Page 93 of Of Fate and Phantoms
I groaned.
"Gone where?" Lincoln asked.
"Don't know." Finley straightened but his fingers pinched his side. He must have run most of the way from Clerkenwell. "He went out for a walk last night and never came back. Then today we heard about a lad being kidnapped in Whitechapel."
"Kidnapped!" I pressed a hand to my throat where bile burned. My blood ran cold. "No, no, no. This is all my fault. First Harriet and now Mink. If it wasn't for me, they'd both still be tucked into their beds. Lincoln…what have I done?"
Chapter 13
Lincoln's handrested on the back of my neck, gentle yet reassuringly solid. "It's not your fault," he said. "And we don't know if anything bad has happened to either of them. Street children get kidnapped in Whitechapel more frequently than you'd think. The child may not have been Mink. He may have simply gone out for a longer walk than usual."
"He ain't never been gone this long," Finley countered.
Lincoln narrowed his gaze at the lad, but Finley wasn't intimidated.
"Well, he ain't," he repeated.
"I know," I said heavily. Finley wouldn't look so worried or have run all the way to fetch us if this was a normal occurrence.
"Harriet also went out voluntarily," Lincoln said.
"I don't like this at all," I said. "We have to find them both."
He nodded. "We'll leave immediately. Wear your trousers."
I hurried off, relieved that I didn't have to ask to go with them—because I would go, whether he wanted me to or not.
* * *
Lincoln, Seth, Gus and I did not take our own coach but caught a hackney cab that deposited us out the front of the Smithfield meat market. The market was at its busiest—and loudest. Butchers' apprentices shouted over the top of one another in the long avenue, vying for attention. Carcasses hung from the hooks today like macabre garlands, and one stall even had over a dozen whole pigs arranged on the floor with their heads resting on front trotters. They looked as if they'd leap up at any moment to frolic among the straw.
We asked the butcher Gawler had spoken to the day before if he'd seen him. He hadn't and didn't know where Gawler lived, but he knew he drank at the Jolly Joker in Shoreditch.
We walked there. The tavern keeper was just opening the doors to let in the early drinkers who waited outside like flies around meat. After money changed hands, he told us we would find Gawler in Myring Place.
I expected Lincoln to try to put me in a cab and send me home, but he didn't. We headed to Myring Place in the Old Nichol district, a small court set amid one of the areas I'd learned to avoid when surviving on the streets. The half dozen or so dwellings surrounding the open yard were in varying stages of decay, the outbuildings little more than lean-tos that must leak terribly. Windows were shut, but even if they were open, no air or light would have entered the buildings, as not a breath of wind or beam of sunshine entered the yard. Children huddled around a brazier near a broken costermonger's cart that looked in danger of being sacrificed to the fire next. They watched us through wary eyes, their faces bearing the pallor and scars of illness and misery.
Lincoln handed out coins and the children's eyes lit up. "We're looking for a man named Gawler," he said. "We were told he lives around here."
Some of the children hesitated and exchanged glances, but one pointed at the second house. "In there."
"Is he home?"
The lad nodded.
Lincoln handed them all another coin each then approached the house. He didn't knock, but pushed open the door. I covered my nose and mouth to block out the smell of meat. A narrow flight of stairs led up to the next level. Cobwebs clustered in the ceiling's corners and something scuttled in the shadows.
Lincoln put his finger to his lips and climbed the stairs quietly, slowly. He signaled for Gus to remain by the door and for me and Seth to follow. The staircase was only wide enough for one, so I went up last.
The door to the court closed, plunging us into semi-darkness. We headed up the stairs as silently as we could, but it wasn't silent enough.
There was no warning. One moment there was nothing at the top of the stairs, and the next, a dark shape hurtled toward us and slammed into Lincoln. If Seth hadn't been right behind him, Lincoln would have tumbled down the stairs under the force of the impact.
He grunted, but the only other sound came from the punch he landed on the other man. It was definitely a man, not a beast, albeit one with superior speed and a strength that allowed him to land a sickening blow into Lincoln's stomach. Lincoln doubled over, coughing, just as Gus pushed me into the wall and stormed past.
He and Seth tackled the man and Lincoln pinned him to the staircase. A low, fierce snarl curdled my blood. I'd heard stray dogs snarl like that right before attacking.
"Stop!" I cried. "Stop at once, Mr. Gawler!"
