And Then She Fell(106)
Henrietta didn’t fully understand the logistics, but Barnaby, Penelope, and Stokes had assured her that at least one observer, if not two, would have her in their sights at all times but would rotate constantly to limit the chance that the murderer would notice them.
The problem was he was choosing certain streets—those with very limited concealment and also limited in length—to pass through again and again; the shorter streets gave those following her very little time to see them go into the street, then get someone into position to watch her come out again and see where he led her next.
Twice, he started down a short, featureless lane, only to turn around halfway along and retrace their steps.
When, more than an hour after he’d met her at the rendezvous, he led her down the short length of Blenheim Street to Woodstock Street, paused at the corner to glance back, then turned left and led her into an unexpected, and largely invisible, little court, she had no idea if any of her protectors were still with her. And no way of checking.
He led her to a row of houses that were clearly all abandoned and empty, most likely due for demolition.
Despite her resolve, her earlier belligerence, her heart was thudding heavily, too rapidly, as she followed him, her would-be murderer, through an ancient wrought-iron gate and up an uneven path to a set of worn, cracked stone steps leading up to a narrow front door.
Would this dark, abandoned house be where her life ended?
The unexpected thought shook her; suddenly flustered, she bundled it from her mind.
Yet there was no denying her instinctive aversion to meekly following him like a lamb to the slaughter.
Pausing on the wide last step, the murderer drew a key from his pocket and unlocked the door. He pushed it wide, then he turned and looked at her, still standing on the path a yard behind him.
The streetlamp in the court was too distant to cast any light on his features, those visible between the low brim of his hat and the black silk scarf swathing his jaw. As in Hill Street, she simply couldn’t see enough of his face to form any real picture.
“Who are you?” The words fell from her lips without conscious thought as she stared, frowning, up at him.
She sensed his smile, heard the satisfaction in his voice as, with one last glance over the empty pavements, the deserted court, he said, “You’ll find out soon enough.”
Stepping back, he waved her in, a mocking courtesy. “If you will, Miss Cynster, walk into the hall and halt at the foot of the stairs.”
About to start forward, she halted. Eyeing the narrow, heavily shadowed hall, she asked, “Is James here?”
That and only that would get her over the threshold; only for James would she enter a murderer’s lair.
Again she sensed a certain gloating amusement as the murderer replied, “He is. He’s tied up, but he’s hale and whole. I intend taking you to him directly.”
There was something behind those last words that made her skin crawl, but she forced herself to nod and, raising her skirts, walked calmly up the steps, past him, and on into the darkness of the narrow front hall.
The house smelled dusty, faintly musty. As she halted at the foot of the stairs, unlit and unwelcoming, and looked upward, primal panic gripped her, a clawed hand closing about her throat, sharp nailed and choking.
She whirled. Looking back along the hall she saw her captor bending over a narrow hall table and lighting a small lantern. The familiar clop and rattle of a hackney reached her. The lantern lit, the murderer straightened, playing the lantern’s light over her so she couldn’t easily make him out.
Reaching back, he caught the doorknob and slowly closed the door.
Before he did, a hairsbreadth—a heartbeat—from breaking and running, Henrietta looked out of the door as the hackney she’d heard rolled slowly past.
Simon, on the box, looked directly at her.
She stood at the foot of the stairs, bathed in the lantern’s light, as the door shut.
The instant it did, she drew in a huge, shuddering breath, then she blinked, squinted, held up a hand to shield her eyes and turned her head aside as the murderer walked slowly closer. He’d been focused on her, but it appeared she hadn’t given their game away.
The sight of Simon had acted like a shot of the purest courage tipped directly into her veins. As the effect burned through her, she had to remind herself she couldn’t sneer at the coward before her—not yet.
He halted a good yard from her, then, with the lantern, gestured to the stairs. “Go up.”
Turning, she raised her skirts and started climbing; she couldn’t wait to find James and get this over with. The sooner she could see this man in Stokes’s hands and safely away from her and hers, the better.