Prompt from trustingHim17: Include Lestrade
The Rookery of St. Giles
"Damn," Geoffrey Lestrade swore softly, catching himself against a brick wall. He'd tripped over something in the dark of the alley, making a scraping sound that would surely alert those who pursued. The Rookery of St. Giles was a warren of alleyways, courts, and unlighted streets. Public houses, lodging houses, brothels and what could generously be called pawnbroker's shops were the primary industry of the area. And he had come here in search of Red Dan or William Danaher, an inveterate thief, pickpocket and purse snatcher who had graduated to murderer when a woman refused to relinquish her purse and he had stabbed her instead of running.
A noise behind him caused Lestrade to stop and turn. Not enough light to see clearly, yet a movement in the shadows told him someone was there. Perhaps two pursued him. Lestrade pushed off the wall and stalked deeper into the alley, hoping his sense of direction was correct. At the far end of this gap between buildings should be Maynard Street. If he could find Maynard, he could get out, run to where the bobbies patrolled. Here, there were no bobbies. No such fools were they. Not like him. He had thought he was smart. Mr. Holmes himself would have been impressed with Lestrade's disguise. He hadn't shaved for two days and had gone to one of the church charity stores to purchase a most disreputable set of clothes. He had then slept in it for two nights and had not bathed. A few mouthfuls of the worst whiskey he could find and he felt certain he was ready to insinuate himself into the impoverished crowds of the Rookery. Something had given him away.
Was there no end to this alley? He pushed on, careful of where he placed his feet. Those behind came on with less care and greater speed. He must go faster. Did he dare stumbling over something else? Two to one odds with no hope of help were more than he wished to risk. He pressed his luck and lengthened his stride. He must be getting close for he could hear the noises of a street ahead.
"Got you!" snarled a rough voice from the shadows and hard hands were laid upon Lestrade, jerking him to a stop.
With the reflexes of a stoat, Lestrade twisted, breaking the man's grip. His hand went under his waistcoat, fingers wrapping around the grip of his little revolver, and he drew.
"Get back!" Lestrade snarled. He could hear the men behind rushing forward, thinking their quarry was trapped. Lestrade hissed, "Out of my way!"
His ambusher laughed and reached for him again. Lestrade fired into the center of the shadow. Only a .32 with a three-inch barrel, the little revolver's report rang like thunder in the narrow confines. In the brief muzzle flash, Lestrade saw the shocked features of his assailant, rough beard, unkempt hair, wide, frightened eyes, and then the darkness was near complete, punctuated with the bizarre afterimage of the discharge.
Through the ringing in his ears, Lestrade heard the groans of his attacker as the man rolled in the detritus on the alley floor. The inspector ignored him and turned to face whoever might have been pursuing him. The sound of boots slapping cobbles and vague shapes in the darkness told him they were retreating and showing a fine set of heels.
Yes, he had been foolish to come in search of Red Dan, not appreciating the dangers. Lestrade smirked. Those who had pursued him had made the same mistake. Keeping his revolver in his hand, he ventured more cautiously to the end of the alley. Relief washed over him. This was Maynard Street and he knew his way home. Red Dan might have gotten away, but so had Lestrade.