along. They led him out of the ballroom and into a hallway. Hanging back, I turned the corner to see that they were already gone, but I surmised that they had taken a staircase, which I then quietly, though with stealth, ascended. Within a moment I was not far behind these men as they spiraled upward in silence. I, too, had to be entirely silent, for if they but looked down they would see me in pursuit.
At what I believed to be the uppermost floor they removed themselves down a dark hallway. A few candles flickered, producing a confusing maze of darkness and shadow. I struggled to proceed quietly while keeping up with the rapidly advancing men ahead of me, all but invisible in the poorly lit halls. But if the dominos were indistinguishable from the shadows, Elias’s red beard glowed dimly in the candlelight.
Finally they stopped in a room at the end of the hallway. Thinking themselves alone, they did not bother to close the door, and I remained unobserved just outside.
The men in dominos circled around Elias. “We’ve a message for you,” one of them said, in a familiar-sounding country accent.
“From whom?” Elias asked. I smiled at his mangled imitation of my voice.
The one who had spoken before took a step closer to Elias. “From them what wants yer to mind yer own business,” he said. And with a fluid motion he picked up a thick, rounded stick that leaned against the wall and pushed the blunt end hard into Elias’s stomach.
My good friend collapsed like a cut sail, but his helplessness deterred the villains not at all. Soon they had sticks in their hands, and before I could reach Elias they had begun to beat mercilessly about his back and sides. I suppose they believed him to be Benjamin Weaver and felt they must incapacitate the experienced pugilist before he could respond. I cared not a fig, however, and only saw that my friend whose safety I had jeopardized was suffering prodigiously.
I threw off my mask, for the time to forsake disguise was upon me. Before my presence was even detected I had grabbed one of the larger scoundrels by the back of his neck and shoved him face-first into the exposed brick of the wall. This blow took care of him effectively, but now the three remaining men realized their error and hesitantly faced me with their sticks at the ready.
“Who sent you?” I demanded.
“Those you’ve made angry,” one of them said. Perhaps seeing me prepared for combat, with their companion insensible and bleeding upon the floor, they were hesitant to take me on. And I knew this hesitation gave me as much of an advantage as I could expect of three armed men. I was, as always, armed myself. I had no hangar about me, for a sword would have been difficult to carry under the costume, but I had my pistol by my side. Yet, with one shot, and three adversaries, I thought it foolish to brandish the firearm, and I always believed that the pistol was the weapon of last resort. I also had no desire to kill anyone if I could avoid doing so. With the case against Kate Cole to be tried in a matter of weeks, I wished more than anything to remain out of the public eye.
I crouched down quickly and grabbed the stick belonging to the man I had felled, keeping my eyes on my assailants at all times. This movement dissolved the surprise of my manifestation and, in an effort to take back the advantage, one of the men took his stick and hit the groaning Elias hard about the knee. I fear I was as predictable as he had hoped, and stepped in to stop further beating. With my stick raised in my left hand, I threw a hard punch with my right to the man’s head, and it connected most satisfyingly, but I soon felt the harsh blows of heavy wood about my back. These blows preyed upon a weakness caused by Jonathan Wild’s men, and I went black for a moment. In my confusion, I lost my stick, but recovered my senses before I hit the ground. Holding out a hand to the wall to steady myself, I saw that the man I had hit sat on the floor, rubbing his skull, and that he had let go of his weapon.
With an abrupt jerk, I grabbed his stick and swung it wildly at the two remaining rascals. I succeeded in scattering them away from Elias, but I soon realized my mistake; before, they had been close together, and I might have struck one quickly and then evened the odds. Instead they now had the advantage, for one could hit me from behind while the other took me on directly.
I shifted my position, hoping to place myself in a corner, for while it would give me no chance to exit, it would limit my enemies’ paths of approach. This I did, and saw that I faced more danger than I had realized, for the man I had struck was now on his feet, and in the light of the moon from the window behind him, I saw that he held a pistol aimed toward me.
“Drop the cudgel, Jew,” he spat, “or you’re pig meat for sure.”
