Huwe rocked onto the balls of his feet. “Only yesterday. I had business at the docks, and Worke—” he aimed another kick at the clerk—”he took it upon himself to seek the box Proctor had thieved from me. He left old Abel here alone.” His nostrils flared, but whether his contempt was for Abel or Worke was unclear.
“Mr. Abel was not aware of her presence here?”
Huwe spat. “Mr. Abel’s half deaf and sees naught beyond his nose. He’s a fine hand at totting up numbers—a regular mathematician. For the rest, I’d not trust him to guard my hat, let alone a valuable property.”
Valuable property. Miss Tolerance’s stomach heaved at the thought. “So Miss Thorpe escaped Mr. Abel’s indifferent care—”
“Not for the first time,” Huwe interjected.
“—and she went…where?”
“How in Hell do I know? Crept out with my property and ran. I thought she’d gone home to her dad, and I went to fetch her back, but Lyne wasn’t at home to me, if you please. Sent the porter to turn me away, as if I hadn’t enough proof to turn his name to shit.”
“How very frustrating for you, sir.”
“Don’t take such a tone, you.” Huwe raised the pistol yet again. “I’ve the whip hand here, had you not seen?”
“I meant no disrespect, Mr. Huwe.” Holding the whip hand was the great thing for Huwe, Miss Tolerance thought. “You did not regain Miss Thorpe?”
“Miss Thorpe? There’s precious little Miss to her now, and naught she don’t understand about the way of a man with a maid. No, I did not regain her. But if you’re still looking for the piece it means Lyne has not got her,” Huwe said with satisfaction. “I can still get her back—”
Miss Tolerance shook her head. “I will not let that happen.”
Again Huwe snorted. “Look about you, woman. There’s no one to help you. Though you’re handsome enough. If I took you back to my little room, perhaps I’d let you persuade me to let you live.”
“Without the least wish to be melodramatic, sir, I think I would rather die. And surely a pistol shot emanating from these offices would bring someone to investigate; you cannot kill every person who finds you out.”
Huwe looked at the pistol in his hand. “Mayhap it’s too noisy without I close the door, and this—” he kicked Worke in the knee—”blocks me from doing that. But it should be no great thing to dispatch you by hand.”
Miss Tolerance was under no illusion that she could best Huwe with strength. If she reached for her sword quickly enough to keep him away he would likely fire the pistol regardless of noise; nor could she reach for her own pistol, still in the pocket of her Gunnard coat. She stepped back a pace, looked about her and saw nothing but papers—not even a convenient paperweight.
Huwe took a step closer, then another. He was almost within her reach. Could she kick him as she had Worke, hours ago that morning? But the damned man was sidling, making his groin a difficult target. Think.
He was on her, one hand circling her throat, the other reaching back to tangle itself in her hair like a lover’s caress. She tried to stomp his foot but could not find it. She kicked, struck him, but not so hard as to make him drop his hands. As he squeezed and his flushed, contorted face swam before her eyes, she fumbled at her coat pocket and found—not her pistol, but Evadne Thorpe’s kid slipper. She pulled it out and swung it against Huwe’s head hard enough that he dropped his hands. She sprang backward, panting, and reached again, this time grasping the pistol which she cocked and thrust, with the same motion, at Huwe’s belly.
He stopped, looking down at the muzzle that disappeared in the front of his waistcoat.
“Had a trick or two laid by, did you?” He was panting as hard as she and, she realized with disgust, was aroused. “Well, what are we to do now?”
She meant to give him no time to hatch a new scheme for her defeat. “Turn around, Mr. Huwe.”
“Shoot me in the back, will you?”
“No, sir. Now, to your knees.” With her left hand she pushed hard on his shoulder until the man went down, first on one knee, then the other. “Lie flat, now.”
When Huwe was prone on the floor Miss Tolerance knelt over him, the bore of her pistol to the nape of his neck and her knee in the small of his back. “Do not move, sir, or you will not even know that I have killed you.” With her left hand she pulled off the long black ribbon with which she had clubbed her plaited hair. “Now, put your hands behind your back, Mr. Huwe. Very slowly and very carefully.”
