Charlotte’s first day at work was exactly what she thought it would be: exhausting, endless activities, complaining, sometimes hostile patients, and very little time to stop or eat or sit for any length of time.
She loved it.
It was everything she’d hoped for, and it had the added benefit of keeping her from thinking about the discoveries she’d made the night before in her mother’s trunk. Between her mother’s journal and her father’s letter, which she’d now read so many times she knew it by heart, it was too much to sort through while busy, and she was glad for the distraction.
Her colleagues, Doctors Stevenson, Leatham, and Tribe, were every bit as professional as she had hoped they might be. They seemed to have decided to reserve judgment until seeing her at work, and once she began to prove her skills, they were satisfied.
One of the nurses she had known before, Maggie Petersen, made a point to bring Charlotte a cup of tea and a biscuit, which was generous given that the nurse was busy enough for three people.
To her delight, she did not see much of Mr. Stanley. If they could keep some distance between them, perhaps their mutual annoyance wouldn’t continue to fester. She caught enough veiled comments and eye-rolling from other colleagues throughout the day to confirm that she was not the only person to be frustrated with the opinionated surgeon.
She was walking through the receiving room at the end of her shift when she caught sight of the boy who had delivered the note to her the day before. Quickly, she dashed over to him and grabbed his shoulder, spinning him around and guiding him into a corner of the room.
“Who gave you the message you brought here yesterday?” she asked him, breathless.
His eyes were large, and he shrugged away from her grasp. “I don’ remember!”
“It is very important that I find out,” she insisted. She reached into her pocket and produced two large coins. “Can you at least tell me where you met with him?”
The boy eyed the coins and finally nodded. “Tallulah’s.” He gave her the address to the pub, which was in easy walking distance.
“Do you know his name?”
He shook his head.
She frowned in frustration. “Can you find out for me? What did he look like?”
“I don’ ask too many questions,” the boy mumbled, still looking at the coins.
“I’ll pay you double this if you can learn his name, or anything about him.” She placed the coins in his hand and wrapped her fingers around his. “Anything at all. You know where to find me—I’m here nearly every day.” She paused. “What is your name?”
“Donovan.”
“And where do you live?”
He lifted a shoulder. “’Round.” He was thin and slightly shorter than she was.
“How old are you?”
He straightened. “Fifteen.”
She nodded. So thirteen, at most. “Thank you for your help. And if you ever need anything in return, come here and ask for Dr. Duvall.”
He nodded and headed toward an older woman in the receiving room. Perhaps she was a relative? Charlotte climbed the stairs to the first floor and turned a corner to the tiny room that served as her office. To have personal space at all was a boon. The doctors’ offices were scattered throughout the hospital wherever there might be an empty room. Mr. Stanley was the only staff member with an office that rivaled the size of Mr. Corbin’s or Matron Halcomb’s.
She changed her clothes and freshened up, noting on the clock that she had enough time to walk by the pub Donovan mentioned, having changed her plans to meet Sally for supper across town.
The days were growing shorter; it was already deep twilight. The air outside was colder than it had been that morning. Fall was deepening in earnest. She turned up her collar against a brisk breeze and made her way down the street, checking addresses and hoping she knew where she was going. After passing it and then doubling back, she finally found Tallulah’s, which smelled of an odd combination of fish and chips and Greek food.
She debated entering, not knowing who she was looking for, but figured she wouldn’t learn anything hovering at the door. She made her way inside, allowing her eyes to grow accustomed to the dim light and smoke-filled interior.
She spied a woman directing two sullen-looking servers who resembled her enough that they must be daughters. The proprietress? Charlotte hesitated. One might assume that approaching women for information would be a safe option, but one might be mistaken. Charlotte had learned that lesson more than once in New York.
A man stood behind the scratched and dented wooden bar, and he finally motioned to her. She stepped forward, deciding a direct approach would be best. She leaned close to him, shouting to be heard over the din. “I’m looking for someone.”
“’S an awful vague description, miss.”
Charlotte nodded. “Someone hired a boy named Donovan to deliver a note to me. My name is Charlotte Duvall.”
He eyed her for a moment before shaking his head. “’Aven’t a clue.”
She nodded again, resigned. It had been a very long shot. “Thank you.” She stepped away from the bar when the man called out to her and beckoned her back with his head.
“Folk sometime meet in the alleyway.” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder.
“Thank you very much.” She smiled and left the cost of a pint on the bar before making her way back outside. Nothing in blue hades would entice her to enter an alleyway where mysterious people needing secret messages delivered met with errand boys. She wasn’t stupid—she would return to the pub later with John perhaps. No, not John. Every inch of him screamed “detective.”
She frowned, stepping away from the pub, checking her timepiece.
“Duvall.” The voice was almost a whisper, but it was close enough that she heard it.
She jerked her head up. It hadn’t been more than a murmur, but blast it all, it seemed to have come from behind the pub.
In the alleyway.
She pursed her lips. As she slowly approached the rear of the building, she withdrew a thin scalpel from its pocket inside her medical bag. She held it carefully in her right hand, hidden behind the folds of her skirt.
Daylight was gone, and lights in nearby buildings flickered to life but did little to illuminate the darkened alley. She knew she couldn’t take down a seasoned criminal bent on murder and mayhem, but perhaps with a sharp instrument in her hand—and knowledge of where to effectively wield it—she might survive long enough to find out who sent the message, and why.
