“And feel the same! Look at this.” He handed over the crumpled note, and Morris read:
Mr. Rossiter.
I no what your trying to proov, and I no something. Not much. Im a pore man sir, but maybee we can help each other. I will wate at Number 18, Appleblosom Lane until four o’clock. Its orf Whitechapel Road.
Sined, Tom Brewer.
“Hum,” said Morris, returning the note. “Terrible spelling. And it smells like a trap, you realize?”
“Yes. But I think I dare not ignore it.”
“Jolly good. I’ve not been in Whitechapel for years, but it’s as well I brought my pistol. Do you go armed, my Tulip?”
“Of course. But to say truth, I’d as lief you didn’t come. This is my affair, and may take some time, and you have other matters to settle.”
“I do not scruple to tell you that you are a scaly scrub,” said Lieutenant Morris, indignant. “You want to hog this to yourself, yet would be the first to complain did you get your throat cut! Which you doubtless will do you go in alone, for if ’tis a trap the odds are bound to be heavy. You know very well I have had a bad day, and a good brawl would cheer me up. But, no! I am to be sent off with—”
Laughing, Gideon said, “You great gudgeon! I shall be exceeding glad of your help, as you know very well.”
Morris grinned at him and turned his horse eastward. “If Appleblossom Lane lies in the rabbit warren I think it does, we shall be lucky do we find it in time to get to the ball this evening.”
“We’ll find it,” said Gideon determinedly.
An hour later, he was a good deal less optimistic. They had reached Whitechapel Road without much difficulty, but had then plunged into a labyrinth of streets that had gradually deteriorated into narrow refuse-strewn lanes, and then into dark, gloomy alleys. Three times they’d stopped to ask the way, and their ragged and dirty informants had been willing enough to supply directions that were “clear as a bell” but which turned out to be murky as mud. Their most recent instructions, imparted by an insolent boy, had been so confusing that they’d disagreed as to whether to turn left or right at the second alley. As a result, Morris had gone left and Rossiter had reined his mare to the right, where he now found himself at the junction of Crabtree Lane and Elderberry Court.
It was a far cry from either elderberries or courts. A squalid, reeking alley, with the blackened timbers of sagging warehouses to the left, and row houses to the right which were posted as having been condemned. “And rightly so,” Rossiter muttered, scanning woodwork that hung in rotted strips, boarded-up or cracked windows, and the occasional furtive scamper of rats. Yet some poor souls still dwelt in this nightmarish hole, for as he rode past he heard the thin wailing of an infant; a woman’s shrill, drunken laughter; the bitter cursing of a man. ‘Good God!’ he thought, appalled that any Englishman should have to lodge his wife and children in such a ghastly slum, and realizing also that some of his own men had probably grown up in similar squalor.
And then, on a sagging post before him, were the barely decipherable words: Appleblossom Lane.
“Victory!” he muttered.
The mare tossed her head and whinnied as he rounded the corner. He could scarce blame her, for this area was even worse than Elderberry Court. Tall warehouses loomed on both sides to shut out the sunlight. There were only three houses to be seen, and they were at the far end of this perpetually shadowed “lane” that might almost have been a tunnel. Gideon rode on, pistol in hand now, ears straining and eyes alert.
He was almost to the end of the “tunnel” when it came to him that it was very quiet. Unnaturally quiet. The mare danced nervously, but the end of the lane was clear and a quick glance behind revealed no sign of lurking footpads.
He could not have said what made him look up. A dark shape was hurtling down at him, all arms and legs. Before he could aim the pistol, he was smashed from the saddle. Sprawling in the mud, dazed, he instinctively fought to get up. The mare neighed shrilly. A voice shouted, “Grab her! Quick!”
A boot flew at Rossiter’s head. He jerked away, but another smashed into his ribs and he doubled up. Through the pain, he thought dully, ‘Four of the bastards,’ and was vaguely shocked when a woman screeched, “Search ’im! But take care you don’t mark ’is face! The Squire don’t want ’im marked!”
“The Squire!” Those words seared into Rossiter’s reeling brain, and anger brought a resurgence of strength. A large shape bent over him. Rough hands tore at his pockets. He struck out with all his strength. A startled oath, and someone fell. It was too close quarters for swordplay, but struggling to his knees, he managed somehow to wrest his dagger from its sheath and strike out blindly. The howl was deafening. “The perisher’s got a knife!”
“Not fer long, ’e ain’t,” snarled a coarse, deep voice.
A boot drove hard at Rossiter’s arm and the dagger fell from his numbed fingers. The boot kicked out again, but the instinct for survival was strong, and Rossiter’s years of soldiering stood him in good stead. He jerked aside, clutched the boot and pulled. A man shot over him, colliding with another ruffian who was in the process of swinging a hefty cudgel. The cudgel found the wrong mark and the air resounded with howls of wrathful profanity. The cudgel fell. Rolling, Rossiter snatched it up and clawed his way to his feet. A hard-driven fist landed beside his right ear, sending him staggering, but his back slammed against a wall and he battled to stay upright. A beefy face was in front of him. He drove the cudgel at it and the face convulsed and sank from sight. A fist flew at his jaw, and he deflected it with the cudgel, then landed a right uppercut sending the ruffian flying back. But a long club flailed from nowhere and landed squarely on his left shoulder. He knew dully that he was down, but for a horrible interval pain smothered everything else.
Someone growled echoingly, “… ain’t got it, I tellyer.”
A brutal hand was dragging him up. Beery breath, and a voice demanding, “Where is it, soldier boy?” A knife glittered before his dazed eyes. “Tell us afore we ’ave ter—”
“Troops, forward! At the double!”
‘Jamie,’ thought Rossiter numbly.
Shouts of rage and alarm. Hoofbeats. More than one horse.
The woman screeched, “Narks! Narks! Shab orf!”
Savage cursing. The hand with the knife vanished, but a boot rammed into Rossiter’s stomach. Writhing, he heard the shrill female voice, “Keep stickin’ yer nose where it don’t belong, me ’andsome darlin’, and next time, we’ll scrag yer!”
