Chapter Sixteen #2
A lean man slouched toward the house two doors down, carrying something wrapped in cloth.
At least it was far too small to be a body—an adult body, at any rate.
He paused to peer over the gate and moved on.
The moon was bright enough to show his dark figure pass the next garden too, and then, abruptly, he vanished.
“Mrs. Willow’s,” Constance whispered. “Hurry!”
Solomon was already through the gate, loping along the muddy track as fast as he could without splashing in the puddles left by the evening’s rain. The intruder hadn’t latched the gate, and it too was so well oiled that he made so sound entering the garden. Nor did Constance or Ally behind him.
In the moonlight, the intruder was crouched down at the back door, unwrapping whatever it was he’d been carrying.
He’d pulled off several flower heads in passing.
Solomon could feel them thick beneath his feet, further silencing his steps.
The man rose to his feet, leaving the wrapping—it must have been a towel or some other soft material, for it had made no rustling sound.
Only when the man hefted the unwrapped object mightily over his head did Solomon see that it was an axe.
He sprang forward without caring about noise any more, for the back door was opening to reveal a woman in a voluminous dressing gown. Solomon caught a glimpse of her face, wide-eyed and terrified before the descending axe.
*
Constance had rarely been as glad for Solomon’s speedy reflexes. Her heart was in her mouth as he made a desperate leap for the axe. He seized it and the hand that held it, yanking them both back so hard that he fell, bringing man and axe down on top of himself.
But Ally was there, hauling the miscreant off Solomon by the arms, which he twisted up the man’s back. Constance had swept past them to the terrified woman, who was gasping and weeping.
“Hush, hush, ma’am,” she whispered, taking her by the hands. “He won’t hurt you now. We have him safe—do you see?”
“I wasn’t going to touch her, the silly old tart,” whined the man in Ally’s powerful hold. “What’d she want to go and open the door for?”
“Probably because she saw you creeping about in the garden,” Constance said, but she barely noticed her own words, for looming up behind the first woman were another two, both fully dressed.
Mrs. Willow and Miss Morton. She recognized them well enough. Then who…?
“You’re the housekeeper,” Constance said. “Mrs. Robertson.”
“Come in, come in!” exclaimed Miss Morton, plucking at Constance’s shawl and Mrs. Robertson’s arm. “Away from that awful man. Madam, gentlemen, how do we thank you? What is the world coming to?”
“Axe murderers!” wailed Mrs. Willow.
“Get off, missus,” growled the captive, presumably encouraged by the fact that Ally and Solomon had not yet beaten him to a pulp. “If I’d wanted to kill you, you’d be dead.”
“I hate to impose,” Solomon said thoughtfully, “but would you mind very much if we continued this discussion inside?”
“Just to stop any gossip,” Constance murmured, inspired.
“Of course, of course,” Mrs. Willow said at once, retreating to make space, though she squeaked in alarm as Ally shoved his captive over the threshold too.
“Don’t worry, ma’am, I’ve got him safe,” Ally said cheerfully. “Stop wriggling, you, or I’ll break your arm.”
The housekeeper and the old ladies were all shaking like leaves, so Constance herded them to the table and sat them down with a gentle pat on each shoulder. “Let me make you some hot, sweet tea for your nerves. Brandy wouldn’t go amiss, but—”
“Oh, we don’t allow strong liquor in the house,” Miss Morton said, shocked.
“Then we’ll make do with the tea.”
Shock seemed to have blinded all three women, for none of them seemed to recognize Constance.
She pulled the kettle onto the stove and set about making tea while Solomon questioned their captive—a thin, malnourished individual with the kind of inhuman eyes she had seen all too often in the old days.
“So,” Solomon said, “you didn’t aim to hurt the ladies, just stick an axe in their back door?”
“That’s it.” The man sounded sullen now.
“What the devil for?”
The captive stretched his lips into a vicious grin. “Warning.”
Mrs. Willow gasped. Her sister moaned.
Ally kicked his captive. “That’ll do.”
“Warning of what?” Solomon asked.
If the old ladies had been capable of speech, Constance saw by their anguished expressions and silently opening and closing mouths that they would have stopped him asking. And abruptly, she understood.
“They know,” came the captive’s contemptuous answer. “But I ain’t saying. I ain’t saying nothing, so there’s no point even giving me to the rozzers. Won’t say nothing to them neither.”
