A Dangerous Duet

by Karen Odden

  When Charles returned, he lifted a copper pot from the shelf, filled it, and put it on the stove to boil. After a moment, he passed me a towel. “For your hands,” he said.

  I took the warm wet cloth and wiped my face first, then my hands. He was busying himself at the sink again, but I felt the profound silence, and the heat rose to my cheeks. Was there any situation I’d ever found myself in that was more peculiar than this?

  Silently, he held out a hand for the dirty cloth, and as I gave it to him, I resolved to speak. “Mr. Tindale, did you know about—about me before tonight?”

  He winced. “Please call me Charles. And what do you mean, did I know about you?”

  “That I existed.”

  His face cleared. “Of course. You and Matthew both.” A wry smile tugged at his mouth. “Though you’re rather different from the way James described you.” A pause, and then, more seriously, “You didn’t suspect about me?”

  I shook my head. “Peggy only told me tonight. I suppose she’s known for a long time, being his housekeeper.”

  “Yes.” He paused. “And because of Emma. He wanted Peggy to be able to reach him in case she needed him.”

  “Oh, of course.”

  For a moment, all was quiet except the spark and sizzle of the fire and the sound of water heating.

  He looked down at his hands. “I suppose you’re very—shocked.”

  I couldn’t help the short laugh that sprang from my throat. “Rather.” It came out more drily than I intended.

  He winced again, and instantly I felt remorseful. “I’m sorry. It’s just very—surprising and—and sudden.” At the unhappiness on his face, I stopped and added more gently, “But I’m very grateful to you for helping us. You’re being so kind.”

  He managed a smile. “I was his patient first, you know. I returned from Japan with a fever that made me feel almost mad—so much so that I nearly took my own life. I was two months in his hospital.”

  I was silent, taking this in.

  He lifted the lid on the pot. “It’s ready. Why don’t you bring it to him?” He took down a ceramic bowl from the cupboard and set it on a tray, then filled it with several cups of water. I carried the tray to the parlor, setting it beside Jack.

  Dr. Everett had already laid out his instruments and opened his needle case. “He’s lost a lot of blood.”

  “Is he going to be all right?”

  “I don’t know, Nell. The one good thing is that a knife wound is easier to stitch up than something jagged. But this is deep.” Dr. Everett used a sponge dipped in the warm water to wash the cut and a towel to blot it dry. It took several minutes, and he was so careful that only once did Jack flinch. Though Jack’s eyes were closed, I could tell he was partially conscious. I took his hand—it was cold and limp—and pressed it to my cheek.

  Charles entered with a large bowl of boiling water. The steam rose in white wraiths, and the doctor added a solution of carbolic acid. “Here.” He handed Charles a needle and one of his instruments. “Dip these in.”

  Within seconds, Dr. Everett had the rinsed needle threaded with catgut. He gestured to the bottle of whiskey on the table. “Get me a glass of that.”

  I poured two fingers’ worth. He nodded toward Jack. “Get it into him.”

  “Jack, you need to drink this.” I helped him sit up a bit and put the glass near his lips.

  “No,” Jack said, faintly.

  “Nonsense,” Dr. Everett said. “I’m going to stitch you up, and I need you to stay still.”

  “No whiskey,” he insisted.

  Dr. Everett stared at him, frustrated. “I don’t have any chloroform, or even laudanum here.”

  But I had an idea why Jack didn’t want it. “I’ll hold him,” I said softly.

  Dr. Everett scowled. “If he moves, I can’t stitch.”

  “We know,” I said.

  He gave me a look. “Very well. It’s on your head.”

  I draped myself over Jack’s chest, rested my head on his breastbone, and put my hands on his shoulders. “Hold on to me, if it helps,” I whispered. But his arms stayed where they were, slack at his sides.

  Dr. Everett slid the needle into the skin at the edge of the wound. I felt Jack’s entire body tense, but he didn’t move, and he didn’t make a sound.

  It felt like an hour, but finally it was over.

  The doctor sat back and touched his sleeve to his damp brow. “Twenty-two stitches.” He sighed. “I’ve done my best, but I’m afraid it’s already infected. I only hope the limb doesn’t become gangrenous.”

