Twenty-Eight

Archer’s heart was in his throat, and his skin was cold with panic. He stumbled from the shop and onto the street, his eyes flashing to the man in the cloak. He was running too and towards the same place, his knife drawn.

Archer was heading him off. ‘Hold!’ he yelled and aimed a revolver.

‘Archer!’

The cry did not come from Silas. It came from the man in the cloak and Archer recognised it immediately. He reached the corner at the same time as Thomas.

‘What are you doing here?’ Archer was furious. He’d allowed himself to be distracted, and by his footman of all people. He pushed Thomas away and, running into the alley, saw the flaps of a black coat flipping into a doorway.

‘Archer, wait!’

Thomas was on his heels, his lantern throwing strips of light onto the walls as they closed in. The cobbles glistened in the damp air, slippery underfoot.

‘It’s not your brother.’ Thomas had caught up with him.

He heard the clank of a metal door before his words sank in, and they were at the entrance before the full impactions hit him.

‘The message came,’ Thomas said, wrestling with the door. ‘Your brother hasn’t left the institution in months. This is not him.’

There was no time to think. Thomas wrenched open the door, and they piled into a machine room where winches and chains were lit by vague streetlight through high windows. The same swish of black in the corner of his eye, this time mounting an iron stairway to the floor above.

A yell. Silas. Archer was across the room and on the steps with Thomas right behind him. He tightened the grip on his revolver.

‘Hold!’ He yelled. ‘Stay where you are.’

The stairs opened into a storeroom as high as it was long. It housed rows of black shapes, the smell of straw, and dust clouded the air. Through it, he saw a lamp, dancing madly as Silas struggled. He was still alive. Why hadn’t the Ripper struck? Why was he dragging him upwards?

Another iron stairway, another floor and Archer closed the gap. As long as the Ripper was running, Silas was safe. His attacker hauled him to the next storey, a hand clasped over Silas’ face, dragging the youth backwards by his head. Silas squirmed and tried to force the hand away, but he was off balance, helpless.

‘I said hold!’ Archer let off a shot, and the explosion shook the warehouse before the echo scurried from danger.

He dropped to his knees for a steadier aim, but Thomas ran into his line of sight. It didn’t matter. He had no clear shot. He was up and running, catching Thomas on the stairs where he took his arm, halted him and put himself in front. Aiming his revolver ahead and up, he slowed his pace. The footsteps overhead had stopped.

‘Whoever you are,’ he called. ‘I am armed, and I know how to shoot.’

He reached the top to discover a void edged by catwalks, with one arm bridging from the stairs to the outer wall across the floor thirty feet below. The Ripper had taken that path, and the bridge led nowhere except through an arch and over the river to a gantry.

The Ripper was trapped, but so was Silas. His attacker stood behind him, the tip of a long knife pressed not into the metal collar as Archer had imagined, but with the blade upwards, under his chin. The killer was obscured by his victim who, seeing there was nothing he could do, calmed his struggles and handed his fate to the viscount.

‘Stay behind me,’ Archer whispered to Thomas. He refocused on Silas. ‘You’re safe,’ he said. His voice was unwavering despite his breathlessness, and he was in command. ‘Let the man go.’ More commanding still and clearer, he said, ‘Take away the knife and let him go.’

Silas was dragged back further, far out over the void.

‘Hold!’

Archer was ignored, and the killer ducked around a hanging hook and chain. Footsteps sounded on the metalwork, but Archer ignored them and stepped onto the catwalk, following cautiously. He had a mad idea that if he ran at him, the Ripper would panic and stumble, but then the knife might miss Silas’ armour and slice upwards, severing above his Adam’s apple. If he could get the Ripper to stand still and reveal himself, he would risk taking a shot. He had been a marksman in the navy, but nowhere near the best. He saw no other option until another quick flick of a coat over to his right caught his attention.

His eyes darted, saw what Thomas was doing, and were back on Silas in a flash. The killer had also been distracted and seemed to realise that he had nowhere else to go except onto the crane.

‘You’re trapped,’ the viscount said. ‘Set the man free and turn yourself in.’ It was a pointless suggestion he knew, but he persisted, taking tentative steps forward. ‘I have money and authority. I will see you are well treated.’ He would do nothing of the kind, but anything was worth trying.

