The Armored Doctor (Curiosity Chronicles Book 2) (18 page)

Jacob fitted it all together. “Is your wife Mrs. Catherine Evancourt?”

“That’s her name.” The man looked at him with suspicion and unease. “I’m her husband, Hammond Evancourt. Do you know where she and her sister Miss Benton are?”

“I do not. According to the landlady, they left around suppertime, but haven’t returned.”

Hammond pushed his hands through his hair. He wore no hat, possibly having forgotten it in his distress. He raised his eyes up at Jacob. “You’re Dr. Valerian, aren’t you?”

“Have we met?”

“No, but your appearance and reputation precede you.” Abigail’s brother-in-law did not spare Jacob his direct appraisal. “What have you to do with my family’s disappearance? Speak quickly.”

Jacob had no time for this. “I’m trying to find your wife and her sister. This man beside me is the Secretary of the Cabinet of Intellectual Curiosities.” Jacob left it up to Alistair to volunteer his actual name.

Hammond looked confused. “The what Cabinet?”

The Secretary cleared his throat. “I’ll explain later. Right now, we must find those women. I fear they may be in danger.”

“Why were they in such a hurry? Where were they going?” Jacob fought against the tide of volatile emotions sweeping through him. He had come too late. He had failed to protect Abigail again. And this time, he had no idea of her whereabouts. London was a sprawling city. She and Catherine could be anywhere.

He left Hammond and the Secretary standing in the street as he went back inside the boarding house. The landlady was in the process of locking the doors for the night. “Madame, did you see anyone or anything out of place on the street when Miss Benton and her sister left?”

“There were few pedestrians out due to the cold.”

“You said the two women ran to catch a hackney. Did you see what the cab and the driver looked like?”

“I tried running out to tell Miss Benton to make sure to eat supper, but she didn’t hear me. Come to think of it, I did see that carriage they took when it was situated out front before it went up the street. Didn’t look very up and up. Almost like those jarveys down in the factory district.”

Jacob paid attention. Now they were getting somewhere. “Did you get a look at the driver?”

The landlady put a finger to her cheek. “I saw part of his face. He had a hungry look about him. And he kept leaning one way with his shoulder. Must have damaged it bad recently.”

“Tim.” Jacob remembered the gang leader.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Thank you again.” Jacob tipped his hat and hurried back outside, where the Secretary and Catherine’s husband looked at him in bewilderment.

“What did you say to her?” asked the Secretary.

“I asked her about the carriage Abigail and her sister took. She saw the driver. From her description, I know who he is. He’s a gang leader near St. Giles and likely, part of Broussard’s spy ring.”

The Secretary whistled. “Of course. He must be a cab driver by day trade in the work districts. The perfect occupation for a man who needs to see and not be seen.”

“Precisely. Now we mustn’t waste any more time. I remember the gang running down an alley off New Oxford Street towards an abandoned feed storehouse. That may be their hideout.”

The Secretary nodded. “Get in the coach. I’ll find a telegraph office and alert my agents to meet us there.” He went off down the street to the nearest office.

“I’m coming with you,” Hammond said.

Jacob turned to him. “It’ll be dangerous. And we don’t know how many men are in this spy ring.”

“Catherine needs me. I won’t abandon her.”

Jacob nodded. “And I won’t abandon Abigail.”

The Secretary came back a short time later. “The reinforcements are on their way. What are you men waiting for? Let’s go.”

The three men got into the armored carriage and set out for the factory smoke in the distance.

#

Abigail pulled the trigger as soon as Tim opened the door.

The bullet shot out of the tiny pistol with force, jolting her hand. Still, she kept her arm steady. Tim let out a cry and grabbed his right shoulder, staggering back as the carriage shook from the scared horses.

“Run,” Abigail commanded her sister.

Catherine hustled in front of her and jumped down from the cab. She stumbled as she landed near Tim’s feet. The hem of her dress caught on the cab’s foot pedal. Tim, one hand still clutching his shoulder, made a grab for her.

Abigail tried to take aim for a second shot, but Catherine’s back was in the way. Suddenly, the carriage rocked. Abigail tripped and fell on the carriage floor. She heard laughter over the horses’ neighing as she saw faces of the men through the window. They pushed the vehicle again, pitching it sharply to one side. Abigail spilled out onto the cobblestones beside her sister.

