In the Brief Eternal Silence (61 page)

“S'cuse me, Miss,” Steven interrupted. “But
I'd go see me mother first, that is, if you'd and m'lord Tempton
would go with me,” he added, looking a little self-conscious.

Miss Murdock looked at Bertie, and Bertie
looked at her. “Well,” he said, trying to fumble his way through to
a conclusion. “That'd take care of one worry.”

“And I could send a note 'round to St.
James,” she added. “And although it seems cowardly to not tell him
to his face that we didn't do as he asked, it mayhaps would be
better. And surely he can not be too angry when he has discovered
that we found Steven, or rather, Steven found us,” she amended, for
if he had not come to her that night, they obviously would not have
had a clue where to look for him, “and that we will be shortly
headed for where I was to be to begin with.”

Lord Tempton grasped on to this idea with
enthusiasm. “Just the thing,” he said. “A note. You are very
sensible, Miss Murdock. By the time I have to see him again, he
should have enough other things occupying his mind that I should
get nothing more than a mild dressing down.”

Miss Murdock laughed at this obvious attempt
to elude St. James' ire on Bertie's part, but as she was feeling
rather relieved herself to not have to immediately face him, she
could not blame him. “Steven,” she said. “You seem to have hit upon
a solution to our problem. I only hope that we can help you as well
as you think we should with facing your mother.” Then she added,
her voice more sober, “I think she will understand, so do not
fear.”

Steven gave a glum nod. Bertie said, “Well,
we should gather the horses and set off then.”

Steven said, “Coo, m'lord, don't think ya
should take t'horses. There be no place t'stable them, and if'n ya
leave them on t'street, they'll be stoled 'fore we ever reach
t'door.”

And that was the first inkling that Miss
Murdock got that Steven's home was perhaps not a place that St.
James would be happy to see her or Bertie visiting, but as she
could see no other option, and indeed, she did want to help Steven,
and be assistance to his poor mother, who must be in a state of
shock at this point to have learned that her husband had been
killed, she only said, “We shall walk, then, Steven, if you think
that is best.”

“Aye, miss. Have no fear, though. For I
know's the best and safest way to get there.” He opened his coat as
he spoke and said, “I have milord's pistol, also.”

“Good God!” Bertie exclaimed. “Never tell me
you've had that since last night?”

“Aye,” Steven nodded. “For I first thought
I'd kill St. James himself with it, but then I come t'realize, he'd
never shot me father if it hadn't been for him thinkin' me da was
'bout t'stab me. So t'was my fault and not his.”

Miss Murdock did not say anything to that,
and Bertie was silent also. But they again met each other's eyes
over Steven's head, and Bertie's gaze dropped away, and Miss
Murdock's gaze was very troubled.

And so they set out, in the cold and the dark
and the foggy night, and Miss Murdock was grateful that her new
riding boots had low heels, but they were stiff with their newness,
and they chaffed at her ankles. Bertie looked to be making out
rather less as well, as he was not used to any more exertion than
he deemed absolutely necessary, and they had not gone far before he
began to voice some regrets.

Steven walked ahead, and it was clear that he
was familiar with the city, especially those routes that were less
traveled, and he did not seem the least put out by the dark or the
fog. Miss Murdock recalled his saying that he had been on less
honorable jobs than waking a female in her bedchamber, and from his
sure navigation, she was now certain that he had not been
exaggerating.

But he seemed if not in light spirits, at
least a great deal calmer, and as she had the suspicion that it had
very much to do with her accompanying him, she blithely tuned out
Bertie's low-voiced mutterings of complaint.

As they progressed, their surroundings
deteriorated. Miss Murdock was not familiar with London, of course,
and she had no more than a basic sense of direction, but something
about the steady dampening smell of the air led her to believe that
they must be approaching the Thames.

Bertie's rather vague complaints turned more
explicit. “Not a good neighborhood, Miss Murdock, to be in, not
even in the day, let alone, middle of the night.”

