Vision in Blue

by Nicole Byrd

  Where was the wretched man? Temming had so much to answer for, and Matthew was increasingly maddened at the absence of anyone available to respond to his questions. He had to find Clarissa, if—he prayed—she was still alive. If not—if not, he would be sure that someone paid, and even then, he knew he would blame himself for the rest of his life.

  Feeling the weight of his guilt heavy on his shoulders, Matthew frowned and, glancing at the address that Gemma had given him, made his way to a different office located in a much more reputable-looking court. This door had a brass plaque with Augustus Peevey, Solicitor, engraved upon it, and the plaque was polished to a high shine. The knob turned obligingly to his hand, and inside a clerk sat on a high stool.

  The young man looked up. His collar was so fashionably high that he had to turn his head to gaze upon the visitor. “Yes?”

  “I wish to speak to Mr. Peevey.”

  “Do you have an appointment?”

  “No, but I will be brief. I have an important matter to discuss with him.”

  “I shall see if he is available, sir,” the man said. “Your card?”

  Matthew took a card from his pocket and passed it over.

  The clerk disappeared into an inner office, and reappeared quickly. “Mr. Peevey can spare a few minutes, Captain Fallon.”

  “Good of him,” Matthew said, his voice dry. But he entered the office and found the solicitor standing to greet him.

  “Good day, Captain Fallon,” the older man said. He motioned to a chair. “How can I be of assistance? Is there a legal matter with which I can offer you aid?”

  “You could assist me greatly if you could tell me where to find a solicitor named Temming, Ewart Temming,” Matthew told him.

  Mr. Peevey raised his narrow brows. “Ah.” He sat down slowly behind his desk. “You have had dealings with Mr. Temming?”

  “To my regret, yes,” Matthew admitted.

  “That is most unfortunate,” the solicitor said. “I fear he does not have a blameless character.”

  “That, I have realized, but too late,” Matthew retorted. Trying to keep his voice even, he told the other man briefly about his mother’s death and his sister’s disappearance.

  “If not for a letter from a neighbor, I might not have heard about my mother’s death for even longer. Temming sent me no word and, I now think, continued to pocket the money I sent that was to be used for my family’s welfare,” Matthew told him. “I’m not even sure if he had been forwarding them all of the funds I had sent earlier.”

  Mr. Peevey looked affronted. “That is a serious breach of ethics,” he declared. “You have more than adequate grounds to take him to court.”

  “No doubt, but I have to find the wretch first. And I have a graver concern. My sister’s whereabouts are unknown. Finding her is much more important to me than the chance of recovering any of the money. She was sent, I believe, to a foundling home you have had some dealings with.”

  He told the older man about his attempts to trace Clarissa through the home, and the intransigence of the matron there.

  “That does not surprise me, either,” the solicitor said. “These places are often ill-run, and I was not impressed when I made my one visit to the foundling home, years ago. But I was not responsible for its choice, originally. The young woman I represented had been sent there before I was informed of her guardian’s death, and I fear I have had little contact with the institution or the matron.”

  Matthew felt a wave of frustration. “And Temming? If there is anything you can do to point me to him?”

  Mr. Peevey sat up straighter. “I assure you, I have not now, and have never had, any association with that man. He has had a most uncertain reputation for some time.”

  Matthew frowned. “So you can tell me nothing that might assist me in tracking him down?”

  The solicitor shook his head. “I regret not. If you will leave me your address, however, I will certainly inform you if I should hear any account of his movements.”

  Matthew grimaced, but he said, “Thank you.” He gave the other man the name of his hotel, then rose reluctantly.

  When he went out, he found he felt even more discouraged, and more angry, than ever. Why did every possible lead end up a blind alley?

