An Unexpected Peril (Veronica Speedwell #6)(58)

He stepped onto the pavement and I flung the gate forward with all my might, the end post catching him squarely upon the chin and knocking him flat onto his back as his feet soared over his head.

Stoker was at my side in an instant. “I presume you had an excellent reason for doing that?” he asked mildly.

“He hit me in the jaw,” I said, tapping the spot on my face that I was quite certain would bloom with a bruise by morning.

“Well then,” Stoker replied, “you ought to have hit him harder.”

“He is unconscious,” I pointed out. “I was not trying to kill him.” Stoker lit a series of vestas to illuminate the scene as I bent swiftly to the villain’s recumbent form and searched his pockets. The notebook was in the second and I handed it to Stoker for safekeeping. I might have proved myself a match for the fellow, but I had little doubt he would think twice before attacking Stoker.

“Who do you think it is?” Stoker asked as he buttoned the notebook securely into his pocket. His vesta struggled against the chill wind, giving only a small pool of light, and the miscreant’s face was still concealed by his scarf and cap.

I shrugged. “It has all been too confusing to venture a guess. Maximilian perhaps?”

Just then the villain groaned and moved his head. “What in the name of Sam Hill did you do that for?” he demanded.

He sat up, his scarf falling away, but even if I had not glimpsed the features, I would have known him from the American idiom. “Douglas Norton!” I cried.





CHAPTER





16


Douglas Norton gave another groan and dropped his head into his hands. “It feels like my head is about to fall off,” he complained as he raised his face to Stoker. “What did you hit me with?”

“I did not hit you at all, my good fellow,” Stoker replied. “That is the lady’s handiwork.”

Norton gave a soundless whistle. “That was as hard a hit as any I’ve taken,” he said with something that might have been respect.

“Well, you did hit me first,” I pointed out.

He had the grace to look embarrassed. “You surprised me. And I am not exactly experienced at breaking and entering.”

“Good,” Stoker said, hauling him to his feet. “Then you will not mind coming with us for a little conversation on the matter.” With one hand on Norton’s collar and the other on his belt, he propelled the fellow forward and around the corner—in the direction whence he had come as I had been busily flinging myself down a drainpipe. Stoker stopped next to a green cabman’s shelter, one of the tidy little chalets that had been built for the comfort and security of the city’s drivers to keep them from cold and wind and the lure of drink whilst they waited for fares. The chimney smoked gently and there was a convivial sound of scraping cutlery and manly conversation within. Gas lanterns hung outside over window boxes that must have bloomed with good cheer in warmer months. Now they were empty and forlorn, but the shelter provided a little respite from the wind and the lanterns illuminated our strange party.

“We cannot take him in there,” I protested. “The shelters are for cabmen only. They are quite strict upon the matter.”

“I know,” Stoker said, pushing Norton up against the wall of the shelter. The thump of Norton’s body hitting the wall must have echoed inside, for the door opened and a round, ruddy face wreathed in ginger whiskers peered out.

“Back again, are you, Mr. Stoker?”

“I am, Tom. I need a few minutes’ private conversation with the gentleman, you don’t mind?”

The fellow flapped a meaty hand. “Lord love you, no. If you need a hand, I’ll bring the lads, I will. Otherwise I shall leave you to get on with it.” He gave a nod and withdrew into the snug warmth of the cab shelter, taking with him the aroma of bacon and new bread and horse.

Stoker turned to Norton, who had been furtively examining his pockets.

“You took it, didn’t you?” Norton’s expression was a mask of fury.

“Of course we did,” I told him. “And there is no purpose in trying to get it back. We will only strike you again.”

He held up his hands as if to ward us off. “I think we’ve had enough fisticuffs for one night. But what do you want with Alice’s journal?”

“What do you want with it?” I countered.

“If you know who I am, you will know what I want with it,” he said flatly.

“Her professional notes,” Stoker guessed. “Her routes up and down the most challenging climbs in the world. All the secrets of one of the most accomplished alpinists ever to set foot on a mountain.”

Norton’s expression struggled between anger and misery. “You’ve no idea what it’s like, trying to make a name for yourself as a climber these days. You’ve either got to have family money or a rich sponsor to pay the way, and those are scarce as hen’s teeth.”

“Alice Baker-Greene managed to secure a few,” I reminded him.

“She did,” he said with real bitterness. “She had only to smile at a camera and they came flocking to her. It took me two years to find a sponsor of my own—a Colorado miner who had struck it rich and liked to spread his money around. He gave me a partial share for a season and said he would give me enough for the Karakorum if I distinguished myself. Distinguished! That’s a laugh.”