To my surprise, the door in question had been fitted with a stout new lock that gleamed against the weathered wood. Wordlessly, Stoker slipped a slender leather pouch from his pocket, extracted his lockpicks, and set to work. It was the effort of a moment to spring the lock and wewere soon inside, surveying the interior of the shed, Julius Elyot’s makeshift home these past few days.
The late roses rambling around the door lent the coal shed the air of a country cottage. Inside it was gloomy and cold, the chill having penetrated the thin walls and settled into the bones of the place. A thin pallet of sacking had been arranged on the floor, and there were discarded empty tins of food heaped in the corner. A bucket with a lid served what I could only assume was a necessary function, and I averted my eyes deliberately. There was no means of making a fire, no warmth to be found in that bleak and cheerless place. Nor had the inhabitant left any clue as to his whereabouts or his intentions.
“An abandoned den,” Stoker said flatly. “Now the creature that lived here is afoot and we have lost the scent.”
We quitted the shed, and Stoker bent to lock the door once more. All at once, from behind us, the stillness of the night air was rent by a shout. It came from the direction of the house itself, and I heard a low growl and the rattle of a chain being unclasped.
“Someone has loosed a dog!” I warned Stoker in a harsh whisper. There was no time to spare. The garden, although considerable for a London townhouse, was not large. The creature, whose size must rival that of a small pony given the crashes and poundings it made as it covered the ground, breaking shrubbery and hurdling bushes as it went, would be upon us in seconds.
Stoker, whose resourcefulness is rivalled only by his quickness of action, did not drop my hand as he darted to the side of the shed where the rain barrels stood. Even before his foot left the ground, I knew what he meant to do. I braced myself as he leapt, jamming one booted foot onto the top of a barrel and using it to launch himself to the roof of the shed and thence to the top of the wall. I would have managed the same trajectory perfectly well, but it was not a matter Stoker chose to leave tochance. Instead, he kept his grip upon my arm, pulling me with him as he went up.
Unfortunately, he miscalculated slightly—no doubt as a result of carrying my weight as well as his own—and exerted a touch more effort than required. In short, he did not goupso much asup and over, clearing the top of the wall by some several inches. I saw J. J.’s astonished face, her mouth round in disbelief as I sailed past her, landing neatly atop Mornaday, who crashed to the pavement under the onslaught, knocking J. J.’s feet from under her and causing her to tumble over like a ninepin.
I pushed myself to my feet, dusting off my hands. “Well caught, Mornaday,” I told him. He turned onto all fours, whooping air back into his lungs. I turned to see that Stoker had caught himself at the top of the wall. He hung there by two fingers, swinging gently, until his shoulder—recently dislocated—gave way and he tumbled to the pavement. He rose, one arm hanging loose.
He surveyed Mornaday where the fellow crouched, still trembling. “What ails him?”
“I believe he has lost his wind,” I said. I glanced back to Stoker. “Beloved, you have misplaced your shoulder again,” I advised him.
He looked down in surprise. “So I have.” With his customary lack of theatrics, he turned and slammed the joint in question hard upon the brick wall, reseating the top of the bone neatly in place. It was a manoeuvre I had seen performed so many times it no longer caused acute distress, although I will admit it took a bit of nerve to watch and still more to listen to in any measure of comfort. Whether it was the sight of the manipulation or the sound of it—a sort of animal grinding noise—Mornaday gave another great whoop and promptly vomited into the gutter.
“Well, at least he has his wind back,” Stoker said genially. Whilst Mornaday finished emptying the contents of his stomach, Stoker turnedand helped J. J. up, setting her neatly on her feet. “I think it best if we make a speedy departure,” he counselled. “That dog sounds hungry.”
“You go,” J. J. said. “I will be at the Barley Mow in Dorset Street in one hour.”
“We are not leaving you here,” Stoker began, but he was speaking to her back. She had already set off at a trot, moving back towards the placid green square of Lincoln’s Inn Fields.
“Leave her,” I said. “We must trust J. J. to know her own business.”
We walked swiftly down the narrow mews and through the dark streets, our way illuminated only by the occasional pools of warm light thrown by the streetlamps. A low fog was beginning to swirl about the kerbstones, muffling the sounds of any possible pursuers. We wended through Bloomsbury and into Marylebone, eventually reaching our destination at the Barley Mow. As soon as we entered, I understood why J. J. had suggested the establishment. To the left of the bar, the pub had been fitted with drinking boxes, wooden cubicles that ensured perfect privacy for small parties being completely secluded from the rest of the establishment. Drinks were handed through a hatch which opened onto the bar and could be fastened closed once libations were served. Stoker shouldered his way into an empty drinking box, rapping sharply upon the hatch to get the barman’s attention. It was not the first time I had been in a public house, but the relative novelty of the drinking box lent it charm. I sipped at a genially crisp half pint of cider whilst Mornaday stared pitifully into his glass, still covered in a faint, clammy sheen.
“Stoker, do give Mornaday a handkerchief,” I said. “He is decidedly moist.”
Stoker handed over one of his enormous red handkerchiefs which Mornaday instantly clapped to his damp brow. He made a gesture of thanks and would have handed it back, but Stoker waved him off. “For god’s sake, keep it, man.”
“Who set the dog on you?” Mornaday wheezed.
Stoker shrugged. “A night watchman, most likely. Lord Ambrose would have engaged one when he shut up the house to go away. I ought to have considered it.”
We sat some quarter of an hour before J. J. appeared, her colour high and her breath fast. “Drink,” she said, reaching for my cider. I pushed it into her hands, and she drained half the glass before she could speak.
“Where have you been?” Stoker inquired.
“Speaking with the future Mrs. Mornaday,” she said with a grin.
“Not young Minnie! The child has probably never enjoyed such popularity,” I mused.
“After what she told me, I would have her crowned Queen of the May and feted through the streets,” J. J. said. I realised then that her glowing complexion was due as much to triumph as it was to hurrying to join us.
“Why did you question Minnie further?” Mornaday asked sharply. It required little imagination to suppose that he resented any meddling with the witness he had taken such pains to question.
“Because something she said troubled me. She said she knew Lord Ambrose couldn’t have meant to go to his mother’s house because he went to the wrong station. It occurred to me to wonder how she knew which station he’d been bound for when he left his house.”
“Clever,” Stoker said. J. J. preened under his praise. “What did you discover?”
“That our watchful little Minnie actually saw Ambrose Despard depart for the station,” J. J. revealed. “She heard him give the instructions to his driver.”
“That much may be inferred,” Mornaday told her loftily.