Wordlessly, I joined hands with Stoker and Eddy. It was an eerie walk through the London streets that night, moving from shadow into golden light and back again, the fog rolling in, obscuring faces and figures of those we passed. The changing weather had driven some folk inside. It was quieter than I would have expected, with footsteps sounding only occasionally near us. Ours clipped sharply against the pavement, Stoker’s reassuring and solid next to my quicker, lighter step, Eddy’s almost silent in his evening shoes. I began to identify those who passed us by the sound of their stride. The hesitant, birdlike noises belonged to an old woman, bent with age and rheumatism, while the slow and ponderous stride that came after was a hefty fellow, well into his cups but not entirely drunk, stepping with the exaggerated care of one who is certain only of his uncertainty.
They walked by, the mist parting only long enough for us to glimpse a snippet of a lined face or a portly figure, and we were alone again in the darkness, ears pricked like a pointer’s, straining for any sound of pursuers.
We made another turn but must have got it wrong, for instead of the broad main road of Whitechapel High Street, we found ourselves in a narrow and evil-looking alley, its broken curbstones and filthy gutters barely visible in the light of the single streetlamp.
“Stoker,” I began. I did not have to finish.
“I know. We had better retrace our footsteps,” he said. His tone was one of thorough annoyance, but I knew better than to imagine it was with me. “I wasn’t paying careful enough attention,” he told me. “These bloody boots are strangling my feet. Give me a minute.”
He stepped to the side, bending double to tug them from his feet. He withdrew the knife that Elsie had given him, turning the blade to the boots to slash the insteps. Eddy chose that moment to be lavishly sick in the gutter, heaving out the remainder of the cheap gin he had imbibed. I moved a little distance away and waited, standing alone under the light of the guttering streetlamp.
I felt his presence before I saw him, just another shadow in the darkness. But he detached himself from the gloom, moving towards me, a deeper blackness than the nothingness behind him. His height was unremarkable, his coat black as a raven’s wing. His hat was pulled low over his features and a muffler wound tightly about the lower half of his face concealed the rest. He moved with purpose, coming closer as I turned to see him.
I realized how it must look—a lone female figure, standing under a streetlamp in that particular quarter. I wore a conspicuous dress, cut low and edged in cheap lace, fashioned to draw the eye. My face still bore traces of paint from the costume ball, and the hat upon my head was gaudy with violets meant also to draw the eye.
For many years I have thought of that moment. I have been menaced countless times, faced death upon more occasions than I care to number. But never in the whole of my life have I felt a presence as predatory as that one. He made no motion to harm me; said nothing; threatened nothing. I did not even sense violence in him; that was not what made my marrow cold. I sensed only anticipation, rising excitement in the quickening of his step, the sharp intake of breath.
Just then, Stoker straightened from behind me. “There, that ought to take care of the bloody things,” he said, his voice ringing through the mist. Eddy joined us, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand.
“I do apologize,” he said, sounding haggard. “I think perhaps that bottle of spirits may not have been of the highest quality.”
The shadowy man did not slacken his progress. He merely changed his course, turning swiftly aside, but still coming so near to me that his hand brushed my skirts as he passed. And as his glove lingered on the tawdry fabric, there was a breath, a single slow, moaning exhalation that ruffled the hair at my cheek.
And then he was gone, moving into the shadows. Stoker and Eddy had not even noticed him passing, so subtle and quiet were his movements. But I would never forget him for as long as I lived, and I knew that evil had touched me that night.
His boots no longer a problem and Eddy recovered, Stoker applied himself with a clear head to the issue of navigation and soon had us on the correct course. He shepherded us through the dark streets until we reached Whitechapel High Street and the long road towards home.
CHAPTER
19
We moved slowly, as much from the blanketing fog as from Stoker’s injuries and Eddy’s inebriated fatigue. Now that the excitement of the flight had ebbed, stiffness had settled into our bones. Our footsteps flushed a few pairs of lovers trysting in alleyways and the occasional transient settled for the night under a bit of accommodating shrubbery. More than one bobby gave us a penetrating glance, but no one stopped us, and as we crossed by, the bells of the Church of the Immaculate Conception in Mayfair struck the hour of four in the morning.
“I quite forgot,” Eddy said sleepily, “where are we bound?”
“My brother’s house,” Stoker told him.
“Oh, indeed?” Eddy blinked to wakefulness. “And why are we going there? Is Lord Templeton-Vane expecting us?”
“Not that brother,” he said shortly.
He led us to a peaceful square a few streets from Tiberius’ address, where the houses were a little more modest but no less expensive. Keeping to the shadows, we slipped down the area stairs to the small, discreet entrance for domestic endeavors, waiting whilst Stoker rapped softly at the door. After a long moment, a butler appeared, dressing gown rigidly tied and nightcap so tidy I wondered if he slept standing up. He opened the door with a scowl, but at the sight of Stoker, he reared back in astonishment.
“Mr. Stoker! Good evening, sir,” he said with a bow from the neck. “Is everything quite all right?”
“It will be, Dearsley. Would you please rouse Sir Rupert and let him know I am here.”
“Certainly, sir, but would you and your party not be more comfortable in the drawing room?” he asked.
A small smile played about Stoker’s lips. “I rather think a bit of discretion is in order,” he said in a conspiratorial whisper.
Dearsley bowed again. “As you wish, sir. I will be but a moment. May I offer you or your companions refreshment?” He eyed Eddy, who was weaving conspicuously on his feet. “Perhaps a little strong black coffee?”
“After you’ve wakened my brother,” Stoker told him.
“Very good.” Dearsley hurried away and Stoker and I went through to the kitchen, settling Eddy on a chair, where he promptly nodded off again.
It was only a moment or two later before the master of the house appeared, Dearsley close behind.
“Stoker, what the devil—oh, I do say, pardon me, Miss Speedwell. I did not see you there.” In contrast to his butler, Rupert looked decidedly askew, his dressing gown obviously tied in some haste and his silvering chestnut hair disordered. He smoothed it down as he spoke, and tugged his dressing gown closed over his bare shins, but not before I noticed that he—like Tiberius and Stoker—had rather fine legs.