A Dangerous Duet

by Karen Odden

  “Sure I do. Why?”

  “I want to use it to cut these pieces off—”

  “It’s in the right pocket of my coat. Careful. There’s no sheath.”

  I put the lantern down and felt gingerly inside the pocket, my fingers closing around a wooden handle. I drew it out and realized that before I took those tourniquets off, I needed something I could use as a bandage, something long and wide. And clean.

  I bit my lip. “Close your eyes.”

  He looked surprised but did as I asked. I turned my back to him, took off my coat and shirt, and unwound the soft piece of sheet that I used to wrap myself. I set it down on top of the inside of my coat so it wouldn’t become dirty, and hurriedly put my shirt back on.

  “You can open them,” I said as I turned.

  He looked at the cloth. “Where did you get that?”

  “Never mind. I need to tie this around your leg, which means I need to hold it up somehow. But first I need to get these pieces off. Where did Rob get them, anyway?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t remember much about it. Why do you have to cut them off?”

  “Because they can do more harm than good if they’re too narrow and too tight, which I think they are.” I brought the lantern closer. What had at first looked like scabbed blood was in fact a mix of blood and dirt. I let out a small groan, wishing I had water. I hated the idea of wrapping a clean cloth across that filthy wound. “Do you think they would give us a cup of water upstairs?” I asked.

  “No!” His hand came out and grabbed at my arm. “I can’t get Rob in trouble. Or Louisa.”

  I quickly scanned the cellar. Sacks, broken baskets, wooden crates . . .

  My eyes jerked back to the crate with the French stamp. PRODUIT DE BORDEAUX. APPELLATION LUC-MUROT. MIS EN BOUTEILLE AU CHTEAU. “Bordeaux,” I said. “Jack, is that French wine?”

  “Sure.”

  I made my way to the crate, hunching uncomfortably under the ceiling. Naturally, it was sealed shut. I put my fingertips around the edge, but there was nowhere to grasp. I looked closely. Metal tacks were holding the lid in place.

  I crawled back and retrieved the knife, slid the blade into the crack between the top and the side of the crate, and used it like a lever. I was afraid to break the blade, so I went slowly, prying it up a bit at the corner, then a few inches along the edge, then a few more inches until I could slide my fingers in. I pushed upward, heard the creak of metal, and felt the top lift as if it were on a hinge.

  Carefully I put my hand down into the dark crate. I felt smooth glass and with a sigh of relief, I withdrew a dark, dusty bottle. The alcohol in the wine would be a natural antiseptic. It was the best thing. And a drink probably wouldn’t hurt him, either.

  “Jack?” I said. “I’ve got it. This will help.”

  He didn’t answer. I scrambled back to him, my fingers groping for his wrist. “Jack!” I hissed.

  His eyes flashed open, startlingly dark against the pallor of his skin. “What?”

  “I’ve got some wine. I’m going to pour it on your leg, to clean it.”

  He nodded faintly and closed his eyes again. But as soon as I looked at the top of the bottle, I realized that I had no way to open it.

  “Damn,” I whispered.

  “What?”

  “I need to open it. This knife is too wide for the cork.”

  His lips curved faintly. “Left pocket of my coat,” he whispered. I found the pocket and drew out his corkscrew. I’d seen it before, the night he found me practicing the Mozart. It seemed like months ago.

  Carefully I cut the wax seal off the bottle, braced the bottle between my knees, and inserted the screw into the cork. It was the work of several minutes, as I’d only ever seen it done, but at last the cork was out, and I sniffed the wine to be sure it wasn’t rancid.

  “It’s probably going to sting,” I said. “Do you want some to drink?”

  He shook his head.

  I looked about for something I could use to brace his leg up while I worked. There was a wooden crate, half full of apples, that would do. I dragged it toward him.

  “I’m going to lift your foot onto this, so I can wrap your leg.”

  I took his swallow for an assent, and though I shifted him as gently as I could, he let out a sharp, pained breath.

  Something under his leg glinted in the light; coins, I realized, which must have fallen out of his pocket when Rob removed his trousers. I gathered them all and quickly put them into my own pocket, to return once I got him safely to Dr. Everett.