Someone seized Abigail from behind. Brass bit into her throat as a coarse hand closed about her neck. She recognized Perry’s voice and scraggly beard as he spoke against her ear, whiskers scratching her lobe. “Miss my touch, did you, love?” He pressed the corner of his brass knuckles into her windpipe.

Abigail choked and flailed her arms. She lifted her right and succeeded in bringing her steel cuff into Perry’s head, hard enough to make the springs of the pistol retract the weapon into its compartment. He growled, seized her arm, and wrenched it painfully behind her back.

Tim, blood staining his hand and the front of his shirt, grunted as he seized the back of Catherine’s coat and shoved her against the cab. “Get these two bitin’ cleavers into the storehouse.”

Abigail gasped as Perry released his hand from her throat. He still held onto her arm behind her and pushed her towards the house. She saw a rangy man in crushed tophat drive her sister along in similar fashion.

The steps of the abandoned feed storehouse creaked and protested under the combined weight of the men as they shoved her and Catherine up and into the structure. Kerosene lamps provided light to the front room. The stench of urine and unwashed bodies pounded Abigail’s nose immediately. She nearly vomited at the sight of human waste on the floor near the entranceway where the door was supposed to be.

Perry stepped around the filth and positioned her in the center of the bare space of the room, still restraining her. The man in the tophat brought Catherine beside her.

“What do we do?” Catherine, face white with fear, leaned toward Abigail. Her captor drew her back by the hair. She yelped in pain.

“Stop.” Abigail moved instinctively to protect Catherine, even though Perry made sure she stayed put.

The rest of the men entered the house. They came one by one and in pairs, until Abigail counted twelve. All of them were dressed in worn or ragged clothing, but she noticed that they weren’t all wearing the usual assortment of motley apparel thrown together in effort to keep warm. Some wore the collarless, tough canvas shirts of factory and mill workers. Others had caps and thick cable knits worn by fishermen and loaders down at the docks, and still others wore the fingerless gloves favored by newspaper and tract salesmen.

Abigail recognized multiple representations of the industrial district’s working classes as they assembled before her. Tim cut a path through the men, his hackney driver uniform a stained mess.

He came to stand inches from her face. She smelled his rank breath as he took in forceful, pained gulps of air. The look in his dark eyes spelled murder. “You whore.” A knife whipped in front of her nose.

Abigail screamed before Perry put his hand over her mouth. Tim seized her right arm and slashed through the sleeves of her coat and dress. The blade scraped against the cuff of her retractable pistol. He forced the ruined sleeves of her garments up past her elbow. She trembled as he turned her wrist over and drove the blade through the thin leather straps of the cuff. He nicked her skin as he worked. The cuff fell to the floor.

“A new toy of that mad doctor’s.” He stooped to pick it up. “Langlais will pay a pretty penny for this.”

“Broussard, you mean,” Catherine’s captor said. “He’s the one backin’ the ring an’ all.”

Broussard’s web of spies. Abigail understood now. All of these men, by virtue of his line of work, were able to ply their trades while gaining information for Broussard without anyone in London taking notice. The working classes, after all, were seen and yet often not observed.

Broussard took advantage of the men’s hardship and supplied a need that most of London’s officials failed to address. Now she and her sister were going to witness firsthand the consequences of such a slip.

She wiped the blood that trickled from the small cut on her wrist on her torn sleeve. Perry’s voice rumbled over her head. “Where is that Frenchie? He makes us do all his spyin’ while he gets to sit and stare at the dollymops ‘round the city.”

“He’s been watchin’ this one at her boardin’ house.” Tim gestured to Abigail. “He said, go to her address if he went missin’ for more’n twelve hours. So where’s he?”

Abigail leaned away from his knife. “I don’t know who you speak of.”

“Langlais’ been watchin’ your room for the past three months. He’s always come back here, though, to see wot news we’ve collected ‘round London proper for ‘im. No one’s seen ‘im since yesterday.”

So that was the spy’s name who had stolen her sketch. “I don’t know him or where he would be.”

“She could be speakin’ true,” said Perry. “Langlais looked like any other workin’ class gent in that bowler.”

Abigail stiffened. Tim noticed. “You know where he is?”

“I spotted him once in December, but I haven’t seen him since.”

