Sweet Revenge Page 21

  This time when she endeavored to stand, she made it, with no assistance or objection from Keiran. Swaying slightly, she walked, or rather stumbled, to Zoe’s chair. “Is she…?”

  “Knocked out but otherwise fine.” Ron didn’t look at her.

  Victoria fixed him with a mistrustful stare. “Why did you send Ivy after Torbel?”

  A moan from Zoe forestalled his reply—which probably would have been a lie in any case, Victoria reflected. She fought the fog in her mind and moved to help her flatmate.

  Bits of mud under her knees brought an uncomprehending frown to her lips. She hadn’t noticed any mud earlier.

  “What was it?” Zoe groaned. “An earthquake?”

  “Drugged tea,” Keiran supplied from the table. He ran a finger around the rim of Victoria’s cup, sniffed, then tasted. “Some kind of knockout powder. Chemist’s strength.”

  Zoe slumped back in her seat. “Only knockout? I feel close to death.”

  Zoe had drunk three cups of tea, Victoria recalled, to her one and a half.

  Her dulled mind returned to Torbel. She regarded Keiran, a blurred figure across the room. He was bent over, leaning his palms heavily on the table. “Does Ivy think Torbel and Oswyn are in trouble?”

  “Ivy doesn’t know what to think.” Keiran’s handsome features hardened. “But I think we have to find them. Hangman’s Lane is notorious. They used to execute back-stabbers and thieves there. The same types still haunt the place. And there’s more.”

  At Victoria’s apprehensive look, he reached into his back pocket and brought out a plain white envelope. “We found this stuck to the flat door.”

  The pounding in Victoria’s head worsened. Fingers shaking, she took the envelope and removed the folded paper inside. This time the note was scrawled in awkward red letters, like a child using blood to print words. Reluctantly she read the message out loud.

  “The Queen of Hearts,

  She bought some tarts,

  And ate them with her tea.

  The Knave of Hearts,

  Ignored the tarts,

  And made a prophecy.

  The King of Hearts,

  Who had no tarts,

  Made shish kebab instead.

  The Knave of Heats,

  Played many parts,

  Bye, King and Queen. You’re dead!”

  “I CAN’T STOP THEM!” Oswyn cried above the scrape of metal on stone. “What are we going to do?”

  Torbel shoved him away from a particularly nasty spike. They were projecting at various rates, but sooner or later they would all reach the center of the room, and then there’d be nowhere left to go. For the moment, Torbel concentrated on keeping his eyes moving. He sidestepped a double spike, pulling Oswyn with him. One of the tips jabbed his arm. He cursed freely, then grabbed Oswyn by the sleeve and shifted him again.

  The boy reacted well, but he was scared. Burgling East End flats had not prepared him for an encounter with a psychotic killer.

  “Look out,” Torbel said sharply.

  Oswyn jumped left, yelped and bounced back right. “They’re—ow, damn—they’re everywhere.”

  “I know.”

  Torbel glanced at the far wall, the only one from which the rows of floor-to-ceiling spikes were not emerging. He’d found no release mechanism inside. He hadn’t really expected that there would be any, but he’d thought they might be able to loosen some of the stones enough to wedge a hand out and grope about on the other side.

  He felt Oswyn plastered to his spine. “Torbel…” The boy appealed to him for a solution he could not provide.

  Torbel continued to watch the protruding spikes. A few yards farther and they’d be skewered.

  “What about Ivy?” he said, running a wary eye across the ceiling. “She was tailing us today.”

  “How do you know it was her?” The boy made no attempt to conceal his astonishment.

  “I know when I’m being followed, Oswyn. I looked. If we’re out of sight long enough, she’ll go for help.”

  “I—I think we lost her.”

  Torbel’s response was short and profane. He thought of Victoria and thanked God she wasn’t here. “In that case,” he said, once more easing Oswyn to one side, “we should both start saying our prayers. Because at the rate these things are going, I’d say we have less than five minutes until we’re run through.”

  “TORBEL!”

  It was Victoria who called to him. Ron and Zoe, who’d accompanied her, stood in somber silence as his name drifted among the cluster of dark buildings and even darker alleyways.

