Kit joined him, squinting at a half-empty bottle of…too hard to read the smudged label. She picked it up and sniffed the contents, the sharp tang of chemicals jerking her head back at once. “Or could be the bearded woman from the circus was in here bleaching her hair.”
He chuckled as he wandered to the wardrobe. Kit crossed the warped floorboards to the small hearth. An astonishing amount of ashes for August heaped in a pile. She poked about with her finger, displacing a cloud of dust and revealing a small collection of burnt bone buttons, enough for a man’s shirt…but no one in this neighbourhood would intentionally ruin a good set of garments.
She glanced over her shoulder at Charles. “If Mr. Coleman was here, looks like he’s gone incognito. New hair and new clothing.”
“Then he did so a few days ago.” He pointed at the mattress. “That pallet isn’t as flattened as it ought to be had a body laid on it last night and the night before.” He swiped up a stack of papers. “Also, the man took the news, though yesterday and today’s aren’t here. Clearly whoever stayed here wasn’t hurting for coins to have paid for a single room, purchased papers and a whole new look, so why stay in this rathole?”
“Those on the run don’t often have a lot of choices.”
Charles flopped the newspapers back to the table, and a ripped paper fluttered to the floor. He swept it up with a frown. “Thunderation. Those bloody circus handbills are everywhere.”
But she couldn’t care less about that slip of garbage when she spied a balled-up wad of paper wedged against the baseboard. She stretched her arm, fingers grasping to snatch the wayward piece of trash. Victory. She rose, and the instant she unfolded the wrinkled ball, a smile curved her lips. “He was here!”
“How do you know?”
“This letterhead. It’s the company he worked for.” She squinted at the numbers arranged in odd squares covering the paper. Orderly, yet with no rhyme or reason. She held it out to Charles. “What do you make of this?”
He studied the thing for some time, turning it one way then another as he did so. Eventually he handed it back. “I don’t know. But that is definitely ledger paper.”
“Makes sense. Mr. Coleman was an accountant, but this doesn’t look like any kind of bookkeeping I’ve ever seen.” She frowned at the grids of numbers, each of them sporting exactly nine digits. “Some sort of code, perhaps?”
Charles snapped his fingers. “A betting sheet. Maybe this Coleman of yours is on the run from a bookie with a grudge.”
“This is beyond the brains of a bookie, though I suppose this could be a complicated parlay calculation.” She frowned at the mysterious paper, once again trying to make sense of the nine 3x3 grids scattered over the page. “No. Parlays would be only two columns and use more than single digits.”
Far below, angry voices drifted up the stairs. Must be loud to be heard clear up here. She shoved the paper in her pocket as she padded over to it and craned her head into the corridor to better hear what was going on below stairs.
“Out of our way, woman!” was followed by a sharp, feminine yip. Boots stamped up the stairs, as did a man’s grumble. “If he’s not alone, we take ’em all out.”
Kit slammed the door shut. “We’ve got company. Help me move the wardrobe.”
Oof, but the hulking thing was heavy—a boon and a curse. They barely got it shoved in front of the door as something slammed against it from the outside. “Open up, Coleman! We know yer in there.”
“That’s not gonna hold,” Charles warned with a wild glance about the room.
Kit ran to the single window, only to see a gunman aiming up at her. A shot cracked. She ducked. Glass shattered, hundreds of tiny shards showering her hair and shoulders.
“Back away!” Charles shouted.
“Open this door!” the men outside bellowed.
Of all the pickles. Jackson would kill her if she came home maimed and bloodied—ifshe came home, that was.
God, a little help here, please.She lifted the prayer as her eyes landed on the chimney. She could probably shimmy up that narrow throat, but Mr. Baggett’s broad shoulders would never fit. Her gaze drifted along the wall, towards the corner, where a hole in the plaster revealed some rotted wattle and daub. Not ideal, but it would have to do.
“Well, Mr. Baggett”—her voice competed with the incessant banging on the door—“I’ll take you up on that offer of a kick right now.”
He followed her gaze to the weak spot on the wall. “It’ll be quite a drop from second floor.”
“At least there won’t be an armed bruiser waiting for us on that side of the building. And besides, it’s an outside corner. There’s sure to be a drainpipe to slip down.”
“You’ve got to be jesting.”
“I don’t think they’re in the jesting mood.” She hitched her thumb over her shoulder as a huge thud hit the door. The wardrobe gave several inches of ground.
A few more rams like that and the blackguards would be in.
Jackson pounded his chest with his fist as he swung into the station, fighting back a slight burn near his heart. That greasy pork pie he’d nabbed off a street seller would likely stay with him for the rest of the day.
