nearly ran into Eddie, who had slowed down, peering ahead of him dubiously. There was a dead man lying across the path twenty feet farther on, his shoulders and head in the brook so that the water washed over his face. Finn didn’t need to see the face, however, to know who it was – George, from the clothing and the bald head. He gestured Eddie forward, warning him not to look, although Finn had to, out of respect or so it seemed to him.
The back of George’s coat was stained with blood – the work of Sneed’s knife, no doubt. There were no other visible wounds, but there were footprints along the muddy bank of the brook, a mess of them, half of them perfectly enormous. George had put up a fight, but McFee – it had to be he – had apparently drowned him. There was nothing to do for him, and no time to dawdle in any event. They moved on at an even pace, Finn telling himself that George had done the right thing by helping them, although the thought was moderately cold comfort.
There was a noise then, off to the right – someone – the Crumpet, running at a sort of gallop through the trees, angling across to cut them off, the tails of his blue coat flying up behind him. Eddie apparently saw him as well. He needed no encouragement, but ran like the wind up the trail, Finn behind him, pacing himself, glancing to the side in order to watch the Crumpet’s approach. The man would cross their path forty or fifty feet ahead, where there was a clearing along the brook. The water was deep enough and rocky enough to slow him down, but it wouldn’t stop him. Something else would have to stop him.
“Don’t look back,” Finn shouted breathlessly. “No matter what happens. Follow the trail, like I told you!”
And with that Finn leapt into the brook, landing atop a stone, leapt to another, and then across, running hard along the water’s edge now, in packed sand and leaves, relieved to see that Eddie was flying up the trail some distance ahead. Who would the Crumpet want, Finn wondered, for he couldn’t have the both of them.
The distance between them was closing fast. Finn took two half steps and threw himself into a tumble, rolling into a ball, straight into the Crumpet’s path. He was struck hard, the Crumpet grunting and pitching forward, kicking Finn a glancing blow on the side of the head in passing. Finn was up onto his feet, his head reeling, seeing that the Crumpet was splayed out in the stream, struggling to rise. Eddie was out of sight, although the Crumpet would catch him easily enough once he was up and moving again. And so he was, almost at once, stumbling across the stream as if to follow Eddie, driven either by loyalty to Narbondo or by fear. It wouldn’t do. Finn picked up a big stone with both hands and ran forward, pitching it at the Crumpet’s head, striking him above the neck, so that his head jerked back, and he fell to his knees, coming down hard and shouting a curse when his knees struck.
He stood up again, turning toward Finn in a wild rage now. Finn had no intention of letting the man get near him, only to draw him away from Eddie. He picked up a smaller stone and threw it hard, the Crumpet shrugging aside as it flew past. He stood gazing at Finn now, his trouser legs torn open and water-soaked, his right knee bloody, his blue coat streaked with blood and filth. His face was dead calm, however, his one good eye unblinking, his other eye a closed, red weal. He drew out his knife and walked slowly toward Finn, picking his way back across the rocky stream as if he had time to spare after all. Finn backed away, thinking hard whether to chance more stones or to run.
In that moment Eddie appeared at a dead run.
Finn broke and ran, back up the stream where he crossed to the path again, looking back to see the Crumpet coming on, not in a mad rush now, but with a calm determination, as if his life had narrowed to this one contentious goal. At least Eddie was safely out of sight, Finn thought, recalling his happy surprise when Eddie had picked up the branch. And then once again he was running.
THIRTY-THREE
'Please, sir, no more of your histrionics,” Lord Moorgate said. “I find them tedious in the extreme, and I’m anxious to be away.
I came here desiring to bring some sensible conclusion to last night’s abortive meeting. But now I find myself no further along and half a day wasted and having been shot at into the bargain. The boy has run off once again due to your stupidity, or something worse. You’ve failed me, Doctor, and I have half a mind to abandon you.”
They stood in the cellar once again, Lord Moorgate, Helen, and Narbondo, the three of them alone, Narbondo’s men dispersed – some of them searching the countryside, some of them loading barrels aboard the freshly painted steam launch.
“What’s in the other half of your mind, Lord Moorgate? As is true of you and your associates, I have far too much invested in the project to see it abandoned now because of your suspicions and timidity.”
“I warn you that you sail dangerously close to the wind when you accuse me of timidity, sir – a man to whom you owe your life, unless of course your life was never in danger in the first place. The lunatic with the pistol, after all, shot at me, not at you.” He cocked his head and narrowed his eyes. “The salient point is that I’ll find it impossible to explain to my business associates that the assurance I promised them has run away into the marsh. They’re impatient men, Doctor, and quite unhappy to throw good money after bad. Your own head will be forfeit; depend upon it.”
“What you explain to your business associates is of no concern to me,” Narbondo said. He smiled at Helen, who seemed to be listening keenly. “Unless of course the beautiful Helen is one of those associates. In that case my concern is very nearly boundless.”
“You jest once again, but to your own peril, sir. My suspicions are justified, I find. It’s remarkable that you clearly anticipated the appearance of the lunatic with the pistol just now. As you no doubt know, that same man attacked me on the street last night after I left your apartment in Spitalfields. Now here he is again, like the ghost at the feast, but carrying a pistol. He threatens to murder you, but was that his intent?”
“I anticipated his arrival because one of my men intercepted a missive that revealed his approach. He shot at you, it seems to me, because you shot him. I have no idea why he attacked you in London. I don’t care a groat for your suspicions.”
“Then I’ll come to the point. I’m willing to proceed, but on the condition that you supply the balance of the money that de Groot will pay to our man in the War Office. Then we’re equally invested in the project’s success. When you’ve finished your work with the boy’s skull and demonstrate its effectiveness, we’ll repay you. And don’t pretend that you’re not in funds, Doctor. I’m aware that you have a very deep purse.”
Narbondo nodded. “You bargain like a Scotsman, sir. But answer me this: why shouldn’t I cut your throat at once and take your money?”
“You’re not daft enough to think that I have the money with me?”
“To the contrary, I’m the very king of the daft, sir. I wonder whether Helen knows where the money lies, and whether she would betray you.”
“I might,” Helen said promptly. “I will be the one to deliver the money to de Groot. Lord Moorgate intends to be in York tomorrow morning, innocently visiting his cousin.”
“Which is entirely sensible,” Moorgate said to Narbondo. He turned to Helen and said, “You’d be wise to remain silent, Helen. I tell you this for your own good.”
“And what else has he promised you for your own good, my dear, now that your head is also in the noose? I don’t say what has he
“You waste your breath,” Moorgate said. “Come, Helen, return the bauble to the Doctor. We’re finished