Again, he was ignored. The Ripper was restless now, swinging Silas towards the railing and bending him over as he looked below, one side and then the other. Archer fought nausea each time he thought Silas was going to be thrown over, but still, there was no clear shot.

‘Silas,’ Archer called. ‘Silas look at me.’

Archer tipped his head towards Thomas. Silas raised a thumb, but the Ripper dragged him towards the arch.

‘Hold, man!’ Archer shouted. ‘The police are outside.’

It did the trick. The Ripper stopped, uncertain what to do but he didn’t have to think for long.

Thomas, on the side catwalk, gave an almighty yell and swung an iron hook from its housing. It arced down and up, the swing giving it enough momentum for the chain to crash into the ironwork and the hook to rise and strike the other side before it fell back. The impact, directly beneath the killer’s legs, caught him off balance and he swayed, instinctively reaching out for the rail and leaving Silas free to throw himself forward. His lantern fell from his hand and tumbled over the edge.

Archer took his shot. The crack was deafening, but through it, he heard a scream of pain.

The lantern hit the floor below and burst into streams of burning oil which caught the straw as the Ripper turned and staggered through the arch.

Archer ran to Silas.

‘Are you alright?’

‘Where the fuck did he come from?’

‘Tom! Take Silas and get out.’ Archer was aware of the flames licking the floor below, but he ran on.

The catwalk led to an open platform which became an unguarded bridge to the crane cabin. Beyond, a fixed and narrowing iron beam reached far over the swirl of black that was the river below.

‘There’s nowhere to go,’ Archer said. The killer was on the catwalk, arms out for balance. ‘Turn yourself in.’

The man clutched his shoulder, his back to Archer. He was bent in pain, staggering.

‘Come back, or I’ll shoot.’

A laugh rang out. One syllable, one short burst of derision, and the killer turned to face him.

‘I’m not afraid of death,’ he snarled and lifted his head.

‘Quill?’

For the first time since they had entered the warehouse, the Ripper had the advantage. He had shocked Archer into immobility and knew it. Before the viscount could say or do anything else, Quill was coming at him, his knife raised, his face distorted and hate dancing in his manic eyes.

Archer fired, but Quill had already knocked his arm. The two landed on the platform, and the gun skidded over the edge into the river. They had been trained in the same places, they had served on the same ship, they knew each other’s tactics, but Archer no longer knew his friend.

Then again, Quill didn’t know that Archer had another revolver, and he frantically tried to reach his pocket with one hand while keeping the knife from his throat with the other.

‘They’re all whores,’ Quill spat in his ear. ‘Those boys who tease and tell. Those rats who steal your heart and gift it elsewhere. They’re never ours for long. Your Harrington. Crispin’s Harrington. Never mine. Your helpful boy-whore. Everyone else’s Irish boy, not mine.’

The man’s weight kept Archer from reaching his gun, and the pressure on his arm was too great to press back. He felt the cold of steel on his throat and fire on his back.

‘You’re insane,’ Quill,’ he gasped.

He jabbed with his knees, and the blow released Quill for enough time for Archer to reach his pocket, but the blade pressed harder on his flesh.

‘You don’t know insane until you’ve felt the insides of a street whore slip through your fingers. Seen their hell-blood drain from them…’

It was sickening, and Archer fought against the image as hard as he fought against the Ripper.

‘I waited in the fire,’ Quill rambled. ‘Watched you take him. Heard you together. Kept your secret.’

The knife burned Archer’s skin. He tried to turn his head, but every part of his neck was exposed.

‘Didn’t think, did you?’ Quill’s face was an inch away, and his opium-fuelled breath stank as Archer breathed it. ‘Didn’t think of me? Only thought of your deceiving, denying little whore of a Harrington.’

‘Benji…’

He forced his hand into his pocket, but Quill pressed harder, trapping it there.

‘What does it fucking matter?’ Quill gripped Archer’s coat, pushed the knife and drew blood. ‘They bleed you. They lure you. They leave you.’ His deranged face twisted into an agonised grin of triumph. ‘Got you, at last, Clearwater. There’s only one way out for the likes of us.’

Quill rolled towards the drop, dragging Archer with him. One moment there was hard iron beneath them, and the next there was nothing.

The last thing Archer saw were flames roaring from exploding windows and through the roar, he heard his name called from above as if by a welcoming angel.

