“What’d you kill him for, anyway?” Solomon asked, for it had suddenly struck him that the presence behindcouldbe the police he was waiting for. Or not.
“Revenge,” Drayman said. “He was supposed to be dead already. I should know. I paid for it. That, and I didn’t like him. Never liked you much either, Johnny.”
Solomon took a step nearer.
Two more shadows emerged from the wall, on either side of Drayman. Outside of Solomon’s field of vision, the riot seemed to be coming closer, the horses’ hooves growing louder, along with the rumbling of wheels.Bizarre…
But the knife in Drayman’s other hand focused his mind. The two accomplices, large and exuding considerable experience in violence, moved forward and to the side, trying to hem Solomon in. He was running out of time.
“You’re trying to palm me off with the brass watch,” Solomon said. “He’d never have brought the gold one to this place.”
“That’s where you’re wrong, Johnny-boy. Finish it, lads. I’m cold.”
All three of them advanced on Solomon now, forcing him to step back and adjust his position so he wasn’t encircled.He tensed, ready to meet the attack—and a movement behind caused him to spin to deal with that attack first.
The darkness was almost impenetrable, and yet Solomon knew immediately. No policeman, no thug. Just his brother. Just as it used to be.
“Idiot,” he breathed, facing the onslaught.
“Looby,” David returned.
It had given their attackers pause, but only for an instant, for the fight was still three to two in their favor. They charged.
Drayman came straight for him, wielding the watch like a mace and the knife like a sword. Solomon sidestepped the blade and kicked him in the stomach, narrowly missing the flying watch that whizzed past his ear. The other man barged into him and they both staggered backward. David and the third man were swaying together like wrestlers. Or dancers.
Solomon recovered his balance, took an agonizing blow to his side, and crashed his fist into the man’s chin. He dropped like a stone, but Drayman was on him again, seizing him by the throat, knife raised for the kill. Solomon lashed out, landing a punch, but he couldn’t quite hook his foot around the man’s ankles to bring him down. He had to grab Drayman’s wrist to prevent the blade plunging into him.
And then the riot swerved around the corner in a blaze of light and noise. The vignette of the fight outside the squalid building was lit up like a stage. A huge cheer went up from the newcomers, some of whom seemed to be wearing silk hats as they spilled of a hackney carriage and two Black Marias, only one of which seemed to be driven by a uniformed and confused policeman.
This strange army, wielding canes and leather flasks with monogramed gold plaques, charged toward them, led by Constance Silver, her skirts billowing as she flung herself intoSolomon’s arms with such force that she knocked him out of Drayman’s weakened hold, and they fell together.
There was an instant when she stared into his eyes, her own shining with fear and…fun?
“Are you hurt?” she whispered, which at least galvanized Solomon into action.
“He’s got a knife!” Solomon yelled in warning to the men who seemed to be burying Drayman beneath them.
“No he hasn’t,” said the confused constable, who stooped and picked the fallen weapon off the ground. Drayman must have dropped it in shock as Constance cannoned into them.
Solomon rolled to the side and jumped up, dragging Constance with him, and reached for David, who stood on his other side, panting, but dusting off his hands as though pleased with a day’s work.
Solomon gripped his shoulder, and David answered with a nod. Both Drayman’s thugs lay sprawled and semiconscious on the ground. The heap of young men, stinking of alcohol, were grinning at each other. The one at the top waved an open flask.
“Who thedevil…?” Solomon began, just as a third Black Maria sped around the corner, spilling out uniformed policemen with clubs, even before it stopped.
“Or-der!” Constance yelled at the top of her lungs, and to Solomon’s amazement, the men on top of Drayman began to untangle themselves.
The policemen, finding no resistance, skidded to a halt and lowered their clubs, staring as the young men dragged themselves upright and moved aside, gradually revealing the clearly winded figure of Abel Drayman clutching the chain of a still-attached watch that glinted in the lantern light.
“Ruffian was attacking the lady’s friends,” one of the young men said.
Good God, it’s Lord Rawleigh!And from his fatuous smile, he was three sheets to the wind. If not four.
“He was,” said the first constable on the scene, marching up to his colleagues to show them the knife. “Andhe was armed with that. There were three of them.”
“And that one,” Solomon said, going forward to Drayman, “is the murderer of Herbert Chase. That’s the knife he used, and that is Chase’s watch. It’s engraved.”
The policeman who appeared to be in charge went to Drayman, barking a couple of orders to his men, who went to gather up the other fallen thugs. The sergeant took the watch and presumably read the engraved name, for his breath certainly caught.
