What time ye vex the desert with vain angers,
The morgue was dark and still by the time Ainsley returned to the hospital. He searched the rooms methodically, calling out Benjamin’s name in the faint hope the boy was hiding. Ainsley had known his search would be fruitless even before he started and with each empty basement room, hope grew dim. Nearly ready to leave, Ainsley saw a glow of light in Crawford’s office. He had not looked there, assuming his superior would have locked the door before leaving for the day.
Ainsley rapped his knuckle on the window of the door and turned the knob when he heard a muffled sound. Inside, he found Crawford slumped over his desk, an empty bottle of Scotch in one hand, a half-drunk glass in the other. When the senior surgeon looked up to Ainsley he nearly smiled. “Care for a drink?” he slurred. He held out the empty bottle to Ainsley.
With a chuckle, Ainsley accepted it and read the label. Not a bad year. Pity it was wasted on someone who wouldn’t remember in the morrow.
“Are you here alone?” Ainsley asked, placing the empty bottle back on the desk.
“Well, of course I am alone,” Crawford barked.
Ainsley had never seen Crawford like this. Always stoic and exact, Ainsley often wondered if the man had ever done something that wasn’t previously accounted. Stodgy, the other doctors called him, and Ainsley was forced to agree.
Reaching over the width of the desk, Ainsley slipped the nearly empty glass from Crawford’s hand and downed the last mouthful.
“Hey, now,” Crawford said, as he tried to stand. “I gave you some already.” The doctor swayed slightly on his feet and finally sat back down in his chair. Clearly, he was in no condition to get himself home.
“Where’s Sidney?” Ainsley asked, placing the bottle and glass on top of a cabinet.
Crawford sneered. “What do I care? Good for nothing—”
“His exam...was it that bad then?” Ainsley asked, fearing the worst. It was a mark against his tutoring if the man, who seemed to perform well in the morgue, couldn’t pass a simple doctor’s exam.
His mouth twisted into a deep scowl, Crawford shook his head. “He is worse than I thought,” he said, looking to his empty hand as if expecting to find his glass. “My sister should have taken the switch to him early on,” Crawford explained angrily. Suddenly, Crawford pounded his fist onto the table and began to cry into his hands. His entire body shook with each sob.
“Let’s get you home,” Ainsley said as he rounded the corner of the desk. He helped Crawford to his feet and began leading him out of the office and down the hall. On the stairs, Crawford staggered a bit but Ainsley kept him upright.
“You haven’t seen Benjamin, have you?” Ainsley asked as they walked the dark hall to the hospital’s front doors.
Crawford stopped suddenly and raised his gaze to meet Ainsley’s. With wide eyes, Crawford searched Ainsley’s face and gripped the sleeves of his shirt. The senior surgeon began to shake his head before he stopped suddenly and looked to the floor. Hearing the sound of drips, Ainsley looked down and saw a pool of liquid spreading out over the floor. Dr. Crawford had pissed his pants.
Startled, Ainsley jumped back and closed his eyes. “Nurse,” he called out. “Nurse!” Within a minute a robust nurse came from one of the adjacent rooms. “Fetch a mop and bucket.”
“Is that Dr. Crawford—?”
“Who he is isn’t a concern of yours, now fetch the mop and bucket!” Ainsley snapped. He could not risk any of the staff seeing Crawford in such a state or they would run the risk of the Board of Directors finding out.
With the nurse gone to gather supplies to clean the mess Ainsley began to lead Crawford out the doors. The drunk surgeon began to lean on Ainsley more and more with each step. Ainsley expected they would find a hansom nearby and he hoped the driver would not notice the soggy state of Crawford’s trousers.
“Peter?”
Nearly at the curb, Ainsley turned and saw Jonas walking quickly toward them.
“What’s the matter?” He rounded Ainsley and sought a better look at the man slumped to the side. “Is that Crawford?”
“Not a word,” Ainsley ordered with a pointed finger.
Jonas raised his hands in submission. “Have you found Ben?”
Ainsley’s eyes widened. “No. How did you know he was missing?”
