“Mr. Sharples,” Matthew sighed, rubbing his forehead. “Mr. Charles Sharples. You know very well who I mean.”
“Right then. Of course. Charlie.” Fliss grinned, revealing an endearing, if crooked, smile. “Call him Charlie, if you know what’s good. He’s not partial to Charles, on account of the rhyming.”
Despite everything, Matthew was glad he’d helped the boy earlier that summer. Even if he’d not done much, medically speaking, and even though his blasted handkerchief had ended up incriminating him. Fliss didn’t deserve to die of an infection. He was barely older than Henry. He’d his whole life ahead of him, difficult though it was bound to be.
Fliss turned and signaled for Matthew to follow.
They broke off from the main street, picking their way through a maze of alleys until they came to a dilapidated section of city wall along which ran a large open ditch, the smell of putrefying sewage almost too strong to bear. Thankfully, they walked its length for only a few blocks before Fliss glanced back to reassure himself of Matthew’s following, then led him away from the ditch toward a ramshackle pile of a house.
If the scent from the ditch was eye-watering, the home wasn’t much better, with its sagging walls, unpatched gouges in the plaster, and above all, its apparent lack of a foundation. Matthew swallowed his apprehension and went through the front door, which Fliss held open for him.
As the door shut behind him with a pathetic wheeze, not unlike the asthmatic gentleman in the street, Matthew steeled himself for confrontation. There was no turning back now.
“We’ve company, Mary,” Fliss called out to the seemingly empty house.
The entire place was shabby, to say the least, and had doubtless always been so. It had likely been thrown up in a rush without a care for either function or aesthetics, only that it would offer just enough shelter from the elements to wring rent from its unlucky tenants.
“Alright!” a woman’s voice called back, irritated.
“This way.” Fliss indicated the crumbling stairwell with a nod. “Might be some tea in it for you, if Mary’s agreeable.”
Matthew nodded, not wishing to explain that the offer of tea made from water from a communal pump, which must be boiled every morning for fear of cholera, was simply not very enticing.
They halted before another door. Fliss motioned for him to wait before entering himself, leaving Matthew alone with his thoughts.
He remembered Lady Caplin’s curious examination of his study, her polite derision of his taxidermized specimens. Even if she didn’t find his lifestyle small and dirty, no doubt her peers would. She would never lower herself to Marylebone, never become a doctor’s wife.
He’d accepted it, yes. But still he hated it.
He wanted her. But he wanted her to be happy. Wasn’t that why he was here?
If you wanted her to be happy, an evil little voice prodded him,you would leave her be.
The door opened, and two men emerged. Each one unceremoniously took hold of one of his arms, and together they led him across the threshold.
“Ah, Dr. Collier. There he is. I guess all that bluster at our last meeting was just for show, eh? I’m glad we understand each other now.”
Charles Sharples, wearing the same sack suit as before, sat in a rickety cane chair alongside a small fireplace, his bald head shining.
Soon Matthew would be done with this man, thank heavens.
He ought to be done with gambling, too, he suddenly realized. His gut wrenched at the thought. But he was of sound mind, and in that moment it was clear to him: If he did not put gambling in these low houses behind him, he’d never outrun these problems, this stench, these petty criminals.
He stood up straighter, shaking off the two lackeys.
Sharples watched him with a smug grin. Matthew approached, his jaw set. The clarity of his decision gave him strength, carried blood to his limbs and oxygen to his muscles. He felt himself once more.
“Well?”
Matthew reached inside his jacket and withdrew a stack of notes. He held it out, refusing to step forward.
Sharples stared at him, his eyes narrowing. Still Matthew would not move. He waited.
Finally, Sharples sat up with a muttered curse and lunged forward, ending the standoff as he swiped the money from Matthew’s hand. He fell back into his chair so forcefully that Matthew thought the battered cane might give way, rather than merely squeal in protest.
The chair held, and Sharples began riffling through the notes, counting under his breath, his eyes widening as he realized the total exceeded the expected one hundred and thirteen pounds.
Matthew had won spectacularly at the list houses; it was far too easy when you had a lick of sense and a decent amount to front yourself. Pity, then, that it brought him no joy.
