There was knowing laughter from the others at the table as Brodie continued to watch the man at the bar
“And here’s one for you, Meara darlin’.” Fitch tossed a coin onto her tray.
“You know that I love you,” she replied. “If you weren’t already married...”
It was the usual pub banter, yet Brodie noticed how the other man’s gaze sharpened on Fitch.
It might have been no more than a reaction to that parting bit of conversation, but there was something more behind that narrowed gaze as Fitch pocketed his winnings then emptied that last mug of ale.
“I bid you good night, gentlemen.” He made a sweeping bow with good humor, then pulled his worn work coat from the chair back.
Brodie watched as Fitch left, the pub door snapping shut behind him, as the man at the bar in that fine coat took a drink, then set his almost full mug back on the bar, and followed.
Brodie signaled to Meara.
“Are you leavin’ too?” she said with a disappointment she made no attempt to hide. “I was hopin’ we might share some of the good stuff later,” she said with a frown as he put on his jacket. “My room is just around the corner.”
There was no attempt to disguise the invitation.
He tucked two coins into the bodice of her gown. He knew well enough how it worked, had seen it dozens of times.
“Mac doesn’t need to know,” he told her.
She balanced the tray as she leaned in and kissed his cheek.
“’Tis a shame. You must have someone waitin’ home for you.”
Brodie slipped his hand into his pocket as he left the pub, the steel of the revolver cool on his fingers.
There was a single streetlamp at the end of the street that framed Fitch as he made his way home and suddenly exposed the man who followed.
The attack was powerful, meant to drive Fitch to the cobbled stones. But Fitch worked on the streets, not behind a desk, and fought back, grunting as a blow fell. Then another.
Brodie ran, throwing his shoulder into the back of the man with that fine coat.
He swore and lost his hold.
“Get out of here!” he shouted at Fitch, curses cut off, the revolver jarred from his hand from blows meant not just to chase him off.
He fought back, driving the man up against the wall of a storefront, with that instinct from the streets.
The man was strong, persistent, grunting when Brodie landed a blow, then forcing him back with a punch and then a second one.
His boots slipped on the wet stones and he went down. The next blow came from the man’s own boot to his ribs, driving the air from his lungs. He pushed back to his feet, the knife from his boot clenched in his fist. He slashed at the arm that would have brought the next blow.
His attacker cursed and clutched his arm. He glared at him, backed away, then turned and ran into the shadows, heading down the street in the opposite direction from which Fitch had fled.
Brodie winced at the pain that throbbed below his left eye, blood warm on his cheek.
He slowly straightened and cursed all over again at the pain in his ribs—likely broken and not the first time.
The man who had attacked him was experienced, not simply someone off the street. His clothes were not what those who frequented the Old Bell wore. And he had singled Fitch out.
He retrieved the revolver and slowly made his way to the high street, where he hoped to find a driver. Perhaps one foolish enough to be out after spending the last hours in a pub.
Four
MIKAELA, THE STRAND
