I spied Stoker’s hands, wrapped around the beam. I peered into the gloom and saw him, hanging underneath, supported only by his bruised wrists. I said nothing else and I gripped Eddy’s hands, warning him to silence. Stoker could afford no distraction.
Using his body weight, he began to swing, gathering momentum until he was able to fling himself onto the beam. It was a maneuver that would have come easily to one of the great apes, but I had not realized Stoker’s talent for brachiation. He looked supple and athletic as a monkey as he swung—or at least he might have if it were not for the soreness of his ribs. At the last moment, one of them must have taken him by surprise, robbing him of breath and momentum just as he swung up onto the beam. He flew too far, launching over the beam and almost down again, catching himself by one arm and one leg. By sheer force of will he corrected his position, regaining the beam and lying flat, heaving hard. He looked up and saw me then and grinned, giving me a brisk nod.
“Thank God,” Eddy whispered from behind my shoulder. He waved at Stoker. “I say,” he called in an exaggerated whisper, “how precisely do you mean to get from there to here?”
“Give me one minute,” I said to him. I motioned for Stoker to wait quietly, which he seemed perfectly content to do, as it provided him a chance to catch his breath and compose his nerve for the last ascent.
I turned to take stock of our surroundings as I tied on my slippers. The roof was rather flat, for which I was entirely grateful, and edged with a small parapet. A hasty survey revealed a cache of building supplies, among them a rope.
I handed one end to Eddy. “Make this fast around that chimney stack with one of your sailor’s knots,” I instructed. He seemed grateful to have a task and he moved swiftly to obey, whisking the rope through a series of intricate maneuvers until it was secure. Upon further direction, he made a series of simple knots along its length and I dropped it through the window, dangling it in front of Stoker. He grasped it and looked up, his expression thoughtful.
“I said earlier that we would solve the problem of my fitting through the window when the time presented itself. I believe that time is now,” he observed. But I had already considered the predicament and developed a solution.
“Look away,” I instructed both of them. I took up a broken brick, and—wrapping my hand in the edge of my tunic’s overskirt—I used it to shatter the other pane of the clerestory. The dividing lead was rusted nearly through and a smart tap with the piece of brick brought it clattering down.
“If you would care to make a little more noise, I think perhaps the folk down in Gravesend haven’t quite heard you,” Stoker said politely.
“Save your breath to cool your porridge,” I ordered. I was nearly giddy with relief that we had a plan, and one that would work.
But I exulted too soon. Perhaps the sound of breaking glass hadalerted them, or perhaps it was simply very bad timing, but just then the door below bounced back on its hinges and Quiet Dan and his fellow villain appeared. The smaller wretch took out a pistol and fired wildly, the bullet chipping a bit of the beam near Stoker’s foot. He did not tarry after that. He swarmed up the rope, swift as a gibbon, thrusting his torso through the window just as another shot went wide.
Without waiting for a third, I thrust my arms under Stoker’s shoulders and heaved with all my might, eliciting a roar of pain from him. But he burst through the window like a devil out of hell, rolling me onto my back and landing flat atop me, knocking the breath from my lungs.
I lay, dazed, until he hauled me to my feet with one hand and Eddy with the other. We took to our heels, vaulting the stacks of bricks and racing towards the parapet. It was a foot or so from the edge of the warehouse roof to that of the adjoining house, and we launched ourselves over the parapet and across the gap at a dead run, never hesitating. We landed safely, but this roof was much more steeply pitched, and we each lost our footing more than once. I dared to glance down a single time but pulled back just as Quiet Dan fired his weapon, drawing screams from the people in the street. It looked to be a quarter of the city I seldom frequented, populated by seamen and beggars and ragpickers. There were lights glimmering below us, but a shifting mist from the direction of the river obscured the view, for which I was fervently grateful. If we could not easily see them, they could not easily see us.
But they could hear us, and my slippers thudded dully, revealing our whereabouts as we ran. Stoker was still in his stocking feet, silent but wheezing like an asthmatic donkey thanks to the damage to his rib, and Eddy was emitting little gasps of either excitement or pain, I could not be certain.
