The Angel of Highgate (30 page)

“Go on, Mordecai,” Snudge goaded. “Fight ’im! Show ’im you ain’t scared… unless you is scared. Scared like a little weasel.”

Fowler threw a hateful glare at Snudge. “I ain’t scared. I ain’t scared of no bleedin’ toff. I ain’t scared of nuffink!”

“Go on, Mordecai,” piped in another mobsmen. “Let’s see you take him.” Suddenly all the mobsmen joined in, calling for Fowler to accept the challenge.

“All right, all right!” Fowler bellowed. “A duel it is. I’ll even give you the first shot, Lord Toff.”

Thraxton walked up to Fowler and held out his hand. “I must reload the pistols.”

“This one ain’t been fired,” Fowler said, patting the pistol in his hand.

Thraxton nodded and pulled out a slender powder horn, removed the cap, and began to pour gunpowder into the barrel of his dueling pistol. Algernon threw him a concerned look. Thraxton gave his friend the slightest nod to indicate that he knew full well his pistol had not been fired. Despite that, he poured enough powder for one shot but then kept pouring and pouring until he emptied the powder horn. Next, he drew a ball from his pocket, showed it to Fowler, dropped it in the barrel, then shoved a piece of wadding in and drove in the tamping rod, ramming everything home.

“Very good,” Thraxton said. “I am ready.”

“You challenged me,” Fowler said. “That means I have first choice of weapons.”

Thraxton nodded uneasily.

“Surprised a gutter-snipe like me knows the rules of dueling, aren’t ya, Mister Toff?” He nodded at the pistol in Thraxton’s hand. “I’ll take that pistol.” He snatched it from Thraxton. “And you can have this one.”

Thraxton hesitated, looking suspiciously at the pistol in Fowler’s pudgy hand, and then reluctantly took it.

“Sorry, Mister Toff, but we play my rules in Seven Dials.” Fowler turned his head and called out: “Mister Crynge.”

“He’s dead,” Snudge reminded.

“Oh, yeah. Well then, Mister Snudge, do us the honors.”

Thraxton stepped over to Algernon and leaned in close.

“Algy, I have no right to ask you this, but if I should fall—”

“I will defend Aurelia to the death,” Algernon replied, squeezing his friend’s arm.

Thraxton hugged Aurelia, looking down into her tearful face. “Death, if it comes, shall not separate us.”

“Geoffrey,” she whispered breathlessly. “I must tell you… I carry your child.”

Astonishment washed across Thraxton’s face. He had not been fearful until that moment, but now he trembled as he paced off the distance and turned to face Fowler.

“Mistah Fowler!” Snudge called. “Prepare to receive Lord Toff’s fire!”

Fowler stood face on, relaxed and unafraid, a smirk on his face. Thraxton’s breath plumed as he exhaled nervously. He raised the pistol slowly until the fore and aft sight coincided with Fowler’s broad chest.

The mobsmen fell silent.

Thraxton’s hand shook a little, and he fought to steady it. His finger tightened slowly on the trigger, squeezing until it released.

The hammer fell with an empty click.

Thraxton’s eyes widened in shock. His jaw dropped.

Fowler cackled. “Oh dearie me. Seems I did forget to reload after all.”

He nodded at Snudge who chuckled dimly, then shouted: “Mister Toff, prepare to receive Mister Fowler’s fire.”

Thraxton turned sideways, crouching slightly, his pistol hand drawn across his chest in an attempt to protect his heart and vital organs. He threw a last despairing look at Aurelia who watched with tears streaming down her face.

“You were right,” Fowler brayed. “I ain’t no gennulman, and I don’t fight like one. Ain’t that right, lads?” The mobsmen burst into laughter which drained away as Mordecai Fowler raised the dueling pistol and aimed.

“Death,” Thraxton whispered under his breath. “Death, I need you. Where are you now?”

“Goodbye, Lord Toff!” Fowler bawled. His face clenched, lips pursed, as he squinted along the pistol barrel centering Thraxton’s chest in his sights. His finger squeezed. The hammer fell. A flash of orange. A drawn out
pffffffffffffffffffttt
and then…

…nothing.

