reptilian. I gasped, my mind conjuring snakes.
“Telephone cables,” my employer called out ahead of me. “We’re under the exchange.”
We scuttled along, bent double, for at least fifty yards, until we saw a faint light ahead. My employer clambered up a set of stone steps and I heard the metallic squeal of a bolt being drawn before we burst out through a trapdoor onto the embankment overlooking the Thames.
“Take the footbridge,” the Guv shouted, pointing overhead. “The sooner we are out of Whitehall, the better.”
There is a time to ask questions and a time to be silent and this was definitely the latter. We climbed the bridge and loped across it, fast enough to cover ground but slow enough not to attract attention. We passed the spot where two years earlier I had been blown into the Thames by an explosion. I had promised myself I’d never come this way again, but apparently, this was a day for breaking promises.
“We’ve got company,” Barker called back, as three constables trotted toward us from the far end of the bridge. I thought perhaps we could appeal to them for help, but instead, the Guv charged them. Though he dispatched the first easily, the second was thick enough to believe he could tackle Cyrus Barker. He threw his arms around him, locking his hands behind Barker’s back, his helmet hard against my employer’s rib cage. The Guv hesitated, choosing the right spot, possibly even the precise vertebra, and then brought his elbow down sharply. This would have been enough for most men, but the constable was tough. He doggedly held on. Barker had to drive a knee up hard into his diaphragm, lifting him off the ground, before the man finally let go and slid down onto the bridge. As I came around, the third officer was about to take a swing at my employer’s head with a heavy truncheon, so I caught his hand and swung it down, cracking the ash across his kneecap. He gave a sharp cry and fell, holding the injured limb. Tugging his whistle from his pocket, he tried to bring it to his lips, but I thumped him on the helmet with his own stick. He stopped moving and I turned to my employer, aware we’d just assaulted three civil servants.
“Secure them,” he said to me, a trifle winded, and tossed me the Hiatt master key he always kept in his waistcoat pocket.
“Don’t forget their whistles,” I said, as I dragged a constable to the side of the bridge and cuffed him to a bracket there.
“Good thinking. Now, find us a cab.”
We hailed a passing hansom at the far end of the bridge and climbed aboard. Barker sat back and immediately sank into himself in that way he has. I let him think a minute or two before speaking.
“Where are we going?” I demanded.
“The Bank of England. We need money.”
“I take it the name ‘Mr. Waterstone’ is some kind of warning. Who sent it?”
“Terence Poole.”
“What are you talking about? I know he’s a friend, but he’s threatened to arrest us a dozen times. He’s had me in lockup at least twice.”
“Never for something that could impede our liberty altogether.”
“What do you mean?” I asked, feeling a cold tingle between my shoulder blades. “What sort of something?”
In answer, he merely shrugged those thick shoulders of his.
“So, right now, our offices are being stormed by Scotland Yard?” I speculated. “Poor Jenkins. They’ll probably haul him in for questioning. At least he can claim ignorance.”
“Terry wouldn’t warn me over anything short of murder. We must assume a warrant has been issued for my arrest.”
“I still don’t understand, sir. Why not stay and prove you didn’t do whatever it is you’ve been accused of?”
“If there was a way to prove my innocence immediately, Poole wouldn’t have called,” Barker said, his brows so knitted they had descended behind the twin moons of his black-lensed spectacles. “Whatever it is, it must be damning.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
I’d never been inside the Old Lady
“Telephone cables,” my employer called out ahead of me. “We’re under the exchange.”
We scuttled along, bent double, for at least fifty yards, until we saw a faint light ahead. My employer clambered up a set of stone steps and I heard the metallic squeal of a bolt being drawn before we burst out through a trapdoor onto the embankment overlooking the Thames.
“Take the footbridge,” the Guv shouted, pointing overhead. “The sooner we are out of Whitehall, the better.”
There is a time to ask questions and a time to be silent and this was definitely the latter. We climbed the bridge and loped across it, fast enough to cover ground but slow enough not to attract attention. We passed the spot where two years earlier I had been blown into the Thames by an explosion. I had promised myself I’d never come this way again, but apparently, this was a day for breaking promises.
“We’ve got company,” Barker called back, as three constables trotted toward us from the far end of the bridge. I thought perhaps we could appeal to them for help, but instead, the Guv charged them. Though he dispatched the first easily, the second was thick enough to believe he could tackle Cyrus Barker. He threw his arms around him, locking his hands behind Barker’s back, his helmet hard against my employer’s rib cage. The Guv hesitated, choosing the right spot, possibly even the precise vertebra, and then brought his elbow down sharply. This would have been enough for most men, but the constable was tough. He doggedly held on. Barker had to drive a knee up hard into his diaphragm, lifting him off the ground, before the man finally let go and slid down onto the bridge. As I came around, the third officer was about to take a swing at my employer’s head with a heavy truncheon, so I caught his hand and swung it down, cracking the ash across his kneecap. He gave a sharp cry and fell, holding the injured limb. Tugging his whistle from his pocket, he tried to bring it to his lips, but I thumped him on the helmet with his own stick. He stopped moving and I turned to my employer, aware we’d just assaulted three civil servants.
“Secure them,” he said to me, a trifle winded, and tossed me the Hiatt master key he always kept in his waistcoat pocket.
“Don’t forget their whistles,” I said, as I dragged a constable to the side of the bridge and cuffed him to a bracket there.
“Good thinking. Now, find us a cab.”
We hailed a passing hansom at the far end of the bridge and climbed aboard. Barker sat back and immediately sank into himself in that way he has. I let him think a minute or two before speaking.
“Where are we going?” I demanded.
“The Bank of England. We need money.”
“I take it the name ‘Mr. Waterstone’ is some kind of warning. Who sent it?”
“Terence Poole.”
“What are you talking about? I know he’s a friend, but he’s threatened to arrest us a dozen times. He’s had me in lockup at least twice.”
“Never for something that could impede our liberty altogether.”
“What do you mean?” I asked, feeling a cold tingle between my shoulder blades. “What sort of something?”
In answer, he merely shrugged those thick shoulders of his.
“So, right now, our offices are being stormed by Scotland Yard?” I speculated. “Poor Jenkins. They’ll probably haul him in for questioning. At least he can claim ignorance.”
“Terry wouldn’t warn me over anything short of murder. We must assume a warrant has been issued for my arrest.”
“I still don’t understand, sir. Why not stay and prove you didn’t do whatever it is you’ve been accused of?”
“If there was a way to prove my innocence immediately, Poole wouldn’t have called,” Barker said, his brows so knitted they had descended behind the twin moons of his black-lensed spectacles. “Whatever it is, it must be damning.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
I’d never been inside the Old Lady
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