Page 52 of A Murder in Bloomsbury

“Mind the horses!”

Miriam came to stand beside me. “You are not thinking of going outside.”

“I am.”

“Of course you are.” Her tone implied resignation to a longstanding affliction in my character. “I’ll come with you. Otherwise, you might get trampled by a fire engine.”

We didn’t bother to dress properly, but simply tossed on our coats. By the time we reached the street, the entire square teemed with people.

The air smelled of smoke, wet stone, and coal soot. Men hurried past carrying buckets. Servants clustered on corners craning for a better view. A baby somewhere nearby had begun wailing in terror.

The glow in the sky brightened as we moved toward Hartwell Lane.

Then came the fire engines.

The great horses appeared first, black and steaming beneath the gas lamps, their harness buckles gleaming wetly. Behind them rattled the engines themselves, iron-rimmed wheels thundering over the stones while men in dark uniforms shouted for the crowd to clear the way.

The Metropolitan Fire Brigade.

One engine was already at the blaze pumping water through thick hoses dragged across the muddy street. Another arrived moments later amidst a fresh eruption of shouting.

“Back!”

“Move back!”

“Give them room!”

Miriam seized my arm before I could be knocked sideways by a passing laborer. We turned onto Hartwell Lane just as flames burst through an upper-story window.

The building housing The Quill and Crown was burning. For one suspended instant, I simply stared.

Fire poured hungrily from the second floor. Smoke billowed into the narrow lane in dense black clouds while men shouted from below and others dragged crates, papers, and warped trays of printing type from the lower level.

My stomach dropped. This is where Lydia must have been headed. She had brought them the poem. And now the offices were burning to the ground.

“This was no accident,” I whispered.

Miriam looked sharply at me. “What do you mean?”

But before I could answer, another crash split the air as part of the upper façade gave way inward.

The crowd recoiled as one, fearful that some spark would set them ablaze.

A woman nearby crossed herself repeatedly while another began insisting the whole lane would go next. Somewhere glass shattered. Sparks rained across the wet cobblestones.

The sign bearing the journal’s name collapsed moments later, striking the street with a splintering crack.

I flinched, and Miriam’s grip tightened around my arm. I could barely drag my gaze away from the flames. “I think that was the publication Lydia intended to visit. I think she reached it. I think she delivered the poem.”

Her expression altered immediately. Not with surprise but understanding. “And now it’s burning.”

The fire engines pumped relentlessly. Water hissed against brick and flame. Men emerged from the lower level carrying armfuls of half-burned paper before disappearing again into the smoke.

One stumbled. The crowd surged instinctively forward before being forced back again by shouting firemen.

“Out of the way!”

“Leave room!”