“I do have a man to visit, but my errand should not take long,” I explained. I gestured with my stick to the foggy lane. “Just there.”
Eden blinked. He regarded Brewster, who hovered at my back, then the small street, then me. “There? A more menacing track I’ve not seen in a long while, and I have been to some terrible places, Lacey.” He squared his shoulders. “Perhaps I ought to accompany you.”
Brewster gave him a slow nod. “Another pair of fists might not be amiss.”
“I think you are both making heavy weather of it,” I said. “I do not intend to linger. But very well. This is Thomas Brewster. He is …” I could not think of a word to describe his position. “He works for me.”
“I’d say a good thing he does. Well met, Mr. Brewster.” Eden stuck out his hand.
Brewster gazed at him askance for a heartbeat then conceded to the handshake.
“Getting darker by the minute,” Brewster said once introductions were finished. “Storm must be coming in.”
“Rain will clear the fog,” I said with optimism. “Shall we, gentlemen?”
I led the way, my walking stick tapping. Truth be told, I was glad of my friends’ presence, both stout fellows, as we reached the mouth of the Stygian lane and plunged inside.
CHAPTER 2
Fog packed the alley. It roiled around us, reaching with cold, damp fingers. Above the tall buildings at the end of the lane rose the steeple of St. Dunstan’s-in-the-East parish church, by London’s hero, Christopher Wren. The steeple was ghostly pale, a mere outline in the gloom.
None of the dock workers trundled goods here, the passageway empty of all but us. Our footsteps echoed in the muffled silence.
Number 11 Hill Lane looked no different from the brick buildings to its right and left, and in fact shared a common facade wall with them. Only the number differentiated Mr. Creasey’s abode from the doors on either side. The doorstep was crumbling stone, the door itself a black paneled slab.
I stepped up to this door and rapped on it with the head of my walking stick.
Time ticked past, giving us no response. From the end of the lane came the rumble of wagons, the clopping of horses, the shouts of men, but here, in the blanket of fog, all was eerily quiet.
As I was about to tell my friends I would give up and call another time, a bolt slid ponderously back and the door creaked open. A pair of bloodshot eyes under a blotch of greasy dark hair peered out.
“What you want?”
I removed the package from my coat but did not hand it to the apparition in the doorway. The man was thin, dressed in worn and stained clothing, and smelled rancid. I doubted Mr. Denis would thank me for leaving the package with this specimen.
“I have a delivery for Mr. Creasey. Is he at home?”
Homewas not the word for this place, but I could be polite.
“What delivery?”
“One of a personal nature.” I tucked the parcel into my pocket and drew out a card. “Will you be so kind as to give him my name?”
The man sneered through the crack at the card. “What you fink this is? A palace?”
“Now, look here, you.” Eden took an indignant step forward with the air of command he’d turned on insubordinate soldiers. “You fetch your master as you’ve been told.”
The man didn’t budge. He was not impressed by gentlemen officers annoyed at his slowness.
Brewster rumbled behind me. “Get him, and right sharpish. This is from Mr. Denis.”
The man’s dark eyes widened a fraction, and the door slammed shut, the bolt scraping into place. I turned to Brewster in mild annoyance.
“We may never see him again, Brewster. I want to be shot of this errand, my obligation finished.”
“Obligations are never finished with His Nibs. You know that.”
“Good Lord, whoisthis Mr. Denis?” Eden asked in bewilderment.
