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Clara hurried into the house. This time the smell nearly drove her back out again. The odors of dirt and decay rose to her nostrils, blanketing everything in a suffocating miasma. She blinked, tried to breathe only through her mouth, and started up the narrow stairs.
This was worse, far worse, than the ragged school. She could barely see in front of her, and perhaps that was for the best. The stairs creaked and the whole house seemed to groan, but she heard no signs of human life.
On the first floor, two doors stood open. In both she saw clear signs of recent panic: blankets and clothes flung about, crockery in pieces, a toppled coffeepot, an overturned chair. The fire was nearly out, only one or two coals faintly glowing.
The boys had come in, she knew, shortly before dawn. They slept in the mornings, then went out to pick pockets and steal laundry and such in the afternoon. At night they’d break into houses or commit other darkness-friendly crimes, like assaulting anybody who looked like he or she couldn’t fight back, according to Radford. Early morning was the best time to catch them. They’d have gone to sleep by then, and most would wake up groggy, slower to react. That, at any rate, was the hope. By the looks of things, they hadn’t been very groggy.
“Toby!” she called. “You know me, I’m sure. Bridget’s friend from her school.”
No answer. She found a candle and a piece of straw. She applied the straw to one of the feebly burning coals and used it to light the candle.
She looked into the corners and behind ragged curtains, calling for Toby. She checked the other room in the same way.
No response.
Heart sinking, she went out into the gloomy corridor, and climbed the rickety stairs to the next floor. The first door showed her a room smaller than the ones below, but crammed with baskets of metal and wooden objects. Articles of clothing and bed linens hung from ropes. The thieves’ booty. A treasure trove of evidence for the police.
“Toby!” she called.
She thought she heard something. It might have been pigeons. Or rodents squeaking.
Holding the candle high, she went out and into the other room.
“Toby?”
A sob. Other sounds. Words, possibly, but unintelligible.
“Toby, it’s me, Bridget’s friend. You remember, I’m sure.”
A groan. A cough.
She moved toward the sounds. They came from a heap of foul-smelling rugs.
As she neared, the heap moved.
“Toby?”
“Help me. I can’t run. I’m so sick.”
She knelt and drew away some of the rugs. The boy lay curled into a ball, shivering. “Toby.”
“They left me,” he croaked. “Will I die?”
Some of the smaller boys were wailing about Chiver, and one of the older ones got a clever idea and started screaming, “Murder! Them raw lobsters’ve killed poor ’Enery!”
Oh, good. Just what was wanted now. A riot.
The other boys took up the cry, then the people in the windows of neighboring buildings. Some rubbish rained down on the police, but no bricks. In any case, they were used to abuse and had on several occasions demonstrated skill in quelling riots.
Sam Stokes appeared, without Freame in custody, which meant the gang leader had slipped away again.
The inspector’s bland face gave away nothing. Any disappointment, dismay, frustration, or other emotion he felt did not disturb his unremarkable exterior. He waded into the fray with his usual calm unobtrusiveness.
Radford left him and his men to deal with it and turned back into the alley. His gaze went straight to the coach and its open door. He started to run.
“Where is she?” he shouted.
A sergeant jerked a thumb toward the house. “Went in, sir. I had no way to stop her, not without violence.”
“She was armed with an umbrella! You can’t control one female carrying an umbrella?”
He didn’t wait for an answer but ran into the building.
“Clara! I warn you, you’d better not be in here! Clara!”
He raced up the stairs, his heart pounding. These old buildings were notoriously ramshackle. They fell in all the time. Only last week four people had died in a building collapse.
But no. Freame might risk his boys—he could always find more boys—but he wouldn’t store his plunder in a shaky building.
Rodents and other vermin would abound, though. And fever-breeding filth. The walls were damp. The place stank of mildew and worse.
And who knew what cutthroats lurked in hidden places.
But that was Radford’s other self, in a panic and letting his imagination run wild. He thrust him out of the way and stormed up the stairs.
“Stay, I told you,” he muttered. “When I get my hands on you, my fine lady, you’ll wish you’d remained at home with your needlework and your lovers.”