One handed, Miss Tolerance tied his wrists together; not until she was confident that he could not loose himself from the weave of ribbon around his wrists did she rest her pistol on his back. Two handed, she tied several knots to secure the ribbon. Then she reclaimed the pistol and stood.
“I’ll ask you to rise now, Mr. Huwe.”
“What do you think to do with me?” The man rolled to one side and managed to get himself to his feet.
“I mean to bring you to Bow Street. Mind your step as we go through the door. Mr. Worke is a sizable obstacle.” Left-handed, she regained her sword and returned it, awkwardly, to its sheath. She jabbed Huwe once in the shoulder with the pistol in her hand to encourage him to move. Huwe shuffled toward the door—who would blame him for his reluctance? Miss Tolerance followed, her left hand now on his shoulder, her pistol still aimed at his back. As they went through the door Huwe stepped with cruel weight on Worke’s hand.
The clerk moved and groaned. Huwe staggered backward into Miss Tolerance, forcing her pistol back against her.
The pistol released its charge.
In the moment when the report seemed to hang in the air like a note of music, she was not sure if she had shot Abner Huwe. But the man reeled forward, away from her, still bound but unhurt. At that same moment Miss Tolerance felt a horrid pain radiate from her upper arm. She had shot herself.
Her first emotion was impatience: this had gone on too long, she was tired, she would needs have recourse to the surgeon again and she disliked surgeons. When Huwe rounded and charged at her like an angry bull she abandoned any thought of subtlety. She used the butt of her discharged pistol to smash him in the head. Unlike Worke, a single blow did not handle the matter: she had to strike again. Even then he was only stunned, not unconscious, when he slumped to his knees.
Miss Tolerance stepped carefully around both Huwe and Worke, into the outer office. Mr. Abel was still bent over his desk as if attention to duty could insulate him from whatever was occurring in the inner office.
“You!” Her voice was hoarse. “Fetch some rope.” To underline the urgency of her request she pointed her pistol at him—he would not know it was empty.
Abel moved with an alacrity of which she would not have thought him capable, bringing rope and, at Miss Tolerance’s direction, binding his master and then Worke. By the time he was done and Miss Tolerance was certain that neither man would easily get loose, Huwe was spitting obscenities and Worke was beginning to groan and shift.
“Now, Mr. Abel, one more chore.” With the excitement of the moment ebbing she felt dizzy and sick; there was an ooze of stickiness on her left arm which she knew must be blood. “You must go to Bow Street and ask for Sir Walter Mandif. Go at once, give him Miss Tolerance’s compliments, and ask him to come here straightaway.”
The old man cast a fearful glance at Huwe, then looked back at Miss Tolerance.
“Don’t think of running before you find Sir Walter, Mr. Abel. Given Mr. Huwe’s temper, I think your best safety lies in making sure he is taken in to custody by the law, don’t you?”
Thoughtfully, Abel nodded.
“Good. Now go.” Miss Tolerance waved the pistol at him. Abel scuttled off with surprising speed.
Disregarding the threats and groans from her captives, Miss Tolerance put the pistol aside, shrugged out of her Gunnard coat and, with greater difficulty, took off the coat beneath to inspect the damage she had inflicted upon herself. The bullet had caught her in the fleshy part of her upper a
rm. In shirtsleeves, she pulled away the edge of linen that had been carried into the wound. That started a fresh flow of blood. After she had torn away her lower sleeve and clumsily bandaged the wound, she reloaded her pistol, sat upon the floor where she could watch her prisoners, and waited for her rescuers to arrive.
Sir Walter Mandif did not like it.
He had arrived with his constable Hook, and an exceedingly reluctant Mr. Abel. In the door to the street Abel froze, looking like a terrified horse, the whites of his eyes showing.
“Let him go, please, Sir Walter. He’s served his purpose.”
“My dear—Miss Tolerance! How do I find you?”
She got to her feet, wincing and shaky. “The worse for wear, I fear. But I have Tom Proctor’s killers here. It is quite a tale.”
Mr. Hook was circling the two bound men, inspecting them. “Ol’ man said one’a these shot you, Miss?”
Miss Tolerance sniffed. “Mr. Abel was misinformed. I am afraid, Mr. Hook, that I shot myself.”
