Devil May Care Part 8/?
Author: Nefret24
Disclaimers and notes, see parts 1 - 7.
Quick A/N: Sorry about the delay for this installment. Went on vacation and was nowhere near a computer for almost two weeks. Hope you enjoy only a few more delicious parts left I think
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"You and I can be cruel because of ambition, lust, stupidity or ignorance. For [women] though Call it calculation, if you want. Or necessity. A defensive weapon, if you get my meaning. They're bad because they gamble everything, and because they need to survive. That's why they fight to the death when they fight." ~ Nino Palermo, The Nautical Chart, Arturo Perez-Reverte
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The Old Man's Shop
Marguerite paced impatiently as she waited for him to appear. She had memorized the names in the cigarette pack on her way there, and had burned the crumpled piece of paper in a dark corner. The generals Specter had fingered were influential, it was true. One was a young upstart, just recently given his bars, and had a distaste for authority other than his own. On that reason alone was basis enough for Specter's people to suspect him. Marguerite, however, didn't think he was worth the effort. This was a planned attack, with more than petty ego at stake.
The other two remained difficult to discern by name alone. One she had never heard of- a General Jefferies and the other's name was only vaguely familiar- General Tregarth- for what reasons, she couldn't recall.
What she was certain of, though, was that if anyone knew of a book being sold to the highest bidder it would be the Old Man. Because that was a considerably more favorable subject to muse on, she contented herself with that thought before selecting a Chippendale chair in which to lower herself. What could be taking him! She swung her foot impatiently. How I hate waiting, she silently fumed.
A sly smile snuck onto her face as she recalled Roxton's surprised expression as Tom barreled into him. Oh, how she would have loved to see if he ever caught the little scamp! It had been perfectly delicious seeing him with that adorable expression of shock writ clear on his face- and all by her doing, well, mostly her doing, anyway. Oh, he was fun to play with, she'd give him that. Not to mention dangerously handsome
Marguerite then belatedly heard slight scuffling on the hardwood floor, coming from behind the blue curtain. Cursing herself for getting lost on such frivolous thoughts, she got up and slowly and cautiously began to approach the back of the shop. The Old Man could move noiselessly through his shop, anytime of day or night. Something was not right. She should have known that it never took that long for him to wait on her.
Marguerite slowly pulled back the tattered curtain to see a dark clad figure dart out the back door of the shop. She impulsively moved forward to follow but tripped-- over the legs of the Old Man, who was on the floor, his left temple bleeding.
Regaining her steadiness, she knelt by his side. "What happened??" she asked, catching her breath. She lightly touched his hurt with her fingertips and assessed that he would be okay, though whoever had hit him had done so with more than a fist. At least he was conscious.
He winced in pain at her touch and shook off her hand to help him up. Using a fallen stool as leverage, he slowly rose to his feet unassisted, Marguerite slowly rising with him, a hand poised at his back should he fall.
"Not all customers are as courteous as the Lady," he grunted, swaying to an upright position.
She smirked at this and pointed sternly to a nearby chair. "Sit down, you old fool, before you fall down, and let your hurt be looked to."
He tried to shake his head and made a grimace at the pain the gesture caused. He settled for a glare yet obediently followed her order, muttering under his breath about how his shop was no longer his own.
She rolled her eyes as she searched the room for a clean cloth for his head. She had already discovered a pitcher of semi-clean water - it would have to do- but couldn't find a decent cloth anywhere. She was about to ask him for one when she turned to see him holding a white handkerchief, waving it ever so slightly between his fingertips.
"I should have known the instincts of a gentleman couldn't wholly be suppressed," she said, taking it from him.
"I know when I am matched against a greater foe," he countered haughtily.
"Is that what you were doing on the floor? Surrendering?"
"They tend to stop hitting you if they think you're unconscious. Ruins the fun of it," he countered, his chin raised defiantly.
She smiled in reluctance. Men like him certainly were few and far between these days. No wonder I care about him. If he were fifty some odd years younger, I'd marry him for the genius he is.
"What did he want?" she asked over her shoulder, as she began to dampen his handkerchief with the water.
"Nothing of great importance."
She raised a questioning eyebrow at him, returning to his side to dab his bleeding temple. She said nothing, however, until he muttered an oath and continued, "A book."