Far beneath us, I heard our pursuers and another voice—Archibond. He was shouting, arguing sharply, pointing out to Quiet Dan that shooting at me would hardly win him praise from my uncle. From that point on, the shots ceased. But still they marked our progress, down the street and across another alley. We paused to catch our breath, resting against a chimney stack as we heaved great lungfuls of sooty night air. Stoker dared a peek over the edge of the roof and immediately I heard the cry of one of the Irish, “There he is!”
We waited a moment more, and then came the unmistakable sound of boots, hobnailed and heavy, climbing the outside stairs attached to the building. It was the shorter of my uncle’s henchmen.
Eddy stood bent double, his narrow chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath. He could not run much longer, I realized.
“Shall we make a stand?” I asked, squaring my shoulders and ready to stand back to back with my stalwart companions.
“God no,” Stoker said fervently, grabbing my hand once more. He beckoned to Eddy and we scrambled and leapt to the next building, just managing to land in safety. Our pursuer was not so lucky. I saw the wild light in his eyes as his hands scrabbled at the empty air and he fell. A moment later, I heard a dull thud and a deep groan. Eddy would have paused, but Stoker urged him on, around the chimney stacks and through a narrow wooden door that led to a precariously pitched staircase. We descended the steps at a dead run, bursting through doors and out into the yard behind. For just a moment, Eddy’s delay and the confusion we had created obscured our progress, and we used that chance to disappear down the alley behind, keeping to the shadows until we emerged into a wider street.
“Where the devil are we?” I muttered. Eddy looked around as if astonished that such a filthy and insalubrious place could exist in his capital.
“This cannot be right,” he managed.
Stoker glanced up and grinned. “I know exactly where we are—and I know exactly where to go.”
We were content to let him lead, myself as much for my own chance to rest as the opportunity for him to set the pace. Running over rooftops with a collection of injured ribs is no feat for the faint of heart, and Stoker had risen to the challenge like a warrior. But such a pace would only draw attention to us now, and it was far better to blend with the people in the street, at least as much as we were able with Stoker half-naked and bare of foot and Eddy dressed in a bloodstained shirt. I was the most reputable looking of our little band, and even I resembled an escapee from the nearest asylum. But we limped along, content for now to seek refuge in this unwholesome quarter.
It was, as I had imagined, a poor part of the city, where a pipe of opium might be had as cheaply as a woman’s virtue or a length of silk. If there was silk to be had, I reflected. The women I saw were dressed in cheap trumpery, proud of their hard-won frills and meager joys. Their faces were hectic with gin and recklessness, but beneath it I saw the narrow, pinched look of those who have known poverty as a close companion for all of their lives. The men were much the same, leering into their glasses of beer and bragging to one another about their imagined triumphs.
Stoker guided me through with the air of a man staking a claim to his property, and I knew enough to let him. The rules were different here; a woman alone might easily be expected to be on the game, earning her keep by lifting her skirts, and there was little safety to be found. I chafed against the notion that I required protection, but I consoled myself that I could best look after Stoker by keeping my head down and studying those around us in search of our pursuers. Eddy followed silently in our wake, and I had little doubt anyone would connect him with the dashing young man whose photograph graced thewindows of so many establishments. We attracted a little comment—some ribald jests, for the oddity of our costumes—but Stoker’s expression soon put an end to anything more. Strength was respected here, and the bruises on his face showed he was not a man to shy from a fight. Few would have been ready to challenge him, and those who might have been were so far into their cups that we avoided trouble by the expedient of walking hastily away.
After several dizzying turns and a labyrinthine half an hour that I could never have retraced on a map, we came to a small establishment on a corner, brilliant with light and loud with conversation and scraps of music. It seemed convivial, although marginally less so when the doors flung open and two women, each holding the other by the hair, tumbled into the street. Other patrons stumbled out after them, calling good-natured wagers on the fisticuffs that ensued.
A series of accusations were larded in between the blows, and it soon became clear that they were quarreling over a job and the fact that one of them had poached an opportunity from the other.
“I’ll not get another place half as good, you gammy-handed bitch!” roared the smaller of the two. I worried for her slight figure, but she gave as good as she got, better even, because she emerged the victor, knocking her opponent out flat into the gutter. She accepted the accolades of the crowd, which roared its approval as coins exchanged hands and someone thrust a glass of gin into her hands.
She went to sip from it and caught sight of us. “Mr. Stoker!” she cried. “Fancy seeing you here!”
“Hullo, Elsie,” he said, putting out his hand.
