“Naw, he was raised by the O’Briens. Paddy was a Runner for years—that’s how we met—and he and his wife raised a whole brood of castoffs.” Pa picked up his fork and dug into his eggs and rashers, tossing a piece of meat to Terry. “All seven of them have made something of themselves.”
“Seven?” Her mouth fell open. “They took in seven waifs?”
He nodded, reaching for the bread as Kitty pushed the bowl of butter toward him. “The missus couldn’t bear a child, so they found another way to have a family. You’d like them. Nice Irish couple.”
Her mind was still catching up with raising seven children from different backgrounds.
“Remember me talking about Dr. Brooks? He’s part of that family. When he married, Mr. Cooper took his rooms.” Pa dropped a crust of bread for Terry.
“From orphan to physician? That’s quite impressive.”
She had assumed Mr. Cooper had come from a well-off family who sent him to university. It had never occurred to her that he might be an orphan. She smiled, feeling proud of him for some reason.
“Careful out there this morning,” Pa said around a mouthful of eggs. “Some thick pea soup and no sun to dissipate it. The alleys are still dark.”
The heavy fog was more than a nuisance. It could be toxic to those with weak lungs, like her mother. A pea-souper was a rancid yellow combination of fog and smoke. It often smelled of chemicals and could be so dense that it was hard to see the ground.
“I’ll wear my hooded cloak and cover my head,” she said. After finishing her tea, she carried her plates to the dry sink and set them in a large basin. “I’ll finish the kitchen when I return.”
“Good girl. Better to leave early and keep your eyes peeled. Some of those drivers don’t bother to slow down in conditions like these.” He turned to the dog. “Let her know if you hear wheels coming around a corner.”
Terry barked a yes, and when Kitty reached for her forest-green pelisse, he went to the door and waited. She checked her pockets, then decided to grab more dried peas. Hurrying to the cupboard, she grabbed a tin, opened it, and poured a handful into her palm. A few spilled on the floor. “Jabbers,” she cursed as she hurried to pick them up before Terry ate them.
It was a chilly morning for April, the sodden air making the fog cling to her boots. She pulled up the hood to keep the moisture from her hair. The day was dreary, and Kitty desperately wanted to finish her route and get back to her warm home. She had mending to do waiting next to the rocker by the stove. Terry would curl up next to her and sleep between his shifts, as Pa called them.
The yellow vapor still hadn’t dissipated by the time they turned the corner onto Wormwood. The narrow street was shadowy at the best time of day, but now, Kitty paused and squinted into the murky lane. Terry growled.
“There’s nothing to see, silly dog. Why are you growling?” She bent to scratch his ears, then moved forward. After waking Mr. Lockton, barely seeing his curtain fling open, Kitty breathed a sigh of relief. She had an eerie feeling, and watching the scruff on Terry’s neck rise didn’t help.
Near the end of the lane, before the buildings stopped leaning so much and daylight could be seen, Kitty saw a dark form. A man or a woman?
Shouting erupted. Definitely two male voices. Kitty slowed her pace, hoping they would move on. She was so close to Bishopsgate. As she drew near the man, still arguing with someone in the alley, a hand struck out and grabbed the man by the throat, pulling him out of sight.
Kitty screamed, and Terry began growling again. Run, screamed a voice in head. Run!
She obeyed, picking up her skirts and making a dash for the corner. But as she passed the alley, her feet seemed to move in slow motion. A body lay on the ground, and another man wearing a neckcloth over his face stood over him. As the standing man looked over his shoulder, his gaze locked with Kitty’s. The fog shifted around his head like a gothic portrait, briefly showing his face. The cloth fell to his chin, and Kitty could just make out a short beard. A large pale scar zigzagged down the side of his face, disappearing under the facial hair.
Something flashed in his hand. A knife. The stranger moved quickly toward her, and panic froze her to the spot until Terry began barking. The tough little terrier charged the man. Kitty grabbed the folds of her pelisse and skirts and ran as fast as she could.
Behind her, a deep voice cursed as the growling grew louder. She heard a sharp cry—her dog—then silence. When she got to the Fenley sisters’ house, she sat on the front step to catch her breath.
And burst into tears.
Kitty wanted to go back for Terry, but she was terrified to run into the man again. A man who might have just murdered someone. She sat for a moment, her face in her hands, sobbing. Until a warm tongue licked her knuckles. She peeked between her fingers, and Terry kissed her eyes.
The relief sent her into a giggling, hiccupping episode, sweeping Terry into her arms and hugging him as she rocked back and forth. She stayed there until the trembling eased.
“You might have saved my life, and I deserted you,” she mumbled into his thick coat. “I’m sorry, Terry. I’m so sorry.”
The dog licked her again, his tail thumping against her leg.
“I’m glad you don’t hold a grudge. I promise never to desert you again,” she whispered in his ear. “Let’s finish this and get home. Pa will know what to do.”
The sisters appeared behind her, wrapped in robes, mobcaps askew on their heads.
“We heard you crying,” said the elder sister. “Are you all right?”
Kitty nodded, not sure what to say. If she was a witness to something foul, she didn’t want to involve the Fenleys.