Then it was her turn to curse and his to raise a brow.
"I take it you know something that I do not," he began as she looked away. "That is fine by me, Lady," he said gently, momentarily resting a gnarled hand on her forearm. "I am too old for such intrigues. I do not have it- and neither does he."
She half closed her eyes in relief and struggled to control her breathing, taking long measured breaths and forcing herself to focus on wiping the dried blood off his face. She could not divulge any information to the Old Man- she couldn't even reassure him that the man in black would not be back- not without endangering him even further. She felt awful enough as it is; she couldn't help but feel responsible for his newly acquired bump. Instead, she opted for a change of subject.
"Have the colors I asked for come in yet?"
"Madame's items have not appeared, in this shop or otherwise."
Damn, she thought. The Roxton jewels were still at large. Her disappointment must have been evident on her face, because the Old Man's expression softened again.
"Do not lose hope, Lady. They will be found. Things like that do not stay hidden for long." He struggled to stand up and she lent him an arm for support. As soon as he got upright, he pushed her away and slowly walked over to a cupboard on the far wall.
"You did, however, get a message." He fiddled with some keys at his belt and opened the cupboard. Peering inside, he extracted a small, folded piece of paper. He re-locked the cabinet and started back towards her. He placed it into her hands and closed both of his over hers.
"I grow tired, Lady. This is no way to end my days. I will still keep an old eye out for you, but if I am not here when next you come, do not be alarmed."
Her eyes widened as she glanced back and forth from the paper covered with his bony fingers to his face, weathered by time and showing his age. "But where will you go? What will you do?"
"Ah," he laid a finger aside of his nose and half closed his eyes. "No, no."
"Right, sorry. I forgot. No questions."
He held her gaze for a moment and smiled again. "You fear death. That is not surprising, everyone fears death, even I, and I am as old as the moors. But what you do not know is that it matters not when you go, that is not for us to decide, but how. I will not die in this filthy place," he said, grimacing at the floorboards. "I will be comfortable and content and that's more than most."
"I suppose when your time comes you'll be living in the lap of luxury and the better for it," she said, returning his smile. "I cannot think of anyone who deserves it more."
She could have sworn that his eyes became watery at this last statement of hers but then, she had always known that compared to him, she was an amateur. He released her hand and walked back towards the curtain, pulling it open.
"Well then, out you go. You've got what you came for and made a mess out of my things. Probably didn't put everything back where it belongs, neither. Come on then, out. Out you go," he chided her as she picked up her purse where she had dropped it and made her way back out into the front of the shop.
"Goodbye, my old friend. Take care."
He harrumphed and refused her extended hand. She smirked, affixed her veil and made her way to the door. Just as she was leaving, mixed with the sounds of the tingling bells on the door, she was certain she heard him mumble back, "And farewell to you, my friend."
Not that he would ever do something like that. Or that she would ever care that he spoke those words. After concealing the letter in her purse, however, she was forced to brush away some precipitation from her cheeks. London was ever so much a dreary city; it rained even when the sun was shining.
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The East End, Earlier that Day
Roxton felt the wind being knocked out of his lungs. Tiny hands on his chest fingered his vest pocket and pushed him aside. He was being robbed! He saw a dirty child dart off, expertly dodging his way through the crowd.
"Stop, thief!" he bellowed as he began his pursuit. He ran down the sidewalk, trying to not lose sight of the kid, who was weaving through the throng with practiced ease.
"Stop that boy!" he yelled again. "Somebody stop that boy!" He continued to run, falling behind a little after a difficult maneuver around a woman carrying a multitude of parcels. They had turned the corner and the crowds were thinning out.
Just then, Roxton saw a tall man with large whiskers plant himself in front of the boy. "Aye've got 'im, gov'nor!" he bellowed as he caught the kid by the collar.
The kid struggled violently, losing his tattered brown cap, kicking and clawing at the man. Finally, he bit him, causing the man to cry out in pain as he began to curse luridly to the dismay of the ladies on the street.
But the delay had helped Roxton to catch up and now on more open ground, he easily ran the child down.
Grabbing his collar, Roxton pulled him to a stop. "Now, just where do you think you're going?"
The kid looked up at him, and Roxton was puzzled to see the curiosity writ on his face. It was almost as if he were being studied for some unknown reason.
