by Karen Odden
Frantically, my eyes searched for something I could use to free myself. The room was no more than twelve feet square. A potbellied black stove squatted in the corner, its pipe rising to a hole in the outer wall, its scant fire casting a reddish light. Shelves were stuffed with rags and papers and empty bottles. The wooden desk was covered with more of the same.
The brick walls muffled everything, even the noises from the stage. No one would hear me, I knew, but I gave a cry. The sound, like that a small animal might make, sent terror running through my whole body, and I started to shake.
I closed my eyes. All I could think to do was run through every piece of music I knew beginning with the lullabies.
IT MUST HAVE BEEN TWENTY MINUTES LATER when I heard, over the music in my head, the scrape of the key in the lock.
My eyes flashed open, and I watched the knob turn. Long, cruel seconds passed. Would it be Stephen? Or Tierney?
Or Jack, come to find me?
It was none of them. A boy’s face peered in, his thin body slid into the room, and he closed the door behind him silently.
In the faint light from the stove, I could see it was Rob. Tonight he wore sturdy shoes, and wrapped around him was a black coat that looked warm, if frayed at the collar. He crept toward me, crouched as though making his way through a low tunnel, and he didn’t even look at me—only whipped out a jackknife from his pocket, flicking it open with a practiced motion. He came toward me with it, raising it toward my face, and I must have made a noise.
“Shh,” he hissed furiously. “You want Drummond to come?”
He cut the gag from my mouth, and I tried to stifle my involuntary cough. He was behind me then, sawing at the rope that bound my wrists. The knife must have been dull, for he was hurting me, but I bit my bottom lip and held my breath until he had cut through. I turned in the chair to watch him as he sawed at the rope holding my right ankle. He sawed so vigorously that his hair was flopping left and right with each stroke.
“You’re taking a risk helping me,” I whispered.
“I ain’t going to let Tierney kill you. Jack’s t’only one ever been kind t’me, ’nd I know you’re tryin’ to ’elp ’im. Amalie told me.”
“Stephen sent two men out after him tonight.”
“I know.”
The rope was cut halfway through. Pale brown threads frayed, cut, frayed, cut. All that was left was the rope binding my left leg.
“Hurry.” The word slipped out of my mouth.
“What d’you think I’m doin’?” he hissed.
“Sorry.”
The shorn rope dropped onto the floor, and I rubbed at my wrists.
“Don’t just sit there. Git up!”
I stood up unsteadily. “When did Jack leave?”
“’Bout ha’-past four. He ain’t been back.” He snapped the knife closed and slid it back into his pocket. “I’ll go first. If’n it’s clear down that back hallway, you’ll hear a cough. Then you get straight out o’ here, you hear? Tierney’s still talkin’ t’ the constable, and Drummond jus’ left, but no tellin’ when he’ll be back. Whatever you do, don’t get caught on the way out, or he’ll kill you on the spot.”
I rubbed my arms hard to bring some feeling back into them.
“Ready?” he asked, his hand on the knob.
“Thank you, Rob.”
His eyes widened in alarm. I put a hand out. “I don’t know your name if Drummond catches me. I swear.”
He nodded and was gone. I waited a few seconds, heard a cough, and slipped into the hallway myself. His shoes were vanishing up the spiral stairs.
I hurried along the passageway, brushed past four broad-shouldered acrobats who smelled heavily of sweat, then ran for the back door. The door creaked open and shut, the mist hit my face, and I heard thunder like a drum roll off to my right.
Chapter 26
My first thought was to get away from the Octavian as fast as possible. Knowing that Drummond could return at any minute, I longed to run, but I held myself to an inconspicuous pace, jammed my hands into my pockets, pulled my hat low, and flipped up the edges of my coat collar.
Where would Jack be? Where would Stephen have sent the two men? And where could I go for help? I paused for a moment at the corner, undecided.
I should first try the Bear and Bull. Maybe Jack had gone there this afternoon. And if not, maybe Mr. Bertault would be there—if the concert was over—or Sarah would know somewhere else to look.