  No rain fell now, but the sky above was black with storm clouds. Black and sinister, an eerie backdrop to their so-far fruitless search.

  “Torbel!” she tried again. “Where are you?” she added in a desperate whisper.

  She wished Keiran had come, but he’d been near the point of collapse and so had appointed Ron and Zoe to go with her.

  Ron was ill-tempered, though whether from concern or annoyance she couldn’t tell. Zoe showed concern but was strangely subdued.

  “Hello? Who’s that I hear?”

  Victoria squeezed her eyes closed. “Fox,” she exclaimed softly. He would require an explanation she had neither the time nor the inclination to provide.

  Zoe made no bones about her feelings for the man. Wooden faced, she demanded, “What are you doing here, Inspector?”

  He studied her rather curiously before replying, “I’m looking for Clover. She, uh, didn’t report in at the end of her shift.”

  “So the inspector took it upon himself to track her down. Aye,” Ron said with heavy sarcasm, “that makes perfect sense to me.”

  Fox’s slender face flushed. “In case it has escaped your notice, Mr. McDougall, I am, for the moment, two people short at the precinct.”

  “Yes, thoughtless of Peacock to have died like that,” Zoe put in, her tone cutting. “As for Clover, you’ve never given a fig for any other shirker at the precinct. Why single her out?”

  Offended, Fox drew himself erect. “My good woman, I’m not searching for her in order to reprimand her. I’m simply concerned about her welfare and too severely understaffed right now to send anyone else out to look.”

  “So you’re not doing this as a favor to Augustus Hollyburn?” Victoria stole a glance into the darkness behind him.

  His flush deepened. “Preposterous,” he muttered. He puffed up like a bird ruffling its feathers. “What brings you three here, if I may be so bold as to ask?”

  “We’ve lost two of our own,” Zoe replied. “We want them back.”

  “I’d think you would be more concerned about your sister,” Fox retorted, his blue eyes coolly critical.

  “I’d think you would have learned by now to mind your own business,” Zoe retorted.

  Score one for her, Victoria thought. Aloud, she said, “You haven’t seen Torbel, have you, Inspector?”

  Did a peculiar expression cross his face? His lower lip jutted. “Not since yesterday morning.”

  “And you’ve noticed no one suspicious lurking around these parts?” Ron asked.

  “No, but like you, I’m aware of their presence. Their stares have a similar effect to beetles crawling up your spine.”

  The burly Scotsman faced Victoria. “I think you should let me search for Torbel and Oswyn alone. No sense all of us asking for a knife in the throat.”

  Victoria raised a hand to her windpipe, but her resolve didn’t falter. “We stay together, Ron,” she said. “Where’s Hangman’s Lane?”

  Fox started. “Good Lord, you’re not going there so close to dark, are you? I’m afraid I couldn’t allow—”

  “We don’t need your permission, Inspector,” Victoria reminded him.

  “Right. Fine. Let’s go, then, shall we?”

  “We don’t need your help, either,” Zoe said curtly. “Just carry on about your business, Fox, and let us do the same.”

  Victoria didn’t like the glint that appeared in Fox’s eyes.
Nor did she like stalling when Torbel’s and Oswyn’s lives might be in danger. “I don’t care who comes, I just want to go. Where exactly did Ivy lose them, Ron?”

  “At the eye,” she said. “That’s where the lane broadens out a little.” With a grudging look at Fox, he added a gruff “I’ll lead the way.”

  Victoria hadn’t intended to bring up the rear, but Zoe’s mind was elsewhere, and Fox had the chivalry of a caveman. He marched along a pace behind Ron in the thickening dusk.

  The first drops of rain splashed on her head as they wound their way through a maze of crooked alleys. For the most part, it seemed they were heading toward the Thames.

  Ron kept up a steady pace that Victoria could have met quite handily if she hadn’t noticed a cat trying to claw its way out of a tall trash can. By the time she’d scooped the animal out and turned back, they were gone.

  “Zoe?” she called tentatively, then more strongly, “Zoe?”

  The only perceptible sounds were those of the rain and the distant hum of traffic. She hated to think what less conspicuous sounds lurked beneath them—the silent pulse beats of the people who almost certainly watched her every move.

  “Ron?” She hunched her shoulders. “Zoe!” she tried again. “Damn.”