She hesitated in the shadows, drawing a shuddering breath, and strained to see if anyone stood behind the pub. The back door opened with a bang, and she jumped. Light spilled onto the muddy ground, and the bartender dropped a crate of empty glass bottles near the door before pulling the door shut, again throwing the alley into darkness.
Charlotte sighed in relief. In that brief instant of illumination, she’d not seen anyone else lurking there.
As she turned around, someone grabbed her from behind, strong fingers encircling her right wrist and squeezing painfully. Her scalpel dropped from suddenly numb fingers. His other hand gripped the back of her neck. He rushed her against a stone wall on the alley’s far side, and her head smacked so hard that stars clouded her vision.
She cried out in pain and dropped her medical bag, trying to fight free with her left hand. He pressed her harder into the wall until she thought her spine would crack. She flailed, trying to stomp on the assailant’s instep—anything to loosen his grasp—but he held firm and kept his foot just out of her reach.
“What do you want?” she managed. “Who are you? Who sent you?” She thrust her left elbow back, hoping to catch his ribs, but he quickly moved so her arm smashed awkwardly against her chest. She kicked backward, trying to hit his groin or his legs, but she was quickly entangled in her own skirts.
“You do not follow instructions well,” the man said quietly in her ear. He sounded American. “You were told to leave well enough alone.” The grip on the back of her neck tightened until she gasped in pain.
“Who—” she gritted through the pain, fearing he would crush her temple against the stone. “Who sent you?”
“You have family, Dr. Duvall. I’ve seen them. Sure would be a shame if they came to harm.”
Fear sliced through her at his words, followed quickly with fury. “Leave my family alone!”
“That depends on you.”
“Have you been following me from America?”
“Sent you a letter to stay put, but you’d already gone. There’s nothing for you here,” he continued in his low voice, as calm as if they were taking a stroll in the park. “Your father was old, but he stirred up a heap of mess before dying. Go back to New York, to your little apartment and your work at St. Anne’s clinic. Nobody else has to get hurt.”
He paused but didn’t release her.
Her breath came in pained, stunted gasps, and her head hurt beyond description.
“Do you understand?”
She managed a strangled, “Yes.” If he didn’t stop squeezing, he would break her wrist. She knew how many bones her wrist contained, and exactly which ones were suffering the most under his assault. Bones, tendons, muscles—she would be bruised and painfully swollen.
“No more questions.”
“F—fine.”
“I’m going to lean down, and you’re going to lean down with me. I’m going to pick up your fancy doctor knife. If you make any sudden moves, I will gut you with it. Do you understand?”
“Yes.” The tears that formed were a result of anger as much as pain. She slowly bent down with him, her head scraping against the wall as he allowed her very little movement. He picked up the scalpel, holding the edge to her neck as they both stood back up. She closed her eyes, angry that her assailant had the satisfaction of seeing her cry.
“I’m going to leave, and you’re going to stay right here against the wall and count to fifty. Then, you can go home to Bloomsbury and make arrangements to return to New York.”
She clenched her teeth together hard to keep from screaming at him. She wanted to whirl around and demand he tell her who had hired him to stop whatever it was her father had begun. If he thought she was going to trot back obediently to New York he didn’t know her at all. She longed to tell him so, but the press of the scalpel against her neck kept her quiet.
“Understand?” he snapped.
She gave a slight nod.
“There’s a good girl.”
Her nostrils flared, and she closed her eyes to keep from rolling them. True, she was terrified, but his condescension was more offensive than his threats.
He released her neck and backed away.
She forced herself to be still, placing her left hand on the wall and gripping the stone to anchor herself against spinning around to catch a glimpse of his face. She wouldn’t be able to unravel her father’s final message if the assailant killed her now. She didn’t doubt he would do it—he’d been eerily calm, as if he couldn’t have cared less if she lived or died.
She shook her right hand, wincing at the pain, and then cradled it against her chest. With her other hand, she felt the side of her face where blood trickled in a steady stream. She was dizzy and disoriented, and she felt a lump forming on her temple. She retrieved a handkerchief from her pocket with shaking fingers and held it to her head.
She counted to fifty as she’d been ordered to, then picked up her bag and slowly turned, half expecting to see a madman with a scalpel in the shadows.
Nobody was there. Voices still carried around the corner from the activity in the pub and beyond. No one had witnessed the attack, or if they had, they’d turned and headed the other direction. She sniffled and wiped her nose and eyes, and then walked slowly from the alley. She forced herself to hold her head up—she’d no doubt he was watching. He’d been watching before. He’d observed her closely enough when she approached the alley to know she’d placed the scalpel in her right hand.
Doing her best to ignore the pain in her wrist, in her neck, and in her head, she walked in as straight of a line as she could manage, wobbling and stumbling only a bit. A passerby laughed and told her it was early in the evening to be so far in her cups. She licked her dry lips and pressed toward the street where she saw two cabs, one of which was empty and starting to pull away.
“Wait!” she called, and the sound rang like an explosion in her head. Mercifully, the driver stopped and waited until she climbed in.
“Where to?” he asked and clucked to his horse.
“The Yard.” She sat back against the cold seat and closed her eyes.