  He couldn’t keep himself from retracing his steps and heading back one more time toward the dingy side street where Mr. Temming conducted, or had once conducted, business. Matthew knew there was little chance he should catch anyone at the deserted office, but he felt he must keep trying. As he walked, his footsteps quiet on the grassy walkway, he recalled the last time he had seen his sister. Clarissa had hugged him and wept and told him she would pray every day for his safety at sea. The irony was bitter. He had come home more or less unscathed, and she was the one who had been endangered. At the thought, his heart seemed to twist inside him.

  So he was paying little attention to his surroundings when he turned a corner into one of the less populated alleys.

  A man leaped out at him.

  Matthew stepped instinctively back a pace. “What do you—”

  He had no time to finish. The roughly dressed man raised a club and swung it at Matthew’s head.

  London streets did indeed seem more dangerous than the high seas! Wishing vainly that he had come out with a sidearm, Matthew ducked and put up his fists.

  But forced to keep out of reach of the crude weapon, he could not get close enough to land a blow of his own. The attacker swung again.

  Matthew twisted and once more evaded the impact. But now he saw that his attacker was not alone. A second ruffian circled them both, trying to put Matthew between himself and his mate. If they managed to sandwich him between them, Matthew would give no odds as to the outcome. Both the men were burly, and their expressions determined. And if the second man managed to pin Matthew’s arms . . .

  Putting his back to the wall to keep them from stepping behind him, Matthew swore briefly and tried to think.

  The first man swung once more. Matthew dodged the attack. The years he had spent on a ship’s shifting deck had made him light on his feet, but in doing so, he was forced to step away from the building. Now he could not prevent the second man from sidling behind him. They were going to encircle him. Very well, then. All his senses on the alert, he waited for the man with the club to make his next attack.

  This time, when the first ruffian advanced and swung his cudgel, Matthew feinted. He sidestepped the swing of the weapon. But instead of moving completely away, he grabbed the man’s shoulders as the impetus of the attacker’s rush carried him past Matthew. Then he thrust the villain toward his mate.

  Swearing loudly, they collided. Matthew made his escape.

  They still blocked the alley, and he could not go back the way he had come. He ran, scanning the alley for a quick way out of their sight. When he saw an arched doorway, he dove into it. Coming through the arch, he found himself in one of the many small courts that pocketed the area, but there was no other exit that he could see. The doors around the courtyard were all closed, and no one else was in sight. Where were all the hardworking clerks and lawyers? Or had he ventured into a different section of the neighborhood altogether? He had had little time to acquaint himself with the city’s geography.

  And now he heard footsteps pounding behind him. He caught a glimpse of the first man’s ugly face as he peered through the archway.

  “Hallo there?” Matthew called into the court.

  A door opened at the end of the building and a head poked out. But as the two men ran into the courtyard, one of them brandishing the club, the head disappeared even more promptly.

  Coward!

  No one else seemed to hear, or if so, no one responded. Matthew turned and put up his fists, resolved to give the villains the best pummeling he could before they overcame him by sheer number.

  Panting, the two ran into the court, then paused. The first one smirked. “ ’Ere ’e is,” he sputtered. “Just like I tol’ you. Let’s make
quick work of it now.”

  “You will be disappointed,” Matthew declared, his voice controlled. “I have little blunt in my purse.”

  The first man sneered. “Don’t matter, do it?” he said, his expression disdainful. “We already been paid, gov’nor. So whatever we take off your lifeless body is gravy, ain’t it?”

  Matthew braced himself and watched the man advance. He kept his gaze especially on the cudgel, now raised once again. But just then, from the corner of his eye, he saw a form emerge from one of the doors that opened onto the small court. To Matthew’s relief, instead of fleeing from the altercation, this man came forward.

  “What’s this, then?” The newcomer’s voice held a faint Scottish burr, but it was an educated inflection.

  “These gentlemen, and I use the term loosely indeed, have an interest in my purse,” Matthew said, keeping his attention focused on the two ruffians.

  They glanced at the new addition, but neither seemed overly concerned at the change in odds.

  “Best get out of here, gov’nor,” the more talkative scoundrel advised. “You don’t want to feel my club, too.”

