With a loud yell George came flying through the air like a wild monkey, landing on top of Nixon, sending him sprawling on the cobblestones. She jumped up and kicked him, hard. He curled up in a ball, howling with pain and fury.
Rose grabbed the other half of Lavinia’s skirt. “Pull, Lily!” They both pulled and suddenly Lavinia popped free, like a cork popping from a bottle. They fell back against the parapet of the bridge.
People, noticing the disturbance, were moving forward in curiosity and concern. The driver, seeing it, whipped the horses and the carriage rumbled away.
Lavinia, now safe, started weeping. Rose held her, murmuring reassurance. But where was Nixon? Lily spied him slinking into the crowd on Westminster Bridge. “Quick, he’s getting away! Help! Someone stop that man! He’s an evil child abductor!” she yelled. But nobody made a move.
A piercing whistle split the air, and in the sudden surprised silence, George yelled, at the top of her voice, “Ten quid for whoever brings me the man in the yellow waistcoat! That one there.” She pointed.
At the chance of ten pounds, men emerged from the crowd: burly men, tattooed men, the kind of men nobody would want to meet on a public thoroughfare, let alone a dark alley. They prowled toward Nixon.
The crowd around him melted away until there was just Nixon, pressed against the parapet of Westminster Bridge, and a small group of hefty ruffians forming a ragged semicircle around him.
He produced a knife and brandished it. “Stay back!”
One brute snorted. A scarred thug spat. A third produced a much more wicked-looking knife. They moved closer. “Ten quid is ten quid,” one of them said.
Nixon looked wildly around. There was no escape. He twisted around, and before anyone realized what he was about, he stood poised on the parapet. “There’s always another way,” he said. He turned and dived gracefully off the bridge.
They heard a thump and a splash and some shouting. Lily and George rushed to look down, pressing against the stone barrier, but all they could see was a barge passing under the bridge and men on it shouting as they peered into the water.
“Can you see him?” Lily shook her head.
“He can’t have gotten away, not with all these people around, surely,” George said.
A couple of rivermen rowed their boats out. They circled the area, probing the water with their long hooks while barge men shouted directions.
Lily glanced back to where Rose was comforting Lavinia. The girl was only fourteen. Lily shuddered, imagining what might have happened. Nixon needed to be caught and brought to trial.
There was a shout from the river. They all rushed to look. One of the rivermen had caught something. He hauled it up. A dripping body in a dirty yellow waistcoat.
“Still breathin’?” one of George’s ragged gallants shouted.
The riverman gave him a thumbs-down and shook his head. “Hit the barge as it was comin’ under the bridge,” he yelled up. “Smashed his head in.” He lifted Nixon’s head by the hair and even from that distance they could see the bloody gash in his scalp.
George looked at Lily. “Brings new meaning to ‘look before you leap,’ doesn’t it?”
Lily stared down at the thing that had been Nixon. He couldn’t hurt anyone now. She felt shaky and a bit sick. Justice had been done, and by his own hand.
George fished about in her reticule, and, robbing Lily and Rose, managed to dig up seven half crowns. She gave a half crown to each man in her collection of thugs, and when one was inclined to argue, she said boldly, “You’re lucky to get this much. You were supposed to catch him, not let him disappear into the Thames. But if you don’t want my money—”
“I want it,” he growled, and held out a dirty paw.
The show over, the crowd slowly dissipated. Lily turned to Lavinia. “What happened? What were you doing with Mr. Nixon?”
Lavinia started sobbing again and between sobs blurted out an involved tale involving messages and secret assignations and declarations of love. Miss Mallard had learned of Nixon’s covert attentions, and because Lavinia’s parents lived abroad, she’d been sent to stay with her godmother in London. But she’d managed to get a message to Nixon. He’d followed her to London, but when he’d proposed a runaway match, she’d changed her mind.
“You’ve had a lucky escape. He’s a ruthless man and was only after your money,” Lily said severely. “Now, don’t cry. You’re safe now. We’ll take you home. Where does your godmother live?”
Lavinia gave them the address. They hired a hackney and, promising to come and see her the next day and bring her to have tea with Emm, who was her former teacher, they left her to deal with her very shocked godmother, who had imagined her still in bed.
“Poor child,” Lily said as they drove away.
“Little fool,” George said. “She’s fourteen. What’s a schoolgirl doing letting a grown man chase after her?”
Rose said nothing. She was very quiet.
Lily glanced out the window and saw where they were. “Stop,” she called to the driver. “Turn around, please.”
“What are you doing?” Rose asked. “You surely don’t want to go back to light candles now, do you?”
“No, it’s spoiled for today,” Lily said. “But Sylvia lives down that street. Turn right,” she called to the cabbie.
“Sylvia?”
“Her cousin has just died. We saw it. We are implicated in his death.”
“No, he chose to—”
“It’s all right, I don’t feel in the slightest bit guilty about it. To be honest, it’s a neater ending than I’d hoped for. And breaking the news to Sylvia will somehow finish it off for me, once and for all.”
Rose shrugged. “Go ahead, then.”
But when they got to Sylvia’s house they found her in the street, supervising the loading of a large mound of luggage onto an antiquated traveling coach.
They piled out of the hackney.
“What are you doing here?” Sylvia said rudely when she saw Lily. “I thought you said you never wanted
