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“I would never,” he says, looking down. And I realize that even Mr. Fowlson has his Achilles’ heel.
When we arrive at the Hippocrates Society, Mr. Fowlson bangs hard on the doors until they swing open.
“What is it?” a white-haired gentleman demands, several of his compatriots at his heel.
“Please, sirs, it’s Mr. Doyle. We need your help.”
The gentlemen push out in a haze of cigar smoke. Nursing his bruised face, Tom wobbles from the carriage with Kartik’s and Fowlson’s help while I follow.
“Doyle, old boy. What has happened?” the white-haired gentleman exclaims.
Tom rubs his sore jaw. “Well, I…I…”
“As we returned from dinner, ruffians set upon our carriage,” I explain, wide-eyed. “My dear brother saved us from those who would have done us harm.”
“I…I did?” Tom’s head whips in my direction. I plead with my eyes: Don’t muck this up. “Right! I did. Terribly sorry to be delayed.”
The men fall into shouts and questions. “You don’t say!” “Fantastic tale—how did it happen?” “Let’s have a look at that jaw!”
“It—it really was nothing,” Tom stammers.
I tighten my hold on Tom. “Don’t be so modest, Thomas. He dispensed with them single-handedly. They didn’t stand a chance against such a brave and honorable man.” To say this, I must fight the giggle that shouts “Ha!” from my stomach.
“A splendid display of courage, old boy,” one of the gentlemen says.
Tom stands blinking in the light, rather like an old dog without the sense to come in from the rain.
“Don’t you remember, Thomas? Oh, dear. I fear that blow to your head was more severe than we thought. We should take you straight home to bed and call for Dr. Hamilton.”
“Dr. Hamilton is already here,” Dr. Hamilton says. He steps out, a brandy snifter in his hand and a cigar clenched between his teeth.
“Single-handedly?” the white-haired man asks.
Another gentleman, with thick spectacles, claps Tom on the back. “There’s a good man.”
A younger man takes Tom’s other arm. “A warm brandy is all you need to get you back on your feet.”
“Indeed. I should like that very much, thank you,” Tom says, managing to look both sheepish and proud at the same time.
“You must tell us exactly how it happened, chap,” Dr. Hamilton says, ushering Tom into the small but cozy club.
“Well,” Tom begins, “in our haste this evening, my driver foolishly took a shortcut near the docks and was lost. Suddenly, I heard cries of ‘Help! Help! Oh, please help!’”
“You don’t say!” the gentlemen gasp.
“I counted three—a half dozen men of dubious character, brigands with eyes devoid of all conscience….”
I see I am not the only one gifted with imagination. But tonight, I shall allow Tom his glory, however much it vexes me. A kindly gentleman offers assurances to me that my “heroic brother” will be well looked after, and I’m quite sure that after tonight’s tale, his place in that society is assured.
“Tom,” I call after him. “Mr. Fowlson will carry me on to Spence, then?”
“Hmmm? Yes, of course. To Spence with you.” He waves me away with his hand. “Oh, Gemma?”
I turn back.
“Thank you.” He grins, bloodying his lip once again. “Ow!”
Fowlson gets the carriage under way. Kartik sits beside me. London rolls past us in all its grit and glory: the chimney sweeps soldiering home with sooty faces at the end of a hard day, their brooms balancing on their shoulders; the solicitors in their finely brushed hats; the women in their ruffles and lace. And on the banks of the Thames, the mud larks sift through the filth and the muck, searching for what treasures may hide there—a coin, a fine watch, a lost comb, some bit of glittering luck to change their fate.
