly after midnight. Joshua was alone in a booth at the back. He was dressed like the other patrons, in the rough clothes and heavy boots typical of a man who made his living in dark and dangerous ways. The scar had proven to be an asset in places like the Red Dog and the other establishments he had visited that evening.
He caught some of the low voices in the next booth and was certain he heard Weaver’s name but he could not hear the details. The crime lord’s name was always spoken in a whisper.
He had made the rounds of the gaming hells and taverns near the docks, setting the stage for the trap. There was some gossip about the killer called the Bone Man, but no hard facts. No one seemed to know the identity of his current employer, but there was speculation that he was working for an up-and-coming crime lord who intended to challenge Weaver and the others in the old guard who controlled the criminal underworld.
When the barmaid, an attractive, hard-eyed blonde, approached with his ale, Joshua took out a few extra coins and set them on the table. The woman glanced at the money, interested but wary.
“What do I have to do to earn that much money?” she asked.
“Tell me the news about Weaver.”
She glanced around uneasily and then leaned down to set the ale on the table. She lowered her voice. “No one knows for certain yet but there is word on the street that he’s dead.”
Joshua went cold. “Someone killed him?”
“No, that’s the odd part. They’re saying his heart failed him.”
Joshua thought about what Beatrice had said that afternoon. He is dying.
“Do the rumors say when he died?” Joshua asked.
“It’s very strange. According to the story, he went out to meet someone earlier in the day. When he returned to his office his footman opened the door to his carriage and found him slumped over, dead as you please. Word is his enforcers kept it quiet as long as possible so that they could make one last visit to all of his businesses tonight to collect their protection fees.”
“Which the enforcers will now keep for themselves.” Joshua pushed himself to his feet and grabbed his cane.
He had wasted an entire evening. Weaver had not lived long enough to set the trap.
“What about your ale, sir?” the barmaid called.
Joshua did not respond. He made his way through the crowded room, desperate to get to the door. His hand was a fist around the hilt of the cane. He had to fight the frustration and cold anger that spilled through him. He was vaguely aware that people scrambled to move out of his path but he paid no attention, intent only on getting outside.
He knew that Lancing’s tentacles were closing around Beatrice at that very moment. So much time lost.
Hazelton will protect her, he thought. But even as he tried to reassure himself, he knew that he could no longer be certain of anything. He had been wrong too often in this case, and Beatrice would pay the price.
He finally made it outside onto the street. The chilly night air and the stench of the river helped him focus. He forced himself to control his breathing, slowing it down, reining in his emotions. He could not think clearly when his brain was consumed by thoughts conjured up by his feverish imagination.
There was no point dwelling on the hours that had been lost. His original strategy lay in ruins. He had to craft a new one immediately or there was no hope. Everything inside him was shouting that time had at last truly run out.
He made his way down the street, heading toward the corner where Henry waited with the carriage. The soft thud of his cane and the echo of the hitch in his stride were the loudest sounds in the night.
He was so intent on formulating a new plan that he did not sense the presence of the killer until the skull-faced man lunged toward him from the alley.
It should have been a killing blow—it would have been a killing blow—but at the last instant he heard the assassin’s sharp intake of breath.
Old habits and long training took over. Instinctively, Joshua whirled to confront the attacker. The action sent him spinning off balance. His bad leg gave way beneath him and he tumbled to the ground—and accidentally saved his own life in the process.
The sudden change in the position of his intended victim threw the assassin off his mark. Carried forward by his own momentum, he stumbled a few steps past Joshua, caught himself and swung around to make another attempt.
Joshua struggled to get to his knees. He realized he was still gripping the hilt of his cane. He swung the stick in a slashing arc to fend off the killer.
The Bone Man was ready for the move. He lashed out with one booted foot and connected with the cane.
The bone-jarring blow sent the steel-and-ebony stick flying from Joshua’s hand. It clattered on the pavement.
The killer glided forward in a low rush. His eyes were pools of empty night. The blade in his hand glittered darkly in the light of the nearby gas lamp.
He did not notice the small throwing knife that Joshua had drawn from the cane until the blade sank straight into his throat.
He grunted and stumbled to a halt. Blood boiled in his mouth. He looked at Joshua in disbelief.
He sank to his knees, toppled onto his side and collapsed faceup.
An acute silence filled the street. Joshua gathered himself and got to his feet. He limped to where the cane lay on the paving stones. Stooping low, he picked up the stick.
He made his way to the body and used the cane to send the Bone Man’s blade skidding away from the limp hand. There was no such thing as too many precautions.
Bracing himself with the cane, he leaned down and pulled the small throwing knife from the dead man’s throat. He wiped the blade clean on the Bone Man’s clothes and slid the weapon back into the top of the cane.
He went toward the small, fast carriage on the corner, thinking about one of the maxims he had learned from Victor. Everyone has a blind spot.
“You were mine, Victor.”
Forty-Six
Nelson was in his small study, a glass of brandy on the table beside him. He had long ago lost interest in the book he had been reading and had moved on to his favorite subject: the contemplation of his boring future. The small taste of the investigation business that he had gotten recently had whetted his appetite. It was as if he had found a calling. But he was not fool enough to believe that Josh would ask him to assist in that sort of thing in the future. His uncle had retired, after all.
He was considering a visit to the American West, where, according to the press, adventure awaited, when the clang of the door knocker shattered the late-night silence of the house.
He debated whether to answer the summons. The visitor would be one of his friends who would be thoroughly drunk by now and wanting companionship for a trip into the more dangerous neighborhoods. For the first time in months the prospect of an evening of heavy drinking and gaming hells did not seem to be the answer.
The knock sounded again, louder this time. He groaned and got to his feet. He went down the hall and opened the front door.
“You’re on your own tonight,” he said. “I’m not
in the mood—” He broke off when he saw Joshua on the step.
The sight of his uncle rendered him speechless for a few seconds. There was a terrible light in Joshua’s eyes. Nelson wondered if he was burning with fever. But that did not explain the dark energy that seemed to emanate from him. It was as if Joshua had just returned from a trip to hell and expected to make a return visit quite soon.
“Uncle Josh.” Nelson swallowed hard. “Are you all right?”
“He’s got her,” Joshua said. “It’s my fault. I violated the first rule in an investigation. I trusted someone connected to it.”
“Hang on, are you talking about Miss Lockwood? Who has her?”
“Hazelton. He was working with Lancing all along. They’re going to attempt to revive Emma and they believe they need Beatrice to do it.”
“Bloody hell. They’ve both gone mad, then?”
“It’s the only explanation,” Joshua said. “I need your help.”
“Yes, of course, but how do you know that Victor is in league with Lancing?”
“Get your pistol and come with me. I’ll tell you everything on the way.”
It took only a moment to retrieve his pistol from the desk in his study. Nelson grabbed it and raced back down the hall. He climbed up into the small cab and sat down beside Joshua. He was aware of a fire in his own blood now. Excitement, resolve and a sense of purpose energized him as nothing else ever had. He wasn’t going out on another pointless round of drinking and gambling tonight. He was going to do something important. He was going to help rescue a lady.
Henry cracked his whip. The horse leaped forward.
“First, tell me how you learned that Hazelton is involved in this affair,” Nelson said.
“He sent the assassin after me tonight,” Joshua said. “He assumed that if I survived, I would credit my own plan and never suspect him. He had no way of knowing that Weaver did not live long enough to help me bait the trap. Hazelton was the only other person except Beatrice who knew that I would be at the Red Dog tonight. He is the only one who could have sent word to the Bone Man.”