I vaulted to where he had disappeared to find he had not, in fact, fallen, but was climbing swiftly and quietly, with an economy of motion that would have done credit to an orangutan. I swung my leg over the parapet, giving a double-barreled cry of the hoopoe, two quick calls to alert Stoker to danger. The figure looked up as I secured my hold on the drainpipe. The apparatus swung alarmingly under our combined weight but it held, the bolts biting into the masonry of the building as we descended. He hit the ground at a dead run, his boots making a peculiar metallic noise as he moved. There was no sign of Stoker and I cursed him roundly under my breath as I undertook the pursuit myself. The stranger ran across the street towards the square, hauling himself hand over hand up the iron bars and into the garden, disappearing into the thick foliage.
“What in the name of the oozing wounds of Christ is happening?” Stoker demanded as I pounded on the bars in frustration.
“The devil has gone in there!” I exclaimed. “He has the notebook!” Stoker, to his eternal credit, required no further urging. He dropped at once to his knee, forming a stirrup with his hands. He rested these on his thigh and as I set my foot into his cupped palms, he surged upwards, vaulting me up and over the top of the fence. He followed hard upon my heels, both of us landing rather gracelessly in a particularly nasty evergreen shrub.
We helped one another to our feet, stopping to listen. There was no noise save the sigh of the wind and the click of the bare branches of the plane trees overhead as they rubbed together.
“He cannot be far,” I whispered. “His boots make noise. Metallic.”
“Climbing boots,” Stoker said grimly. “Nails in the soles, no doubt.”
I nodded and peered into the darkness. Only a sliver of a waning crescent moon illuminated the sky, giving nothing but a cold, faraway glow to the rooftops beyond the garden. Of the square itself, it showed nothing, and there were no friendly lanterns to light the way. It seemed impossible that one could be in the heart of London and yet so completely silent, but we were as remote as that silvery, slivery moon, I thought.
But then I knew, although I could not have said why. Our miscreant was close at hand.
I turned to Stoker. “We have lost him,” I said in audible dejection. “And I cannot stand any longer in this freezing cold. We might as well go home.”
Stoker opened his mouth to protest, but I pressed his hand. “Oh—er, yes. Quite right. It is devilishly cold and I think I am taking a chill.”
He gave a racking cough that was as false as it was loud, and I tugged on his hand, pulling him towards the gate. “Have you your lockpicks handy? I’ve no liking for going over that fence again and it would be far more comfortable to leave by the gate.”
“Yes, of course.” We dared not light a vesta, so he worked by touch, taking a little longer than he might otherwise have done. I was conscious the whole time of a presence, nothing more than a feeling. Not by footstep or rustling branch did he betray his presence. But I knew he was there.
When the gate was at last open, I motioned for Stoker to go through first. He eased himself out onto the pavement, looking for any passersby, but he shook his head, indicating the streets were quiet. I tested the gate on its hinges, finding it silent and smooth, and opened it widely.
“Thank God this night is over,” I said with a yawn, and I gestured for Stoker to walk a little ways down the pavement, his footfalls echoing around the silent square. I stood in the shadow for a long minute, so long I began to think our quarry would never emerge. But at last I heard the peculiar metallic scrape of his boots on the gravel, coming closer and closer still as my hand gripped the gate.
He stepped onto the pavement and I flung the gate forward with all my might, the end post catching him squarely upon the chin and knocking him flat onto his back as his feet soared over his head.
Stoker was at my side in an instant. “I presume you had an excellent reason for doing that?” he asked mildly.
“He hit me in the jaw,” I said, tapping the spot on my face that I was quite certain would bloom with a bruise by morning.
“Well then,” Stoker replied, “you ought to have hit him harder.”
“He is unconscious,” I pointed out. “I was not trying to kill him.” Stoker lit a series of vestas to illuminate the scene as I bent swiftly to the villain’s recumbent form and searched his pockets. The notebook was in the second and I handed it to Stoker for safekeeping. I might have proved myself a match for the fellow, but I had little doubt he would think twice before attacking Stoker.
“Who do you think it is?” Stoker asked as he buttoned the notebook securely into his pocket. His vesta struggled against the chill wind, giving only a small pool of light, and the miscreant’s face was still concealed by his scarf and cap.
I shrugged. “It has all been too confusing to venture a guess. Maximilian perhaps?”
Just then the villain groaned and moved his head. “What in the name of Sam Hill did you do that for?” he demanded.
He sat up, his scarf falling away, but even if I had not glimpsed the features, I would have known him from the American idiom. “Douglas Norton!” I cried.
CHAPTER
16
Douglas Norton gave another groan and dropped his head into his hands. “It feels like my head is about to fall off,” he complained as he raised his face to Stoker. “What did you hit me with?”
“I did not hit you at all, my good fellow,” Stoker replied. “That is the lady’s handiwork.”
Norton gave a soundless whistle. “That was as hard a hit as any I’ve taken,” he said with something that might have been respect.
“Well, you did hit me first,” I pointed out.
He had the grace to look embarrassed. “You surprised me. And I am not exactly experienced at breaking and entering.”
“Good,” Stoker said, hauling him to his feet. “Then you will not mind coming with us for a little conversation on the matter.” With one hand on Norton’s collar and the other on his belt, he propelled the fellow forward and around the corner—in the direction whence he had come as I had been busily flinging myself down a drainpipe. Stoker stopped next to a green cabman’s shelter, one of the tidy little chalets that had been built for the comfort and security of the city’s drivers to keep them from cold and wind and the lure of drink whilst they waited for fares. The chimney smoked gently and there was a convivial sound of scraping cutlery and manly conversation within. Gas lanterns hung outside over window boxes that must have bloomed with good cheer in warmer months. Now they were empty and forlorn, but the shelter provided a little respite from the wind and the lanterns illuminated our strange party.
“We cannot take him in there,” I protested. “The shelters are for cabmen only. They are quite strict upon the matter.”