“Why?” Adele said, her suspicion flaring.
“Your accent is likely to render mute most who hear it, here.”
“Oh.” She remained on the pavement at the bottom of the two narrow steps and studied the soot-covered bricks and dirty windows, while Slane hammered on the door.
The door opened quickly enough, and she heard a quick exchange in Gaelic. Among the words she detected “Cranston.” Then Slane called, “Come up, Mrs. Becket.”
She climbed the steps to where Slane stood. A man in a dirty shirt and suspenders moved away from the door when he saw her and jerked his thumb up the stairs that also started immediately inside the door, with just enough room between the first and the door to allow it to fully open.
The ceiling was very low and the room to the other side of the stairs smelled of ashes and grease. She was glad to climb the stairs and escape the aromas, even though the stairs were so narrow she was in danger of catching her hem upon the bannister railings, and so steep two normal steps could have taken their place and still had room to spare.
At the top of the stairs was an oddly shaped landing with four doors coming off it, each doorframe nearly touching the next. Directly opposite the stairs, down a passage as narrow as the stairs, was another very small door, and beside it, a window looking out upon the backs of houses along the next street. They were as grimy as this house.
Adele was too far away from the window to determine what lay between the houses.
Slane moved over to the first door and hammered on it. “Adrian Cranston!” He hammered again.
The door beside him opened and a tall man launched himself at Slane. Slane spun, his arms coming up. The two grappled, while Adele inched around the newel post, wondering what to do. Her heart battered at the inside of her chest as she watched the pair.
Cranston was in his thirties. He had pale golden hair, brown eyes and a square jaw that was currently set with dogged determination as he tried to gouge out Slane’s eyes with the stiff fingers of one hand, while the other gripped Slane’s neck, the tips digging in.
They grunted and swore, trying to best each other. It was a contest of pure strength, she realized. Strength of body and wills, between two opponents who appeared to be of equal power and determination. They shuffled around as each tried to overcome the other.
Adele gripped the frame of her reticule in a firm hand, stepped up behind the blond man and swung it hard at the back of his head.
The impact made his knees sag and his grip to loosen. Slane took advantage of the opportunity by raising his fist and hammering it upon the man’s face.
Cranston sagged, blood spurting from his nose.
But before he collapsed completely, he pushed up off his feet. His shoulder rammed into Slane’s chest, knocking him backward into the still open doorway of the room Cranston had emerged from.
Cranston staggered in the opposite directly, straight toward Adele. He cannoned into her and she tripped backward into the bare yard of upper bannister at the top of the stairs, the newel post ramming into her left arm.
Cranston leapt down the narrow passageway and scrabbled at the window catch.
Adele opened her reticule, pulled out her gun, cocked it and aimed, just as Slane stepped past her.
“Get out of my way!” she screamed.
Slane threw himself back into the tiny landing area, clearing her view. Cranston was nearly out of the window.
She fired. The gun bellowed, in that enclosed space. She saw the back of Cranston’s trousers puff, throwing up threads. The fawn-colored trousers turned red around the new hole.
Then he was through the window and gone.
Slane bent and put his hands upon his knees, breathing hard. “That will bring the Garda,” he said, between bellows.
“Then we have no time to waste.” Adele thrust the gun back into her reticule and shut it with a snap.
“‘tis little wonder the man folded, with the likes of that against his noggin’,” Slane observed.
“Serves him right for underestimating me,” Adele replied and moved toward the door which Slane had hammered upon.
“He came out of this room,” Slane said, pushing back the swinging door.
“Which he stepped into when he heard you asking for him by name, downstairs,” Adele said. “The landlord told you this was the room, yes?”
“Yes.” His breath was easing.
She rattled the handled. “Locked.”
“Out of the way,” he ordered.
“You intend to break it down?” she asked, as he eyed the door.
“You just shot a man. ‘tis a bit late to be crying about the law.”
She stepped out of the way. She half expected the man to kick the door in, the way characters did in the penny dreadfuls, but instead, he rammed the door with his shoulder, close to the edge.
With a crack of splintered wood, the door wavered open, and he pushed it all aside.
Adele moved into the room and looked around. It was small, which she expected. It was very neat, which she had not expected. A bed, a bureau, an old-fashioned washstand, and a window. A narrow wardrobe against the wall beside the door. The whole room was a chopped off wedge shape, with the narrowest section holding the door.
Adele moved to the bureau and opened the drawer, expecting to see male underthings or other personal items, but the drawer was full of documents.
She snatched up one and unfolded it. “An employment reference for Brian Cranston.” Disappointed, she put it aside.
“What were you expecting? A different name?” Slane said, sounding amused.
“Yes,” she admitted.
His brows lifted.
“He was quick, too prepared. Stepping into the next room is something a professional does.”
“A professional what?”
She picked up the next paper and unfolded. “A professional agent, Mr. Slane.”
“A spy?” He snatched up one of the neatly folded papers himself and unfolded it.
“Mine says Adrian Krantz,” Adele said quietly. “Yours?”
“Thekla Größel.” Slane looked up. “What is going on here?” His
