The Prisoner (34 page)

“And so I shall, if I ever find him,” Doreen assured her fiercely. “I dinna know where he gets it from—his da is as fine a man as ye'll ever know. He'd sooner starve himself than see one of these wee chicks go hungry.” She cast a fond look at Oliver.

“Well, pleasure comes from doin' good, and that's God's truth,” the woman said approvingly. “As for yer son, a wolf may lose his teeth but ne'er his nature, so even if ye drag him home by his boots, ye canna expect him to change.” She studied Oliver a moment, considering. “Ye say ye think he's livin' here?”

“With friends,” Oliver elaborated. “Maybe ye've seen them? Harry's short but strong as an ox, with a nose that's been walloped one time too many. Then there's George, with gray hair and a bloated belly, and tall, skinny Ewan—”

“With orange hair and red spots.” The old woman nodded. “Aye, I've seen them. Not many rooms here are kept by three lads with nae lasses tae warm their beds. But they dinna get cold—not with all their visits tae that hoor across the hall.” She cast a sympathetic look at Genevieve. “Yer husband's nae better nae worse than most, lassie,” she assured her. “All they do is sleep and drink and fight. Today they brought yet another one home—so guttered he could nae walk, an' 'twas still practically mornin'!”

Genevieve's face grew pale.

“Where are they?” demanded Jack tersely. His hands tightened into fists.

“Angry at yer da, are ye, lad? An' so ye should be.” Her scant white brows puckered together in a frown as she studied him. “Ye must have started birthin' when ye were barely weaned,” she decided, turning her gaze to Genevieve.

“If ye dinna mind, missus, I'd like to find my lad an' make him come home,” said Oliver, interrupting any attempt to draw Genevieve into conversation.

“'Course ye would,” the old woman agreed. “He's up the stairs and to yer left, the last door at the end. Should be in there now, for I've nae heard any of them leave. Sleepin' off their whiskey, most like.”

Oliver clamped a restraining hand on Jack's shoulder to keep him from tearing up the staircase and breaking down the door. “Thank ye kindly, missus. I'm sure Harry will be most pleased to see his family again. Most pleased.”

The old woman looked doubtful. “I dinna know about that—what wi' all these bairns tae feed. But I expect he'll be fair surprised!” She cackled, her collapsed mouth opening to expose her slick gray gums once more.

“Right,” began Oliver in a low voice, struggling to stay abreast of Jack as he led the little mismatched band up the creaking staircase. “Like any job, the most important thing is, we've got to work quick. Get in, get his lordship an' get out. Me and Jack will do any bashin', if necessary. The rest of ye just keep 'em scurryin' about while we free his lordship. Use yer weapons if ye must, an' be sure to work together. There's but three of them and ten of us. If we keep a quick hand and a sharp eye, they'll be on the floor and beggin' for mercy afore they know what they're about.”

Doreen nodded in agreement. “Remember, 'tis nae the size of the dog in the fight, but the fight in the dog!”

“Sweet saints,” gasped Eunice breathlessly, clutching the rickety banister, “how many more steps are there?”

Genevieve's heart began to beat wildly against the cage of her ribs as the group made their way along the dimly lit corridor. The din of men and women shouting at each other and children squealing and crying was much the same as it had been on the floor below. Jack had been right, she realized. The families trapped behind each of those decrepit doors were too immersed in their own miserable lives to take any notice if someone was being beaten or murdered in the next apartment. She unconsciously clutched the bundle she was carrying tighter to her chest. Whatever happened, they could expect no help from the other inhabitants of the dilapidated building.

Oliver motioned for them to be quiet. He pressed his ear against the door and listened for a long minute. Apparently satisfied with whatever he did or did not hear, he raised his gnarled fist and rapped upon the battered wood.

A hush of tense anticipation fell over the group. Even the wretched cat in Annabelle's arms quit struggling. There was the sound of a chair scraping against the floor and booted feet moving toward them.

Then nothing.

Oliver knocked again. There was a moment of strained silence.

Finally a heavy bolt grated across the wood and the door creaked open. Smoky light spilled from the hearth and lamps in the room beyond, illuminating the emaciated form and pimpled face of Ewan in ghostly shadows. He regarded the bedraggled assemblage in bleary confusion, showing no sign of recognition. Muffled within their ragged hats, scarves and heavy coats, their faces streaked with grime, the tatty gang bore little resemblance to the pristinely attired family whose home he and his accomplices had raided that morning.