And Miss Murdock frowned, for she could well
see that this was so, for the buildings they passed were derelict,
and the rats rustled around with enough boldness that she nearly
had to kick one from beneath her booted feet. “Well, we should not
possibly meet anyone that would know us, then, should we, Bertie,”
she pointed out. “For if we were on a more fashionable street,
however would we explain my being about in the night with only you
for protection?”

“I have t'duke's gun, Miss,” Steven reminded
her from a pace ahead of them.

“Indeed, yes,” she replied. “And a comfort it
is to me to know that I have a messenger boy with a weapon as well
as Mr. Tempton for protection.” She said it lightly enough that
Steven should not be offended, but she was certain that Bertie
should pick up on her point at any rate. She continued, “So you
see, Bertie, although I feel very safe, I am afraid that if we were
to meet someone we knew, that the propriety of all this should
mayhaps escape them. I think Steven is doing a splendid job of
making sure that does not happen by this route.”

“I just hope he does not expect us to take to
the bloody roofs next,” Bertie muttered. And this did cause Miss
Murdock to laugh, the picture in her mind of the foppish Lord
Tempton clambering up a drain pipe or some other accessory to the
rooftops causing her quite a bit of amusement. But Bertie, a little
more loudly, asked, “Are we headed for the waterfront then,
lad?”

And Steven said, “Aye. Down by t'pool.”

“The pool!” Bertie gave soft exclamation with
horror in his voice.

“What is the pool?” Miss Murdock asked, and
lifted her skirts to jump over some ancient garbage that lay across
her way.

“Where the locks hold the waters for the
ships to dock, Miss Murdock. And if you can not know what an
unsavory part of town it is, then let me present you with a picture
of scores of rough, muscle-hewed dockworkers, dirty and sweaty and
smelling of gin, whose idea of a night's entertainment is to drink
each other into the gutters and to have knife fights where the
winner is the one who has lost the least amount of parts of his
anatomy.”

“Oh,” Miss Murdock said, then, “I am sure
they can not all be so bad. And it will be dawn soon. They will
have gone home to their families by now, I am sure.”

But Steven answered before Bertie could argue
further. “Nay, miss. For it is a right gin row down here. But ne'er
fear, for we are only a mew away from me house, 'n' 'though we mays
not avoid 'em's that drink entirely, we should only run into a
couple of 'em back here with their pieces of comfort for t'night,
'n' they'll pay us no mind. Bein' busy 'n' all.”

And Miss Murdock said, “Pieces of
comfort?”

“Never you mind, Miss Murdock!” Bertie
hastened to say. He added to Steven, “Is there not some other
route?”

“Coo, no,” Steven returned looking over his
shoulder at Lord Tempton as though he were daft. “For if they'rn't
busy with that 'n' all, then they'll be the ones that are still
lookin', 'n' if they see the Miss there, they'll be swarmin' 'round
us like she were a week's worth of wages. For she's clean y'know,
'n' they t'aint used to seein' one that t'aint needin' a dip in
t'Thames to freshen' her up some.”

Miss Murdock, perceiving at last what they
were discussing, said to Bertie, “I assure you, I would rather take
a route where I do not have a gaggle of dockworkers chasing after
me because I am 'clean'.

Let Steven continue in what way he thinks
best.”

And Bertie only sighed, muttered that if St.
James ever discovered any of this night's piece of work that he
would probably not even have the decency of calling Bertie out, but
would kill him on the spot.

Miss Murdock gave a soft laugh. “I begin to
see why St. James thinks so much of you, Bertie, for although you
are reluctant and let it be known you have your doubts, you do not
argue in the least!”

And Bertie said in a doleful voice, “I shall
only lose in the end at any rate, and it all goes so much quicker
if I merely complain along the way.”

But Steven drew to a stop in front of them,
and he turned his gray eyes to them in warning and they fell
silent. “We live down this row, miss,” he whispered, “but we'll
have to go quiet and cautious like, for the street frontin' t'river
is just there at t'end also. They'll be some few of t'men 'bout,
but what e'er happens or ya see, don't scream. For they'll come
runnin' then, 'n' it t'won't be for t'helpin' ye.”