Sir Walter’s eyebrows rose. “Did you do this a-purpose?”
“No, Sir Walter, I did not.” Her knees did not seem strong enough to bear her weight. Miss Tolerance leaned against the wall.
“I must get you to a surgeon,” Sir Walter said. “Hook, fetch a carriage for me. Then you will take these men into custody. I will meet you in Bow Street shortly.”
Miss Tolerance attempted to send Sir Walter away with Hook. “If you will be so kind as to put me in a carriage, I can take—”
“No.” Sir Walter was firm upon the point. “I will not embarrass you by carrying you to the carriage—unless you force the point.”
In fact, Miss Tolerance was more grateful than she liked, to be taken in charge, supported to the street, and helped into the carriage. Once there, however, Sir Walter gave the driver his own address, and Miss Tolerance was bound to protest.
“I have already trespassed too much upon your kindness, Sir Walter. Driver, Manchester Square, if you please.”
Mandif did not argue, but his face took on a pinched expression. “If you think I mean in some way to take advantage—”
Miss Tolerance looked heavenward. “I don’t think anything of the sort. I will be very comfortable in my own home. I hope you will believe that my aunt knows the name of several fine surgeons.”
His expression became, if anything, more pinched. “You do not wish to be beholden to me.”
“Good God, Mandif, are we characters in a play?” She glared at him half-serious. “I do not mean to bruise your feelings. I simply want to sleep in my own bed.” Every jolt of the carriage made her arm hurt more ferociously. She was reaching the stage of exhaustion and pain where all she wished to do was sleep or cry.
“I apologize,” Sir Walter said at last. “I fear the sight of a friend…perforated in such a fashion distresses me.”
Despite her pain that won a smile from Miss Tolerance. “No more than it distresses me! This morning I was attacked, this afternoon I fought both of those men Mr. Hook so obligingly took away.” She leaned back against the seat, closed her eyes, and recited what she knew of Huwe’s and Worke’s involvement in Tom Proctor’s murder, of Worke’s attack that morning, and of Huwe’s attempt on her life. When she pulled aside her neckcloth to show the magistrate the bruising on her neck, Mandif drew in a sharp breath that told her just how nasty it looked.
“You said there was more. Are there other crimes to lay at their door? Not that murder, or attempted murder, is not sufficient—”
“For now, let it be enough. There are some matters on which I do not yet have sufficient evidence.”
Perhaps because he was her friend, perhaps because he recognized that further debate would be useless, Sir Walter let the matter lie.
Miss Tolerance drowsed. When the carriage stopped in Manchester Square she discovered that her head was on Sir Walter’s shoulder. She sat up, a little dismayed, and let the driver lift her down from the carriage. The man was clumsy, aggravating her pain until she was close to tears. Sir Walter insisted upon escorting her to Mrs. Brereton’s door. There, however, she made him go.
“You have work awaiting you. I promise that my aunt’s people will take very good care of me, and that I will let you know how I go on tomorrow. Yes, Cole, it’s I,” she said to the porter when he opened the door. “I’m afraid that I have suffered a little mishap. Thank you, Sir Walter,” she said firmly. “Good night.”
She was escorted gingerly into the house; it took some firmness on her part to keep Cole from carrying her, but she was grateful to be able to lean upon his arm all the way to her cottage. She asked him to send for the surgeon and went in to the blessed quietness of her own home. She had draped her coat and greatcoat over her shoulders. Once inside she let them fall to the floor and felt frankly too dizzy to pick them up. Instead, she dropped onto the settle before the cold hearth and succumbed to a doze that was not broken until Marianne Touchwell, with the surgeon Mr. Pynt behind her, came to inspect the damage.
Mr. Pynt was professionally disapproving. He took the ball from her arm, cleaned the wound, dusted the whole with calomel, and bandaged the site neatly.
“If you do not open the wound by some foolish exertion you should do well enough.” He was grudging. “Is it useless of me to suggest that you wear your arm in a sling?”
“Not at all,” Marianne answered for her. “I’ll see to it she does.” The face she turned to Miss Tolerance was comically fierce.
Pynt sighed, shrugged, took his payment and departed.