The lone constable who had heard Roxton's cries, finally caught up, huffing and puffing to a stop. "What's all this er cough then?"
"No trouble now, officer," Roxton said complacently, letting go of the kid and brushing off his collar. "This young gentleman was just about to return my wallet. Weren't you?" he leveled a look at the boy.
"Yes, sir. That's right, sir." The boy nodded vigorously and immediately reproduced the wallet. "Not a farthing missin,' make no mistake."
"So you took his wallet, eh?" The constable fumbled for the boy's collar and hauled him up on his toes. "Bloody little scamp." Squinting with one eye while opening the other to its fullest extent, he eyed the boy before continuing, "Yous Free Willy's kid, ain't ya?"
The kid nodded and the constable grunted. "No good street rats. We'll see if the Hall can mend your ways, eh?"
The kid began to protest and squirm, kicking his legs violently. The Hall was an orphanage of the East End, well known for its disreputable caretakers.
"No, no, no! Don't send me there!! NO!" the kid wailed, and the constable slapped him across the face, telling him to be quiet.
Roxton, who knew many a man in his circle who had had a bastard sent there and never be heard from again, suddenly sympathized with the kid as his anger at the constable rose. He extracted the kid from the constable's grasp.
"You dare to strike a child?"
"Begging your pardon, sir, but yous seems like too much of a gentleman to know about the workings of these here parts. 'E's the son of a thief, and no better than the rest of the riff raff millin' about. E'll be just fine at the Hall"
"And I am ordering you to release him. I've recovered my property and he won't cause anymore trouble, will you, my boy?"
The kid nodded an emphatic no.
"See. I would hate to have to bring up your brutalization of children with your superiors. Good morning, officer," he finished with an edge to his voice and marched off in the opposite direction with the kid.
After a while, they slowed their pace and the kid spoke up. "Is 'e still there?"
"No, the constable is long gone." Roxton waited a beat while giving the kid an askance look. "So what's your name?"
"Tom."
"Have any other family, Tom? A brother, an uncle"
"They're all dead, sir," Tom replied in a quiet voice.
"I'm sorry. So where do you live?" Roxton asked, looking away at the shop windows lining the opposite side of the street.
"I used to live at the top of Tottenham Court Road, but Aye got better digs now."
"Where?"
Tom shook his head. "Can't tell ya that, sir. Th' boss wouldn't like it."
Roxton looked down at the child with disbelief. He certainly was a cocky little kid, that was for sure. Spying a pub on a nearby corner, he pointed to it. "Have you eaten lately?"
"Nah, the best scraps are in the even-" Tom began to chatter but then realized Roxton's intent. "Oh no, sir, Aye couln't. You've been kind enough to me already- Aye can't"
"Consider it penance. Come on," he said, walking towards the door and motioning for Tom to follow.
They soon found a table and ordered, the pair conspicuously out of place in the pub, as most of the customers were middle-age men of the East End. Their plates came quickly as the other customers were mostly ordering drinks and not food.
Roxton watched in wide-eyed fascination as Tom's heavily filled plate began to clear away. The lad had quite the stomach. He was working on the rest of Roxton's food when Roxton finally decided to try again.
"So why can't you tell me where you live? I just want to make sure you get home okay."
"Cause" Tom replied through a mouthful of food. "She wouldn't like it." As he swallowed, his eyes opened wide. He wasn't supposed to have said that.
Roxton sat back with surprise. "Marguerite? She set this up?" he clenched his fist on his knees.
Tom was just as surprised at this statement as Roxton was at his own. "Is that 'er name? Marguerite?"
Both man and boy stared at each other for a long moment before laughing. "I suppose we both must take our hat off to the lady for this round," Roxton mused.
"That's her! She's the Lady of the East End!"
"I'm sorry?"
"The Lady. Dressed all in black, the widow that's done in 'er 'usbands! What did you call 'er? Marguerite," Tom experimented, rolling the name off his tongue as he began to finish up the plate in front of him.
So she wasn't kidding about the murdered husbands. A shiver went down his spine. The woman was dangerous, ingenious, and probably now, long gone. But now, he would get a leg up. And about time too. He detested playing the fool in this game of hers. He was determined to make sure that the next time they met, the only surprises would be for her.