  The invisible eyes crawled over her skin, much like the beeties Fox had mentioned. She didn’t dare stand here motionless. Ron had been leading them toward the river. If she kept going that way, hopefully she would meet up with them.

  The labyrinth of alleys wound, zigzagged and finally spiraled downward to the water. Her nerves, frayed and raw, began to get the better of her. She’d reached one of many spots similar to the eye Ron had spoken of. Nothing stirred, not the air or the rodents or anyone who might be secreted within the numerous shadows. She was about to turn left when she caught a muffled sound coming from the opposite direction. A shout?

  Hand and body pressed to the corner of a brick warehouse, she listened. It was a man’s voice, possibly, she thought in a spurt of hope, Ron’s. She strained to hear. No, not Ron. The accent was wrong. He also sounded young, which ruled out Fox.

  Disappointed and with her stomach tied in knots, she turned away. Then she stopped dead as a name shot through her head. “Oswyn!”

  Spinning, she pinpointed the direction of the voice. Cautiously she started toward it. Anything was preferable to going in endless circles.

  A discarded food wrapper skittered over the chipped bricks. The alley had a spooky aspect to it that brought goose bumps to her skin.

  She ventured closer. The air felt suffocating. Beads of perspiration formed on her hairline. She rubbed a damp palm along her bare thigh. One voice—a boy’s. Dozens of watching eyes. It was Big Brother with a sinister twist.

  “Help! Is anybody out there? We’re trapped.”

  Victoria’s heart skipped a thundering beat. It was Oswyn, and he’d said “we.”

  “Torbel?” she called excitedly. “Oswyn? Is that you?”

  “Yes!” It was Oswyn who shouted back.

  “Victoria?” She closed her eyes at the deeper sound of Torbel’s voice. “Is someone with you?”

  She started to say no, remembered the shadowy niches and said loudly, “They’re right behind me. Ron, Zoe, and Inspector Fox. Keep talking so I can find you. Are you all right?”

  “No. There are fifty bloody spikes about to turn us into shish kebab.”

  A fierce shudder tore through her. “The King of Hearts,” she muttered. Where were they? All the doors along here looked the same. Thank heaven the alley, not Hangman’s Lane, was a dead end—she hoped.

  “There’s a staircase near the end, Victoria,” Torbel shouted. “On your right and down five steps. Do you see it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Forget the door. Old bolts are tricky. Look along the base of the wall. There should be an opening with a lever inside.”

  She crouched, her gaze skimming the lower portion of the stone wall. A wooden frame six inches square was the only thing that looked remotely like an opening.

  She spied a movement in her peripheral vision. Something metallic glinted in the murk of an alcove. The rain made a soft pattering sound as it fell. “Figures,” she muttered, wedging her hand into the hole. Louder, she said, “I found the lever, Torbel.” And a nest of spiderwebs, she thought, flinching.

  “Pull it,” Torbel yelled.

  “Torbel!” Oswyn gasped.

  “Do it, Victoria. Now!”

  She tried, but the mechanism was old and badly rusted. It hardly budged. Five pulls later, it still hadn’t moved. Unfortunately something or someone in the alley had. A low murmur of voices reached her ears.

  Firming up her grip, she tried babying the lever. When that didn’t work, either, she swept the sopping hair from her eyes, set her teeth and gave another mighty yank.

  The lever popped—so unexpectedly that she thought for a dreadful moment she’d broken it. But no, it was still attached, and the grinding noise inside had ceased.

  “Torbel?” she ventured, terrified her success had come too late.

  She heard a scrape of metal, then a weary “Bloody hell” from Torbel.

  Forehead resting against the wet stone wall, she breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank heaven…”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t do that just yet,” an amused, guttural voice said from behind. “On your feet, lady.”

  Something sharp and undoubtedly deadly jabbed her in the back. Hot, whiskey-laced breath rushed through her hair. She heard the greedy anticipation in the man’s tone.

  “One sound, darlin’, and you’ll be as dead as your friends in the dungeon.” He leaned closer. “Or wish you was, at least.”

  IT WAS NO AVENGING ANGEL who held her tightly against him from behind. His breath poured in sickening waves over her face; his liquor-tainted words flowed into her right ear.