“You don’t need to,” Solomon said. “I’ve seen you before—this very evening, in fact, in company with one Mr. Kenny of infamous repute. The ladies refused to pay his wife, and you were sent to persuade them with a little extra intimidation.”
From the bully’s chagrined expression, he might as well have admitted it in words. But he closed his lips and glowered.
The old ladies clung together, looking, if anything, even more horrified.
Constance poured the boiling water over the tea leaves and shut the lid of the teapot before carrying it calmly to the table and fetching the cups and saucers, sugar bowl, and cream jug.
“That was courageous of you,” she said to her hostesses. “Blackmailers thrive on fear. You did the right thing.”
“Oh no,” gloated their tormentor. “Just wait to see what happens now—’specially if you breathe a word to the peelers.”
Ally kicked him again, and he winced.
“They don’t need to talk to the police,” Solomon said. He sounded more amused than anything. “Neither do you. I shall do all the talking necessary. In fact…I am half inclined to let you go.” His eyes met Constance’s.
“Perhaps with a message,” she agreed.
“My thoughts exactly. You tell Kenny and his dubious lady that they are rumbled, that they will get not one more penny from these ladies, nor from any other victim. I believe Madame Veronique’s dress business is about to fail for lack of customers, even if she somehow escapes the law.
But the police are most definitely coming for them.
Just one question for you—which will decide your immediate fate.
What else have you carried to back doors recently?
Apart from the axe. A couple of bodies, perhaps? Horse droppings? Vulgar notes?”
“Wot?” The man was distracted, frowning at Solomon with a bafflement that looked genuine. “I never been here afore!”
At that moment, Constance saw the old ladies’ eyes widening.
Mrs. Robertson buried her face in her handkerchief.
She had large, bony hands and broad shoulders for a woman.
Constance glanced down at the woman’s slippered feet, which were surely quite large enough to wear men’s boots. Part of the puzzle fell into place.
“Not here,” Solomon said. “Another house in the crescent, four doors down.”
“But that’s—” Miss Morton began.
“So it is,” said her sister, and they both stared at Constance with their mouths hanging open. It seemed, belatedly, that recognition was dawning.
“I never!” the captive protested. “Wish I had, though!”
“All you’re good for,” Ally said with contempt. “What’s it to be, ma’am? Guv? Want me to give him up to the peelers or send him back to his master’s gutter?”
“Oh, I think his master’s gutter,” Solomon said affably. “The first of a few unpleasant surprises coming Kenny’s way.” He stood up. “Let’s go.”
While Solomon and Ally hauled the thug away, Constance smiled at the three women around the table.
“Drink your tea, ladies. You’ve had a nasty shock.
I suppose you find it strange that my husband and I were around at this time of night to see your intruder and his antics.
We too have had a plague of nuisances: ugly notes pinned to the gate, manure left right on the doorstep, even a rotting corpse—forgive my indelicacy, ladies—on one occasion.
So my household has been watching. When Ally saw your man, we followed him. ”
“And he saved us,” Miss Morton said, sounding more dismayed than afraid. “He saved Mrs. Robertson. You gave us tea and made everything well…”
“Oh no,” Constance said. “To be fair to that imbecile, he only meant to leave the axe in the door. And I only gave you your own tea, but I hope, between us, we have scared off your would-be blackmailers.”
“What if they tell anyway?” Miss Morton whispered, her eyes suddenly swimming.
“They’re in no position to,” Constance said. “And even if they say vile things, who will believe extortionists and violent criminals? The worst that can happen is that you have to find a new dressmaker.”
Mrs. Willow let out a sound halfway between a sob and a laugh. Constance smiled at her encouragingly.
“Are you really her?” Miss Morton blurted.
Constance smiled. “The chief Jezebel? The Whore of Babylon? I am Constance Grey, née Silver, and I am your neighbor four doors down. The friends who live there spent all their lives being as frightened as you were for less than five minutes this evening. Now they are safe. Some even find other work. They are good people. I hope we can agree that we have misjudged each other.”
“How did you misjudge us?” Mrs. Willow asked, inclined to bridle at that.
Mrs. Robertson’s gaze burned into the side of Constance’s face. She turned her head slowly and found the woman’s eyes desperate and pleading.
Constance considered. It was tempting.
She said, “I did not think you would have the courage to deny your blackmailers.”
Mrs. Robertson sagged and blew her nose.
A knock at the door made all three older women jump and stare in renewed fright. Constance, who recognized the pattern of the knocks, smiled reassuringly.
“It’s my husband,” she said, and went to let him back in.