“Yer pardon, lad, we're here to show Harry his new bairn.” Oliver stepped aside to gesture at the bundle Genevieve carried, deftly inserting himself into the doorway as he did so.

Ewan gazed stupidly at the parcel of blankets. “Harry's bairn?”

“Looks just like Harry, he does,” Eunice assured him cheerily. “Right down to his wee mashed nose. See for yerself.”

Genevieve raised her “baby” slightly, offering Ewan a better view. Unable to restrain his curiosity, Ewan leaned forward to peer at Harry's progeny.

Quick as a whip, Doreen withdrew a heavy flatiron from her bag and brought it crashing down upon poor Ewan's head. The gangly lad stood for an instant, apparently frozen, staring blankly at Genevieve's arms.

Then his eyes rolled up into his skull and he crashed to the floor, forcing the children to scatter to make room for his crumpled body.

“That was a bloody fine blow,” said Oliver, nodding at Doreen with approval.

A charming flush rose to Doreen's wrinkled cheeks. “Why, thank ye, Ollie.” She girlishly adjusted a gray strand of hair that had tumbled down from her hat.

“Ewan!” growled a drunken voice from within, “what the devil's goin' on out there?”

“Here, kitty,” whispered Annabelle, unraveling the cat in her arms, “go find a nice, fat mouse!” She tossed the squirming creature just beyond the door, then raced in after it, shrieking at the top of her lungs,
“Come back, kitty!”

The other children charged through the door after her in a clamorous mob, screeching and shouting as they chased after the thoroughly agitated cat.

“What the hell is goin' on here?” demanded Harry, startled by the unexpected invasion. He shoved his chair out from the table at which he and broken-nosed George were eating their supper, and stared at them in drunken confusion.

“My kitty,” wailed Annabelle, leading the children in a frenzied dance around the squalid little apartment.

“Come back, come back!” they all screeched, causing the terrified cat to race about wildly.

“Here now, ye canna be in here!” George's battered face contorted with fury as Grace and Jamie scampered beneath the table. “Come out o' there, I say!”

Feigning compliance they obediently rose, causing the table to overturn and sending a greasy mess of fish stew and warm ale sloshing to the floor.

“What are ye thinkin', ye wee scoundrels?” demanded Eunice, storming angrily into the room, with Oliver, Doreen, and Genevieve chasing behind. “Come away from here at once, ye rotten little—”

“It's under your skirts!” Simon cried. “I think it's gone mad!”

Eunice screamed and began to whirl about, creating a tornado of petticoats as she pretended to try to evacuate the cat. “Help! Help!” She wrapped her bulky arms around George's neck and held tight, using him for support as she clambered heavily onto a chair. “Save me!”

“I…canna…breathe,” George rasped, fighting to extricate himself from her strangling grip.

“Nae, he's over there!” shouted Oliver, pointing behind Harry.

Harry's eyes widened in panic as the children surged toward him in a tumultuous wave, smashing him to the floor. “Get off me, ye bloody monkeys!” he swore, trying to protect himself from their flailing arms and legs.

With the two men utterly distracted by the roiling commotion, Jack, Genevieve, and Oliver raced toward the door of the small bedroom at the back of the miserable apartment. Jack pushed it open to find Haydon lying upon the floor, bound hand and foot to an overturned chair, a length of bloodstained rag cinched tightly over his mouth. It was obvious he was trying to get closer to some fragments of shattered glass that were scattered in a pool of kerosene, the remnants of a lamp that he had managed to knock from a table. Shocked disbelief flared in his eyes as the bedraggled trio rushed toward him.

“So this is where ye be hidin'.” Oliver produced two thin lengths of metal from his pocket and bent down so he could pick the lock of the manacles securing Haydon's wrists behind his back.

“You've looked worse,” Jack assured Haydon tautly. He slipped a sharp dirk from his boot and sawed at the bonds lashing Haydon's ankles.

Genevieve choked back a sob as she swiftly unraveled the bloodstained rag from Haydon's bruised mouth.
He is alive,
she told herself, fighting the tears blurring her vision. Beaten and bloody, but alive. Now all they had to do was get him out of there.