  “Oh, I doubt that’s a real concern,” the stranger said.

  Gentlemen did not generally carry concealed blades about their person. So Matthew was startled when, again from the edge of his vision, he saw the stranger reach down and pull a slim dagger from inside one of his boots.

  “I think my blade might just trump your cudgel,” the man suggested. “I think I’d run along now, if I were you, before we summon the watch.”

  Matthew felt a surge of relief and triumph, and the second ruffian grunted in alarm.

  But the leader of the duo shook his head. “Sorry, gov. ’Fraid I got a higher card than that.”

  Tossing the club he had been wielding to his associate, he reached inside his rough-cut coat and drew out a large pistol.

  Ten

  “Bloody hell,” Matthew muttered. Matthew’s Good Samaritan hesitated. “Well put,” he agreed. But as the man with the gun raised it and swung it back and forth between the two of them, as if not sure now which was the most pressing target, the stranger drew back his arm.

  The flash of metal was almost too quick to see.

  The first ruffian shouted, and the air seemed to explode. Blinking instinctively against the flash, his eyes stinging from the haze of powder that surrounded them all in a suffocating cloud, Matthew swung before the man could attempt to reload his pistol. It was hardly necessary. Although his fist connected with a satisfying thud with the man’s weak-natured chin, Matthew saw, when his vision cleared, that the ruffian already sported the dagger impaled in his shoulder.

  Their assailant looked down at the blade and swore profusely even as he stumbled backward from the impact of Matthew’s blow, stepping on the foot of his mate.

  The second man yelped. Although surely little hurt himself, he seemed disheartened by this unexpected turn of events. Turning, he lumbered away, leaving his wounded crony to fend for himself.

  Matthew grabbed the man by the lapels of his dirty coat and jerked him forward. “Who sent you to attack me?”

  The man blinked at him. “ ’Ere, now, I’m ’urt. Give a fellow some air, then.”

  “You were eager enough to hurt me! I don’t care whether you suffocate or bleed to death. You said someone had paid you to harm me. I want to know the name!”

  “Don’t know ’is name,” the man said.

  Matthew stared into the man’s face. “You would accept a commission of murder from a man whose name you don’t know?”

  “If ’e paid enough.” The man started to shrug, then winced at the pain in his wounded shoulder.

  “Then where did you encounter him?”

  “Come on, gov, I’m bleeding to death!” the man whimpered.

  “We should be so fortunate! Where did you receive this commission?”

  “I dunno. Me mind is fogged. Just let me go, gov, and I won’t bother you again, I swear it.”

  “We’ll see to that,” Matthew promised him grimly. “And you’ve strength enough to talk my head off! Tell me!”

  “I meet ’im at the Rosy Rooster,” the man said, his tone sullen.

  “And where is that?”

  “A tavern in Whitechapel,” the man muttered. His voice did seem to be faltering, or else he was playing a good role. His unshaven face had paled, what Matthew could see of it. “Near the river, it is.”

  “And what did this man look like?”

  But the man was slumping against Matthew’s hold. Sighing, Matthew pushed him toward the door where the timid spectator had earlier looked out.

  “Retrieve my blade,” the stranger suggested from behind him.

  Matthew took hold of the hasp and pulled hard. Ignoring their assailant’s groan, he wiped the bloody blade on the wounded man’s coat and tucked it into his waistband. Pounding on the door, he waited for someone to open it.

  In a moment, the door opened just a crack. Matthew made out a narrow face and wide eyes.

  “Go away, or we’ll summon the watch!”

  “That’s exactly what I want you to do,” Matthew snapped. “Here, make sure this rubbish is collected.”

  He dumped the wounded man onto the doorstep, while the clerk inside protested, his startled voice rising into a squeak.

  Matthew ignored him and turned back to the man who had come to his aid. He was of middle height and dressed, if not richly, at least like a gentleman.

  Matthew held out the blade. “Thank you,” he said. “You may have saved my neck. A good thing that he was such a poor shot.”