  “What should we do, then, you and me, eh?” A knife popped open beneath her chin. “Let me relieve you of your money? Or will you just write me a check? You look well-off.” He raised his voice. “Don’t she look well-off, lads?”

  The surrounding mutter of agreement jarred every nerve in Victoria’s body. He planned to rob her. It was better than the alternative.

  To her surprise, the man shoved her up flat against the old door. Her nose was two inches from the bolt. If only she could get her groping fingers to the knob.

  “Nothing to say, darlin’?” the man demanded roughly.

  On the pretext of clawing at his arm, Victoria brought her hands up. She used one to try to pry herself free and the other to grip the bolt.

  “Ah, ah, ah, Little Titch.” He grabbed her hand and gave it a squeeze. “None of that, now. I know who’s in there, right enough. Like a tiger in a bag, that one. Cut him loose, and he’ll tear me throat out, all for the want of a few quid.”

  “He won’t.” Victoria scratched at his wet arm. “He’s after someone else.” A thought occurred to her. “We’re trying to find the person who murdered Lenny Street. Did you know Lenny Street?”

  The man hesitated. Slowly the pressure on her throat eased. “Why would the Rag Man help Street? They was on the outs.”

  “Not the way you think. I’m not lying. Ask Torbel yourself. If you speak up, he’ll hear you.”

  The sneer in the man’s reply was unmistakable. “Yeah? Well, maybe I don’t want to talk to him. Maybe all I want is a little cash and a couple of pints. Now, give over.”

  “No, wait, please.” His grip reasserted itself. “Torbel!”

  His name was lost in a flurry of unexpected activity. The arm around her throat suddenly slackened its hold, though not enough to prevent Victoria from toppling with the man when his body crumpled. She landed on top of him, struggling even as she fell to wriggle free of his constrictive arm.

  She scrambled sideways on the soaked cobbles, terrified and panting. What now? With her hair in her eyes, she couldn’t see a thing. But she’d recognize Torbel’s angry snarl anywhere.

  Through
a tangle of black curls, she watched as he hauled the man to his feet and slammed him face first against the stillbolted door.

  “Torbel, don’t,” her ex-captor rasped. “I wouldn’t have hurt her none.”

  “The hell you wouldn’t, Merdin. You’re a prat with an attitude and dung for brains.” He gave the man’s arm, already twisted upward at a near-impossible angle, a punishing jerk. “Tell me why I shouldn’t break every bone in your body right now.”

  “Torbel…!”

  Victoria swiped the hair from her eyes as Oswyn tumbled through what appeared to be a trapdoor in the roof. A trapdoor in a torture chamber?

  The boy pointed to the north. “It’s Ron and a man in a suit.”

  “Fox,” Victoria muttered, climbing to her feet. She touched Torbel’s shoulder. “Let him go,” she advised. “He’ll be free by morning anyway. The jails are overcrowded, and his buddies will back him up in whatever story he concocts.”

  Torbel’s jaw tightened as he gave the man’s arm another wrench.

  “As awful as it sounds,” she continued, “we don’t have time to deal with this. That lunatic’s still out there. He drugged my tea, tried to make hamburger out of you and Oswyn and left another note taped to Zoe’s door.”

  The first remark captured his attention. Frowning, he demanded, “Drugged your tea? How?”

  She wrung out her hair. “I have no idea. Zoe drank it, too—I think.” She paused, then shook herself. Of course Zoe had. “We’re fine, though,” she went on. “It was just something to knock us out. Keiran showed up and said that Ivy—Well, it’s a long story. Put simply, Keiran figured you might be in Hangman’s Lane in trouble, so…”

  “This is Black Sheep Alley.”

  “Whatever. I just wanted to find you, so he sent Ron out with me to look. Zoe came, too. We bumped into Fox down here, but then I got separated from them. It was sheer dumb luck that I heard Oswyn shouting for help. The rest you know or can guess.”

  “Yeah. Unfortunately.” Giving the man’s arm a final hard twist, he released him and stepped away. “Go on, get the hell out of here, Merdin. And take the gits in the shadows with you.”

  “In the shadows?” Victoria glanced uneasily around. “I thought they scattered when you grabbed their leader.”