  I flexed my fingers, as I did before I played, then slid the blade under the band near his knee, cutting carefully so I didn’t nick him. The wound began to ooze blood, and the trickle grew as I cut the second tie. Flinging the filthy bits aside, I poured the wine slowly over the gash. It made it look much worse, the wine staining his entire thigh the color of blood, but in the light from the lantern, I saw the dirt flow away. When the bottle was empty, I slid my clean cloth underneath his thigh and wrapped, wrapped, wrapped, as tightly as I could without causing the skin at the knee to blanch. It went around almost four full times. Finally, I took up his knife, cut a slit horizontally, split the ends, wrapped one around the back, and tied them together, thanking God all the while for the number of times I’d observed Dr. Everett in the hospital.

  “Does it hurt?” I asked. “Is it too tight?”

  “It feels better.” He shifted slightly. “Why are you so worried about it being too tight?”

  “The blood’ll stop going to the leg, and you could lose it.”

  “Oh.” His eyes closed again. I bit my lip. How I wished Dr. Everett were here.

  “Jack. What I did helped for the moment, but I need to get you to a doctor.”

  “In a minute.”

  I wanted to say, “We have to go right now.” But he was breathing heavily, and by the light of the lantern I could see the shine of sweat on his face. Even what little I’d done had tired him. I’d give him his minute.

  “Nell.”

  “Hmm?”

  “I sent Rob for you.”

  I bit my lip. There would be time enough to tell him that I’d been looking for him all night. So I only said, “I wouldn’t want you to send for anyone else.”

  Some of the tension in his face relaxed. I took up his hand. It was icy cold. “You’re freezing. I wish Rob could have put you in a room upstairs.”

  “Costs too much.” His voice was barely above a whisper. “And I don’t like brothels.”

  I could hear he was trying to make me smile, so I played along: “I’m glad to hear it. I don’t frequent them myself.”

  I stroked the hair away from his forehead.

  “Nell.”

  “What?”

  “Need to tell you. Need to explain.”

  “Shh. There’s no need to explain anything. Not right now.” Blood was seeping around the edge of the bandage. “Listen to me, Jack. I know this is going to be hard, but we need to go.”

  Nothing.

  “Jack, do you hear me?” I took him by the shoulders and gave him a shake. “Jack!”

  Still nothing.

  So I kissed him, full on the mouth, as warmly as I knew how.

  That woke him.

  Chapter 29

  How far is it?” he asked faintly. “To the doctor.”

  “Not far. I found some coins that fell out of your pocket. We’ve plenty for a hansom. I just need to get you to it.”

  “Every time I move, I feel dizzy.”

  My heart plummeted. “Don’t worry,” I said, more calmly than I felt. “I’ll find a cab and we’ll manage. Will I be able to hail one out front?”

  “Probably.”

  “All right, then.” I hesitated. “But first, we have to get your pants back on. Not that I care, but I’m not sure a driver will take you without them.”

  I did my best to help him, and then he was sitting up, his skin slick with fresh sweat.

  “Leave the door open, w
ould you?” he asked.

  I hesitated. What if someone noticed it and found him—

  “I’ll get as far up the stairs as I can while you’re gone,” he muttered.

  “All right. I’ll be back.” I propped the door open with a rock and went out into the alley, cutting around to the front of the house.

  Four lamps, their shades dyed red, hung over the door. The lower windows were uncovered, and the room on the first floor was hung with a florid pink wall covering and gilt-edged mirrors. The light from the gas chandeliers shone through the windows on every floor though it was well past midnight, and people milled about the footway in front. A man, quite evidently drunk, was stumbling toward the lone cab.

  Well, he wasn’t going to get it. “Driver!” I called, bolting ahead. “I need a cab, and I’ll pay double your fare.”

  The driver looked down from his box, his sleepy face coming awake. “What for?”

  “I need you to drive round back. My friend came out the wrong way.”

  “That’s a story I’ve heard before,” he said with a snort. “Folks comin’ out arse-backward.”

  “I’ll pay you triple!” slurred the drunk behind me.