He and Tom sat for half an hour longer before they went their separate ways, each feeling very satisfied, but for considerably different reasons.
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Marguerite had paused in a well-hidden alley to read her note. It had been typewritten and then folded three times over with precision. It was very short and very informative.
She extracted her matches from her purse again and lit a corner of the creased white paper. The paper burned, eventually blurring out the words. It had contained simply a letter T and then under it, an address: 3647 Woburn Square.
She was certain it wasn't Specter and it wasn't Karl. Then who would alert her to the fact that General Tregarth lived at that address- one of her two remaining suspects?
She walked up and down the streets, trying to wrap her head around her new circumstances. It could be someone with inside information- maybe the same traitor, now repentant. But then, he'd have to fake his death pretty convincingly to have Specter and MI5 fooled. On the other hand, it could be a trap and if she followed through on it, she would most likely be as good as dead if she wasn't prepared.
She had walked herself back to the Ritz as sun dipped closer to the horizon. Might as well change my clothes, she mused. Can't go a-visiting to the General dressed like this.
She passed through the lobby unapproached and made it to the comparative safety of her suite. She dropped her purse on the couch and slowly began unbuttoning her jacket as she moved into the next room. Opening up her closet, she squinted thoughtfully at its contents before removing two dresses and alternatively holding them up to the light. Red or blue?
Suddenly, like a lightning bolt, she remembered. Almost two weeks ago at Lady Farcourt's party an officer with a ruby encrusted monocle two days ago at the Roxton house talking about camels in India General Tregarth.
The red dress fluttered to the floor out of her grasp as she stood gaping. How could I have been so foolish! How could I not have remembered! Stupid, stupid girl, she chided herself. Of course he was keeping tabs on her the whole time. Otherwise how could it have been planned so elaborately?
Almost without thinking, she dressed quickly, donning the blue dress and securing the appropriate tools of her trade to her knickers- spare lock picks, a small knife, a tiny "lady's" pistol. With that, she grabbed her purse, double checked the ammunition supply in her larger gun (full, thankfully), and hurried downstairs to catch a cab to take her to 3647 Woburn Street.
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3647 Woburn Street. Evening
Marguerite looked up at the large townhouse from the window of the hansom cab, involuntarily shivering. She paid the driver his dues and watched him drive off, the wind blowing hair free from her perfect coil at the back of her neck. She mounted the stone steps and rang the bell, a mixture of impatience and nervousness causing her to dart her eyes up and down the street and tap her foot in regular time. She shot another glance upward, this time at the sky. Clouds were gathering- a storm was on its way. She silently hoped that she would be finished and safe and sound at the Ritz before the downpour came.
The door opened to reveal a small, older woman dressed in typical black with a crisp white apron. "Yes'm?"
She stepped over the threshold uninvited. "Miss Marguerite Krux to see General Tregarth." She ignored servant's expostulations at her boldness and began to take off her hat. "I believe he is expecting me."
The servant went off in a huff, presumably to alert her master, while a butler materialized from her left to take her outer coat with her hat. Marguerite idly scanned a hideous Turner painting on the wall until the woman returned, in a less angry mood it seemed, but still disposed to dislike her.
"This way, mum," she said simply and turned to have Marguerite follow her down the hall to the second room on the left, which was a lounge.
The General was sitting on a couch in the center of the room facing the door. He did not get up as Marguerite entered the room. He nodded to the servant and raised a half-full glass of port to his lips.
"I'm afraid I've already supped," he said, a wave of a thick fingered hand indicating the couch directly opposite himself. "Port?" he asked, his eyes glassy with overindulgence, following her as she sat down.
"No, thank you. I'm here for something else entirely."
"Ah, yes," he said, ruffling his mustache with a finger. "I was, of course, told that you'd sniff me out eventually. Amazing, that, being a woman and all, what?"
"Yes, my gender is truly shocking," she replied dryly. "Do I have to ask?" she continued in a tired voice.
"Ask what?"
"Where. Is. It."
"Oh, right. The book, eh? 'Fraid I can't give it to you. Dreadfully sorry and all that."
"I don't care whether you can or can't, you will," she said threateningly and drew her pistol from her purse, aiming it at his heart. "Now. Don't make me ask again- it really is tedious. Just tell me where it is and I'll be on my merry way."
