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Left. Then right. Left again. The next street entered a nicer area, and I breathed a sigh of relief. I doubted Holmes would need anything I had overheard, but I appreciated the escape from the dank, depressing hovel that his target called a pub. The simple order to claim a corner and listen for a few hours had neglected to mention both the weather and that disgusting building. I had thought the clock tower would never sound.
It finally had, however, and I had lingered only long enough to finish my beer and pay before a strolling pace headed out the door, head ducked into the blowing downpour. The driving rain pushed me into the next shop to readjust my coat—and purchase the glass pen I had eyed the other day—before I headed west. More a novelty than truly luxurious, one of the doctors at St. Bart’s swore by them, and the sale price hovered just inside of my budget. I wanted to know just how comfortable they were.
Later, however. I wanted supper first, and I would have to give Holmes what little information I had gleaned. Clark’s men had known better than to voice their plans in such a public place, which meant that my fragments provided more questions than answers. Maybe I should linger longer?
“—im?”
No. Holmes had told me to return in time for supper. He might wish I had stayed out longer, but I knew better than to change plans without a clear indication. Whatever reason he had for the time limit, I would not ruin two plans instead of one. I could always return later.
In a different disguise, of course, but a shoe scuffed behind me before I could decide which one. Instinct screamed, and I barely ducked a tackle. A second man dove out of a parked growler, shoving me into the alley in the process.
“You’re comin’ with us.”
Not willingly. My cane tripped the first man and cracked over the second man’s head. Ducking a fist aimed for my face failed to avoid the one to my chest, an attempt to trip the shorter man made him stumble instead, and only movement in my periphery prevented the second tackle from landing true. Seconds blurred as I fought to escape.
To no avail. By the time my shattered cane took one man out of the fight, my other injuries prevented me from blocking the other man’s attack. His bruising grip on my left arm easily shoved me face first against the bricks, where cold steel pressed into my shoulder blades.
“Fight us again,” he growled, “and your precious detective can search for your remains.”
I stilled. Whether Holmes bothered to search for me or not, better to watch for a time to escape later than to test that threat. My captor held me against the building until his friend had regained his feet and shaken himself, then the other man led the way while that revolver barrel prodded me down the alley.
Down the deserted alley. I would have expected someone to linger in the narrow space between the buildings, but even the alcoves remained strangely deserted all the way to the tow path, where they walked me past another accomplice and into the hold of a rickety canal boat. Our escort stepped out of the way only to roughly shove me down the stairs, and by the time I had regained my feet, the beady-eyed man with the revolver had reached the hold as well. Escort and accomplice stayed at the stern to argue about the “fastest route to the ocean” as that revolver prodded me further and further forward, into the darkest part of the narrowboat. I would never be able to escape from the front of the hold. Not when the only exit lay at the stern, and if they intended to head for the locks and the river…
A stumble let me drop a small vial, which shattered on impact, but while the noise earned me another bruise at the butt of that revolver, I also knew the chemical would do exactly as its label warned.
I could only hope it would do so fast enough.
The ceiling got lower and lower, finally forcing me to awkwardly crawl over the sloped hull toward the single, small lamp someone had left at the bow. Blood dripped from various injuries and splattered against the wood. My left arm hung almost useless in the makeshift sling I had fashioned from my shirt. Several cuts on my chest suggested my new pen had splintered under one of their fists. I moved slower and slower across the wood despite the revolver’s many prods, but I had nearly reached the light when raised voices carried from the boat’s now distant stern. Had they—
No. They could not have discovered the vial. Not when it had shattered, and the chemical I had released would eventually put them to sleep, not make them angry. The voices grew louder, then panic threaded the words just before a loud boom rattled the boat, knocking me into the ship’s bow and my captor into me. Water flooded into the resulting hole, further breaking the decrepit boat into pieces and casting us into the canal.
The basin, I quickly corrected. Most of the canals ranged from three to four feet deep, but bouncing on my toes barely kept my head above the surface. My captor disappeared immediately, more concerned with swimming free of the wreckage than keeping control of me, but already screaming pain exploded when the sinking boat raked my back from neck to belt. A reflexive attempt to tread water made spots dance in my vision. Blackness promised to ease the pain.
I refused, fighting to stay conscious until I could at least get out of the canal. If I passed out here, I would never wake up, but I could not swim, either. With the basin too deep to walk to the edge and my injuries protesting my every move, desperation barely managed to grab a floating portion of the ship’s keel.
Though I could not pull myself onto the wood. Not immediately. The fleeting contact with the canal bottom barely served to let me breathe, and I would lose even that in moments. A glance found me closer to the middle of the basin than the edge, so I let my face submerge, bending my knees to get one good kick off the bottom. I easily cleared both the surface and the jagged piece of boat, but significant pain limited my movements beyond carefully pulling my upper body onto the wood. Yet another wave of pain bloomed to prevent me from kicking back to shore. I could only hope that the passersby converging on the area noticed me as well.
I barely had enough time to ensure I would not slide off my makeshift raft before darkness washed over me.