Time of Blood. Robin Jarvis

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СКАЧАТЬ you let her get away?’

      ‘She attacked me and struck me down. I’m sorry, my lord.’

      Her master pushed by and ran across the landing.

      ‘Rouse the boy!’ he ordered the housekeeper. ‘Don’t bother to dress him – there is no time.’

      Mrs Axmill hurried to obey, but glanced back before entering Master Verne’s room. The marquess was speaking angrily to what appeared to be an empty corner, where an empty bottle of brandy lay on the floor.

      ‘I warned you, Gull!’ he growled, his fists trembling with barely contained fury. ‘I said leave the drink alone. You’re stewed! Don’t strain my patience further! The humans in this hall are not here for your amusement, you stunted, mollusc-brained halfwit. I don’t care how curious she was – I would have dealt with it. I had a particular use in mind for that girl; she was not for you to play with!’

      Frowning at those last words, Mrs Axmill rubbed her aching head and entered the blue bedroom.

      ‘Get up, Master Verne,’ she shouted, clapping her hands. ‘Wake up!’

      Another thick, low fog, what the locals called a ‘fret’, had rolled in off the sea. It flooded the labyrinth lanes of Whitby with dense grey vapour. In some places it was waist-deep; in others it crept up the walls and pressed against bedroom windows.

      Fleeing Bagdale Hall, casting the walking cane aside, Grace rushed up Spring Hill, scything a path through the curdling mist. The police station wasn’t far. If there was no one on duty at this hour she would batter on the door until she woke the inspector in his house or one of the unmarried constables in the rooms above.

      Cocooned in fog, the red-brick building was just in view when a tall, burly figure in a caped coat strode into sight ahead. The gaslight of a street lamp behind him pitched his bearded face into shadow, but the girl could tell from his homburg hat that he wasn’t a policeman.

      ‘You there!’ he challenged her, in a gruff Irish brogue. ‘What are you doing out at this hour?’

      Grace’s mind was in turmoil, whirling with the horror she had witnessed in the red bedroom. Halting, she stared at the stranger fearfully and was about to cry for help when he raised his arm and she saw a revolver in his hand.

      A shot exploded from the muzzle. It thundered high over her head. Grace spun round and tore back down the hill. Only one thought blazed brightly now: she had to get home, across the river, to her father’s cottage on the East Cliff.

      ‘Stop!’ the man yelled behind her. ‘Wait there! Stop!’

      Grace didn’t even hear him. Panic and terror drove her. She ran like a hare through Baxtergate. No glimmer of light shone in the windows of the surrounding buildings and the blanketing fog obscured the road. Stones cut her bare feet and she almost twisted her ankle when she crashed against the unseen kerb.

      The quay was just ahead. One dash through Old Market Place, then over the bridge, and home and safety would be moments away. Yet she knew she would never be free of the hideous sight she had uncovered in that forbidden room. That ghastly horror would haunt her forever and thinking of it now made her feel sick.

      ‘What’s this, what’s this?’ a hearty voice greeted her. ‘Why have you strayed from the snuggery of your bed, little miss?’

      Another man had emerged from the shadowy mist into her path. Grace tried to dodge aside, but he hooked her arm and reeled her back towards him.

      ‘What’s sent you dashing through these dark streets as though your chemise were on fire?’ he asked.

      The girl struggled.

      ‘Hold easy, lass!’ he chuckled. ‘Rufus Brodribb won’t harm you none. He saves his pugilism for the dough in the bakery. What’s got you so frighted? You’re quailing like a cornered mouse in the grain store.’

      Gulping desperate breaths, Grace looked up at him. She saw a thin but benign and ruddy face, flanked by a profusion of ginger side whiskers and a pair of pince-nez on a long nose. His shirt sleeves were rolled past the elbow and over his waistcoat he wore a large white apron.

      ‘Honest Rufus Brodribb, presently of Botham’s baker’s,’ he introduced himself with a friendly grin. ‘But most others do call me Crusty Rustychops, on account of me trade and the luxuriance of me cheek ticklers. What say you and me cut along to the place of my employment, where you can regale my ears with your troubles over a pot of tea and a fresh-made pastry? As me old mam used to say, “Nowt looks so bad over the brim of a china cup.” ’Tis not far.’

      Grace squirmed in his grasp. ‘I must get on home!’ she protested. ‘It’s not safe out here. Let go, he’ll be after me!’

      ‘Who, lass?’

      ‘The master!’ she cried. ‘They’re killers, her an’ him! They murdered Esme – butchered her! And there’s another out here, back that way – with a gun. Mercy save me! They cut her head clean off !’

      The baker stared at her in disbelief.

      ‘What are you saying?’ he asked, and the bantering tone was gone from his voice. ‘Tell me. Be quick!’

      Before she could answer, a shrill mewling sounded in the sky.

      ‘God’s teeth!’ he declared, scanning the heavens as a black shape flew across the stars. ‘What in thunderation was that?’

      ‘It’s what were in the cage,’ Grace muttered.

      ‘Cage? Where is this cage? Tell me, child!’

      Grace shook her head in confusion. The baker was no longer speaking in a Yorkshire accent.

      Two shots rang out. The noise ricocheted through the cramped lanes, seeming to come from every direction.

      Rufus Brodribb whirled about and gave a snort of annoyance.

      ‘What is the blessed fool doing?’ he snapped. ‘I told him no wild shooting tonight!’

      Grace grabbed her chance. She pulled herself free and raced into the mist, towards the quayside. Brodribb was about to give chase when another shot blasted into the night, followed by a man’s bellowing yell. This time there was no doubt: it came from somewhere near Bagdale.

      ‘By God’s eyelid!’ he declared impatiently.

      It was too late to pursue the frightened girl. The billowing vapour had swallowed her. He would never find her in that. Taking a small pistol from his waistcoat pocket he hurried back along Baxtergate.

      Grace was lost in a fog bank. This close to the river it was thicker than ever and she could barely see her hands in front of her face. Finding a wall, she warily edged her way alongside it until she reached a corner. There was nothing she could do but follow it round. Soon she encountered a row of barrels and heard the clank and rattle of rigging close by. Grace realised she was perilously near the quayside and would have to take care not to step off the edge and plunge into the water.

      Cautiously, СКАЧАТЬ