The image of Jack lying dead in an alley somewhere rose before my eyes. I gave myself a mental shake, clutched my coat closer about me, and headed south at a run.
Usually Wickley Street was a cobblestone thoroughfare, but it was almost a shallow streambed tonight, with the flotsam of the day bobbing along in the gutters. People sloshed through the puddles or kept close to the buildings, where the water wasn’t so deep. I ignored the cold wetness seeping through my boots as I splashed across Wickley and ran along the side street that led to the pub.
Panting, I pushed open the door and crossed the threshold. I felt a wave of relief as the warmth of the place wrapped itself around me—the clink of pans, the snaps of the fire, the rumble of friendly talk from tables filled with people. A quick glance around told me neither Jack nor Mr. Bertault was there, but Sarah stood behind the long bar, stacking plates. I approached, and Sarah displayed the welcoming smile she gave everyone.
Then she recognized me, and her smile faded. “Why, hullo.”
“Hullo, Sarah,” I said between breaths. “Have you seen Jack?”
She wiped her hands on a towel that was looped through her belt. “No.”
“He hasn’t been in? Not even earlier today?”
Her eyebrows rose at my insistence. “No.” And as if she anticipated my next question: “And I’ve been here since noon. What’s the matter?”
I hadn’t realized how much I’d hoped that he’d come here. The disappointment made me feel suddenly drained and shaken. Her expression was a mixture of curiosity and a sort of pitying amusement, as if I were some lovesick girl. It worked on me like a plunge into icy water, and I pulled myself together.
“It isn’t like that,” I said flatly. “His uncle’s worried about him, too. Jack was supposed to be at the piano shop at two o’clock for appointments, and he wasn’t—and I’m sure you know that’s not like him. He wasn’t at the Octavian tonight, and he’s not at his rooms—”
“Well, I’m sure there’s a good reason,” she said. But when I remained silent, she sighed. “Why don’t you sit down, and I’ll fetch us some coffee.” She waved me toward one of the tables and turned to the kitchen.
The terror that had driven me here at top speed was spent. Wearily, I pulled out the wooden chair and sat. A few deep breaths, and I had myself in hand. I told myself that Sarah’s composure and even ridicule in the face of what might look like unreasonable concern were quite natural. Sarah didn’t know anything of what I’d discovered in the past few hours. She knew nothing of Stephen’s malevolence or of the raid. What’s more, although the Connors were Jack’s friends, he’d never given me any indication that they knew about the Fleet or his father’s involvement. His secrets weren’t mine to tell, and in the few minutes that Sarah was gone, I gathered the entire story in my mind and culled the bits that I wanted to share.
She returned with two mugs, one of which she put down in front of me as she sat down opposite. The coffee smelled burned and bitter, and I took a tentative sip. No milk to cut it, but she’d put plenty of sugar in. The second sip tasted sweeter than the first, the warmth burning all the way down, better than the brandy.
“Thank you,” I said sincerely.
She frowned. “Look, Miss. I seen how the two of you were when you came in here the other night. And some folks would say it’s none of my concern; but you aren’t like each other at all, and maybe he’s not around for you to find because he’s come to see for himself how different you are.”
Her bluntness made the color rise to
my cheeks. “We’re not so different.”
She snorted. “That’s like saying salt and sugar aren’t so different because they look the same.”
“Just because I’m not from hereabouts doesn’t mean I don’t know a good man when I see him,” I retorted. “And as for Jack not wanting me to find him—well, right now I don’t care who finds him. I just want to know that he’s safe.”
She gave a short laugh. “Just because you can’t find him don’t mean he’s in danger.”
“Have you heard him mention a man named Stephen Gagnon? He’s a violinist at the Octavian.”
“No.”
“Stephen thinks Jack is responsible for him being expelled from the Academy last year. In fact, to his mind, Jack is to blame for everything that’s gone wrong since, and he hates him. Today after Jack and his father had an argument, Stephen sent two men out to find someone. One of the other performers, Amalie, told me he said to ‘make sure he doesn’t come back.’ And I think he meant Jack.” I saw her eyes narrow when I mentioned Amalie; she was beginning to understand. “This afternoon I went to Jack’s room, and I saw Stephen go in. He had a key, and he took some of Jack’s papers.”