  “Ah, as to that—” The stranger seemed to waver for a moment.

  Matthew put out one hand to steady him. As he grabbed the man’s arm, the stranger winced. Matthew felt dampness in the man’s dark coat.

  “You are hit?” Matthew exclaimed. “How bad is it?”

  “A mere bagatelle,” the other man answered.

  But his color did not look good, and he put up little resistence when Matthew pushed back the dark coat, which had so far concealed the extent of his wound. The white shirt beneath revealed a spreading scarlet stain.

  “We need to stop the bleeding,” Matthew said, frowning. “Are any of these offices inhabited by men of more sense than that last fellow?”

  “Not that I have noted,” was the unhelpful answer. “I have rooms not far away—”

  “I will take you there and we will summon a surgeon,” Matthew began, but the man shook his head.

  “Ah, no. Regrettably, there is a slight misunderstanding with my landlady. She seems to have locked me out of my flat.”

  “Behind on the rent, are you?” Matthew deduced. “We must do something, and my hotel is much too distant. Wait, I have an acquaintance who lives not too far away. . . .”

  Draping the man’s good arm around his neck, Matthew supported him back out to the street.

  Several people stared curiously at them, but no one offered help. To his relief, Matthew soon saw a hackney coming along the pavement and was able to call to the driver. When he got his Good Samaritan inside the cab, Matthew gave the driver Miss Smith’s address. Turning up on a lady’s doorstep with a wounded man was not precisely your average social call, but he could think of nothing better. Perhaps he could convince the footman to allow him to bandage the wound and call for a doctor without disturbing the ladies of the house.

  While they rode, he pulled off his linen neckcloth and made a pad to press against the wound. It seemed to slow the bleeding.

  For once, traffic allowed them to proceed at a brisk trot. Still, Matthew was relieved when the cab pulled up in front of the residence where he had visited Miss Smith. He jumped out and tossed the driver a coin.

  “You may have to help me,” he said.

  The driver frowned, but he tied up the reins and got down to help pull the wounded man out of the carriage.

  “It’th nothing,” the man they were supporting protested. But his Scottish bu
rr seemed thicker and his words slurred, and the dark spot on his coat had spread.

  They got him up to the door, and Matthew grabbed the brass knocker. It seemed as if all he had done today was bang on doors, he thought. That, and fight off an assault or two along the way.

  The door opened, and the footman stared at him in suspicion. The hackney driver had driven away, and the wounded man leaned against the doorframe.

  “Do you remember me?” Matthew demanded. “You should recall that I was here the other day to see Miss Smith.”

  “Yes, sir, but—”

  “I require urgent assistance for my friend.”

  The servant frowned at the sight of the slumping man. “You don’t wish to call upon the ladies with your friend in a besotted state, surely, sir?”

  “He is not drunk. He needs a physician’s aid right away. We were set upon by robbers. Is there a doctor in the neighborhood you can summon?”

  Without waiting for an invitation, Matthew supported the stranger and moved them both inside the door. “Show us into a room the ladies do not use,” he suggested.

  The footman was staring at the bloodstains on Matthew’s hand as he shifted the man’s weight. His eyes wide, the servant blurted, “I—yes, sir, at once! Perhaps in the study.” He hurried to open the inner door, and Matthew propelled the man inside.

  “And tell the maid to bring hot water and clean cloths.”

  The footman set off at once, and Matthew was able to partially recline the wounded man upon a leather-covered settee.

  At last he could pull off the coat.

  “Damn shame,” the other man muttered, his words marked by a Scottish cadence. “Haven’t even paid the tailor afore some fool puts a bullet hole in’t. What did you do tae that rascal, anyhow, me lad?”

  “I have no idea,” Matthew said. “I’m a bit busy just now. I’ll explain the matter to you presently.”

  With the swiftness and efficiency born of long practice—he had assisted the ship’s doctor more than once back when he was still an ensign—he stripped off the ruined shirt and examined the wound more closely.