distance farther on. She could make out a door there, a door that was swinging open. Two men appeared and headed toward them from that direction, slow but determined, wary of the swaying bridge, which sagged now as their combined weight bore them downward. In a matter of moments she and the boy and Eddie would simply be rounded up. Mother Laswell waded forward again, calling out to the boy, who picked Eddie up and hefted him. It occurred to her abruptly that the boy meant to pitch Eddie across the void and onto the roof of the nearer building. The stones of the courtyard lay far below: a fall would kill him.
“You dasn’t!” Mother Laswell shouted out. “Leave him. I’ll do what I can for him.” She staggered up to him and put her hand on Eddie’s shoulder. “Killing the boy wouldn’t serve.”
She spoke the evident truth, and the boy saw it. “I’ll find you,” he said, his voice muffled. He pushed Eddie into Mother Laswell’s arms and looked into her face for a moment as if to make certain that he would know her again. He took one last look at the two men – ten feet away now – and then vaulted up onto the taut rope, dipped his weight twice, and launched himself upward and forward, latching onto an iron vent pipe protruding through the roof and scrabbling for a moment against the tiles with his feet. The bridge reeled backward despite the stays, swinging like a hammock, and Mother Laswell fell to her knees, clutching Eddie with one arm, holding onto the line with her free hand. The boy was up and moving, over the peak of the roof and disappearing down the other side.
The men closed in on her, in no hurry now. The bridge steadied itself. They couldn’t follow the marvelous boy. He was safe, at least for the moment. She had an ally in London, and that was worth something. Eddie, alas, was not safe, nor was she, although she cared little for herself at this juncture. George bowed to her, betraying no emotion at all, certainly not anger. With a backhanded fling she sent his truncheon cartwheeling away across the rooftops.
“We’ll need to make haste, Mother,” he said. The blood had dried on his face now, one of his eyes blackened. “There’s been a mort of gunfire, and there’s no telling what might come of it if we linger. Down through the passage now, lads, we’re finished here.” His two silent cohorts, one of them handsome enough to be on the stage if it weren’t for a shockingly disfigured face, turned and set out toward the door that yawned open fifty feet away. The other man was pear-shaped and appeared to be dim-witted.
Mother Laswell looked back toward the penthouse above the arch, but the lamps had been put out, all but one. Two shadows passed behind the broken window, carrying what appeared to be crates. A night breeze had sprung up out of the east, and the fog had cleared away, the stars shining overhead, roundabout the tired moon. She considered screaming at the top of her lungs as she shepherded Eddie along before her, just in case George’s fears were correct, and her screaming would fetch the police. But George might be compelled to silence her – surely he wouldn’t hesitate to do so – and there was Eddie to think of, along with everything else. Alive and healthy she might yet do some good.
An oil lamp, emitting greasy smoke, lit the stairs spiraling downward, the stairwell so narrow that her shoulders nearly brushed the walls and she was compelled to let Eddie go on ahead of her, although he clutched her hand fiercely. She was happy for the solid footing. They came out into the courtyard, which was filling with people again, bending out from within their homes, such as they were, now that the mayhem was apparently over.
A small, weasel-faced man, flashily dressed, walked up to them, bent over, and chucked Eddie under the chin. “What have we here?” he asked, grinning falsely. Eddie trod backward, pressing into Mother Laswell.
“Bugger off, Crumpet,” George said to the man. “It’s like you to show up when the jollification’s over.”
“Or just begun,” Crumpet said, looking at Eddie rather than George. He thrust his tongue out and touched the tip of his own nose, and then winked. “But as for all that, I’ve got a job of work to do in the morning. I’ve been busy with the apparatus while you’ve been brawling.”
“Then you and your apparatus can blow yourselves to damnation. You’ve got the Doctor’s sanction for the moment, slipgibbet, but your time will come, mark my words,” George said. To Mother Laswell he added, “I’ll take charge of the lad now. That way leads to Whitechapel Road ma’am. You’d best be moving along now, while it’s still early. Fred and Coker here will see you clear of the rookery. Bear south for the river and Tower Bridge. Perhaps there’s a late train to Aylesford. The Doctor made it clear that we were to bring him the boy, but he said nothing about you, ma’am, and so you’d best be away before I’m told different. There’s nought that you can do here now. For your own sake go home, and let the fates see to the future.”
“The child is innocent,” she said, looking hard into George’s face. “I charge you with keeping him safe, for the sake of your mortal soul. It’s not the fates that will see to your future.
“He’s no friend of mine, ma’am. But you’d best move along. You can’t change things here.”
George didn’t look away, but held her gaze, and she wondered if her words would have any effect. She turned abruptly and hurried off, Fred and Coker following close behind. Eddie cried out, but she was forced by circumstance to keep on, swearing to herself that she would return for him, although she had no idea what she meant or how she would do it.
Presently the broad thoroughfare of Whitechapel Road opened before her, and she found herself walking southward, as George had suggested. When she crossed Commercial Street through the traffic, she looked back. Fred and Coker had vanished, and she was alone, although not adrift. She had no notion of a late train to Aylesford. She had left Mabel to her own devices three hours ago, and would return to Lime Street now to look in on her. She wanted a friend, although she was unsure whether Mabel would especially want her back, given the trouble she had brought with her.
She hadn’t gone twenty paces, however, when she saw a man whom she recognized coming along in the opposite direction across the street, his features clearly visible in the gaslight. He looked straight ahead and walked at a steady pace, as if he would be happy to quit the neighborhood as quickly as he could, but without attracting attention. He wore the chin whiskers, the wig, and the black coat of the man who had been hidden in the room with Eddie. But there was something else about him…
And then suddenly she knew him, beneath the disguise and despite his being much older than when she had last seen him. He had visited her husband several times at Hereafter Farm, not long before Edward’s death. Now here he was closeted with Narbondo. After the scene in Narbondo’s rooms, he would of course know her identity, but had he seen her here on the street, or did he suppose that she had gone on her way after being dismissed?
Mabel Morningstar felt very nearly human again. She had awakened famished – the pain in her forehead quite disappeared – and had gone downstairs to the tavern for a bowl of barley soup and some bread and cheese, which had set her up remarkably. Over dinner her mind and heart were caught up in considerations of her friend’s sad state, the warring emotions and the maelstrom into which she was determined to fling herself. Mabel could think of nothing she could do to help; indeed, she scarcely understood Harriet Laswell’s motivations or intentions. Rarely had she sensed a mind so terribly unsure of itself and yet so utterly compelled to act.
It was late when she returned to her rooms, carrying the uneaten portion of cheese and bread for the next morning’s breakfast. Having slept away most of the day and evening, bed was out of the question, so she poured herself a glass of cognac, which, she considered, she heartily deserved, and sat down in her reading chair in the corner of the room, where there was the best light.
She studied the ruined table map again, astonished anew at the long, straight tear in the vellum, recalling the terrible moment when her senses had been overpowered and she had lost consciousness. She mouthed a silent prayer for her friend: that Harriet come out of this with her wits about her and without regret, or at least no more regret than she could tolerate.
She heard footfalls on the stairs now – a man, from the sound of the heavy tread. She snatched up the paper knife without a thought, fear surging through her as the memory of that staring, slowly approaching face imposed itself upon her mind. At the same time she was astonished that the memory had returned with such potency. The footfalls stopped outside the door, and there was a long silence in which she composed herself, the fear having passed away as quickly as it had arrived. It came to her that this was a complete stranger, a customer, perhaps.