White smoke pearled from the gun. A stunned look spread across Fowler’s grizzled features and then… KABOOOM! The pistol exploded in his face. For long seconds, everything vanished in a white cloud. When the smoke dispersed, Fowler was still standing, though his hat was gone and his hair and clothes were charred and smoldering. The ruined pistol, its barrel peeled back by the explosion, dropped from the burned stumps of his fingers. He staggered backwards, hands clamped to his face. When he pulled the hands away, nothing remained of his left eye but a gory socket. His face gaped with fish-mouthed wounds, ripped open by shrapnel from the exploding gun. By overcharging with too much powder, and then loading two balls into the muzzle and tamping everything down tight, Thraxton ensured that the resulting overpressure would destroy the pistol.

Maimed and partially blinded, Fowler took a staggering step, lost his footing and fell, sliding down the steep pitch of the roof. As he flew out over the edge, he flailed out and managed to catch hold of the guttering. But under Fowler’s bulk, the guttering started to buckle and pull loose of the rusted brackets holding it to the brickwork.

“Lads!” Fowler called out. “Help me, lads!”

None of the mobsmen stirred.

“I’ll fall! C’mon, lads. Snudge… Snudge, get your arse over here!”

But Snudge didn’t move. “You killed little Titch. You shouldn’t not a done that, Mordecai. And I ain’t your horse to be doin’ wot you say no more.”

The guttering creaked as it tore away from the brickwork. Fowler let go with one hand, fumbled in his coats, drew out Mister Pierce and rammed the spike into the roof. He let go of the guttering and wrapped both hands around the handle of the spike, trying to heave himself back onto the roof, but the handle was slippery with blood—for once, his own blood.

“I ain’t done wiv you, Lord Toff! You’re gonna suffer, you and your pox-rotten dolly-mop! Soon as I get up this roof, I’ll show you all about pain and sufferin’!” But then Fowler’s hands lost their grip on the slippery handle. He grabbed at the guttering and as his weight hit it, the final rusted bolts sheared off. Fowler rode the downspout as it pivoted away from the building then buckled and collapsed. He fell fifty feet and splashed down in Filthy Ditch, sending up a huge spray of putrescence. Bubbles erupted for several seconds and then Fowler burst to the surface, gagging, spitting filth, gossamer wings drooping from his arms. He sank a second time, going down with a slurping sound. More bubbles, a huge stream at first that gradually slowed to a trickle and finally one huge bubble that formed on the surface, shimmering in obscene colors, then burst.

Silence.

All eyes turned to Snudge. As the second of Fowler’s leftenants, he inherited command. Thraxton and Algernon shared fearful looks. They had but one weapon, the sword cane, against an armed mob of thirty men. Snudge carefully stepped down the roof’s dizzy pitch, one hand resting against the tiles until he reached the spike Fowler had left impaled in the roof. He snatched it out and rose to his feet. For a moment he stood examining it. But then he seemed to lose interest and calmly flicked Mister Pierce away. The spike made a
whicker-whick
sound as it tumbled end over end, hit the surface of the ditch with a faint plash and vanished instantly. Snudge watched the fading ripples for a moment, then trudged back up the slope of the roof and walked away, back toward the trap door. Silently, the other men fell in behind him.

Thraxton, Aurelia and Algernon shared looks of disbelief as they watched the mobsmen meekly walk away.

By a miracle, they had all survived.

* * *

Footsore, battered and weary, Thraxton, Aurelia and Algernon crossed the rickety footbridge and finally emerged from the dark alleyway to find Aurelia’s father and Harold still waiting by the brougham. On sight of him, Aurelia ran and threw her arms about her father, although she wept to see the beating he had suffered.

* * *

Mordecai Fowler was dead.

Of that much, Silas Garrette was certain. He sat in the gloom of a black carriage parked directly across from Robert Greenley’s house, watching in disbelief as Thraxton’s blue brougham discharged its passengers.

There he was, the Mocker of Death himself, the detestable Lord Thraxton, helping Greenley hobble up the front steps of his house. Behind followed the slender figure of Aurelia Greenley and a fair-haired man Garrette recognized as one of Thraxton’s seconds from the duel.