  I leaned toward the driver and said in an undertone, “I know this bloke. He’ll stiff you and make a mess of your cab. Now”—I pointed—“go round that way. I’ll meet you there in a minute.”

  “Awright,” he said and slapped the reins against the back of his horse.

  The drunk cursed behind me, but I ignored him, ducking back to the alley to find that Jack had made it only as far as the first step. Lying there with his eyes closed, and the bloodstains on his trousers, he looked dead.

  I bent over him. “Jack, I’m here. I’ve got a cab, but you have to get up the stairs.”

  His eyes opened slowly.

  “Jack. Come on,” I urged. “We have to get up the stairs. The cab is on its way.”

  He nodded. Bracing his hand on the wall, and with my two hands pulling his right arm, he managed to stand. He was breathing hard and leaning heavily on my shoulder, and I was horribly afraid. Maybe I should leave him here and bring the doctor to him. Maybe—

  “I can make it,” he whispered, as if he’d sensed my doubts.

  “All right, then,” I said.

  His right arm draped around my shoulders, his left hand on the wall, he staggered up the next three steps. This was a kind of courage I didn’t have—the courage to be in mind-numbing pain and yet to keep moving.

  Five steps up and we’d be on the street. “All right, Jack. One step and then another. Lean on me, and you’ll make it.”

  Three steps. And then a stop. I knew he was doing his best, and I prayed that the cabdriver would wait for us. Two more steps, and our feet were on the cobblestones.

  “Jack, darling. The cab is right there.”

  The sweat was pouring off his face and his skin was ghostly pale. “Please, Jack,” I whispered. “You’ve got to make it to the cab.”

  And I don’t know how he did it. One foot, then drag the other. One foot, drag the other. Six times.

  The cabdriver was there. “What’s wrong with him?”

  “Oh, he’s fine!” I said. “This is the way he gets every time he’s got his pay. Believe me, I’m used to it—though usually I pull him out o’ one of the rooms upstairs.”

  “What’s he doin’ down there, then?”

  “It’s cheaper,” I said shortly. “Now, help me get him in.”

  “That’s not part of it.”

  “It is if I’m paying you double.”

  “What ho! Is that blood?”

  “He got a scrape,” I said. “It’s nothing.”

  “Where’s he going?” I gave him Mr. Tindale’s address, and he replied, “Oh, ho, Mayfair! He’s a fancy one, is he?”

  “Just help me get him into the bloody cab!” I snapped. “Take his feet.”

  He let out a curse of his own as he dismounted reluctantly from his box, but he did as I asked. When we were both inside, Jack fell against me, his head on my shoulder. In the light from the lamp I could see the sweat on his brow, and I used my cuff to wipe it off.

  “I can’t do it, Nell,” he muttered. “I’m sorry. I can’t.”

  “Jack, you already have,” I said into his ear. I tightened my arms around him as the cab started to move. “We’ll be there in ten minutes. To a friend who’s a doctor. And he’ll help you.” We went over a bump in the road, and he slumped harder into me and let out a soft groan.

  “Only a little farther. We’re so close—” My voice broke. “So close, darling. Almost there.”

  He didn’t answer.

  We drew up to a fine house. A light shone through a window, and as I watched, a shadowy figure crossed behind a curtain.

  “Jack—we’re here.”

  He made no sound.

  I slid out from under him, leaped out of the cab, dashed up the five steps, and clattered the brass doorknocker against the plate.

  Almost instantly, the door drew away from my hand, and a man stood in his shirtsleeves, a gun in his lowered hand. I blurted out, “Dr. Everett, it’s me, Nell.”

  His eyes met mine, darted to the cab, then back to me. “Nell.”

  “James?” came another man’s voice, from inside.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “We had nowhere else to go.”

  “Don’t just stand there, help me with him!” growled the driver.

  Dr. Everett turned and handed his pistol to the man beside him, hurried to the cab, and together he and the driver managed to get Jack across the threshold.

  I started to close the door behind them.

  “Wait a minute, there!” called the driver. “You said—”

  I turned and dug my hands in my pockets for Jack’s coins and my own. “Take this. And swear you’ll never say a word to anyone.”

