Sorry,” she said to me under her breath. “She gets very like a mother hen sometimes. Hates it when I go out at night.
“Good, thanks Marie, see you later… No, I’ll not take time for a cup of tea… Yes, yes, I’ll telephone if I’m going to be late, but I won’t be.”
Marie held my coat for me, and even her disapproving hands could not take away the pleasure I felt in the luscious soft grey-blue vicuna with black sealskin collar and lining, new that very afternoon. It set off the richer blue of my dress, as if it had been made for it, as indeed it had. Margery looked at it closely.
“That’s lovely, Mary. It’s not a Chanel?”
I assured her it was not, then told her briefly about the elves.
“Ask them if they would consider doing some things for me, could you please? That hat is perfect on you, too, just the right shape for your face. My,” she noted as we walked up the corridor to the front windows of the building, “it is rather thick, isn’t it?”
It was full dark, but the lights from overhead and from the slow-moving vehicles illuminated the swirling yellow mist like a scene from a Wilkie Collins novel. Actually, it was not yet too bad, as London fogs went, and when our eyes had adjusted, we found we could see a good ten feet before the curtain thickened. At least we did not need to worry about tripping over kerbstones or walking into walls.
We walked slowly. The streets, as always in London, seemed to alternate between bustling thoroughfares and narrow pavements empty but for the occasional bobby; with the fog, the main streets were quieter than normal, and the mews and alleys echoed their desolation. Margery’s heels clacked on the paving stones and my softer soles scrunched imperceptibly. The occasional horse and cart passed; cars and lorries eased by, their drivers leaning out over their doors and squinting through the windscreens. I consulted my inner map, turned us in the right direction, and decided it couldn’t hurt to reveal my curiosity about Marie.
“You said Marie doesn’t like you to go out at night. Is there any reason for that?”
“Not really. Just being protective. You’re wondering why I put up with being bullied by my maid.”
I laughed. “Well…”
“She has a good heart, underneath the prickles. She’s a distant cousin; she came to me six years ago when the rest of her family was killed and her village taken by the Germans. It’s important to her, feeling that I need her to care for me, and there’s no doubt she makes life easier at times.”
“Except when you wish to go out at night.”
“As you say.” She laughed.
“Do you get called out very often?”
“Not really, not anymore, although the Circle knows it can call on me whenever it needs to consult, like tonight. With so many others to—”
I never heard the end of her answer. As we walked, I had taken automatic note of our surroundings, more perhaps than usual because of the potential hazards contained in the all-concealing fog. When the quiet footsteps behind us broke into a run in the middle of a deserted patch of residences, I did not pause to think, just reacted. I shoved Margery hard from me and pivoted to meet the owner of these footsteps, who proved to be a slick young man with a narrow black moustache, dark eyes, and the gleam of a wicked sliver of steel in his bare right hand.
My unexpected response stopped him dead, and he eyed me uncertainly for signs of a weapon. When none appeared, he relaxed and took a step to one side, looking for Margery. She began to scramble to her feet.
“Don’t move, Margery,” I ordered. “Stay right where you are.”
His eyes snapped back to me, and even in that light, I could see the evil smile of warm anticipation that crawled onto his face. For an instant, I froze, but when the knife came for me, my body moved of its own accord. The knife slid past my ribs, but he was fast, too, and recovered his balance in an instant, bouncing back out of my reach to reconsider while the tip of his blade flickered back and forth like the tongue of a serpent.
Had I been alone, it would have been simple, merely a matter of dodging out of his reach and not tripping over my shoes until I encountered something I could use as a weapon. However, I had no handbag, could not risk the temporary encumbrance of unbuttoning my coat, and I dared not move from my place while Margery was behind me. I reached up and pulled the hat from my head, to use as a shield for my hand at least, but when the knife flashed out again, I could not dodge far enough to avoid it entirely, and it sliced through vicuna and sealskin, wool and silk, and into the arm beneath.
It was like being cut with a razor, and I did not feel the pain at first, only the shock of violation. Without taking my eyes from his, I flexed the hand tentatively to reassure myself that it was still working, felt the burn of the wound mixed with a wash of cold air where none should be, and suddenly all I knew was fury. Yes, I was bleeding freely; yes, Margery and I were both in mortal danger, but just then the pain and the fear were nothing compared with the rage I felt at this wanton ruination of my beautiful coat and the sleeve beneath. I was damned if I would lose one more article of clothing to the knife, whether I was inside it or not. No slick-faced creature with a sharp blade was going to destroy my wardrobe again.
“You bloody bastard!” I shouted, and I don’t know which of the three of us was the most astonished at the sheer fury in my voice. He hesitated, then came at me again, only this time, instead of dodging, I stepped inside his rush and turned, and at the cost of another nick (the sleeve would have to be replaced, anyway), I got both hands on his wrist. When he struggled, I reared back hard and felt more than heard the satisfying sound his nose made as it broke against the back of my head. The knife went skipping across the paving stones, and while he was distracted, I spun him around and locked his arm high against his back. I growled in his ear.
“If you move, something will break.”
He did not listen (his kind never do), but wrenched his body violently away from me, and his elbow simply came apart. He shrieked, and when I dropped his wrist roughly, his screams doubled. I went to help Margery up. She had scraped one knee and would have bruises tomorrow, but for the most part she was only shaken, and that primarily due to the loud agony of the figure clutching his right arm with such exquisite care.
“My God, Mary, what did you do to him?”
“I didn’t do a thing. I just let him do it.”
“But he’s hurt!” In a minute, she would be kneeling, with his head on her lap. I went over to the kerb and picked up the knife by its needle-sharp tip. Her eyes went wide, and I realised that she had not seen it before, as I had blocked her view as well as her body. She looked further and saw the rapidly spreading dark patch on my left arm and her eyes got even wider.
“He cut you,” she said stupidly.
“He was trying to kill you, Margery,” I said, more mildly than I felt. Had she been alone… I thought suddenly of Iris, and turned to look at the young assailant, so that I nearly missed the extraordinary expression that flitted across her face. It was momentary, preceeded by shock and followed quickly by fear, but for a brief instant there was something else.
It looked like speculation—not at her attacker, but at something seen by an inner eye. She rapidly squelched it, and then there was only fear and the aftermath of shock, and by the time the bobby pounded into view, she was huddled, trembling, on a doorstep. I wondered just what it was I had seen.
Explanations took no little time, both there on the street and inside the police station. I accepted sticking plasters and ointment, refused a doctor (the cut was not deep, just long), and, after the leaks had been stopped, I spoke some private words with the inspector on duty. Telephone calls were made, and the general air of suspicious disbelief faded, replaced by one of respectful disbelief. My recommendation that the young knife wielder be arrested after his hospital visit sent one PC out the door to cling to him lest he disappear prematurely. My mention of number sixteen, Norwood Place sent another bobby scurrying out, though when he came back to confirm that there was no number sixteen, no families on either side, and no one who had heard of a Miss Cynthia Goddart, I was not greatly surprised. Margery was sent home under police escort, only a few minutes late for her dinner, and I was left alone in a cluttered police office before a stout, red-face chief inspector with a jolly demeanor but flint-like eyes. I smiled weakly, and he took me through each step of the evening yet again.
“So, Miss Russell,” he said finally. “People in high places tell me you’re to be trusted. Do you think I ought to trust you?”
I reflected, shrugged, and winced. I couldn’t remember pulling my shoulder, but apparently I had.
“I don’t know at this point whether it matters or not,” I answered. He poked a stubby finger into the mound of paraphernalia on the desk blotter, things that had been politely but authoritatively removed from my person by a