  A lump rose in my throat. “I’m sure no one could have done better. Thank you.”

  Then I bent over Jack and whispered his name. No movement, not even a flutter of an eyelid. Frightened, I laid my hand on his chest. Dr. Everett’s hand jerked out and went to Jack’s wrist.

  “He’s alive,” he said. “It’s just exhaustion from keeping himself still for that. He needs to stay warm and sleep.” He remained on his knees looking down at Jack. “I wish I’d had ether or chloroform. It would have made it easier on him, poor fellow.” He wiped his hands on a towel. “Why wouldn’t he take the whiskey?”

  “His father is a mean drunkard.”

  “Ah. Filius sapiens erratis sui patris discit.”

  Yes, I thought. A wise son learns from the mistakes of his father.

  “Now.” He threw down the towel on top of the others. “I’ve helped your friend, and you are going to explain yourself. But first, I’m going to go upstairs to wash.” He vanished up the stairs, and Charles took the soiled towels and bowls back to the kitchen.

  Gently, I adjusted the pillow under Jack’s head, and tucked the blankets more tightly around him. His face was so ashen that he looked older, uncannily like his uncle.

  When he returned, Dr. Everett picked up the glass of whiskey Jack had refused, took a gulp, and looked at me through his spectacles. “I’m quite writhing with suspense. But we’ll wait for Charles.”

  As if on cue, Charles appeared in the doorway, a steaming mug in his hands. “I’m here,” he said mildly, “so you can stop writhing.” He bent down and handed me the mug. “I thought you might want this.”

  I breathed in the smell of the chocolate. “This is heavenly. Thank you.”

  “You’re most welcome.”

  Charles sat down in the chair and, almost without looking, took a sip from the doctor’s glass. It was a mark of intimacy that left me disconcerted anew. How could I have known the doctor my entire life and not even guessed?

  He gave a cough and looked at me expectantly.

  I took a few sips of chocolate and set it on a low table. Then I took one of Jack’s hands in both of mine. Now that he was safe, I could begin to think about how to explain the evening’s events. I had a feeling that once I began talking, the erstwhile logical doctor was going to explode like the flaming powder out of Gallius Kovác’s magic box.

  I met his inquiring gaze straight on. “I know you’re going to be angry. But please just try to listen until I’m finished.” I added under my breath, “Then no doubt you’ll say plenty.”

  He blinked several times. “Very well.” Then he nodded toward Jack. “First, who is he?”

  “His name’s Jack Drummond. His father owns the Octavian Music Hall.”

  Dr. Everett’s eyebrows flew up, but he remained silent.

  I continued: “I’ve been playing piano there two or three nights a week to earn tuition money for the Royal Academy. In case I was ever accepted.”

  The doctor’s face paled, and I talked quickly to get it over with. Perhaps there was something I could have kept back—but I was too tired to keep straight which secrets were mine and which were Jack’s. And what was the use, anyway? Surely, after tonight, he would hear plenty, between Matthew and the newspapers. So he heard it first from me, in a breathless, rather incoherent recital.

  After I finished, Dr. Everett’s empty glass clicked softly down on the table. He removed his spectacles and
rubbed his hands over his face. “Good God, Nell.”

  “I know,” I said miserably.

  At last, he looked up with a sigh. “Do you think you’ll be able to get another audition?”

  His generosity brought a lump to my throat. All this, and his first thought wasn’t to chide me for my dissembling but to ask that.

  “I daresay you can explain the unusual situation,” Charles said quietly. He sat with his elbows on his knees, his fingertips steepled near his mouth. “What’s more important tonight is getting a message to Matthew. Because Tierney is still out there, and the best chance at guaranteeing your safety”—his nod included both Jack and me—“is capturing him.” He turned to Dr. Everett. “Did he give you any specifics about his plan?”

  “When did you see Matthew?” I asked.

  “This afternoon. He came by the hospital.” The doctor replaced his spectacles. “He wanted me to reassure him that if anything happened, I would take care of you. Then he told me what he was about to do.”

  “What exactly did he say?”

  “That they were raiding the music halls in the Fleet, as many as they could find.”

