The brute tugged her across the thin space between buildings, steering her into the next warehouse. Inside this one, a hive of activity buzzed about. Lanterns hung on hooks, illuminating a huge unloading area. Big doors at the opposite end gaped open, allowing wagons to pass in and out. Burly men hefted crates off the drays, stacking them in rows, some of them with pry bars popping off the wooden lids. The closer she and Mr. Flick drew, the more her heart stalled. She didn’t need to look inside to see what treasure she was to evaluate. She’d already done so.
These were the same crates she’d worked on at Price House.
Missing relics were bad enough, but if Edmund couldn’t find Ami before anything awful happened to her, he’d never forgive himself—and neither would whoever dared to harm her, for he’d more than throttle the man. Or men. With all the fear and fury pumping through his veins, he’d mow down anyone and everyone in Angel Alley if she was hurt.
The cab jerked to a stop, his head and the professor’s snapping forward from the abrupt halt. Edmund jumped out into the light rain, then immediately wheeled about and held up his hand, barring the professor from doing the same.
“Wait here,” he said.
The professor’s eyes widened, the whites stark against the night shadows. “You can’t go in there alone!”
“Ami did.” And the thought still scraped his heart raw. Why did she care so much for ancient remains and so little for her own life? He handed a bill up to the driver. “Stay put until Ireturn or until the gentleman inside orders you to leave. Is that understood?”
The cabbie’s jaw dropped as he stared at the exorbitant payment. “Aye, sir! Ye can count on me, sir.”
“Very good.” Edmund once again faced Ami’s father. “I need you to summon the police if I’m not back in a few minutes.”
The professor shook his head, a scowl digging a deep furrow in his brow. “You’re as foolhardy as Amisi. We should have the police here with us now.”
“We don’t know if she’s in there, nor do we know if a crime has been committed. We don’t know anything—which is what I plan on finding out. And the longer I stand here chatting with you, the more it delays discovering where Ami is.”
“Very well.” The professor huffed as he pulled out his pocket watch and flipped open the lid. “You’ve got two minutes, Mr. Price.”
“Make it three. There’s no telling how large the courtyard inside is. Here, I won’t be needing this.” He handed his coat up to the professor, ignoring the questions in the man’s eyes and pivoting away before he could voice any.
Four strides later, he paused before entering the narrow throat of Angel Alley. Stooping, he swiped his fingers along the sludge of the broken cobbles, then wiped the grime on his brow, cheeks, and jaw. Not as good of a disguise as Jameson’s old coat and hat, but it would have to do. Wouldn’t hurt to dirty his arms as well, so he shoved up his sleeves and once again smeared his fingers on the ground and—What was this?
He pinched a scrap of paper, and when he glanced at the penned words, his heart stopped. His poem. No, Ami’s poem. He sucked in a breath.
She was here! Ami was here, or at least she had been.
He jammed the paper into his pocket and scrubbed the rest of the dirt furiously on his arms. Buoyed by hope, he ripped open the front of his waistcoat, buttons pinging against the brick opening, and set off.
He strode through the dark passage, gut revolting at theputrid stench permeating the moist walls. Nor did it get any better when the channel opened into a dank courtyard of filth. Sweeping a glance around the area, he prayed to see the flash of some bodacious peacock feathers on a multihued gown. But no. Only black and grey met his eyes. Colour didn’t live in this place, save for the hellish flames of a small brazier spitting against the rain. Four men stood about it, eyeing him. In a nearby alcove, a couple was all arms and legs, doing what ought not be seen in public. And off in the corner lay a body, drunk to the world.
Edmund swaggered over to the four men, dipping his head as he approached. A strange waft of gardenia hovered around the tallest fellow.
The man closest to him turned aside and spit, then swiped the back of his hand across his mouth. “Do I know ye?”
Edmund met his gaze. “Doubtful.”
The man next to that fellow nudged his friend with his elbow. “Don’t be daft, Muggs. That toff ain’t from round ’ere. Them threads is too fine fer the likes o’ the Angel.”
“He’s right,” the third fellow said as he pulled a knife. “So move along, toff.”
The tallest man said nothing, but the set of his jaw wasn’t any less threatening than the blade in his comrade’s grip.
Though everything in him screamed to fleet-foot it out of there, Edmund forced a grin. He didn’t know a thing about knife fighting, but he did know how to negotiate—and thug or suit, every man was a businessman at heart. “Easy there, gents.” He held up his hands. “Just looking for a bit of excitement in this dreary place. Heard this is where a man can find some action.”
Muggs narrowed his eyes. “It’ll cost ye, dependin’ on what sort o’ fluff up yer wantin’.”
“I’m looking for a woman. Colourful gown, feathers down the backside. Dark hair. Slight of frame.”
The men exchanged glances, though all seemed to single out the tallest fellow. He toyed with the tip of his curled moustache, saying nothing. Ah. He did know something about Ami.
“I’m willing to pay for the information,” Edmund prodded.
The tall one cocked his head. “What ye want her for, guv’ner?”
