into the bars of the cage, hard; he could feel the other trying to get a grip on his shirt to haul him away, so he spun with his man and brought the two of them together. They collided shoulder to shoulder like carcasses swung on chains.
One dropped to his knees, spitting blood from a bitten tongue. The other fell to Tom Sayers’ right cross. All four men were down, but only one of them was fully unconscious. Now the lookout was on his way to join in.
As he came through the gate, Sayers met him with the only sure takedown blow that he could see an opening for: a straight-on, bare-knuckle poleax strike between the eyes, almost as much agony to land as it was to receive. More agony, probably, because to the recipient it meant instant oblivion and freedom from all care. His man rebounded from the blow, the drawn truncheon falling from his grip and clattering on the stones. Beyond him stood the now-open gateway into the police yard.
Sayers did not hesitate. Jumping over the fallen constable, he ran through the gateway and out between the screening wagons. A law-abiding man for his entire life so far, Sayers saw little future in trusting to the law now. The law would have him buried for a deed he had not done. Ahead of him lay stabling for horses, with the ostler leading a pair across his field of view. To his left were the main building and the stone archway that led to the street.
The gates were being opened. The Black Maria that had brought him here was on its way out again. As he ran toward it, the sound of a Hudson whistle rose from the exercise yard behind him; as two more shrill notes were added, the one-legged watchman pinned back the gate and the Black Maria started to pass through.
Putting the wagon between himself and the gatekeeper, Sayers used its high sides as cover in the hope that he could slip out along with it. But the Black Maria’s driver had turned in his seat at the sound of police whistles, and saw him right away. With an alarm-raising cry of “Prisoner on the loose!” he leaned right over and lashed at Sayers with his horsewhip. Sayers crouched and raised an arm to protect himself, but the whip was short and cracked harmlessly in the air above his head.
He was right by the wheels, only inches from them as they rumbled over the cobbles. Ahead of him there was about two feet of space between the wagon and the gatepost. The driver pulled hard on the reins, trying to use his vehicle to close up the gap and cut off Sayers’ exit; the horses, surprised and confused by this sudden move, jumped in the traces and clattered sideways onto the pavement instead of out into the road. The wagon swayed dangerously and swung across, so that the side of it ground into the post right in front of Sayers with a sound of splintering coachwork. Sayers had to throw himself back, or be crushed.
The wagon rocked and was jammed at an angle in the gateway, its horses panicking and at least one of its wheels raised up off the ground. Sayers dropped and scrambled underneath it as the watchman came around the back. For a man with but one leg and a crutch, he was moving at a surprising speed.
The watchman was shouting after Sayers, the driver was shouting at his horses, and the horses were rearing in the traces and in danger of destroying the wagon to wrench themselves free. Their hooves came down like riveters’ hammers, striking sparks from the stone pavement, while the robust shell of the Black Maria rocked back and forth like a wardrobe stuck in a doorway. Sayers came out onto the street, touching a hand to the ground to keep himself from falling and feeling a double lance of agony in his arm—once from the sergeant’s disabling blow, and again from his own knuckle-busting punch to the lookout.
As Sayers came up to his feet, the coachman lashed out again with the whip. This time the tip of it caught Sayers across the back, splitting through shirt and waistcoat and the skin underneath. He was so close to the horses that he almost lost his footing and fell under their hooves; but then he was out and running, and leaving their chaos behind.
He’d little idea of where he was. It was a Saturday afternoon street in an unfamiliar town, with trams and wagons and horses and a Saturday crowd. A running man in shirtsleeves would draw attention, for sure; especially a running man with an injured arm and the shirt on his back split in two. He could not be halfhearted in his flight, but knew that he must put as much distance as he could between himself and the police station. He needed to disappear into the byways before any kind of a hue and cry could begin.
After dodging through people on the pavement, he jumped into the road. On the far side of it, barrow boys were pushing handcarts along. Which meant that somewhere close by, there had to be a market.
Caught for a moment between two passing trams in the middle of the road, he skipped along sideways until his way was clear. Then he pressed on in the direction from whence the barrows came.
FIFTEEN
At that same moment, Sebastian Becker was emerging from the central police station’s main entrance. He was in his topcoat for the return journey and carrying the bag that he’d brought in case of an overnight visit. The day’s business had been concluded so quickly that there was no point in him staying around any longer, not when a train on the half hour could have him home by midevening.
Sayers would go before the stipendiary magistrate in the morning to be remanded for trial, and then the business of constructing a detailed case against him could begin. As Sebastian had been discussing with the assistant commissioners, this would be a complicated process. Sayers’ stroke of genius had been to commit his crimes in a variety of locations, all policed by different forces; no one force had been allowed a chance to see any pattern to them. It had fallen to a fifteen-year-old boy to lead them to it.
Arthur Steffens. His name would be recorded with honor. There was little that Sebastian could do for him now, but he could ensure that much.
That, and bring his murderer to the public gallows.
He saw no further point in trying to understand the man. There could be no mitigation for the things he had done. Perhaps some deeds truly did defy explanation, while their authors defied comprehension.
The police station entrance was a grand affair with double doors and a broad flight of steps leading down to the pavement. Sebastian was watching his feet as he descended, and glanced up to see a running man in the act of crossing the road. Even as the movement caught Sebastian’s eye, the man stopped to let a tram go by. In that same moment, another tram passed before him and the man disappeared from his view.
Sebastian stared in disbelief, waiting for the second tram to clear. There he was…on the street in shirtsleeves where everyone else, even the meanest artisan, was properly dressed. Sebastian got a better look at his face as the man glanced to check his way before starting forward again. Tom Sayers, or his ghost.
Sebastian Becker did not believe in ghosts.
He dropped his bag and barked, “See to that!” at a hapless stranger who happened to be climbing the steps to enter the building, and then leaped across the pavement and into the road. A good citizen on a bicycle saw him, assumed him to be a man in flight from the police station, and tried to intercede. Sebastian handed him off and dashed through the traffic after Sayers, who by now had disappeared in the direction of a street market. Sebastian could hear police whistles as he crossed the road, and knew that an organized pursuit would not be far behind; but by then Sayers might have rendered himself invisible…all that he needed to do was to stop running, pick up a coat, and turn around to blend with the crowd.
But only the most practiced fugitives could think so clearly. Was Sayers one of those? By the time Sebastian reached the far pavement, Sayers was out of his sight. But he’d marked the man’s direction and followed after him. People saw him coming, his dark coat flapping out behind him like a rider’s cloak, and scrambled out of his way.
A blue-gowned factory girl who must have seen Sayers pass by only moments before shouted, “That way! He ran that way!” and pointed him toward a street of warehouses. Sebastian took her at her word.
The street held a shoe market, its narrow way choked with temporary wooden stalls and canvas rain awnings. The buildings to either side were of sooty brick, and so tall that only a strip of sky was to be seen above them. Much of the fresh air and daylight was shut out, and as a result the market was all gloom with the stink of used leather.
Sebastian was slowed by the people that he had to push and dodge his way through, but as he looked over their heads was rewarded by what he thought was a glimpse of his quarry.
It was. It was him. Sayers was being slowed down, too. Fighting through the stalls was like swimming through a river filled with furniture. Sebastian saw Sayers look back, and thought he saw recognition in the man’s eyes; or it could have been the general anxiety of the pursued, with Sayers not spotting him at all.
Either way, he saw Sayers turn and duck down into the mass, leaving him with only an idea of the man’s