“I think you’re fibbin’.” He drew closer. The coppery scent of blood was in the air as his gunshot wound bled. “Where’s Langlais?”

“I’m telling you the truth. I don’t know.”

Perry interrupted. “You should get that hole patched up, Tim. You’re bleedin’ like a trout.”

“I will. The cleaver just grazed me with her pea shooter.” Tim glared at Abigail. “I should shoot you wit it when Langlais gets through talkin’ to you.”

He turned to address the other men of the spy ring. “We’ll wait another hour to see if Langlais comes back. He’ll pay us for gettin’ this cuff gun an’ for nabbin’ the shrew.”

“What about this one?” Catherine’s captor pointed down at her. Catherine gave a little whimper.

“He might also see wot she knows about that doctor’s business. Put the two o’ em in the dry room upstairs.”

Catherine’s captor picked up a lamp and led the way. Perry nudged Abigail onward. She and Catherine walked between the two men. They climbed the small flight of rickety stairs, with its protruding floorboards. On the second floor, the man leading took them through the first door on the right.

They were deposited in what must have previously been the dry room to rid feed grains of moisture before they were bagged. Large and spacious, with shelving and generous window panels on both sides and in the back that were once meant to let in the sun, the room was now bare. A cold wind blew in from the glassless panes. Abigail looked down and saw piles of old burlap feed sacks and rubbish lining the side of the building before spilling into the alley. Instead of cheerful light, the windows let in the red-orange glow from the factory coal fires. Smoke drifted towards central and west London.. Abigail prayed this wouldn’t be her and Catherine’s final view of home.

“Think you can keep an eye on ‘em?” Catherine’s captor asked Perry, once he set the lamp down.

Perry nodded. “Better’n lookin’ at you and the boys downstairs.” He lowered his eyes upon Abigail and Catherine. “Much better.”

Abigail and her sister backed near the windows and stayed there.

“Tim didn’t say you could touch ‘em. Best leave ‘em as is for now. Wouldn’t want them to clam up ‘cause you got their skirts wrinkled.” The man with the crushed tophat went towards the door and proceeded to close it behind him.

“Don’t worry, Silas. I’ll be on me best behavior with these upstandin’ ladies.” Perry puckered his lips at Abigail and Catherine.

Abigail fought off another reflex to vomit. She felt the draft from the windows. They were only on the second floor. If she and Catherine could climb out, then they could make an escape through the alley. The drop was somewhat sizeable, but the piles of feed sacks and rubbish would break their fall. The only other way out was back down the stairs where the spies were gathered.

They had to attempt escape through the window. But first, Perry had to be convinced that their intentions were to remain in the room. He watched them from the door.

Abigail counted one minute and then took a seat on the hard wooden floor. She motioned for Catherine to do the same. Her sister gave her a quizzical look, but obeyed.

“Good to see you makin’ yourselves comfortable.” Perry chuckled from the doorway. His posture relaxed instantly in what Abigail perceived was his assumption that they had accepted their captivity. She continued to wait.

Two minutes. Three. Abigail listened to the factory noises surrounding the block. Four minutes. She heard the murmurs and occasional outbursts of swearing or laughter coming from downstairs. Five.

Catherine shifted closer to her as a cold breeze swept through the window again. Six. Perry dug into his pocket and came out with an envelope. He pulled something from its contents and stuck it into his mouth.

Seven minutes. Abigail spoke. “My sister and I have need of the water closet.”

“There ain’t no indoor privy here.” Perry chewed.

“What are we to do, then?”

He shrugged. “Lift up your skirts right where you sit for all I care.”

Catherine gasped with indignation, but Abigail hoped Perry would say that. She imitated her sister’s horror. “Sir, we are respectable, civilized ladies. Surely you cannot expect us to tend to our relief in such a way.”

Perry found a round container on a shelf. He launched a stream of tobacco juice inside before setting it in the middle of the floor. “Use that.”

Abigail pretended as though she would approach it. Then she stopped midway. “Again, sir, we are respectable. Would you  allow us a few minutes of privacy?”

He looked disappointed. Abigail remained waiting. She raised her chin to a haughty angle for more effect. Finally, he nodded. “Five minutes. But I’m comin’ back in as soon as the time’s up. I’ll be on the other side of this door.”