‘Not ideal but the best I can do. Now what?’
‘A boat, if we can find one. Give me your hand and do exactly what I tell you.’
This time it was easier. Without the extra weight and with her feet reasonably free, she was almost as nimble as Alex. They came to the river at the Three Cranes and flitted along the waterfront looking for a barge or small boat. Then, without warning, there were figures rushing at them from the Steel Yard and Alex dodged back between the warehouses in the direction of Thames Street.
The next ten minutes was a sort of wild-goose chase. They climbed stairs and ran down alleys, circled buildings, zigzagged, then doubled back, eventually ending up by St Lawrence Poultney from whence they could hear runners approaching from the direction of All Hallows the Less. Alex stopped, pulled Chloë close and hissed, ‘Enough of this. Let’s hide.’
‘Where?’ she gasped, looking around them wildly.
‘There.’ He pointed to an aged and over-full laystall, behind which ran a ledge some five feet off the ground. He grinned suddenly. ‘Oh yes. That’s perfect.’
For some reason Chloe couldn’t identify, he tossed the handkerchief from his pocket down on the ground a few feet in front of the trough. Then, towing her with him, he ran to one side, briefly eyed the height of the ledge and, placing his hands on top of it, hauled himself up until his knee met the surface. Turning, he leaned down and reached towards Chloe.
‘Give me your hands. Quickly!’
With no time to think, she did as he asked and found herself pulled swiftly upwards until she arrived, her feet tangled in silk, into the safety of one steely arm.
Alex slid to the other side of her and pushed her along the ledge, behind the steaming pile of ordure-laden rubbish. The stench was horrendous.
‘Get down,’ he whispered. ‘As low as you can.’ And grinned when, having done so, she smothered her nose and mouth in a handful of skirt. ‘I know. Don’t cough. They’re coming.’
Crouching down on one knee beside her, he surveyed the trough and its framework appraisingly. The thing was already virtually groaning under the weight of the refuse inside it and the props beneath it were rotten with age. Alex gave it an experimental push and felt it give just a little. At the same time, their three would-be attackers ran into the square and then stopped, presumably looking around for their quarry.
Hidden from view up above, Alex dragged the skirt from Chloe’s hands and laid them silently against the side of the trough. Then, smiling maliciously, he signalled her to wait.
One of the fellows below them said, ‘Where did they go?’
‘Dunno,’ replied another. ‘Bugger. I hope we ain’t lost ‘em or he won’t pay. Maybe they didn’t come this way.’
‘Yes, they did,’ said a third voice, triumphantly. ‘Look!’
There was a sound of swiftly approaching feet and then, ‘Bastard dropped his hankie, careless sod. Question is – which way was he running?’
And, hoping for the best, Alex looked at Chloe and hissed, ‘Now!’
They shoved with all their might and the laystall simply gave up the fight. Quicker even than Mr Deveril had hoped, it gave a massive creak and toppled over with a crash which almost, but not quite drowned the yells of those below it. For a second, there was silence and, looking down, Chloe saw that one of the men must have got trapped directly beneath the trough, while the other two had been knocked flat by half a ton of horse-dung.
Laughing, Alex drew her to her feet and said, ‘Well, that makes up for some of the running. But we don’t have time to gloat. Let’s go.’
He sat down, swung his legs over the edge and, using one hand for support, dropped neatly to the ground. Then he held up his arms to Chloe. ‘Jump, Marigold.’
Without a shred of hesitation, Chloë sat down, swung her feet over the edge and propelled herself into his waiting arms.
And, holding her hard against his chest while meeting the laughter in her eyes, Alex made a discovery; a discovery that stopped his breath and set every nerve vibrating with shock. His gaze widened and his grip on her tightened. Then, because they were still in danger, he put the knowledge to one side and stepped back, releasing her. Just one random instant to create a truth from a myth, hope and purpose where there had been none; to change a life. ‘And what a stupid time,’ he thought, ‘what a stupid bloody time for it to happen.’
He drew a steadying breath and caught Chloë’s fingers. ‘Come on!’
