The Serpent's Shadow

Shivani paused only long enough on her way into the sanctum to select a very special set of sacrificial knives—for this would be a sacrifice she intended to make last a very long time.

THE only benefit that the Fleet had in this heat was that it was at the bottom of a building which in turn was overshadowed on all sides by taller tenements. If the sun seldom penetrated here and it was dank, dark, and chill by winter, at least now it was something less than ovenlike. 'There's a perleesemun 'ere t'see ye, miss,' said a timid voice at Maya's elbow as she collected her medical instruments and some of the drugs it wasn't safe to keep at the clinic. She was layering them carefully into her bag, preparing to go home now that the last patient at the Fleet had been dealt with.

She turned around and found one of the numerous offspring of a woman she had just treated for a broken arm hovering anxiously behind her. The poor thing had arrived with all of them in tow, like a wounded goose with anxious goslings paddling madly behind, her gander supporting her with anxious honks.

'A policeman?' she replied, wrinkling her brow in puzzlement. 'Well, thank you dear. I'll come right along and see him.'

The child's mother had not, for a wonder, been sent to the Fleet by a brutal husband; in fact, the husband was with her now, having held her while Maya set the broken limb, for a dose of opium could only do so much to keep her still during such an unpleasant operation. This time it was sheer bad luck and slippery steps that were to blame; seeing the poor man agonizing over his spouse's pain was a pleasant change from knowing that a similar injury was the result of one more in an endless series of beatings.

As if the same doesn't happen in 'better' families— just not so publicly. But that was unfair. There was equal measure of good and evil at every level; she just saw more of the evil because of the consequences.

And I see good, too—little boys out sweeping crossings to bring precious pennies back to their mums, husbands giving up their 'baccy and beer to give the kids a Christmas, women working long into the night for the wherewithal to feed their families—

Maya put on her hat, skewered it in place with a hatpin the size of a stiletto, and went to see the 'per- leesmun' before he frightened three quarters of her patients. With her bag in hand, so that he would get the hint that she meant to be on her way home as soon as she'd done with him, she went out into the waiting room. The waiting room was full, of course, but thanks to Lord Peter's generosity, they'd been able to bring O'Reilly in on salary, and he, bless him, had arrived a half hour ago.

It wasn't difficult to pick the policeman out, although he was not in uniform; not too many men coming into the Fleet were so nattily attired, and those that were generally were ill at ease or even alarmed at the sight of so many members of the lowest class of society. Besides the neat brown suit, he was too well-groomed and prosperous to be from around here; his old-fashioned mutton-chop brown whiskers and mustache surrounded a well-shaved, firm chin—such a good, strong chin with no hint of middle-aged fat that Maya suspected he kept it bare out of vanity. The bowler hat had not a speck of dust to disfigure it. Maya went straight to him, her free hand held out. He took it, and shook it gravely.

'I am Doctor Witherspoon; I believe you are looking for me, Detective—?' she paused significantly, waiting for him to supply a name.

'Detective Crider,' the man replied, taking her hand and shaking it firmly. She liked his handshake; strong without being overbearing, a warm, dry hand, neither too familiar nor too distant. 'You're quickwitted to know me for a 'tec, if I do say so, miss.'

'Well, a police officer, but out of uniform—what else could you be?' she said, smiling. 'How can I help you?'

'I was just hoping you would tell me about the last time you saw a gentleman by the name of Simon Parkening,' was the odd reply. 'I'm told you have had a bit to do with him.'

Maya frowned, puzzled. 'Parkening? Goodness, the last time I saw him was at the hospital, when I was showing Bishop Mannering some of the charity wards I work in,' she replied immediately. 'I must say, he looked rather ill. He'd had what I thought might be a heatstroke the day .before, I found him on the floor of one of the storage closets, you know. I sent him up to the regular Male Wards to have one of the other physicians look him over, since he wasn't my patient.' She smiled deprecatingly. 'I am a very junior surgeon and physician, you see. As a consequence, most of my patients are charity cases, and when they are not charity, they are uniformly female. I'm hardly the type of doctor that Simon Parkening would welcome as attending physician.'

'You say he looked ill, miss?' the detective persisted.

She nodded. 'Quite green, to be honest. If he had been my patient, I would have insisted that he stop at home for several days, and if he felt he needed further attention, I would have made a house call. I can't imagine what he was thinking, coming into the hospital like that after collapsing the day before. Even if it was because he urgently needed to see his uncle, surely Doctor Clayton-Smythe would have come to him