He blinked several times at the gun and finally sighed, placing his glass on a small table next to his couch. Shifting his considerable weight in his chair, he shook his head. "Oh, you shouldn't have done that, Miss Krux. No, not at all."
Just as he was finishing his last statement, two men came in the other doors to the lounge, each with their own pistols aimed, directly at her.
"Not your day, what?" Tregarth said as she reluctantly lowered her own pistol. Both of the men came forward, one taking her pistol and beginning to bind her hands behind her, the other keeping his pistol aimed at her chest.
"The day's not over yet," she hissed as she struggled against his lackey who was trying to get her out of the room. "You'll be sorry!" she screamed just before everything went black.
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When Marguerite finally opened her eyes, she groggily assessed that she must be in the cellar of the townhouse. Her head had been leaning against a large metal basin for washing linens and the table in front of her had an iron still cooling atop it.
She slowly stood up, rearranging herself clumsy, having been dropped on the floor unceremoniously, she assumed, had left her in a stiff, unnatural position. Mercifully, they had not bound her feet. She paced up and down the small room, working out the chinks in her back and legs. She wiggled all her fingers tied up behind her to restore circulation. She tried the door but that was useless. Locked up tight.
She had been stupid. Again. Too bold, too much, too fast, she hadn't seen it coming. She had overestimated the man's intelligence and blindly forgot that he would have associates. And yet, as she paced, she became convinced that something was off. That he had the book, of that she was certain. But that he had the Roxton jewels he hadn't mentioned them. But to his credit, neither had she. He had not changed- his physical appearance was his own and no craft was in it: he really was as large and fat as she had remembered him. And no one encumbered with so much weight could have dashed up the stairs, done the lock on the safe, snatched the jewels and dashed back down without people thinking that elephants were stampeding.
She lowered herself back onto the hard stone floor and felt around for the end of her skirt. Lifting up the fabric high, her hands scrambled to find her knife that she had attached to her thigh. Ever so slowly extracting it from its makeshift cloth scabbard, she finally freed it. She wedged it between her hands and began to slowly and carefully slice away at her bonds.
As she worked, she thought more and more about Tregarth. He wasn't the kind of man to get his hands dirty. As one of the ropes broke, it occurred to her. He must have been working in tandem. Someone fetching the prize while he distracted her with those boring tales about India and camels. What a fool she had been!
The rest of the ropes broke and she tossed the remains onto the floor. Rubbing her wrists gingerly, she shook her head in disgust. Blind idiot. Too preoccupied with the Lord and Master to notice what was really going on. Lovestruck idiot. She re-sheathed her knife and pulled out her lockpicks to work on the door.
Once she managed to get it open, she heard two voices echoing down the hall and saw a small candlelight illuminating the far wall. The lackeys must be coming to check on me, she mused. She chose her weapon well and hid in the shadow of the door, letting it close locked again.
Sure enough, the two men appeared, one holding an electric torch and the other jangling keys into the lock.
"Oi! Aye say, can't you keep the light steady?"
"You don't have to hold it and a pistol now, do ya?"
"Aye dun't see why we need it anyways, just a 'armless little woman."
"Right pretty, what? Aye'd fancy a piece of that, I would."
"You fancies anythin' wit two legs. There," said the second one, finally opening the door. "Come out, come out wherever you are," he said in a singsong voice.
Both men had entered the room all the way when she stepped out from the shadows. She swung her arm forward and hit the man carrying the gun upside the head with the iron, knocking him out cold. The torch hit the floor, scattering light erratically around the room.
"What the--?" was all the other man managed, when he too was bludgeoned and sank to the floor.
Marguerite looked approvingly at the iron before returning it to the table. "Finally, a domestic tool I can use," she said aloud to the unconscious figures on the floor. She felt around for the light and the man's pistol. Checking the chamber, she found it only had two bullets left. Great. Just great, she thought angrily. Can this day get any better?
She shut off the light and left it too on the table. Didn't need another giveaway. She ran her hand along the first man's belt to find his keys and yanked them free. Unlocking the door, she glanced up and down the dark hallway to see if any of the servants had been alerted by the noise. So far so good. Not that I can see them anyway, she grimaced, taking one last look at the torch on the table before shutting the door behind her and locking it. That ought to hold them, she thought satisfied, and began to inch down the hall, her hand brushing against the wall to orient herself.
