“That’s the plaster of Paris,” Elsie said when I remarked upon it, pronouncing it “Paree.”
“Plaster?” I asked.
“The bakers add it to the flour to make it stretch further,” she said with a matter-of-factness that told me she expected nothing better.
“They adulterate the bread?”
“And the milk and the meat and the preserves,” Stoker put in. “There’s not a pail of milk between here and Guernsey that doesn’t have chalk mixed in.”
“Lord only knows how I managed to keep my little ones alive on it,” Elsie agreed.
“Unconscionable,” I said firmly, making a note to send her a loaf of the good white bread always at our table in Marylebone. There were many things I took for granted, living in an earl’s household. We ate few meals with his lordship, but his kitchens provided our food, and itwas beneath Cook’s dignity to send out anything less than first-rate, even to his lordship’s employees.
Elsie shrugged. “’Tis the way it has always been, miss. No need to get into a bother over it. Now, Mr. Stoker, you eat up the last of that pie and I will take you down the back stairs.”
Stoker shoved the last bite of pie into his mouth and got to his feet. The borrowed boots were clearly too small and painful, but at least he no longer had to traverse London in his stocking feet. He roused Eddy by the expedient of an application of cold water to his face.
Eddy came to with a start, blinking furiously, but he caught sight of Elsie and smothered his protests in the nick of time, contenting himself with a scowl until he noticed his clean shirt. He smoothed it appreciatively and Elsie gave him a smile.
“You’re welcome, lad. That stripe suits you, it does.”
He inclined his head with all the graciousness his breeding had instilled. Elsie hurried us down a narrow staircase clearly meant for the maidservants. A single guttering candle illuminated the dingy enclosed space, and we groped our way carefully down to the bottom, stopping at a small door. Elsie turned to Stoker. She reached beneath her skirts and drew out a long, slender blade. “You’ll want a weapon, Mr. Stoker,” she said flatly.
He shook his head. “Keep it. If you insist on sleeping rough, you will need some means to defend yourself.”
“Lord love you, sir, I’ve got one better,” she said with a grin, producing a wicked-looking knife with sharp serrations. She tucked it away again and gestured.
“Now, this passage leads to the yard. Cross it and in the back wall you will see a door opening onto Flower and Dean Street. Close the door firmly behind you, mind, and turn hard to the left to take you to Brick Lane. Follow that towards the river to Whitechapel High Street.There will be plenty of folk still about so you shouldn’t attract much attention, but keep to the shadows just the same.”
We promised we would and with many thanks on our side and many protestations of embarrassment on hers, we were away, moving into the darkness. We followed her instructions, crossing the yard of the gin palace and finding the little door set into the wall. We slipped through it, into the street. It was a small thoroughfare, scarcely more than an alley, connecting two larger roads, and here and there it was pierced with a pool of warm yellow light from a lamppost. The lamps flickered and I saw that a soft, veiling mist was rising off the river on the cooling night air. It swirled and thickened as we walked, muffling some noises and bringing others startlingly close.
Wordlessly, I joined hands with Stoker and Eddy. It was an eerie walk through the London streets that night, moving from shadow into golden light and back again, the fog rolling in, obscuring faces and figures of those we passed. The changing weather had driven some folk inside. It was quieter than I would have expected, with footsteps sounding only occasionally near us. Ours clipped sharply against the pavement, Stoker’s reassuring and solid next to my quicker, lighter step, Eddy’s almost silent in his evening shoes. I began to identify those who passed us by the sound of their stride. The hesitant, birdlike noises belonged to an old woman, bent with age and rheumatism, while the slow and ponderous stride that came after was a hefty fellow, well into his cups but not entirely drunk, stepping with the exaggerated care of one who is certain only of his uncertainty.
They walked by, the mist parting only long enough for us to glimpse a snippet of a lined face or a portly figure, and we were alone again in the darkness, ears pricked like a pointer’s, straining for any sound of pursuers.
We made another turn but must have got it wrong, for instead ofthe broad main road of Whitechapel High Street, we found ourselves in a narrow and evil-looking alley, its broken curbstones and filthy gutters barely visible in the light of the single streetlamp.
“Stoker,” I began. I did not have to finish.
“I know. We had better retrace our footsteps,” he said. His tone was one of thorough annoyance, but I knew better than to imagine it was with me. “I wasn’t paying careful enough attention,” he told me. “These bloody boots are strangling my feet. Give me a minute.”
He stepped to the side, bending double to tug them from his feet. He withdrew the knife that Elsie had given him, turning the blade to the boots to slash the insteps. Eddy chose that moment to be lavishly sick in the gutter, heaving out the remainder of the cheap gin he had imbibed. I moved a little distance away and waited, standing alone under the light of the guttering streetlamp.
I felt his presence before I saw him, just another shadow in the darkness. But he detached himself from the gloom, moving towards me, a deeper blackness than the nothingness behind him. His height was unremarkable, his coat black as a raven’s wing. His hat was pulled low over his features and a muffler wound tightly about the lower half of his face concealed the rest. He moved with purpose, coming closer as I turned to see him.
I realized how it must look—a lone female figure, standing under a streetlamp in that particular quarter. I wore a conspicuous dress, cut low and edged in cheap lace, fashioned to draw the eye. My face still bore traces of paint from the costume ball, and the hat upon my head was gaudy with violets meant also to draw the eye.
For many years I have thought of that moment. I have been menaced countless times, faced death upon more occasions than I care to number. But never in the whole of my life have I felt a presence as predatory as that one. He made no motion to harm me; said nothing; threatened nothing. I did not even sense violence in him; that was notwhat made my marrow cold. I sensed only anticipation, rising excitement in the quickening of his step, the sharp intake of breath.
Just then, Stoker straightened from behind me. “There, that ought to take care of the bloody things,” he said, his voice ringing through the mist. Eddy joined us, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand.
“I do apologize,” he said, sounding haggard. “I think perhaps that bottle of spirits may not have been of the highest quality.”
The shadowy man did not slacken his progress. He merely changed his course, turning swiftly aside, but still coming so near to me that his hand brushed my skirts as he passed. And as his glove lingered on the tawdry fabric, there was a breath, a single slow, moaning exhalation that ruffled the hair at my cheek.
And then he was gone, moving into the shadows. Stoker and Eddy had not even noticed him passing, so subtle and quiet were his movements. But I would never forget him for as long as I lived, and I knew that evil had touched me that night.
His boots no longer a problem and Eddy recovered, Stoker applied himself with a clear head to the issue of navigation and soon had us on the correct course. He shepherded us through the dark streets until we reached Whitechapel High Street and the long road towards home.
