“I’m ’ard up too, sir,” whined the whore, and if looks could kill the older woman would have been stretched out dead at Jewel’s feet. She was sure she could get him to at least walk with her a little way—far enough to where Jem and Mick could drag him into an alley—if only the old bitch would go away!
The toff tucked some notes into the crack between the other woman’s fat breasts, smiled seraphically at the pair of them, and again started to lurch away. Down the street a ways, a ramshackle tavern belched forth a quartet of shabby revelers; joining arms, they staggered off in the opposite direction. The toff followed happily in their wake, and Jewel ground her teeth. Then, with a single seething glance at her rival, she would have gone after the toff, but the older woman stopped her with a hand on her arm.
“We need to ’ave us a little chat, lovey,” she purred menacingly, her grime encrusted nails digging into the soft flesh of Jewel’s upper arm. Jewel turned, feeling the roots of her hair tighten with temper. Hissing like an enraged cat, she started to give the woman the roundhouse punch she had been asking for. But the sound of the toffs voice, high pitched with drunken indignation, jolted her attention back to him.
“You. Just what do you think you’re doing?” The young gentleman was protesting in vain at being force-marched down the street between Jem and Mick. The three were nearly of a height, but their burliness and rough clothes overwhelmed his slender, fashionably dressed person.
“I say now, this isn’t quite-quite cricket!” He was struggling, but the effort was wasted. Jewel watched in consternation as Mick wrapped his burly arms around the toff in a bone crushing hug, lifted him from his feet, and bore him back into the sheltering darkness of a narrow alley.
“Let me go, ya ol’ windbag,” Jewel hissed at the whore, who was gaping at the now empty alley entrance. When the woman was slow to obey, Jewel shoved her so hard that she stumbled backward and, tripping over a loose cobblestone, sat down hard in the gutter that was running over with filth.
The woman howled as she struggled to her feet, but Jewel scarcely spared her a glance. She picked up her voluminous skirt in both hands and sped down the street. Even before she reached the alley, she heard the sickening thud of blows and the groans of someone in pain. By the time she rounded the corner into the narrow, shadow filled darkness, the toff was lying on his back behind a heap of garbage while Jem wrestled his purse away from him. Despite, or perhaps because of, his drunken state, the young man was determined to hang onto his purse. He and Jem engaged in a fruitless tug of war until Mick settled the matter by aiming a vicious kick to the toff’s ribs. The gentleman cried out, doubling up as Jem quickly stuffed the purse into the capacious pockets of his coat. Then Jem ran his hands over the still groaning, writhing victim, quickly extracting his watch, fobs and other gewgaws and storing them in his pockets alongside the purse.
“C’mon, c’mon, the two of ya!” He gestured to them to follow him, then scuttled furtively away without waiting for either one of them. Jewel, watching Mick gloat over the moaning, curled up man on the ground, seeing the blood that was the same color as her dress drip from the toffs battered face to speckle the cobblestones, felt her stomach heave. There had been no need for such brutality; as drunk as he was, they should have been able to take this pigeon’s purse with no trouble at all.
“Bloody thieving bastards!” the toff groaned.
To Jewel’s horror he came up off the pavement, lunging upward with his clenched fist leading the way. He caught Mick square on the nose; Mick groaned and jumped back, while the toff’s momentum sent him staggering off balance against the brick wall of the alley. Blood spurting from his nose, Mick jumped toward the toff, who was trying to get away on unsteady legs. Jewel saw the glint of a knife in Mick’s hand as it plunged toward the other man’s back.
“Stop!” Jewel screamed, running toward the fused pair. But even as she reached them Mick stepped back. The knife in his fist was red to the hilt with blood. Dark crimson welled from a slit in the gentleman’s claret coat; his hands clawed against the smoke darkened brick as he sank down slowly, so slowly, to lie on his side on the cobblestones.
“You’ve done for ’im, ya bloody idiot!” Jewel screeched as she knelt beside the man, staring at his inert body with horror.
Mick glared at her for a moment, then bent down to wipe the bloody knife on the tail of his victim’s coat. He straightened, sliding the knife inside his coat before turning those hard black eyes on Jewel.
“You’d best keep yer tongue between yer teeth about this if ya know wot’s good fer ya.”
Jewel nodded jerkily, knowing that Mick wouldn’t hesitate to use his knife on her if he even suspected she might peach on him.
Mick grunted, apparently satisfied with her response. “C’mon then, let’s get the ’ell away from ’ere. The watch’ll be along soon.”
Before she could even get to her feet, he was walking rapidly away. As Jewel stared after him, he began to run.
She was just about to follow him when the man at her feet groaned. Looking down, she saw that he was moving his arm. So he was not dead—yet. But if he did die, what Mick had done would be murder. And she and Jem were involved up to their necks. Damn Mick anyway! He’d be the death of them all!
Jewel blanched as she recalled the exact penalty for murder. Oh, God, she didn’t want to die after watching her intestines being burned before her eyes! Would she be considered responsible for the toff’s death, though she had not wielded the knife? She thought of their lay, and her mouth went dry. Sure she would. She had lured the pigeon … Then the toff groaned again.
She couldn’t just leave him. Cursing, uttering every foul word she had ever heard under her breath, she dropped to her knees beside him. His eyes opened for a second.
“Call the watch,” he muttered before his eyes closed again. Jewel shuddered. The watch might come along at any moment. They might even have heard the fight. If she saw them coming, she could run, knowing that he would not be left to die on the street alone. But all hell would break loose if the toff was found bloody and dying on the street. If he died, it would be murder. If he didn’t, he could identify them all.
Jewel’s blood ran cold. She had to do something fast. Wetting her dry lips, she caught the collar of the toffs fancy coat in both hands, and heaved. He was senseless as she began to drag him away, scant inches at a time, his passage marked by a trail of blood. For all his slender build, he was heavy, and again Jewel considered leaving him and running away like Mick and Jem. But surely it was better, whether he should die or live, to have him do so off the street and out of sight.
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