Once more zigzagging through alleyways they’d already seen once tonight and which he hoped never to see again, he led her back towards Thames Street and the river. If they could just make it on to the bridge, he reasoned, they might have a chance of out-running their attackers. If not, he’d have to fight them off yet again – this time leaving nothing to chance. The alternative didn’t bear thinking about because the smallest miscalculation on his part would leave Chloe unprotected. ‘And if she gets hurt because of me,’ he thought, ‘that will be the last damned straw.’
They reached the Fishmongers Hall, swung round a corner and found themselves face to face with the fellows they’d left buried under the noxious contents of the laystall. The smell was overpowering. Alex pulled Chloë behind him and said, ‘Get ready to run.’
‘Now,’ said the burlier of the two with gloating anticipation. ‘Now we’ve got you.’
‘Not quite,’ returned Mr Deveril. ‘You still have to take me. If you can.’
‘Oh we can,’ said the bravo. And emitted a loud, piercing whistle.
Uncomfortably aware that there was a third man somewhere behind him, Alex hurled himself at the two in front with a suddenness he hoped would disconcert them, sent the smaller man hurtling backwards with a vicious kick to the stomach and whirled on the other with a twist of his sword arm. It nearly worked but not quite. The blade glanced off the man’s shoulder and Alex found himself threatened with a dagger. He parried it just in time and, expecting to be attacked from the rear at any moment, tried to alter his position so that the wall was at his back. He wasn’t as successful as he’d hoped and, realising that there was no time to waste, he lunged at the fellow with dagger and dropped him with a thrust to the heart.
Meanwhile, the third man advanced stealthily through the shadows. He stepped past the posts into the road, the light glimmering palely on his dagger as he raised it, preparing to strike at Mr Deveril’s unprotected back. But he never achieved his aim nor knew whose hand held the knife that plunged deep and true into the base of his neck, cutting off his life with a surprised gurgle.
Chloë stepped back and watched him fall to the cobbles, his body twitching and pumping blood. Her stomach heaved and, turning away, she vomited helplessly and painfully against the wall.
Aware that the man he’d kicked was scrambling to his knees, Alex felled him again with a second kick – this time to the side of the head – and whirled round to face the third assailant. And saw the fellow on the ground in a pool of blood, with Chloë a couple of steps beyond being violently sick.
He had intended to keep just one of their attackers alive in order to ask a few pertinent questions. One look at Chloë changed that. All that mattered now was to make an end – and that meant leaving no survivors to call up reinforcements. Without wasting any more time, Alex drove the point of his sword through the fellow’s throat and ran to his wife.
Shuddering uncontrollably, Chloë wiped her mouth with one shaking hand and turned to find Mr Deveril’s arms closing about her.
Her voice raw and muffled against his shoulder, she said, ‘I’ve killed him.’
‘Yes. Don’t look. Just come away.’
‘He was c-coming up behind you.’ It hurt to speak and she thought she was going to be sick again. ‘I had to.’
‘You had to.’ Firmly leading her away from the scene of carnage, he wondered how much more of this hellish night she could stand. Then he said, ‘We should go. Hopefully, there’s no one left to follow – but we shouldn’t linger. We’re nearly at the
bridge so it’s not far now. Can you manage?’
She nodded and swallowing her nausea, said, ‘Yes.’
‘Good girl. Now!’
They were off Fish Street Hill and on to the bridge in a flash. By the time they were half-way across it and with no sign of pursuit, Mr Deveril – seeing Chloë clutching her side and breathing in painful gasps - judged it safe to slow their pace a little. She stumbled and he steadied her with a firm arm about her waist. Then they were across, past the Bear-at-the-Bridge-Foot and St Mary Overie. Alex stopped to listen and then, apparently satisfied, looked down at Chloë, leaning against him and still sobbing for breath. His own chest was heaving but he managed a weak laugh as he lifted her up into his arms and set off to carry her home.