And Miss Murdock pulled the turned-up collar
of St. James' dark coat a little closer about her face and nodded
as she did so. “I understand,” she whispered back. “Thank you,
Steven.”

Bertie took her arm, and if he had been
complaining before, now he only seemed resigned to the task ahead
of him. He put his other hand beneath his unbuttoned coat, which
surprised Miss Murdock very much, but then, of course, St. James
would have never tolerated Lord Tempton if he had not thought he
were prepared in a pinch.

Then Steven moved out again, and they turned
on to the narrow street that he had indicated. The houses were (and
Miss Murdock could think of no other word in her mind) unfit. There
was no walk way, and the small, clapboard shacks' doors opened
directly onto the street, so that one only would step over the
flooding, stenching gutter and into the front room, or possibly,
the only room, from the smallness of them.

The smell had been building as they walked,
but now it seemed more pronounced, each division of its compound
identifiable. First and foremost, the smell of human excrement. And
there was a rot to the smell also, as though death came here in
many forms, large and small. From rat and cat to stray dogs and
used up horses. And to man also, from gangrenous injuries or
premature failings brought on by drink and damp or from his fellow
sufferer.

And as they walked, huddled together, there
were forms, deep in the shadows, and if Miss Murdock did not wish
to look at them, she was not going to not look at them, for now,
she felt, was a time when delicacy of sensibility could very well
get one killed. For if she did not look to discern for certain that
it was only desperate activity between man and woman, then she
could not discount the fact that it may be a danger of which she
should be aware.

And as she walked, she had the sudden
wondering if Andrew had thought to include this little street upon
her tour of London? Or if he were even aware of it and others like
it.

She thought of St. James. She would swear
that he knew of them, and that in fact, he had moved through them,
and she wondered if he had ever been touched by the desolate
hopelessness of these people in these streets of the night, doing
acts that were meant to bring hope but using them only to assuage
despair. And rather than being shocked, she was only moved to
feeling very, very helpless.

And if her mind somehow connected the two,
acts of hope reduced to assuaging despair and St. James, she did
not yet understand it. She only knew that it was the same
helplessness she had felt when she had cried, clawing at his chaise
lounge.

Chapter Twenty-four

He awoke with a start, but he lay very still,
and did not even open his eyes. There had been a disturbing element
in his dreams. And although his first instinct, perhaps his first
honed survival skill, was to not linger between sleep and
wakefulness, but to be alert in an instance, to open his eyes,
scan, assess and act if necessary, he for once, this one time,
fought this instinct and lay grasping at his dream.

Some rich muckety-muck an' his wife.

He puzzled over this sudden invasion of Lucy
Crockner's voice into the wisps of his dream. His dream had nothing
to do with her and what she had told him, had it? No, he was
certain that it had not, for his father had been in it and his
uncle Morty, and they had been searching for someone. Yes,
searching for their killer (their killer? Uncle Morty had died in
an accident). And his only concession to wakefulness was the frown
that turned down his lips, but he still did not open his eyes, but
remained suspended between sleep and wake.

Not their killer. No, they had not been
searching for their killer, but for his father's—No. Searching for
Dante's killer. They had been searching for who had killed the son
of one and the nephew of the other.

An' his wife. . . 'n' a lad.

His gold eyes snapped open, and St. James
rolled and sat up in the bed. He stared without seeing for a
moment, only the picture of his own thoughts before him, and then
in a cold rage he pulled himself from the bed, far from rested, and
asked himself with harshness, “How could I be so bloody, God damned
blind?” Then through a zig-zagging of thought process that bore him
around a countless score of other issues, he added, “And damn it, I
have not protected her in the least! But have only added fuel to
the fire by putting that confounded announcement in the paper.”

He went to the door in only his shorts,
tightening the laces with hard yanks and tying them as he went, and
upon opening the door, bellowed into the activity of his house,
“Effington! Damn it, Effing-ton, I have need of you! Now!”

Then he turned, went to his wardrobe and
pulled from it his normal attire of plain riding breeches and
simple shirt with only lace at the cravat and cuffs.