“I saw Frisker in the hall earlier,” Jonas explained, “He looked distressed so I enquired. You don’t think it’s The Surgeon, do you?”
Ainsley exhaled. “I had been searching but I found him instead,” he said, indicating Crawford.
“How much has he had?” Jonas asked, looking over Crawford. The old man appeared to have gone to sleep while they stood there.
“I found a bottle of Scotch, but I don’t know how full it was when he started,” Ainsley explained.
Jonas opened Crawford’s jacket and undid his collar. “Can’t hold his liquor, can he?” he asked, in an effort to make light of it. “Are you taking him home?”
Ainsley nodded.
“I’ll help you,” Jonas said as he held out his hand to stop them from leaving. “Wait here. I’ll get my coat and we can look for Ben together.”
Ainsley nodded and Jonas ran back into the hospital. A snore escaped Crawford as he leaned into Ainsley’s shoulder. Doctors, it seemed, could sleep anywhere.
An hour later, Crawford was heaved into bed, though neither Ainsley nor Jonas had an inclination to disrobe their superior and restore him to dignity.
“Where’s a nurse when you need one?” Jonas asked.
Ainsley pulled a paper from Crawford’s desk and began to write a note to Crawford’s housekeeper, who would arrive the next morning. Jonas placed the chamber pot beside the bed but Ainsley held little hope for Crawford to use it appropriately.
“I feel bad just leaving him here,” Jonas said.
Ainsley shrugged. “I haven’t the time,” he answered, folding the paper into an envelope. He scribbled the word Housekeeper on the outside of the folded paper and planned to leave it on the kitchen counter or another obvious place. “I have to look for Ben.”
Crawford stirred on the bed and raised a hand as if to reach out to Ainsley. “Peter,” he said quietly, “don’t let him hurt that boy.” Crawford’s hand found Ainsley’s sleeve and the senior doctor pulled Ainsley toward him. “Keep him away from that boy.” Using his free hand, Crawford pointed a finger toward Jonas, who stood at the foot of Crawford’s bed.
“All right, Dr. Crawford. I will.” He patted Crawford’s shoulder and placed his hand back on the bed. Within seconds, Crawford was asleep again, his laboured breathing turned to the rhythmic sound of sleep.
At Crawford’s doorstep, Jonas turned to Ainsley as he drew the door shut. “What did he mean, don’t let him hurt that boy?” Jonas asked.
Ainsley shrugged. Part of him wanted to believe the old man was merely drunk, perhaps rambling in a drunken and sleepy stupor, but he couldn’t shake the fear in Crawford’s eyes when Ainsley mentioned Benjamin. If there was one thing Simms had taught him, it was to keep his cards close, not revealing them until the moment when it was absolutely necessary.
“Peter! You can’t think the old man meant me?” Jonas asked incredulously.
Ainsley shook off his friend’s concern. “I need to find Benjamin, are you helping or not?”
Jonas nodded sourly but it could not be helped. Ainsley was more concerned for the welfare of the boy than he was for the status of his friendship with Jonas.
Chapter 28
Or mock with dreams.
Margaret could not concentrate on the second half of the tour. She could feel the strange man’s eyes on her, even in the darkness, as they walked from site to site, even with Bethany keeping her close at hand. He had known there was a doctor working with Scotland Yard on the case, a detail she knew the papers never remarked on. In fact, he seemed to know quite a bit about the investigation and the facts of the case. This realization more than unnerved her and she fo
und herself grateful for Bethany’s incessant prattle.
“Besides,” Bethany remarked dismissively, “as if I could ever agree to marry a Frenchman, not after Waterloo.”
Margaret gave a half-smile, but kept her eyes low as they walked at pace with the rest of the group.
“Are you having fun, Margaret, dear?”
“Of course, what a question,” Margaret said, wondering if she could sound convincing enough.
“You seem preoccupied,” Bethany answered with a grave look to her face. “I’d say it was that man. He did something, didn’t he?”