The house was quiet and the only light a single candle on a table beside the door. Alex left it where it was and trod noiselessly up the stairs to Chloë’s room. It was only when he laid her on the bed that the brown eyes, dark with stress, flickered open and followed him while he lit a candle and crossed the room to close the curtains. Then, as he turned back to her, she propped herself up on one elbow and looked at him.
His hair was wildly disordered, his coat ruined, his hands grazed and filthy, and the expression in his eyes was one she had never seen. Making a huge effort, she said, ‘If you look like that, I hate to think what I must look like.’
Smiling a little, Alex remained where he was, contemplating her from head to foot.
‘Your face is dirty, your hair is a disaster and you’ll never wear that gown again. But you’re in one piece – and, thanks to you, so am I. Consequently, in the only ways that matter, you’ve never looked better.’
Chloe sat up, pushed her hair back with shaking hands and, her voice a mere thread, said, ‘I’ve killed someone.’
The smile faded. Alex came to sit beside her and took her hands in his.
‘I know. I also know it’s pointless asking you to forget it. But try, if you can, to remember why it was necessary … and what might have happened if you hadn’t.’
Her fingers clung to his but she nodded and drew a long, ragged breath.
Alex saw in her eyes the plea she wouldn’t make but, inwardly cursing, pretended he didn’t. Even though it was clear that she needed him, he couldn’t stay with her because he was afraid of what might happen if he did.
Releasing her hands, he said, ‘I’m sorry – so very sorry – that this happened. But if it helps, I know of no other woman who either could or would do what you did tonight.’ He moved unhurriedly to the door, then looked back, the blue gaze suddenly intense, and said, ‘You are quite remarkable. Try to sleep, Marigold.‘ And was gone.
Alex had walked into his room before he realised that, although aching in every muscle, he had no intention of sleeping. Absently, he drew off his coat and washed his face and hands; his shirt was sticking uncomfortably to his shoulders so he removed it and put on another. Somewhere at the back of his mind, he knew he ought to be trying to figure out what had just happened … why and on the orders of whom, they’d been attacked. Instead, he stood for a time gazing out of the window, wanting to go back to Chloë and seething with rebellion because he couldn’t trust himself not to say or do something for which this was unquestionably not the right time.
He sat down, gathering and absorbing the night’s other cataclysm before facing the all-important question. The question of how you convinced the girl you’d married while magnificently drunk that, after eight months of a marriage that was not a marriage, you had fallen irrevocably in love with her; and were afraid that you had left it too late.
~ * * * ~
ELEVEN
Alex sat deep in thought for perhaps half an hour, then stood up and stretched his rapidly stiffening muscles. The shoulder that had taken the cudgel-blow was now a screaming ache. He suspected that, within a few hours, it would be black and blue and seriously affecting the use of his left arm. He was just wondering, vaguely, whether the short time left before dawn justified the trouble of undressing and going to bed when a sound reached his ears; a faint sound, but loud in the stillness of the house. Out of the habits of fifteen years came the conditioned reflex to listen. But that was all for his mind was still elsewhere. And then he heard it again; the distant betraying sound of movement downstairs. Alex was abruptly restored to himself.
Four legitimate possibilities; Chloë, Matt, Naomi, Mistress Jackson – all of them equally unlikely and leaving only one logical alternative which, after the murderous chase home, wasn’t so hard to believe. The only question was, were they being burgled or invaded?
From a drawer, he drew a small serviceable dagger and then slipped out of his room. The landing was in darkness and no light showed under any of the doors. Alex crossed swiftly to the stair-head and quietly made his way down. A few steps from the foot he paused, realising that although he had left a candle burning, the hall was dark. Then the smell of it reached him; warm wax, recently extinguished. He moved on, listening and finally isolated the sound.
Beneath the door of Chloë’s office lay a ribbon of light and from behind it came the unmistakeable rumble of drawers and the crackle of paper. Someone was conducting a thorough search. Alex looked down at the knife in his hand, then laid it gently on the floor against the wall. Just one man it seemed, and this time he needed him alive. This time, he thought, grimly smiling, we’ll find out what the hell is going on.
His fingers closed on the latch, lifting it silently, then he flung the door wide and was face to face with the intruder who looked back at him, startled, one hand just withdrawing from his pocket. And then he jumped.