  Charles’s eyebrows rose, and he nodded toward Jack. “His injury is unfortunate of course, but it’s a good thing he wasn’t anywhere near the place.”

  “The Octavian was definitely one of them?” I asked.

  “Yes,” replied the doctor. “He showed me the list.”

  I glanced involuntarily at Jack, but he lay as if asleep. “It’s an unfortunate coincidence, everything happening tonight,” I murmured. “The shipment from Greenland Dock and the raid, both. I’m sure Matthew was hoping to find Tierney at one of the music halls—but now it seems that won’t happen. I’m almost beginning to believe that Tierney has the luck of the devil.”

  Charles shook his head. “This scandal is going to upend all of London once the newspapers get hold of it. The public outcry will be enormous—not simply against Tierney and his Fleet, but the music halls and Scotland Yard. I do hope that if the raid isn’t wholly successful, Matthew won’t be made a scapegoat.”

  Jack’s fingers jerked against mine, though his eyes remained closed. Has he been conscious of all we’ve been saying? In alarm, I looked up and put my finger to my lips.

  Dr. Everett rose from his chair and came toward Jack, picked up his wrist again, and felt the pulse. “Slow but steady. We just have to watch in case he develops a fever. We’ll know more in the morning.”

  “It’s so late,” I said. “You should go to bed. I’ll stay with him, if that’s all right.”

  Charles was already gathering up the glasses. “Of course.” A pause. “What’s the matter, James?”

  I looked up to see the doctor frowning. “I just wish we could get word to Matthew about the gun shipment,” he said. “I wonder if I might leave a message for him at the Yard.”

  “But whom can you trust with it?” I asked. “William is dead, and he wasn’t sure of anyone else.”

  “Then I shall stay there until he returns, or until I know where to find him.”

  Charles asked, “Do you want me to come with you?”

  “No, no.” He waved away the suggestion. “I’ll take a cab.” He was already starting for the door.

  The glasses clinked together in Charles’s hand as he looked down at me. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes. And thank you,” I said. “Truly.”

  “Don’t mention it, please.” He smiled. “It’s my pleasure. Good night.”

  “Good night.”

  Charles’s slippered footsteps moved to the kitchen, then up the stairs.

  “Nell.” Jack’s voice was a hoarse whisper, drawing me close. “What did he say about the Yard and the Octavian? I was fading in and out.”

  “The police are raiding some of the ships tonight,” I said reluctantly. “The Octavian is one of them.” His eyes opened all the way. “I’m sorry, Jack.” I ran my hand over his forehead. “He didn’t hear the name from me, I swear he didn’t.”

  “I believe you. But he can’t catch my father.” His fingers moved weakly on the blanket. “You have to go and warn him.”

  A shiver ran over me. “Jack, I can’t go back there—”

  “You don’t have to.” He swallowed. “He’ll be at Rosemary’s house. My uncle knows it. Please, Nell.” He tried to push himself up onto his elbows. “If you don’t, I’ve got to go.”

  “Don’t be absurd.” I pushed him back onto the pillow. His breath was coming hard, and he was still struggling to sit up.

  “Jack, stop it. Stop it! All right, I’ll go! Don’t upset yourself, and don’t even think of moving, or you’ll tear your stitches straight out.” I had both hands on his chest, striving to hold him down. “If you move again, I won’t go anywhere.”

  He gave in with a sigh and closed his eyes. I sat back on my heels. “I’ll ask your uncle to help me,” I said. “But what exactly do you want me to tell your father?”

  “Tell him to get whatever money he can and get out of England. Go to France. My uncle’s friends will help him.” He opened his eyes, and the selfless concern I saw there went straight to my heart. “He can’t go to prison again, Nell. It’ll kill him.”

  I bent over and kissed his forehead.

  Then I picked up my coat from where I’d thrown it over a chair, and once more I slipped out a door into the dark.

  Chapter 30

  To my relief, despite the hour, there was a dim light in a window above Mr. Bertault’s shop.

  I leaned against the door frame, pressing my hand to the cramp in my side, and knocked.

  Instantly, the window overhead swung open. “Who’s there?” he called out.