“No,” Margaret answered, not wanting to alarm her friend. She had her suspicions of the man but Margaret thought there was no need to bring Bethany into it. “Tell me more about Sir Le Croix,” she coaxed. “I am interested, truly.”
Bethany eyed Margaret curiously, her hesitant gaze glinting in the gaslight over them. “Very well,” Bethany said with a sigh. Her hesitation did not last long. Soon she was chattering away regarding all gossip from her yearlong stay in Provence. Assured her friend would not noticed, Margaret looked over her shoulder, wishing she hadn’t the courage, and saw the stranger glaring at her from the back of the group. A muscle in his cheek twitched as his jaw tightened.
Margaret swallowed nervously and returned her gaze to the tour guide in front of them. She knew in that instant her suspicions held merit but her realization came with the knowledge that he knew her brother and could easily track her as well, if he had a mind to.
The five minutes that it took the group to walk the length of the dockyard were excruciating for Margaret, who felt like a fox being scurried into a corner by a bloodthirsty hound. Despite innumerable people around her, Margaret felt completely alone and vulnerable. She doubted anyone would be capable of coming to her aid, should it come to that. There was safety in the group, she decided, much like sheep. She’d have to be sure to stay in the middle of the herd, only breaking free at a time when she knew he would not notice.
“The girl was found here,” the tour guide explained, stopping at the corner of a tall warehouse building. The group gathered in a semi-circle, fanning out around him to have a better look. Bethany guided Margaret to one of the sides, which gave the girls full view of the group. Margaret kept her stance straight but scanned her peripheral. She couldn’t see the stranger anymore.
“Anyone know what was taken from her?” the guide asked when Margaret brought her attention back to the front. Margaret cringed at the line of questioning. The group was making a game of the child’s murder, and there was nothing Margaret could do. So scandal-hungry, the city had become a place of macabre fascination for the middle and upper classes. The papers no longer told the story the way Londoners wanted to hear it. It had become far more fashionable to visit the sites where the murderer committed the deed.
Margaret raised her gaze just as the group began to walk away. Left in near darkness, Margaret stepped forward, eager to find her safe place in the pack but felt a tug on her arm from behind. When she turned, she saw in the failing light a young boy shivering in the night’s cold. She noticed his head was shaved recklessly with taller tufts of hair in patches. Margaret instinctively reached for her reticule in order to give the boy a coin of some sort.
“Lady Margaret, ma’am.”
She started when the boy mentioned her by name and it was then that she realized who the boy was. “Ben?” She knelt down in front of him and looked him over. Without a sweater or boots, he shivered relentlessly. And then she remembered the stranger on the tour, the one she suspected had been more invested in the murders than as a simple tourist. “What are you doing here?” she said quickly. “He’ll find you.”
Margaret scanned the darkness for any sign that the stranger was near. Bethany and her family had long since left with the tour group.
“Tell Dr. Ainsley—”
As Benjamin spoke Margaret was hit from behind and pinned to the ground. A heavy hand was placed tightly over her mouth as the stranger knelt over her. Margaret tried to push him away and began to scream, but her voice was muffled against the weight of the stranger’s hand. She looked to where Benjamin stood and saw him step back into the shadows, fear punctuated on his grimy face.
Margaret could feel the cold cobbles through the back of her bodice and panic began to set in before the stranger began to soothe her like a mother would a child.
“Shhh,” he said, releasing the most vile breath she could have ever imagined. In the dim light she could see him glance to the shadows where Benjamin hid. “You like this kind of thing? Walking the dark streets to the places were children lost their lives?”
Margaret dared not move. She was finding it hard to breathe through her nose against the tightness of his grip.
He smiled. “Like your brother, I see,” he said laughing slightly. “Too curious.” The sheen of a blade caught some light and she watched as he brought it to her cheek. “Me too. I’ve always wanted to know if we all look alike on the inside, if the high-born bleed red like the rest of us.”
Margaret winced in pain as he pressed the blade to her shoulder. The blade burned hot and though she could not see, she knew he was sliding the edge down toward her chest. Margaret could see him smile as he concentrated on hurting her. His eyes fluttered toward her face, as if to check if she was in pain, and then darted back to his knife.
