Page 14 of Ashes To Ashes
"I can't see!" someone shouted.
"A figure! There! Climbing through the window!" That was Irwin. "Head him off downstairs."
Lincoln held onto the window ledge and swung to his left. He caught the ledge of Irwin's window and pulled himself up. He'd had more time to find footholds on his earlier ascent to O'Neill's room, but fortunately the layout of the building was the same here and he didn't have to think too much. As he reached the fourth level, the ceiling height was lower, the roofline sloped, and it was easy to reach the eaves.
Unfortunately, he wasn't fast enough.
"He's gone up!" Irwin shouted.
Lincoln gripped the eaves and swung, hand over hand, to the next building. Its roof was lower and Lincoln climbed onto the tiles as quietly as he could. He crossed the gully to the back of the house but the wall was too sheer to climb down. He ran up the steep, slippery pitch and glanced back toward the lodging house.
Someone had the courage to pursue him. Someone fast and unafraid of heights. An aerialist, perhaps.
Lincoln ran on. He jumped from roof to roof, leaping over narrow lanes where necessary. But he couldn't continue forever. The roofs would come to an end soon, and the aerialist hadn't given up. Lincoln could overpower him if necessary, but he didn't want to harm an innocent man.
He reached the last roof and balanced on the sloping tiles. He peered over the edge. No shutters, and the window ledges were too far apart. He ran to the back of the house and spotted a sluice pipe running down the wall. There was no time to test its strength. He swung his legs over the eaves and grabbed on with his knees.
His descent was so fast that he reached the cobbled yard before the aerialist peered over the edge of the roof. He dodged through an archway to the lane beyond, and ran to his right. Instead of running straight along it, he scaled another wall into another yard, through a gate and into a yard, then a wider lane.
He knew these streets like he knew the patterns of lines on Charlie's palm. The aerialist did not. There were no sounds of pursuit; no hue and cry had been raised. He was very much alone on the frosty, sooty London evening. He slowed to a brisk walk and headed back toward Highgate. He'd not brought a horse or carriage with him, and the walk was a long one.
So he ran. Instead of allowing his mind to wander at will, he forced himself to stay alert, to listen and focus on the task at hand. He'd almost missed the piece of paper in the boot, now tucked into his pocket. That was sloppy. He'd also almost been caught. That was unfortunate. On the other hand, it was also exhilarating. He'd not had a good chase across rooftops in an age.
Lichfield Towers was in darkness when he arrived. Nobody waited up for him. He hadn't asked them to, and yet he almost wished he had.
He shook off those thoughts and poured himself a brandy in the library. By the light of the candles, he dug the note out of his pocket and read it. It was an address. One he knew well.
Harcourt House, Mayfair. Julia's home, and Andrew Buchanan's.
Chapter 4
Lincoln was a coward. It wasn't a word he liked to associate with himself, but on this occasion, he could admit it. He hunched into his coat on the street opposite Harcourt House, his hood pulled low, and waited for Julia to leave. More than an hour later, his patience was rewarded as the front door opened and Millard the butler handed her an umbrella. She descended the steps and strolled up the street. Once she was gone from sight, Lincoln approached the house.
Millard answered his knock. "Lady Harcourt is not at home, sir."
"I wish to see Mr. Buchanan," Lincoln said.
"He's not available to callers."
Meaning he was probably still in bed. Lincoln checked his pocket watch. It was almost midday. "Inform Mr. Buchanan that he will make himself available to discuss Ela. If he's not down within fifteen minutes, I'll come up to his room and drag him out of bed by the ankles."
Millard didn't blink an eye. He merely stepped aside to allow Lincoln in. "May I take your coat, sir?"
Fifteen minutes later, Buchanan ambled into the drawing room. He looked as if someonehaddragged him out of bed by the ankles. His fair hair was flat on one side and stuck out from his head on the other. He rubbed bloodshot eyes and stifled a yawn.
"Bloody early, ain't it, Fitzroy?"
"No."
Buchanan crossed to the window and looked out. He winced and rubbed his eyes again, even though the day wasn't bright. "You're right. Not too early for a drink at all." He poured a snifter of brandy and offered it to Lincoln.
Lincoln shook his head and Buchanan sipped from the glass. "I believe you know Ela, one of Barnum and Bailey's dancers," Lincoln said.
Buchanan smirked. "Iknowher. Speaking of girls, where's your fiancée? She's not with you today?"
Julia hadn't told him? "Charlie no longer lives with me."
Buchanan lowered the glass and blinked slowly, as if waking from a dream. "You don't say. Interesting."
