‘Fuck,’ Finn says under his breath. ‘Fuck, fuck, fuck.’
They had been working so intently that not one of them was aware of the light of the lanterns gathering in the street. Finn raises his hand signalling them to be still, to wait. He tidies his shirt and waistcoat, wipes his hands on his britches, and smooths his hair. There could be a neighbour in distress at their door, or a warning of fire.
Finn steps carefully towards the parlour window and narrows his eye to look through the shutter’s crack. The men are in private clothes. He cannot tell how many there are. One continually pounds with a flat hand upon his door. It’s obvious they have come for him.
The night watch should have warned him, but tonight the decrepit old man who is easily bribed has accepted a second compensation, and now keeps happily drunk and warm as he sits with the publican on the bend of Three Colt Street.
The pounding stops, the men outside are suddenly still. They have seen the shadow of movement by the shutter; though slight, it is enough. The men wait for the phantom to make his move.
With one foot slowly creeping in front of the other Finn steps on the weakest floor plank, which sends out a reverberating groan. He will never know if the Thames police did actually hear his misstep from the doorway, but they most definitely hear him try to recover when he knocks up against the blasted armonica in the dark. With one concerted effort the constables push through the door like a tempest felling a ship.
‘Peelers!’ Finn shouts out.
The warning call is too late. Willa and Jonesy are trapped in the cellar surrounded by the piles of goods that tower to the ceiling. They make a futile attempt to squeeze in behind a wooden cask. The constables know exactly where the door to the cellar is located, and in all the chaos and the shouting this strikes Finn as both odd and important.
‘You, sir, have fallen foul of the law for the last time. And you take down all these here with you who have been on the game.’ This from the burly man in charge.
Jonesy and Willa are discovered and dragged out of the cellar. It is at this moment that they and Finn first become aware of the fact that Clovis Fowler is nowhere to be seen.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Clovis flees to Fore Street in a night that has turned damp and threatening. In a gust of wind the baby’s white blanket leaves a tail that skims along behind her. She pauses for a brief moment when she hears footfall on the slick pavement. From the corner of her eye she recognizes the figure that follows her every step these days. Unlike her, he does not breath heavily. Well, follow me if you wish, even if it may be to hell, she thinks, and fleetingly wonders at Benedikt’s commitment.
She is on the move again. Though it appears that she speaks to the fog in front of her, her words are meant for the man at her heels.
‘I go to the sisters Fitzgerald.’
No response.
‘I must tell them about you. It will be unavoidable if you want to be informed of the boy’s progress.’
Still nothing.
‘We will need a great deal of money or else we will hang. Tell Iceland I will not be deported. I will take my own life first.’
Clovis picks up her pace again, as does Benedikt.
When she reaches Fore Street she pauses once more.
‘He will be safe here.’
She then turns to face him but he has already melded into the indefatigable fog.
It is three o’clock in the morning, a sombre hour to be alone on any London street. Clovis has no torch or protection now that Bendikt has disappeared again. She expects to wake the entire street when she beats on the Fitzgerald sisters’ door but is taken aback when it opens immediately.
In spite of Clovis’s mission, her astonishment tumbles out. ‘I find you awake?’
The house is alive with brilliant light suffusing the hallway, where both sisters stand bathed in a pale, yellow glow. They are all sleeves, large gigot sleeves of matching black gowns with broad, white collars. Clovis wonders if a ritual is performed in this house tonight. A violin’s melancholic tune continues, despite her interruption. The sisters’ faces are warm from cognac, their breathing heavy from dancing to the violin’s song.
‘We do not follow rules of day and night. And you?’ Constance asks.
Clovis summons her nerve, a different sort than she has relied upon in the past. For a woman about to be charged, she displays a remarkable presence of mind.
‘A great emergency has occurred. May I be admitted?’
Constance opens the door wider for her to enter.
‘There has been a grave error … A terrible misunderstanding … A mistake has been made.’ Clovis clenches her jaw for stumbling, for sounding needy.
With a furrowed brow Constance looks to the baby, then to Clovis. ‘What is it that brings you out at this hour? What would encourage you to endanger your child in this way?’
Clovis ignores the admonishment. ‘I have little time to tell you. My entire household is arrested. I have absconded with the boy for his safety. I plead with you ladies, who are to be his godparents, that you look after him until I return. And return I will, rest assured of that. These charges … they are unfounded.’
Verity has hold of Constance’s arm in such a tight squeeze that Constance winces and gently removes it.
The three women stand like statues, each filling up with past regrets and wild thoughts of the future. Verity makes a low choking noise and turns her head away.
A child. A boy.
‘Well.’ Constance finds her voice. ‘It is a great responsibility.’
‘I do not have the luxury of time.