“He had Jack’s key?”
“Yes. And where would he have gotten that, if not out of Jack’s pocket?”
All the skepticism had left her face, and in its place was worry.
“Sarah, do you have any idea where he might have gone? Someplace other than here or his uncle’s?”
She gnawed at her lip and shook her head.
I stifled a sigh. “Do you have a piece of paper and a pencil?”
She pulled a pocketbook and a stub from a pouch at her waist, and I reached for them.
“Wait.” She pointed. “What happened to your wrist?”
I looked down. There was a raw red band of flesh where the rope had chafed. I hadn’t told her about being trapped in Drummond’s office. “It’s nothing,” I said and pulled down the sleeve.
She grimaced at my evasion but remained silent as I scribbled down the only safe address I could think of.
“This is the address for our housekeeper, Peggy Greaves,” I said, passing the pocketbook back across the table. “It’s in Soho, not very far from the music hall. She lives there with her daughter. If you hear anything from Jack, can you get a message to me there? Or if Jack comes here—could you send him? I’ll stay there tonight instead of going home.”
“All right.” Her brow furrowed. “Should you go to the police, d’you think?”
“And tell them what? That a grown man has been missing for barely six hours? They’d laugh at me.”
But even as I answered, I felt a sharp regret. Matthew wouldn’t have laughed at me; he never did. But I’d missed my chance to confide in him, and I couldn’t now. Tonight of all nights, he could be anywhere in London, far beyond my reach. My God, what a muddle I’d made of this.
“Thank you, Sarah, for the coffee and for everything,” I said, rising.
She walked with me to the door, her expression subdued. At the threshold, something occurred to me. “Sarah.”
“What?”
“When Jack used to box—I mean, for money—was he good?”
“Very good. Why?” She looked at me unhappily. “I hope you don’t think less of him for doing it.”
“Of course not,” I said. “I’m hoping it’ll keep him alive.”
Our eyes met, and she looked ashamed. “Good luck,” she said. “I’ll pray he’s all right, and to keep you safe.”
I thanked her and stepped outside. The rain had stopped, but the cobblestones were slick with puddles, and through the mist, the light from a gas lamp shone grayish yellow.
Should I go to the piano shop again?
I decided I would. It wasn’t much more than a mile, and I was beginning to feel quite desperately that I wanted an ally.
I could feel the strong, sweet coffee running in my veins and putting life into my tired feet. I made my way down Samson Lane to the front door, and when there was no answer to my knock, I pounded hard enough that the bell inside the door tinkled faintly; but the entire building remained dark. Disheartened and frustrated, I debated whether I should wait, given that Mr. Bertault had said he wouldn’t be gone long if he was out.
I stood shivering in the doorway for nearly an hour, until my hands and feet had gone numb. At last I gave up. Coffee and hope had run their course, leaving me cold, bone-weary, and afraid. My only hope was that Mr. Bertault had gone after Jack—and found him. Everything I’d tried tonight, every step I’d taken, had accomplished very little, if anything, toward helping anyone I loved. The thought brought tears that I didn’t even try to fight as I made my way north, back into the heart of Soho, toward Peggy’s home.
Colby Lane was dimly lit. Dully, I trudged the last hundred steps and up the stairs of Peggy’s house, my hand raised to knock.
But before I had a chance, the door opened and Peggy’s tall, spare frame appeared, a dark silhouette against the light. Her right hand reached out and yanked me inside, shutting the door behind me and throwing the bolt.
Chapter 27
Where on earth have you been?” Her hand was tight on my arm. She was frightened, I knew, not angry. But this is how fear showed itself in her.
I tensed. “What’s the matter? Did Sarah get a message to you?”
“In a manner of speaking. But who is she, and how did she get our address—and who’s this boy Rob?”
