“I know it,” Brogan said. “I wonder if it’s a more recent case someone’s fuming over instead. The blackmailer may want to discredit Chelmsford, make him seem an object of ridicule and pity.”
“The Radlett case was one of his most famous,” Fletcher said. “Casting doubt on it’d do damage, for sure and certain.”
“The two men who’re connected to our troubles are criminals, yeah?” Vera pressed. “It makes sense blokes like them’d have beef with a barrister. Maybe avenging a wrong they feel was done to them or another of their criminal confederates.”
“Any word from our phantom friend?” Fletcher asked.
“Not as yet,” Brogan said.
Seemed all three of them knew the legendary sneak thief. Papa had insisted authors couldn’t be trusted because they were dishonest. It seemed to her they were secret keepers more than they were liars.
The group walked casually toward the mews. The night was quiet, but not silent. Vera kept an eye on their surroundings. She suspected the other three were doing the same.
Without warning, a man sprinted around the corner and collided with Stone. Their American friend was a large man, built solid as a mountain. The collision sent him a single step backward, but left the other man sprawled on the pavement.
Quick as a flash, Fletcher grabbed him and yanked him to his feet.
“No reason to rough me,” the man said, frantic. “Let me go, bloke.”
“Not a chance of it, mate.” Fletcher shook him a little bit. “Hold up your hands.”
“Why?” he demanded
“Because you’re outnumbered,” Brogan said. “Do as he says, or you’ll discover all of us are armed.”
Vera didn’t know if that was true, but it was a useful bluff.
Head darting about, the man held up his hands slowly. Five fingers on the left. Four on the right.
Brogan muttered something Vera suspected was an Irish curse. This was the notorious Four-Finger Mike.
“Stone,” Fletcher said. “Catch up to our friend. Make certain all’s well.”
Stone left without hesitation. Vera didn’t need an explanation. It was possible this criminal was not the only one nearby, which meant the Phantom Fox might’ve been followed.
In Fletcher’s tiny moment of distraction in sending Stone off, Four-Finger Mike managed to produce a small knife, and before even a single word of warning could be issued, he’d swung backward and wounded Fletcher’s arm.
Fletcher loosened his grip, and in an instant, the miscreant was free.
He made to run, but Brogan grabbed hold of his coat. Four-Finger Mike struggled, and the fabric ripped. He spun about, slipping his arms from the garment. He would be gone in an instant if something wasn’t done.
Vera held her umbrella like a club and swung with all her might at the man’s knees. She then jammed the handle into his middle. He bent forward, grabbing his gut. She raised the umbrella over her head and slammed it against his upper back. It was not the most efficient weapon, but it slowed him enough for Fletcher and Brogan to rejoin the brawl.
In an effort too well-coordinated for this to be the first time the two men had fought side-by-side, they quickly had Four-Finger Mike on the ground, his arms tied behind him with his own coat, his nose bleeding, and every ounce of fight drained from him.
“You’ve made a dangerous enemy, my friend,” Fletcher said. “And this time, you won’t escape.”
“You know nothing of enemies.” Even in his current state, Four-Finger Mike was defiant. “Toss me over to the blue-bottles if you want, won’t make no difference.”
“Locking up a man with as many marks on his record as you, with as much influence in the criminal world, not make a difference?” Brogan kept his tone calm. “You give yourself too little credit.”
“You have no idea the tempest that’s coming for you.”
Stone returned, a bit winded, but still clearly agile and determined.
“All’s well?” Fletcher asked.
“All,” Stone said.
“There’s a police station not far from here,” Fletcher said. “Let’s the two of us deliver this ribbon-tied present to them, shall we?”
“It’d be a pleasure,” Stone said.
With that, the two men dragged their catch down the dark streets.
Brogan’s attention turned immediately to Vera. “Are you injured?”
“Not a bit,” she said.
Brogan let out a quick breath filled with relief. “I’d no idea Four-Finger’d be hanging about. I’d not meant to put you at risk.”
She shook her head. “I had an umbrella, so I was well armed.”
He chuckled. “I hadn’t realized you were so handy with that thing.”
“Neither had I.” She hooked her arm through his, and he began walking again, the same casual, connected arrangement they’d assumed before, though both of them were a bit worse for wear.
“Do you remember what Clare said when she delivered that last note?” Vera asked.
“She said we couldn’t stop the Mastiff. She said that a storm that was coming was—Oh, saints.”
“Precisely.” Vera could see he’d made the connection she had. “Four-Finger Mike said much the same thing, that we have no idea the tempest that’s coming for us. The battle I’ve taken on is starting to feel too big and too dangerous.”
He set his free hand atop hers, a nearby street lamp highlighting his scars. “You’re not fighting alone.”
Thank the heavens for that.
“There’s strength in numbers,” he added.
Strength, yes. But also chaos. Sooner or later the gale force winds would whip into the tempest they’d been warned of. What if they weren’t ready for it?
by Mr. King
Installment VI
in which Time runs short and our Heroine is faced with unfathomable Danger!
The damage to the confectionery shop was significant enough that Tallulah had not the time to resume her candy making or baking despite the passage of three days. The villagers had been remarkably kind and generous. They had begun cleaning while she’d been in the pub learning the horrible truth of their situation. They’d continued their efforts for hours afterward and into the next day. Given time, she’d have the means to replace the glass in the front window. For now, the town had kindly supplied her with enough greased paper to fill the gaping hole left by the squire.