Thomas knew the workings of a hay barn. The swing of the bail-chain caused enough of a distraction and, once he had recovered from the shock of the gunshot, he thought they had won. He was wrong. Archer and the Ripper disappeared through the arch, and Silas lay prone on the catwalk. Thomas edged around the drop with his back to the wall until he came to the central bridge. He ran to Silas who was crawling to his hands and knees, groaning. Thomas was with him in a flash and helped him to his feet.

‘You’re cut,’ he said touching Silas’ chin.

‘Forget it.’ Silas pushed him away, his first priority was Archer.

‘We have to get out,’ Thomas said, pulling him back.

Silas struggled and rounded on him, angry. ‘Get off me.’

Thomas held him tighter. ‘We have to get out.’ It was easy to manoeuvre Silas. He was light, but Thomas kept a firm hold of him as he thrust him towards the edge, showing him the fire spreading quickly below.

Silas wriggled free, but didn’t run. He looked at Thomas, unclipping the metal brace from his neck and throwing it. ‘What’s more important to you, Tom?’ he asked.

Thomas took no time with a decision. ‘Come on.’

They ran onto the platform to be met by a wet breeze and cooler air. Below, a window blew out, and thick smoke pumped through. Thomas’ eyes streamed, and he squinted to see the scene. Archer and the killer were rolling on the metalwork dangerously near the edge. Silas choked and dropped to his knees. Together, they crawled into the smoke.

Thomas had his hand on the killer’s cloak when the men rolled, and suddenly he was holding empty air.

Silas screamed Archer’s name as he tumbled into the curling smoke to be swallowed by flames and water.

Thomas’ blood froze, and his legs refused to move, but he had to get Silas to safety. Coughing and with no clue where to go, he pulled Silas by the shoulders back towards the building. Below, the fire sucked in the night air and blasted it out through the arch. Thomas’ skin began to burn. Their only way out was barred.

Silas had seen it and yanked Thomas’ arm, pointing. He followed the younger man across the platform where the smoke was thinner, and his breathing came more easily. That was until he saw that the arm they had to traverse was no more than three feet wide and had no handholds. The crane cabin seemed a long way out, but there was nothing behind them except a fiery death.

‘Button your coat,’ Thomas ordered.

‘Why?’

‘Just do it.’

Silas did as he was told and when it was safely fastened, Thomas took a firm grip of his collar. If Silas slipped, he might be able to stop him falling. There was no time to think further. The sound of shattering glass and roaring flame was joined by the grinding of metal as it buckled.

‘Go!’

Silas inched onto the beam. He tried to look down to where Archer had fallen, but Thomas directed him with his collar as if he was leading a badly-behaved puppy. He needed to keep Silas calm and in command of his senses. He spoke words of encouragement, not daring to look at his feet. They shuffled to the cabin and a second platform that offered no more safety.

‘Now what?’

The building behind them was engulfed, and far off he heard alarm bells. The air was clearer, and they breathed fog, not smoke. Black smudges ran from their noses, and their eyes streamed.

‘Into the cabin and out the other side.’ Thomas had an idea.

The cramped space only allowed one of them to pass through at a time, but the brief seconds that Thomas spent scooting over the seat and negotiating the levers gave him a moment of respite from the stench and rage of the fire. Once through, they were faced with an even greater challenge.

The only way forward was further out across the river to where the beam narrowed to its chain pully.

‘I hope you know what you’re doing, Tommy’, Silas shouted. ‘I don’t fancy diving.’

‘Can you climb a rope?’ Thomas had to shout through the wind as it was sucked towards the wharf.

With his back to the cabin, Thomas inched to the edge of the platform and lowered himself to the floor. He had hoped to find a ladder of some kind, or other manufactured access for the crane driver, but there was only a rope. It was knotted but hung directly down to the brick pillar that supported the crane. They’d be safer jumping into the water, but if the fall didn’t break their backs, or knock them unconscious, they would drown in the eddies and currents. At least a fall onto bricks would be a quicker death.

‘You’re fucking joking, mate,’ Silas bellowed. He crouched beside Thomas and looked over the edge, his face white.

‘One knot at a time,’ Thomas said. ‘Hand under fist, wrap your feet, and don’t look down.’