He was starting for one of the open doors when he heard the sounds above. Footsteps, making the floor creak. The rustle of petticoats.
He looked up. She approached the rickety railing.
“Don’t lean on it!” he warned. “Don’t touch it!”
She drew back a pace. “There you are,” she said.
There she was, undamaged, apparently. Before he could draw a breath of relief, she said, “Hurry, Mr. Radford, do. Toby’s sick and I need help moving him.”
Radford swore once, with great energy, then ran up the stairs and into the room.
He knelt by the boy. He felt his forehead and checked his pulse.
He heard her draw nearer, the floor creaking under her feet.
“Stay back,” he said tightly. “I think it’s only a chill, but there’s no way to be sure. Go make yourself useful for once. Bring me the cleanest sheets or blankets you can find. You ought to find plenty to choose from.” He looked about him. “They’ve robbed clotheslines enough, by the looks of it.”
She didn’t argue this time. A moment later she returned with an armful of bed linens. He unwrapped Bridget’s idiot brother from the filthy rugs and wrapped him in the cleaner things she’d brought. He caught the boy up in his arms—he weighed next to nothing—and rose.
“Lead the way,” ’ he said. “Watch for sharp objects on the stairs. Tetanus is fatal, no matter what the patent medicine quacks claim.”
Mr. Radford carried Toby down the stairs with a gentleness in complete contradiction to the steady stream of reproaches he directed at Clara.
She was supposed to stay in the coach. She had promised to do exactly as he told her. She had broken her promise. He ought not to be surprised. He wasn’t. Not at all. He had trusted her—which was very stupid of him, obviously, and he couldn’t believe he’d been so naïve. Like everybody else of her class, she had no consideration for anybody else. She was welcome to risk her own neck—indeed, he hoped she would, at another time and far away from him—but she had no right to risk his career. If somebody had garroted her while she was fussing over Toby Coppy, Raven Radford’s reputation would be ruined. He’d be lucky if he was permitted to practice law in Outer
Mongolia.
Near the landing before the ground floor, they met the police going up. Mr. Radford interrupted his vituperation to tell them where the thieves’ plunder was.
“No sign of Freame?” an officer said. “We haven’t seen Husher, either.”
Mr. Radford suggested where they ought to look for hiding places.
To Clara’s knowledge, he’d barely glanced at his surroundings. But he must have done more than glance, because he seemed to have memorized the room and its contents. In detail. He’d noticed at least a dozen things she hadn’t. But then, she’d fixed her attention on Toby.
“Some of them might still be about, but I doubt you’ll find Freame,” he added. “If he was here when we arrived, he would have made himself scarce while Chiver was putting on a show for us.”
Then Clara saw the risk she’d taken and why Mr. Radford was taking a fit. The building hadn’t necessarily emptied when the police came. One boy had run onto the roof. Others might have hidden. Freame might have been there. And someone named Husher. While the police ran after escaping boys, these villains could have been standing behind the clothing and linens hanging from the ropes, looking for a way out.
If they’d caught her, she’d have made a fine hostage.
Her mind swiftly painted a picture of what would have happened next, and after that, and after that. She had to clutch the handrail, because the blood was rushing from her head.
“Don’t you dare faint now,” Mr. Radford said. “And get your hands off that filthy rail. You’ll pick up a splinter. Do you never think? You could get a fatal infection. Why must I tell you everything?”
The blood rushed back, and for an instant she saw herself raising Davis’s umbrella and swatting him with it.
Later, she told herself. When he hadn’t a sick child in his hands.
But at least he’d made her too angry to swoon.
They’d very nearly caught Jacob Freame.
He’d turned up late to examine the boys’ haul, one of their better ones. Then he’d learned that one of the new boys was sick. As if that wasn’t galling enough, he’d found out, finally, who the brat really was. He’d woken Chiver and knocked him about for mixing personal matters with business. Between that and debating how to get rid of the sick boy quickest, Freame had failed to notice anything amiss in the alley below. By the time he did notice, police were coming up the stairs and pouring into the courtyard, blocking all the ways out.