  “Mr. Bertault!” I said, as loudly as I dared. “It’s Nell!”

  “Mon Dieu!” He shut the window.

  I turned and looked about the dark street. A dog the size of a wolf skulked at the next corner. A quick lunge, a furious shake of the head, and the rat in its mouth went still. He turned and trotted away.

  A moment later I saw the bobbing light of a lamp through the glass. The bolt scraped, and Mr. Bertault drew me inside. He was fully clothed, and a coat lay over a chair nearby, as if he’d just come back from somewhere, or was ready to go out. His hand was warm and steady on mine, and his voice calm. “Qu’est que c’est, Mademoiselle? Did you find Jacques? What’s happened?”

  “He was attacked and one of the men had a knife—”

  A swift inhale. “Merde! Is he all right?”

  “As well as he can be. A friend of mine is a doctor.”

  He took another deep breath in and blew it out. “C’est bon.”

  “But Jack knows the police are making a raid on the Octavian tonight, and he wants me to warn his father to get out of England and go to France. He told me to come find you. He said you’d help me.”

  An angry look came over Mr. Bertault’s face. “Bah! Drummond doesn’t deserve the son he has. He never deserved either of them. Selfish as a pig, from beginning to end!”

  I said hesitantly, “I think—I think Jack still cares about him because—well, because his father truly loved Eugenie. Jack said that when she was sick, he took wonderful care of her, and when it came toward the end, he sold everything but her piano, because he knew it would break her heart to lose it. That seems like an act of selflessness—or at least love.”

  His mouth tightened in derision. “The whole reason she got sick is that he brought her to London with its dirt and miasmas! He knew her lungs were weak. But Eugenie adored him. She’d have gone anywhere—and he should not have taken advantage of that love. He should have insisted they remain in France. My family could have found him work in the countryside, or even in Toulon. They could have been happy.” He flung his hands up. “And when she died, do you know what he did? He drank himself sick. Poor Jacques was left to fend for himself for weeks—until Drummond ended up in debtor’s prison, and Jacques was thrown into an orphanage. I don’t care what sort of misery Drummon
d felt, he should have taken care of his son. And then to pull him into this Fleet business? If he’d been any decent sort of man, he’d have kept Jacques as far from it as possible. Bah! He disgusts me!”

  Stricken, I had remained silent through his outburst. “I’m sorry,” I whispered.

  His anger left him then, and he heaved a sigh. “I know. It is a sorry thing, for everyone.” He ran his fingers through his rumpled hair. “Do you know, as Eugenie lay on her deathbed, she wrote me a letter, begging me to do what I could to help him and little Jacques. So I will—but by God, I hope this is the end of it.”

  “If he goes to France, will he be all right?”

  His mouth twisted in a bitter line. “Probably. It’s easy to get lost in France these days.”

  I was conscious of the clock ticking on the wall. “Mr. Bertault”—I swallowed—“if we want Drummond to get away, we need to find him soon. Jack said you know where Rosemary lives.”

  “Oui.” He picked up the lamp, and then turned back to me, his expression grim. “You’re absolutely sure Jacques is all right, far away from Tierney?”

  I nodded. “He’s at a friend’s—a friend who has nothing to do with the Fleet. There’s no way Tierney could trace Jack there, unless he truly has second sight. And I think he’ll be too busy tonight to be concerned about Jack.”

  The fear left his face. “Then don’t worry, chérie. We’ll find Drummond.”

  I followed him into his office and watched as he pulled open a drawer and drew out a gun, loaded it, and slid it into his pocket. His face was untroubled and his hand steady as he picked up the lamp.

  “I have one, too,” I said and drew out the revolver.

  He nodded, accepting this without surprise. “Then let us go. Are you afraid?”

  “Yes,” I said. “But less so, with you.”

  He smiled then and touched my cheek gently. “Nothing will happen to you, I promise. Jacques would—as the French say—have my head.” He handed me the lamp, opened the front door, glanced up and down the empty street, and locked the door behind us. Then he took the lamp from me, and we began to walk east. The wind was picking up, and the clouds scudded across the sky. The moon was nearly full; it etched the edge of one of the clouds with silver and then disappeared behind another.