The fellow was heavily-built and his hands were like bill-hooks. Less your average burglar, thought Mr Deveril as he side-stepped, than a wrestler – or, scenting the odour of tar, a sailor. And apparently unarmed which, given the smallness of the room, was probably just as well. Then the enormous hands were on him, spinning him round and wrenching his arms behind his back with a knee to the kidneys as leverage. Alex grunted as his bruised shoulder flamed with agony; then, delivering a savage kick to the other man’s shin, he bent sharply, broke his grip and hurled him to the ground in a sea of papers.
The candle went out. Prepared for it, Alex was on his opponent before he had time to move and already engineering a knee lock. It was answered with a hard chopping motion which he caught half-way to his throat. Altering his grip, Alex twisted and, holding the arm at an unpleasant angle, said breathlessly, ‘I wonder what’s in your pocket. And if you can be persuaded to give it to me.’
He felt, with surprise, the fellow’s muscles relax and then, too late, understood why. With sudden, unexpected venom, the man spat hard in his face while simultaneously jerking himself free; then a fist like Thor’s hammer took him in the stomach and his left arm was seized and twisted viciously against the socket.
Through the white-hot anguish that was his shoulder, Mr Deveril recognised that he had committed a major miscalculation. After a month of continual work on poor food, followed by twenty-four hours without sleep during which he’d already received a fairly comprehensive battering, his physical capabilities were at an unsurprisingly low ebb. He rammed his elbow into the man’s side and inflated his lungs to do the only sensible thing; yell for Matt.
He never managed it. Even as he opened his mouth to call, his arm was given one final, excruciating jerk and, in the haze of burning pain that followed, released so that the burglar could spin him round and deliver a flailing blow to the jaw. Alex’s head snapped back, hitting the desk and, without a second’s delay, the other man was up and off through the door.
By the time Alex had recovered sufficiently to haul himself dizzily to his feet, the front door had slammed and his intruder was long gone. He dropped heavily on the edge of the desk, allowing his left hand to fall loosely at his side while using his right to delicately explore the damage to his shoulder. It screamed to the touch but mercifully did not appear to be dislocated. He closed his eyes, controlling faint
ness and frustration with every ounce of his will.
When he opened them again Chloë was standing in the doorway, candle in hand, her eyes wide with anxiety and one arm thrust into a blue chamber-robe over her night-rail. Then she moved slowly through the wreck of her office to stand before him.
‘Some people,’ she said severely, her voice not entirely steady, ‘will do anything to enliven a dull Friday.’
‘Saturday,’ Mr Deveril corrected weakly. ‘It’s Saturday. You’ve had a burglar.’
‘So I see. And you’ve had a fight. Another one. What’s wrong with your arm?’ She did not touch him but set about using the candle to light others.
‘Nothing that won’t mend.’ He eyed her consideringly. ‘I’m sorry to be tedious – but he took something and I need to know what.’
Chloë sought her straying sleeve, then tied the ribbon at her waist with a business-like air.
‘What you need,’ she replied, ‘is to go to bed. All this will wait and you’ve done enough for one day. Come on.’ She reached out to take his hand.
His fingers closed over hers but he did not move. ‘It’s important, Chloë.’
‘Really?’
‘Really. It can’t wait … but I can’t do it alone. Help me?’
She drew a long breath and said, ‘All right. But I don’t need you – I can do it on my own. You get some sleep and when I find out what’s missing, I’ll wake you.’
‘No. But if it will make you happy, I’ll do no more than sit and watch.’ His brow was faintly furrowed but beneath it the translucent eyes gleamed with the same expression they had held earlier and which Chloë still could not interpret.
She frowned crossly. ‘You think that’s a compromise? You’re hurt and you’re tired – and if you weren’t so stubborn, you’d admit it.’
‘I’ll admit it willingly – but I won’t go to bed.’ He stood up with an effort that made Chloë grit her teeth and then looked down at her, smiling a little. ‘Please, Marigold?’
Marigold Chain Page 23