After what seemed like an interminable interlude in the dark, she finally came upon a stairwell and breathed a sigh of relief. Hoisting her skirt, she slowly crept up the wooden steps, taking extra care that she did not step on any noisy planks. She reached the first landing, which appeared to be servants quarters and kept going. Another flight up took her to the main townhouse, most likely on the opposite side from where she had come in.
A long hallway stretched out both ways. A crossroads. Left or right? She could see only the faint outlines of objects that cluttered the hall, barely illuminated by the night sky from windows at either end. She took a few steps to the left and then stopped. Turning again, she headed right until she reached the very last door. Placing her ear to the wood, she could hear faint humming. It sounded like a march of some sort. Most likely the man of the hour and stone drunk too.
Taking a deep breath, she soundlessly opened the door and slipped inside the room. From what she could see, it was a study- the only light emanting from a desk lamp on a large mahogany desk. Tregarth was stumbling to his seat behind the desk, carrying a mostly empty bottle of port. It seemed that in his drunken state he liked to reminisce, for there were papers scattered about and half of his military uniform had been assumed, his medals hanging at odd angles from his twisted lapel.
She slowly began to approach the desk, still hiding in the shadows of the room. He was fiddling with something now oh good Gad. He was sharpening a standard issue army knife. Bully for him. Her eyes widened at the sight; she couldn't imagine how the drunk fool managed not to hack off his fingers.
Steadying her nerves, she slowly walked towards him. She was three feet away from the desk when he finally lifted his bleary eyes from his knife and noticed her presence. "But-but-but"
"General. I told you what I came for. And I don't mean to leave without it. Where's the book?" she asked raising her pistol into his view.
His eyes looked wildly around the room and at the door. "Where are--"
"They are taking a nap. It's just me and you and the book, now." She cocked the gun.
He blinked a couple times and set the knife down on the desk. "You wouldn't shoot me."
"I have quite a reputation for using firearms indoors, as I am sure you are well aware," she said calmly, taking a few steps back to grab a pillow from a nearby chair, all the while having her eyes and her gun trained on him.
"You wouldn't"
"I am going to ask you one more time or I will shoot you in the leg, perhaps?" she suggested, moving closer to the desk and aimed her pistol lower.
"No. Never."
"One" she raised the pillow in her other hand.
"It's mine, d'ya hear? Mine!"
"Two" she held the pillow in front of the gun and leveled it at his right leg.
"You can't expect to--"
"Three," she said and pulled the trigger. The bullet ripped through the pillow sending goose down all over the floor, the sound of the shot muffled effectively. The screams of the General were not.
"You shot me!" he bellowed, again and again, clutching his right leg, which was, as expected, bleeding profusely.
"Where is the book, dammit!" she screamed back, cocking the gun again.
"It's here, you bloody bitch! Crazy whore! Here!"
"Where? In the desk?" she began pulling out drawers until she tugged at one that wouldn't open.
"Is it in there?" she asked wildly.
"Yes, yes. Bloody minx," he ended, his voice becoming thick. Then his whiskers lifted into a half grin. "Won't get it. Key. You don't have," he gasped out, his eyes half closing with pain.
"These keys?" she smirked, and revealed the ring that she had pulled off one of the lackeys. He began to cough as if he were choking as she began trying the keys. The general continued to hack and she became more and more frustrated as she went through the keys, trying each in turn.
Finally, she heard a click and she yanked the drawer open. Sure enough, there it was. A hardbound copy of Alice in Wonderland. She pulled it out and turned, only to be pushed to the floor. The General had landed full force on top of her, forcing all the air out of her lungs. She could feel the blood from his thigh seeping into her dress. His arm was raised and suddenly she felt searing pain in her left shoulder. His arm rose up again and this time she saw it: the knife he had been cleaning, now red with her own blood.
Just in time, she managed to get her arms free from underneath him to stop the knife just as he would have plunged it into her heart. The tip of the blade hovered less than an inch above her chest as she struggled with both hands, pushing his arm back. It was a horrible stalemate, his face flushed with liquor and fury, hers pale with fear. She tried wriggling her legs to help upset his balance but his enormous weight was too much to move.
