P. Elrod - The Hanged Man

“I have my revolver, sir,” she said, her voice strained, given the fact she could hardly breathe. “In my coat pocket…”

“Good for you; stay where you are. The driver is armed.”

So it proved when the bark of a firearm put a stop to the hammering. The coach rocked as the man apparently quit his position on the bench.

His pistol barked twice more and men shouted.

The conveyance lurched forward. Once in motion it kept going, picking up speed, the horses’ strength overcoming the brake. She heard more shots as they rocked away unchecked. Alex had a horrible feeling-this time, entirely her own-that matters were about to get worse. She pushed and squirmed, Richard ordering her to keep still, Woodwake getting in the way. Whatever was being used in the attack was directed at one side only, so she’d be safe enough. She hoped.

Alex wriggled her torso clear, kicking his lordship in the process, to judge by his curse, and pushed the door open. The sidewalk was on the move, or so it seemed from her vantage on the floor. The alarmed horses were trotting away from the uproar. Alex undid the buttons on her ulster and struggled to shed it.

“Get down !” Richard ordered and caught her by the back of her collar-the coat’s collar, which was a bit of luck. He pulled, she pulled, and she was suddenly free. Her revolver was still in the pocket, but she had no time for shooting. She turned to face the interior and backed out the door, holding tight to the leather roof as they swayed along. The hoopsticks supporting it on this side were still intact and held her weight for an instant as she swung her right leg up. Her foot landed on a horizontal spot, then skidded awkwardly into the skeleton boot under the driver’s bench. It gave her leverage. She boosted over and made a successful grab at the seat irons, then pulled herself onto the bench to pick up the reins.

Her instinct was to stop, but a bullet-or whatever it was-whipped by her ear like an angry bee. Men were giving chase or attempting to; the sleety glaze on the paving made it hazardous for attackers and defenders alike.

She released the brake, gave the reins a smart snap, and yelled at the horses. The animals plunged ahead. She sent up an incoherent prayer that neither of them broke a leg.

The slippery road was clear of traffic at this hour on Christmas morning. She risked a glance back, but darkness, their movement, and distance kept her from seeing anything. Best to assume the worst. Lord Richard shouted, but she ignored him and kept going. They passed Devonshire Street and were approaching Weymouth before she looked back again. No one seemed to be immediately behind.

Fortunately the horses were inclined to respond when she pulled on the reins, and slowed to the point where she could make a turn without tipping the landau. She went right, then right again, doubling north on Marylebone High Street. His lordship was cursing loudly enough that she could make out words even over the rumbling wheels and the ring of horseshoes. She urged the horses left onto Paddington with the idea of getting to Baker Street and a doctor. Harley Street was chock-a-block with physicians, but too warm a climate for the moment.

Warm? She was freezing up here. The sleet stung her face, clung to her lashes, and the cold wind hurt her teeth because she was grinning. Nothing to do with mirth, though her short huffing breaths might be mistaken for laughter rather than a reaction to nearly getting killed. She could still hear the heavy tearing sound of that missile passing her by a quarter inch. What could do that? A bullet crossbow? No, not enough velocity for the distance, but close. Ah, of course, it would have to be-

“Pendlebury, stop this damned thing at once!” Lord Richard’s anger intruded on her deductions. She grimaced.

“Almost there, sir,” she shouted back.

“Where?” he roared.

Paddington intersected with Baker Street. She eased the horses into the turning. They trotted smartly, heads tossing and bits jingling, apparently ready for another mad dash. She brought them to a stop, set the brake, and clambered down. Lord Richard was already out of the coach, glaring at her. Mrs. Woodwake crept out more slowly, looking rumpled and somewhat wild-eyed. More alarmingly, her clothing was bloodstained.

“What happened?” she asked, righting her hat. “Bullets and no gunfire?”

“Air guns,” Alex and Richard said at the same time, then looked at each other, startled.

“How do you know about those?” he demanded.

“A member of my shooting club collects them.” She pushed past Woodwake to get her coat-the sleeves were inside out-and the bull’s-eye lantern, which had fallen off the seat. It was one of the “safe” models, and had hardly leaked any fuel. She sought and found lucifers in her coat pocket and lighted the thing, aiming the beam at Lord Richard. He had a thin streak of blood on one temple, but his left side was soaked.

Woodwake gasped and went to him. “Sir, back in the coach. At once. We must find a doctor.”

“I’m all right.” But his face was white and sheened with sweat.

Alex had seen that kind of shock when she’d crossed Mexico. Their party had been attacked by bandits, and a man hadn’t noticed he’d been shot. He’d bled to death in the saddle denying to the last that there was anything amiss. She checked the house numbers, ran to the one she wanted, and yanked the bell chain until an annoyed-looking young man opened the door.

“You better be dying,” he said, bloodshot eyes unfocused. His hair stuck out in a variety of directions, and he wore evening clothes that had seen better times. “Oh, Cousin Alex. To what do I owe the honor?”

“Wake up, James, I’ve brought you a shooting.”

“Thoughtful of you. Half a minute-I recall you don’t like me.”

“I don’t, but you are convenient. Now help us.”

Showing no consternation or much speed, he quit the doorway to light the gas, calling to someone within to shift himself. “This is your lucky night. I’ve a houseful staying over. You might like one of them .”

Woodwake struggled to prop up Lord Richard but he wasn’t cooperating. “Get back in the coach and have the madwoman drive us back,” he insisted. He held his left arm clamped tight to his side. Alex took his elbow.

“This way, Lord Richard, we’re nearly there.”

“We are not.” But his legs gave out partway up the steps, and she and Woodwake were obliged to take his weight to keep him from cracking his skull.

“What is this place?” asked Woodwake. “Where are we?”

“Baker Street. Mr. Fonteyn is my cousin. He’s an eye surgeon … and a bit eccentric.” That was putting it charitably. “He lets rooms to medical students, so there’s bound to be someone here who can help.” If they’re sober enough .

James wakened sufficiently to lend a hand. He took Alex’s place and dragged Richard into a parlor. “Where shall we put him?” he asked. “He’s too long for the settee, and anyway, it’s occupied.”

Another young man in evening dress sprawled asleep on that object of furniture. He didn’t stir despite the commotion.

“The floor, James,” Alex said. “For God’s sake, take this seriously.”

They eased the patient down. James swatted at his clothes. “Damn, I’ve blood all over my suit. Haven’t finished paying for it, either. Just what sort of parties are you attending these days, little cousin?”

“I’ll explain later.” Alex ripped her gloves off, knelt, and began unbuttoning Richard’s clothes. Her hands shook. There was so damned much blood. “Blanket? Clean water? Bandages?”

“Try the kitchen, I think the water’s still working. Don’t know about the rest, that’s the housekeeper’s domain, and she went home ages ago.”