She clawed at him, and when her hand found his face she pushed him away. But he was stronger, and the pain was making it harder for her to move her arm.
Suddenly, his hand left her mouth and a scream escaped, piercing the mist that lingered between the buildings. Rolling to her side, she saw Ben standing over the stranger with a short piece of broken crate. He hit the stranger once while Margaret watched, but his makeshift weapon splintered on impact.
The stranger roared and lunged for the boy, who scurried away into the darkness between the buildings. Margaret grabbed the stranger’s leg and tried to pull him to the ground but the man shook off her hands and grabbed for his knife, which he must have dropped in the scuffle. He held it to her throat and he pulled her up to stand.
“Margaret?” Bethany’s voice could be heard at a distance.
Margaret saw the blade glint once more in the gaslight. She could see a line of blood colouring the edge, her blood. The man pushed her against the warehouse wall, out of breath, knife at her throat, and hushed her once more with his palm.
“Margaret, where are you?” Bethany’s voice grew closer. An echo of voices began calling for Margaret. Any second they would turn the warehouse corner and discover them, but Margaret was also aware that any second he could drive the blade into her and end her life.
A tear, pooling on the rim of her eyelid, spilled over and slipped down the crest of her cheek, landing on his fingers, which were holding her mouth closed. Licking the tear, he pulled his hand away and winked. “Another time then,” he said, before slipping between stacks of crates and further into complete darkness.
Margaret collapsed to the ground and raised a hand to her bleeding shoulder. Enough blood had gathered to cover her palm and she could feel it beginning to slip down toward her bodice. Without warning, she became very dizzy and struggled to keep her eyes open.
“Margaret!” Bethany rounded the corner and crouched in front of Margaret. “Margaret, wake up!”
Chapter 29
And when upon you, weary after roaming,
“Have you seen a boy, twelve years old, brown hair, brown eyes?” Ainsley asked a man walking past Jonas on the left. The man grunted, gave Jonas a shove, and continued on his way. Ainsley approached a woman who sat on her stoop. She rose to her feet as he approached and was closing the door before he could finish.
“We’re looking for a boy,” Jonas asked a pair of prostitutes as they paced the curb.
“No boys on this corner. Try the next block over,” one said.
The other stepped in front of her and dropped her shawl, revealing bare mounds peeking provocative
ly out from her low bodice. “I can do ya better,” she said, reaching for Jonas.
Ainsley grabbed Jonas and pulled him along down the road.
“No one is going to help us,” Jonas said, frustrated with their lack of progress. “He looks like every other orphaned boy in East London.”
In the span of an hour they had visited every public house and workhouse within the borough and no one had seen him. This wasn’t a surprise. Most grown people paid little heed to children and would not take notice if they were in distress or otherwise.
“Maybe we should—”
A panicked scream interrupted Ainsley’s suggestion. “Help! My friend!” The scream was undeniably female. Ainsley and Jonas crossed the road, following the calls as best they could and slipped down an alley toward the docks.
A group of people had gathered. A few stood back in shock but most had knelt down as if seeing to someone on the ground.
“Send for a doctor!” a familiar voice yelled from the centre of the group. Ainsley saw Bethany crouched on the ground, her form blocking whoever it was in distress.
The man beside her stood up and turned, running for Ainsley and Jonas. “We are doctors!” Ainsley called out, pulling the running man back.
“Help us, please!” Bethany yelled. “It’s my friend Margaret.”
As they drew closer Margaret came into view and panic hit Ainsley like a sucker punch to the stomach. She was slumped to the ground, her body crumpled and bleeding, though Ainsley could not tell from where.
“Margaret.” By the time Jonas’s airy words dawned on Ainsley he was already at Margaret’s side.
“Peter, I’m sorry,” Bethany began. Her hands were covered in blood and had already soiled much of her dress.
“What happened?” Ainsley barked as he positioned himself at his sister’s head. The gash on her upper collar was evident but in the dim light he could not see how deep the wound was. As he pulled her limp body from the wet ground her eyes fluttered.
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