Rob? My heart leaped with hope, and my eyes darted to the hallway behind her. “Where is he?”
“He left. Said he’d be back, though.” She gave a snort and looked me up and down. “For mercy’s sake, you look like something the cat dragged in.”
She turned and strode down the hallway toward the back of the house.
I followed her back to the kitchen. “Did he say anything about Jack? Whether he’s all right?”
“Not a word. Just told me to make sure you didn’t leave again.” She jerked a chair out from under the table. “So you might as well sit down and have a cup o’ tea.” She clanked the kettle onto the stovetop, pulled down a tin, and muttered something under her breath.
“Mum? I heard the door,” came a soft voice from the hallway. “Is the boy back?”
I turned. Emma appeared at the threshold, her pale hair hanging loose about her shoulders, the skin almost translucent on the hand that held her shawl across her narrow chest. I hadn’t seen her in weeks, since I’d brought medicine from Dr. Everett. She was thinner than ever. In the light from the lamp, her face looked sallow, but her gray eyes—large and luminous—were still beautiful despite the consumption that was taking her, bit by bit.
“Nell.” She crossed the room and embraced me.
“Hello, Emma,” I said. “I’m sorry if I disturbed you.”
“Not at all,” she said, her voice gentle. “From what the boy said, it seemed you might be in trouble.”
I glanced at her mother’s stiff back. “I’m not in trouble, not really. But a friend is.”
Peggy gave a snort.
Emma sat down next to me. “Who is it?”
“Jack Drummond,” I said. “His father owns the Octavian.”
Emma’s eyes widened. “The music hall?”
I nodded. “I’ve been playing there at night to earn money, in case I had a chance to go to the Royal Academy.”
“I told her about your audition.” Peggy placed the teapot on a folded cloth and set three cups on the table along with a small tin of sugar and two spoons.
“Mum said another boy came to your house today looking for you.” Emma poured tea into all three cups. “Not Rob. A different one.”
I frowned. “When was this?”
“’Twas just as I left, at six o’clock,” Peggy replied. “He gave me quite a turn, coming out from behind the stairs next door and asking for you.” She nudged the sugar tin toward me. Mindful that sugar was dear, I started to shake my head, but Peggy pursed her mouth. “Nonsens
e. You always take sugar.”
I spooned a bit into my cup. “What did he look like?”
Her eyebrows lifted. “I’d say twelve years old or thereabouts. Scruffy looking. He said ‘please,’ but there was something weaselly about him.”
“What did he want?”
“Said he had a message for you, that Jack wanted to see you, and he wanted you to come to the Octavian.”
By six o’clock Jack had been long gone from the Octavian. Hadn’t he?
“What did you say?” I asked.
“What do you think?” she demanded. “I pretended I didn’t know anything about it. I told him I didn’t know where you were, but you warn’t home, and you certainly warn’t going anywhere near a music hall, dens of iniquity all of them, and besides that, who was this Jack who wouldn’t come round to the house properly to call for you but wanted you to come meet him in that sort of place? I went on rather a bit, and he got snivelly, pulled off his cap and all. He said he was very sorry, but Jack couldn’t come for some very good reason, and that’s why he was come with a message. So I said that was all fine, but I had a very good reason that I would only give you the message tomorrow morning when I saw you.”
“What happened then?”
“He left.”
“Did he follow you here?”
She gave me a look. “No. I watched. He went the other way.”
I bit my lip. Stephen knew my address on Dunsmire—but so did Jack. Which of the two sent him?
Peggy leaned forward. “I was no sooner here than this boy Rob turned up. He said that someone named Sarah sent him and that you gave her this address. He knew I was your housekeeper, which is the only reason I didn’t throw him out on his ear.”
“When was this?”
She glanced at the clock. “Nigh on an hour ago. But he left again, straightaway.”
Emma leaned forward. “Does this boy work at the music hall, too?”
“He’s part of a thieving ring that’s based there,” I said reluctantly.
Emma’s hand tightened on her shawl, and I heard Peggy’s intake of breath. “And you knew this?” Peggy demanded.