“For Christ's sake, Genevieve,” Haydon swore, his voice a harsh rasp as he tossed the ragged lengths of his bonds aside, “what the hell are you doing here?”

“Well, lad, she had her heart set on comin' to fetch ye, an' there was no way we were goin' to stand by an' let her do it alone,” Oliver cheerfully explained. “Now, if ye dinna mind, I think we'd best take care of Harry and George so we can all go—”

“I'll kill ye!”
roared George, his enormous frame blocking the bedroom doorway. His expression contorted with savage rage, he withdrew a gleaming dagger from his belt. “I'll kill all of ye!” He raised his dagger and barreled toward them.

Charlotte appeared suddenly and thrust her crutch between his ankles, causing him to crash to the floor. Quick as a whip, Jamie darted inside and dumped a blinding blizzard of flour from his satchel onto George's head. The enormous brute howled in fury and turned on Jamie, his eyes two glowering black nuggets beneath a terrifying chalk mask.

“Ye're dead now, ye pissin' little piece of—”

Eunice sailed into the chamber wielding her rolling pin and briskly cracked it against his powdery head, putting an end to both his threats and his foul language.

A floury cloud billowed into the air as George toppled nose first into the floor. Jack was on him in an instant, pinning him down with his knee as he roughly secured his hands and feet with the very same manacles and rope that had been used to bind Haydon.

“Right—just one more to attend to and we can all go home.” Oliver rubbed his gnarled hands together with anticipation, looking as if he was enjoying himself immensely.

In the other room Grace and Simon were running circles around Harry, who might have been better able to foil their dizzying attack if not for the vast quantity of ale swashing through his veins. Doreen stood at the ready with her flatiron, poised to bash Harry on the head the moment the opportunity presented itself.

“Take that, foul knave!” shouted Simon, prodding and thrusting at Harry with the brass poker he was wielding as a sword.

“And that, and that!” cried Grace, handily whacking him in the arse with a brass warming pan.

Provoked beyond endurance, Harry let out an infuriated bellow and wrenched the instruments of his torture from the pesky children's grasp.

“I'll teach ye a lesson ye'll nae soon forget, ye sodding little bastards!” he raged, charging toward them.

“Harry, quick—save your bairn!” Genevieve pitched her ragged bundle at him.

His expression teetering somewhere between astonishment and panic, Harry instantly dropped the poker and warming pan in favor of catching the flying bairn.

“I got him!” he bellowed, triumphant.

Confusion washed across his face as he looked down at the disheveled blankets cozily swaddling a plump, ten-pound sack of oatmeal. “What the hell—”

Haydon's fist smashed into his jaw, cracking his teeth together in a sickening crunch. Harry regarded him in a daze, still protectively clutching the swaddled oatmeal. Haydon struck him once more, and Harry fell back like a tossed caber, the oatmeal still warm and secure within his beefy arms.

“Right—that about does it, then,” said Oliver, nodding with satisfaction. “These lads will sleep 'til morn.”

“Mind ye remember to take yer things with ye, children,” instructed Doreen as she put her trusty iron back in her bag. “There's no sense in losin' a perfectly good warmin' pan.”

“Where's the cat?” asked Charlotte, looking about the littered room.

Jamie pointed toward the door, where the traumatized little beast was surreptitiously trying to make its escape from the mayhem. “He's over there.”

“Come back, kitty,” called Annabelle, scampering toward it.

The cat meowed in protest and streaked into the corridor.

“No, kitty—come back!” Annabelle flung the door wide to chase after it.

And crashed directly into Vincent.

The sight of Ewan lying in a scrawny heap in the corridor had alerted the earl of Bothwell that all was not going according to his plan. And so he grabbed Annabelle and pressed his pistol firmly against her head, pragmatically deciding he might need some sort of leverage in dealing with Haydon.

“Let me go!” she shrieked, kicking him hard in the shin with her worn boot.

“Be still,” Vincent hissed, wincing with pain, “or I'll blast a hole through that pretty little head of yours!” He wrenched her arm behind her back, forcing her to comply. Once she was satisfactorily subjugated, he raked his infuriated gaze over the stunned assemblage before him.