“Well, you have had an exciting day. I hear that Keefe had to rescue you from an attacker this morning. Now you come home shot! Your aunt—”
“Don’t tell her!”
Marianne shook her head. “I won’t. There’ll be enough ado in the house without that. Here.” She poured a dram of whisky from Miss Tolerance’s small store. “You take this. Jess will be over in a little while with some soup—something not too challenging for your stomach, aye? Tomorrow, though, we need to talk about your aunt and Mr. Tickenor.”
Miss Tolerance nodded heavily. She had contrived to forget about Tickenor and Harry’s revelations. “Tomorrow,” she agreed.
“There’s a plan, then,” Marianne said comfortably.
Chapter Seventeen
With difficulty Miss Tolerance dressed herself to present a severely respectable appearance, in her steel-blue walking dress and a bonnet devoid of decoration. Her arm was swollen and bruised, but when she woke she had seen no redness on the flesh above the bandage that might indicate dangerous infection. This being so, she considered herself fit to work; although it was necessary to grit her teeth to put up her hair and tie her bonnet. When she asked Cole to summon a hackney carriage for her he did so, but not before he had presented her with a sling fashioned from a length of black silk. “Miss Marianne said you promised, Miss Sarah.”
Miss Tolerance permitted Cole to assist her in putting the thing on. In truth, she was more comfortable with her arm thus supported.
She gave instructions to the jarvey for Pitfield Street. Circumstances had distracted her from her conversation with John Thorpe; she had discovered where Evadne Thorpe had been, but did not know where she now was. She must believe that any words between Tom Proctor and John Thorpe would have concerned Evadne Thorpe; it was time to learn if there had been such a conversation and what its outcome had been.
The carriage’s heavy curtains smelled of dust and mildew; she pushed them aside and watched her fellow citizens going about their business. It was a warm, pleasant day; the scent of spring floated atop all the other less agreeable London smells. Against common sense Miss Tolerance allowed the sunshine to persuade her she would find Evadne Thorpe and restore her to her sister.
Even the dreariness of Pitfield Street was touched by light and warmth. The carriage stopped by the gin shop; a dedicated drunkard sat propped against the brick of the building, his face turned to the sun and a half-full blue bottle clutched in his hands. A
woman in the pie shop who, by her voluminous apron, Miss Tolerance took to be the cook, came to the door to empty a basin of dirty water into the street; she smiled apologetically as the water lapped Miss Tolerance’s boots. Old Hettie the pickpocket was nowhere to be seen; that in itself seemed auspicious.
The door to Squale House was closed and locked.
The shine upon Miss Tolerance’s good humor diminished slightly. She lifted the knocker and let it drop. The noise this produced was loud, but summoned no one. She tried again, and then once more; still no one arrived. Miss Tolerance turned to survey the street. She was not to be balked of her object: she meant to talk to John Thorpe and she would do so, if it meant she must wait all day. She did not wish to wait on the doorstop, however. There was no coffee house or even a public house where she might sit for the price of a tankard; the gin shop appeared her only option, and that did not appeal.
Behind her, a bolt grated. Miss Tolerance turned to find, not Mr. Thorpe but his partner, the stone-faced Mr. Parkin. By the evidence she had roused him from napping: his hair stood on end, his collar was loose, and he had thrown a waistcoat on without noticing that it was inside out. When he realized who his visitor was his scowl deepened.
Miss Tolerance curtsied and asked for John Thorpe.
“You have missed him again, Miss—” he shook his head as if to shake her name into it. “You will have to call again.”
“I am very sorry to have waked you, Mr. Parkin, but it truly is imperative that I speak to Mr. Thorpe. It is a matter of family business. If he is not here, can you say where I might find him?”
Parkin eyed Miss Tolerance grimly.
“Please, sir.” She softened her tone and lowered her eyes, hoping a display of maidenly diffidence would persuade.
Parkin’s scowl did not melt so much as fade, apparently defeated by Miss Tolerance’s gentler manner.
“When John left last night he said he had some family business to attend to. Went off with Godwin. He—Godwin—might know where John has gone to. If you find him I wish you will send him back here; I was up until dawn with a sick infant.” From his tone Miss Tolerance apprehended that he regarded babies with dismay.
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