This man clearly misunderstood me if he thought this tack would prove persuasive. With the stick still in my left hand, I reached into my costume for my own pistol, which I pulled out in a fluid motion. In the dark of the room I could see the villain’s firearm flash, and, acting upon pure animal instinct, I fired my own. It was not an irrational action, but I saw immediately that it had been unnecessary, for his pistol had misfired and burst into flame in his hand. He let out a scream, as much of anger as of pain, and dropped the gun just as the ball from mine struck him slightly below the shoulder, forcing him backward, as though he had been tackled. The weight of the blow pressed him hard against the window, and he penetrated the fragile and, I suspect, already cracked glass. I could not see what happened, but as I turned to face my other enemies I heard him shriek with terror as he slid down the roof and dropped to the ground no small distance below.
When I turned, I saw that my attackers had fled, leaving behind the man I had rendered unconscious. I thought to pursue them, but I knew my first duty was Elias, who lay on the floor motionless. I grabbed one of the only candles from a sconce and held it to Elias’s face. I could see no visible breaks in the skin, and he was clearly breathing, if in a hoarse and labored manner. I turned him over to see that his eyes were open and he winced in pain. “Phlebotomize me,” he whispered with a sickly grin. “But first, catch those scoundrels.”
I trusted in Elias’s knowledge as a surgeon, and indeed his womanish valor, not to send me away if his life was in any real danger, so I grabbed a cudgel and flew down the stairs, finding no evidence of my attackers.
Outside, a crowd had gathered about the body of the man who had fallen, and I forced my way through to see if he were still alive. He was not. He lay, his face to one side, blood trickling from his mouth as well as from the wound I had inflicted upon him. In the attitude of death his looks were quite changed, but I knew the man. I recognized him. It was he who had attacked me on Cecil Street late at night, and it was he who had fled from me at South Sea House.
I was sorry to have killed him. Not quite true, perhaps. My heart raced and my blood pounded through my veins, and I felt no remorse and no guilt. However, I was sorry that he had not lived long enough to answer some questions before expiring. My task now, I knew, was to find his companions and make them speak or to meet the same fate as their friend.
My plans were thwarted by the arrival of the constables. They were as much a pair of blackguards as ever performed the task of justice in this town. I knew them both from Duncombe’s court, but never took either when I ventured upon an arrest, for they were known villains who delighted only in random violence. One was a fat, squat fellow with a hideous purplish rash all about his face. The other was a less-disgusting creature—a normal-enough- looking man, I suppose, but for his narrow eyes, slitted just enough to reveal his cruelty.
“Does anyone know who shot this man?” the fat one shouted.
“Aye.” A man stepped forward. He wore no costume, but I knew from his voice that he was one of the men who had attacked me. He pointed in my direction. “There’s the man,” he said in the same tone he might use to ask an oyster woman for a tuppence’ worth. “I saw it all, and I’ll swear before the justice. It was cold-blooded murder, it was.”
“See that you do swear it before the judge,” I spat, as the constables approached me. “I’ll enjoy watching you hang.” I was too angry to do much but spit curses. There was nothing to be gained by running from the constables, for my attackers knew my name, and I would be apprehended in the end. I have a witness, I thought, who will clear this matter in but an instant. But it then occurred to me that I knew not where this man’s remaining conspirators were, and that Elias lay defenseless upstairs. I started to move forward, but two constables grabbed me from behind. “You’ll go nowhere,” the cruel-looking one said.
I struggled against the grip of the two men. I felt certain I could break away if I could but invoke the sum of my strength, but I was tired and dejected, and I feared for my friend, who could, even at that moment, be having his throat slit while he lay helpless. My weakened struggles only angered the men who contained me, and they forced my arms back into the most uncomfortable of positions. I scanned the crowd, as if for help, searching for someone who might speak in my behalf. As I searched, I saw none other than Noah Sarmento, who stood far back in the crowd, watching me coldly with his hollow eyes. Our gazes met for an instant, and in my moment of panic it
