From his speech and manner, he was obviously from a well-placed family. English, perhaps, by his speech, I realized, and quite young. If he only knew.
“It’s near Market Street, but as I was saying...” He became more flustered over his papers and a book that looked quite boring by the title—A Compilation of Law Cases of the 19thCentury.
“Where might I find a driver?”
“That would be at the High Street, just up the way. However, I don’t believe Mr. Munro would approve...”
I thanked him and left before he could object further.
There was some advantage to the weather that had set in, as I only encountered one other person at the Square, who quickly disappeared into another building.
However, such was not the case at the High Street. It was crowded as people climbed aboard a horse-drawn tramway while others—those afoot, several coaches, along with an assortment of vendors and draughtsmen—went about their way as usual in spite of the weather.
I found a driver, quickly climbed aboard, and gave him the location of Fleshmarket Close.
In spite of the fact that it was not late in the day, the overcast sky cast a darkness over the streets and the front of businesses along Princes Street, much like nighttime.
We arrived in short order. I stepped down and paid the driver, then began the long walk up the alleyway known as Fleshmarket Close.
At one time, it had been known for its slaughterhouse, butcher stalls, and meat market. But the slaughterhouses had been relocated to Fountainhead, with only the meat market remaining.
Vendor stalls had changed as well. A good many had disappeared altogether, leaving boarded-up doorways and windows nearest the Market Street entrance near Waverly Station, with a handful of other entrances to upper floor tenement flats and rooms that were let, like the one Dory had occupied. Along with a handful of pubs that had taken those vacant places and lined the alley that climbed the steep steps and cobbled alleyway up to Cockburn Street.
The pub where Dory had worked from time to time when she needed rent money was at the top of the Close, the room she had rented across the way and not as far.
I wanted very much to speak with the building matron where Dory lived. In spite of her demeanour, the night we met and then again the following day, I sensed that she was a crafty old bird.
Yet a handful of coins might loosen her tongue about what she knew or might have seen the night Dory was murdered. Particularly with the clues Munro had discovered upon seeing Dory’s body—very likely a short man who was left-handed.
It was not something that would go unnoticed. I reached into my bag, my fingers wrapping around the knife that Munro had given me after one of my adventures out and about London.
I passed more than one person huddled in the shadows of the Close, either from too much drink, or perhaps seeking shelter from the rain with a coat collar pulled high about the neck and ears. There was another possibility and I quickened my steps.
As I neared the entrance to the tenement where Dory had lived, there was a furious flutter of wings overhead as a crow swooped near.
A warning?
It disappeared down the alley as a hand reached out and grabbed my arm.
“What might be the hurry, miss?”
The man’s grip was very near as strong as the cloud of whisky fumes that swept across my face and choked my throat.
I could have said that I was surprised. I was not. I had spent the first part of my life in places like the Close, dodging men just like the one who clamped a bony paw of a hand on my shoulder.
I had learned to escape those encounters, much like this one. I fought back and as that face bent over me, I brought up the knife I always carried, and in the struggle pressed it against his throat.
There was a sound of surprise, a laugh then a crude comment.
“Wot will ye do with that, miss?”
I pressed the blade harder. “I will separate yer head from yer neck!” I spat back at him. He roared with laughter.
His expression suddenly flattened, followed by a curse and a tangle of arms and legs as I was suddenly released and fell back against the stone wall of the Close.
“Leave off ye bloody wanker! Or I’ll cut ye meself!”
My attacker scrambled to recover where he’d fallen on the cobbles, cursed, then lurched away as a boot connected with his backside. I stared at the person who belonged to that flood of curses and the boot.
