T.F. Banks - The Thief-Taker

But careful as he was, he could not control himself as he went over an invisible edge. He lost balance, and his arms lunging out to the side for support suddenly found nothing. He toppled forward, chin first, down what seemed to be a short flight of steps, and landed on top of the child, who squeaked with alarm. He felt his face land against her gritty hair, and their skulls knocked audibly together.

“Good Lord!” he breathed, extricating himself, and feeling for her with his hands. “Have I hurt thee?”

A long pause. Then a small doubtful voice said, “No, sir.”

He had her by the elbows and stood up, lifting her with him, setting her upright-he hoped-on what appeared to be a fairly level floor. He reached around until he could find her hand, then pulled her close beside him.

“You've served us passing well, Lucy,” he whispered. “A brave bit of exploring. Now I shall go first, and you keep near me.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you still have your book?”

“Yes, sir.”

He groped forward. At a guess, he imagined them to be in the cellar of an adjoining house. He must find the way out quickly, as it could only be a matter of moments before the men in the Otter understood what had passed and came racing around to the exit of their tunnel. If they had not done so already.

He started to his right, and moved in what he hoped to be a straight line until he reached a wall. Then he began to trace this. No blind groping in the centre of the room. Somewhere on the perimeter there must be what he was looking for.

It took them perhaps a minute and a half-an eternity. A door frame, a knob. Morton tried to turn it, but could not. He felt for a bar, but there was none. He hesitated a moment. If this was only a closet or another dead end, he ought not to waste time on it. But there was no way to tell, except by going through. He positioned Lucy behind him, told her to stay perfectly still, and released her hand. Then he lunged forward, shoulder first, slamming hard into the door.

It gave way on his second assault, and he went sprawling through, his left shoulder stabbed with a fierce flash of pain as he crashed heavily and loudly down on it. But to his inexpressible relief he knew he was out in the open air. There was faint light, the sky, the dark shapes of buildings on all sides. Gasping as he pulled himself to his feet, he staggered back through the now visible doorway to retrieve Lucy.

They hurried out into what seemed to be a small cinder-yard. Twisting round, Morton located the high bulk of Constitution Brewery behind him, which meant that they had come out of the Otter House on the northeast side, and that the row of houses before them probably faced on White Street. But there were people coming; he could hear their feet pounding behind the wall that divided this yard from its neighbour. He hurried ahead, pulling Lucy along with him, but unsure of where he was going, or whether he was rushing away from danger or toward it.

They crossed the wide yard and started to squeeze down the narrow alley between two houses. This, too, was dark, and almost as bad as the tunnel, but at least the safety of the street beckoned beyond it. If only they could get there before Bill got to the far end, they would be in the open, with a chance of other people being by, even a hackney-coach perhaps, and some hope of life.

But an inner sense told Morton they would not make it in time. Perhaps the barely audible sound of running feet, or just some intimation, some deeply working calculation of the number of seconds it would take the men on the other side of the houses to turn the corner and come around in front. Halfway down the alley there was a door frame, set a bare foot or so into the brick wall. Morton pulled Lucy into its shadows with him and desperately tried the handle. It was locked firm, with that immobile feeling that suggested a heavy bar on the inside. There was no time. Men were entering the far end of the alley.

Flattening himself against the door, pressing the girl close against it, Henry Morton laid his face against the wood and tried not to look.

They brushed by, literally within inches. Three men, hurrying. They needed only glance into the shadows, or reach to touch the dark space beside them as they slipped past, and they would have found their prey. But they didn't.

Almost as soon as they were past, Morton pulled Lucy out and went on toward the street. He prayed there were no more coming after, that they would not meet them head-on before they got to the mouth of the passage. A few terrible seconds of anticipation…and then they were out into the open. There was no one there. Not a soul, nor a coach, nor anything. He needed another quick decision now. Which way? Where was the nearest busy thoroughfare, and the hope of escape from this dreadful quarter?

He picked his right hand, eastward and away from Bell Lane, thinking to reach the nearest cross street and then get down into Whitechapel. Running as fast as little Lucy could go, he headed toward the next corner. As they ran he tried to listen for the sound of pursuit, for the echoes of other feet than their own. He tried not to look back.

They were only a few strides from the corner when the first shot was fired. Lucy gave a little panted shriek, and then with the second shot she fell, her small hand wrenching out of Morton's grip.

Henry Morton bellowed, and staggered to a stop, half-falling himself and propping himself up with one hand. He scrambled up and rushed back, seized her up bodily, flung her over his back, and began to run again, her weight bouncing with agonising stabs of pain on his injured shoulder. A few moments of violent effort brought him around the brick wall of the nearest building and into cover. Only then could he dare to think what might have happened. A great wave of unfamiliar emotion was rising in him. If she was dead…

As soon as he set her down on the road, she bounded back up, panting and gazing at him with bright eyes, her Byron still clutched tightly in her small hands.

“I tripped when I heard that noise!” she gasped. “I'm sorry!”

He could say nothing but only nodded at her repeatedly. It was, after all, not surprising that Bill had missed. Pistols were highly inaccurate at any range above a few paces. Morton seized her hand again; in a few moments more, they were safe amongst the eddies of predawn traffic on broad Whitechapel Road.

Morton had to hammer on Arabella's door for a very long while before a drowsy Christabel opened the peek hole. “Oh, Mr. Morton!” she said. “We were wakened earlier by Bow Street men searching for you.”

Morton glanced anxiously back. Streaks of yellow and pink had begun in the east, but the street was still empty. “I have no doubt of it. Now let me in quickly before I'm seen.”

There was an agonising moment of hesitation, and then the door swung open. The maid stepped aside, gazing suspiciously down at Morton's companion. “I'll call Mrs. M.,” she said, and hurried off upstairs.

Morton led Lucy through into the parlour and set the tired little girl down in the centre of the sofa, where she perched uneasily, gaping about her. For his own part he paced back and forth in agitation until Arabella arrived.

“Morton!” she cried. “They were here, and said you had escaped and-” The words died on her lips as she spotted the waif, and for a moment she stared open-mouthed. “And who might this be, pray?”

“This is Lucy. She saved my life tonight.”

Morton saw different feelings struggle in his mistress's handsome face, and waited rather anxiously to see whether maternal softness would win out.

“She has my Byron!” she said.

Lucy clutched the book even more tightly and gazed up at the actress with a mixture of defiance and awe.