In a last ditch effort, she craned her neck upwards and bit his hand. He lost his balance and began to curse again, the knife slipped from his grasp. She managed to roll to the side, getting scraped at the waist with the edge of the blade but avoiding the nastier fate. He scrambled again, this time his pudgy fingers got a hold of her throat. He went for the knife again but she sent in scattering across the floor to the other end of the room.
"Bloody good for nothing" he screamed, both hands now taking hold of her throat and banging her head against the floorboards.
She gasped for breath, her vision coming and going but she knew she couldn't give up. The book was under her now, jabbing into her shoulderblades, and he was too preoccupied with killing her to care. Her hands scratched at his hands, his face but to no avail. She rolled her eyes upward, as if to beckon a higher power and then she saw it. Her pistol! Lying on the floor just above her. She reached out for it- making a small squeak of pain after belatedly realizing it was with her wounded side. Just out of reach.
He was coming slowly to the end of his tirade of curses and was squeezing harder now as she reached for it again. Her finger managed to brush the grip but no more. It was too late. There was nothing more she could do. She was going to die on this bloated dullard's study floor, a nameless, worthless woman, alone.
Her hand fell limp on the floor and her eyes closed. His squeezing seemed to slacken and she recalled the Old Man's words: They tend to stop hitting you if they think you're unconscious. Or dead. She didn't want to die here. She didn't deserve to die here- no matter what her past. Not like this. She reached for the gun with all her might and grabbed hold of the grip. Opening her eyes, she looked into his awestruck face and shot him through the heart.
He fell limp on top of her, his blood warm and wet on her dress front. With a shove, she pushed him onto his side and scuttled back. She sat there for a few moments, hugging her knees with General Tregarth's dead body two feet away, his eyes still open with surprise.
She shakily got to her feet, her whole body trembling. Glancing back at the table, she spied a clean cloth and wiped her hands and face. Her dress was a horrid sight, with ghoulish dark stains dotting her chest and skirt. She only hoped that under cover of darkness no one would notice. Making sure her hands were suitably clean, she picked up the book where it had fallen from her grasp.
Alice in Wonderland. Flipping through the pages, she noticed faint marks, in the margins, an underlined word here and there. It was the cipher book. She shut it closed, the dull thud of the pages sounding eerily loud in the silence of the room. She had to get out of there, and fast.
She hurried out the room and down the hall. Finding the main stairwell, she dashed down the steps, one steadying hand on the handrail. On the hall table by the door, she found her jacket and hat. Not questioning its presence, she grabbed them and went out the front door. Sure enough, it was raining. Bloody English weather.
She couldn't afford to take a taxi since it could always be traced back to her. Neighbors tend to remember hansom cabs coming and going at odd hours of the night. Going on foot would insure her anonyminity. She walked as quickly as she could, sticking to the shadowy parts of the streets and looking over her shoulder often to make sure she wasn't being followed.
This is ridiculous, she told herself. No one knows who you are or what you have done. You could stroll back to the safehouse and no one would be the wiser. Yet her uneasiness persisted and she shivered uncontrollably. She struggled with her coat as she walked, the wind blowing one arm away from her grasp. A few blocks from the East End, she conquered her coat and pulled it tight across her chest, covering the book. Her hat had blown away a couple blocks ago and she cursed it to hell as her hair whipped at her wet face. She stumbled and tripped twice, getting her coat covered with muddy water. She cursed in frustration- why couldn't she ever make a quick retreat without getting encumbered by her own two left feet?
Finally, she reached her apartment. She climbed the stairs slowly, taking deep breaths. She was home. She breathed deeply and started, remembering her hurt side, numbed only temporarily by the cold and the rain.
She came to her door and bent to the door handle, reaching down to her skirt with her bad arm. With gritted teeth, she slowly retrieved her lockpicks and worked at the door. It creaked open and gratefully she stepped inside. She rested her forehead on the closed door for a moment, relieved beyond belief. She licked her lips and deposited the picks on the bureau, followed shortly by the book. She began to unbutton her jacket when she heard a familiar voice say in a low voice: "Miss Krux."
Slowly turning, she saw him, sitting by the window sill, his face swathed in darkness. But she knew who he was- she would know that voice anywhere.
"I've been waiting for you."
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TBC