The doctor did not linger to observe the happy homecoming. He rapped on the ceiling of the hansom with his knuckles, shouted, “Drive on!” and the carriage lurched away into the night.

He had seen all he needed to see. Thraxton either had the luck of all the angels on his side or he was a more formidable opponent than Garrette had estimated. Perhaps Mordecai Fowler had been a poor choice: ruthless and totally evil, but lacking in intelligence—a blunt cudgel where a keen scalpel was required.

No. There was no other choice. He would just have to do the job himself. Besides, he had seen Aurelia Greenley up close. Since then, he had been able to think of little other than the tiny life growing inside her.

He was impatient to greet his new child.

D
octor James Fuller knew full well Thraxton was standing there, but did not look up from his desk or the open journal in which he was scribbling notes—in fact, he had not looked up from his writing since Thraxton entered the room more than ten minutes ago. He finished a sentence, dipped his quill in the inkpot and continued to write. At last, the doctor appeared to have finished his entry. He picked up a shaker and sprinkled the page with sand to blot the ink dry. Thraxton’s wait seemed over; but no, the doctor then turned the page and began to write more.

It was a test of wills.

Even though Thraxton had been announced, Doctor Fuller’s office was the one place where professional qualifications outranked inherited titles—lord or no lord.

Thraxton cleared his throat quietly at first and then a second time, thunderously.

“Do you have an appointment, sir?” the doctor asked without ever looking up as the pen continued to scratch across the page.

“I am here on a matter of great import.”

“I am a doctor, sir.” The physician pried his eyes up from the journal for the first time. His face was warty, gray-bearded, a lank straggle of hairs smeared sideways across his bald scalp. The eyes, round and heavy-lidded as a turtle’s, peered at Thraxton over a pair of half-moon spectacles. “All of my business involves matters of great import.”

“You have a patient, one Aurelia Greenley.”

“Are you a relative?” The tone was accusative.

“No… yes… that is, I am her fiancé.”

The doctor stabbed the quill into the inkpot and left it quivering there. “I know the Greenleys. They have been patients of mine for years. I recollect no mention of a suitor.”

“Sir, you know that Mister Greenley was severely beaten and Aurelia kidnapped. I understand you treated both of them.”

The doctor’s shrug did nothing to either affirm or deny he knew of the event.

“I was the one who rescued Aurelia from the hands of the criminals who abducted her.”

“That’s as may be. As a physician, I am bound not to share privileged information with anyone outside the immediate family.” And with that he yanked the quill from the inkpot, shook the excess ink onto a blotter sheet and began to scribble again. “The door you entered by is still there,” he said without looking up. “Please close it from the other side.”

BANG! The golden phoenix head of Thraxton’s walking stick smashed down onto the open book, crushing the quill, narrowly avoiding smashing the doctor’s fingers, and splattering a huge blot of black ink across the page.

The doctor recoiled in shock. “Are you mad?”

Thraxton leaned over the desk, his face looming. “Yes, I am mad—mad as a hatter. Perhaps you have heard of me. My name is Lord Thraxton. I am told I have something of a reputation: dueling, gambling, whoring. There are many who consider me the wickedest man in London. The fellow who snatched Aurelia is dead. I killed the bastard! What say you now?”

The doctor studied Thraxton’s rage-contorted face for a moment and then, unexpectedly, burst into laughter. “Yes,” he chuckled. “I think you are mad. Full of piss and vinegar as we used to say where I grew up.” The doctor leaned back in his chair and regarded Thraxton over his steepled fingers. He clearly was not a man to be bullied or cowed by threats. “I see you are quite earnest.” He shuffled his chair back to the desk, ripped the ink-sodden page from his journal and dropped it and the ruined quill into a waste paper bin near his feet. “Very well, I will tell you what I know.” He nodded toward the chair on the far side of his desk. “I suggest you sit down.”

Thraxton ignored the advice, which proved to be a mistake.

The doctor mused for a moment and then began. “Aurelia suffers from a malady of the blood. It is an inherited trait, passed down the generations on the maternal side. Exposure to sunlight produces rashes and blistering of the skin. But there are more serious symptoms: abdominal pain, cramps, even periods of delirium.”