  He looked down at the silver in his hand, and I sensed his surprise. It struck me that he hadn’t expected me to keep my word.

  “Please,” I said, my tone softening. “Not a word to the police or the madam at the brothel—anyone. Do you understand?”

  He clinked the coins together and screwed up his face in something approximating a grin. “Well, I’ll not be forgetting you, Miss, dressed up like a man, with a tongue like a bloody shrew.” He slipped the coins into his vest pocket. “But, nah, I won’t say a word. No reason to be causin’ trouble.”

  “Thank you. Good night.”

  I pushed the door closed and went to the parlor, where I found Jack on the floor and Dr. Everett examining Jack’s skull. I knew to keep well out of the way, and I took a moment to glance around me. Chinese paintings on the walls. A case of half a dozen samurai swords elaborately displayed against silk. A pair of large painted ceramic dragons by the fireplace. And a glass case of what, from where I stood, appeared to be netsuke.

  “Bring the lamp closer, would you?” the doctor asked.

  I turned to do it—and then realized that Mr. Tindale had already anticipated his request. I knelt beside the doctor.

  “Now,” he said, ignoring me. “A sharp knife, Charles. Scissors if they’re convenient.” The man left the room.

  The doctor put his hand on Jack’s forehead, then his chest, not even looking at me. “Is that your blood or his on your shirt?”

  I glanced down at the dull smear of red. “His. I’m fine.”

  Charles returned with two knives. “Which one, James?” He chose the smaller one.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Tindale, for intruding,” I said somewhat stiffly. “I wouldn’t have—”

  “Nonsense. You were right to come.”

  “After that boy brought Emma’s note, we expected you,” Dr. Everett said, feeling for Jack’s wrist.

  “Emma’s note?”

  He nodded, his eyes on his watch, timing Jack’s pulse for half a minute. “Although she didn’t say anything about you toting a half-dead man with you,” he added and began, ever so carefully, to cut Jack’s tattered trousers away.
“What happened?”

  “Two men attacked him. One of them cut him with a knife. It’s deep. I wrapped it up as best I could.”

  The knife sliced away the top several layers of wrapping, revealing the wine stains and the blood-soaked bottom layer. One of his hands went to Jack’s brow. “No wonder he’s freezing. You should have brought him earlier.” His voice held concern for Jack, but it held accusation, too.

  “I might’ve if I’d known where to find you,” I retorted, anxiety sharpening my voice.

  A piercing glance. “Well, don’t shine that light of truth too brightly, my dear. It’s going to illuminate your mannish getup.”

  “James.” Charles’s quiet voice held a reprimand.

  Dr. Everett grimaced. “Nell, get some blankets, quickly, from the armoire in the upstairs hall. Charles—prepare some warm water and some hot. I’m going to fetch my bag.”

  I ran for the stairs. Behind me, I heard Charles’s voice, the words indistinct. I kept on, turned at the landing, and pulled two blankets from the armoire shelves, unfolding them as I went back.

  “Thank you, Nell.” The doctor’s voice had lost its impatience, and he tucked the cloth carefully around Jack’s torso and his other leg. “Now, go get yourself warm in the kitchen. Charles can help me for the next quarter hour, if I need it.” I was at the threshold when his voice stopped me. “Wait! Nell, is this wine?”

  I turned back. “I poured some over the cut to clean it. I didn’t have any water—I thought it would be better than nothing.”

  He gave an approving nod. “You were exactly right.”

  I felt the kindness and smiled at him gratefully. He jerked his head to the left. “The kitchen’s there. Charles is right. You look exhausted.”

  So that’s what Charles had said, I thought and felt a rush of thankfulness for his understanding. Not to mention for his willingness to have his lovely parlor turned into an impromptu operating theater to help someone he didn’t even know.

  Still, it was with some awkwardness that I pushed open the kitchen door. Charles was at the sink pouring water from a vessel into a bowl, and we exchanged hesitant smiles.

  He didn’t speak; instead, he pushed a chair close to the stove before he vanished with an armful of towels and the bowl. I sank onto the chair, the warmth making me realize just how bone cold I was. I reached my hands toward the heat and saw that they were shaking and filthy.