Someone to Watch Over Me (Bow Street Runners #1)(72)

Grant ignored the Runner's excitement and questioned the constable grimly. "How long ago did it happen?"

"It appears to be less than ten minutes, sir."

Flagstad interrupted eagerly. "I'll go directly to Bow Street and await them. No doubt Keyes will have her there momentarily."

"You do that," Grant said, and took off at a dead run toward Russell.

The betting shop was easy to locate. A cluster of constables had gathered outside the basement steps, while a squatty, imperious figure stood beneath the questionable shelter of a tattered umbrella and uttered loud complaints to all and sundry. The bookmaker wore heavy leather pouches that made him instantly identifiable.

The constables straightened and backed away a step en masse as Grant reached them. They looked at him strangely--no doubt he presented an odd appearance with his hair plastered over his skull, his face stiff and bloodless beneath the falling rain, and his lips drawn back from his teeth in a sort of frozen snarl he couldn't erase.

The bookmaker squinted at him speculatively. "Bloody big bastard, you are," he commented. "You must be Morgan. She was asking for ye, the wench that came in my place an' started the 'ole bloody rucktion."

"Tell Mr. Morgan what happened," one of the constables urged.

"The Runner came in my shop for 'er, an' she wouldn't go wiv 'im. The addlepate said 'e was going to kill 'er." "And then there was a fight," the constable prompted.

"Aye," the bookmaker said sourly. "One ow my customers tried to claim the wench, an' the Runner knocked the piss out ow my customer, 'e did." He spat in contempt at the thought of the departed runner. "Bloody Robin Redbreast, trying to ruin a man's honest business!"

Grant experienced an excruciating mingling of panic and pain that rose higher and higher until he felt hot pressure in the center of his head.

"What direction did they go in?" he heard himself ask hoarsely.

The question produced a sudden sly smile that stretched from one curling sideburn to the other. "I may know," the bookmaker said diffidently, "or I may not."

One of the constables seized him impatiently, giving him a brief shake that elicited an angry squawk. "Rough me again," the bookmaker threatened, "an' I won't tell ye where they went! 'Ow'd ye like to put the wench to bed wiv a shovel?"

"What the hell do you want?" Grant asked softly, staring at the bookmaker with a savage intensity that seemed to rattle him.

The bookmaker blinked uneasily. "I want ye stinkin' Redbreasts to keep yer arses out o' my lister from now on!"

"Done."

"But, Mr. Morgan..." the constable said, protesting the hastily struck bargain. His voice trailed away meekly as Grant's murderous gaze swerved to him for one chilling instant.

The bookmaker regarded Grant suspiciously. "'Ow do I know ye'll keep yer word?"

"You don't," Grant replied, his voice rising to a thunderous pitch that rivaled that of the storm outside. "But you know for certain that I'll kill you in the next ten seconds if you don't tell mewhere the hell they went!"

"Awright," the bookmaker said, and began to call for someone named Willie. Instantly a small, skinny lad of eleven or twelve appeared, dressed in ragged clothes that were far too big for him, and a cap that nearly engulfed his small, stubby head. "Me bookie's runner," the bookmaker said with pride. "I sent 'im to follow the bastard when 'e took the wench."

"They went to an' old building not far from here," the boy said breathlessly. "I'll show ye, Mr. Morgan, sir." He began to scamper along the street at once, looking over one shoulder to see if Grant would follow. Grant was at his heels at once. "I know 'xactly where 'tis, sir," the boy cried, and quickened his pace to a run.

The building, or rather the remains of one, stood like a ragged sentinel on the corner, its walls perforated with yawning holes and jagged slivers of glass. "There," Willie cried, stopping well short of the entrance, staring at it mistrustfully. "That's where they went. But I wouldn't go inside, sir...'Tisn't a sound stick o' wood in the 'ole place."

Grant barely heard him as he stepped across the threshold. The factory groaned and creaked around him, as if the entire structure would collapse any second. Rain trickled from the gaps in the walls and roof, its clean scent doing little to freshen the rank atmosphere. There were no sounds of voices, no signs of a struggle, and it seemed impossible that Victoria was here. For a moment Grant wondered if the boy had been mistaken in bringing him here, or if he had been directed by the bookmaker to play a trick on him. If this was the wrong place, it was a waste of precious time. However, a pattern of scuffs and arcs on the floor drew his attention, and his gaze shot to the stairs. There was freshly splintered wood on the third and fourth steps, and more higher up. Someone had just been here.

The sight was a visceral shock. All at once Grant found himself hurtling up the stairs, ignoring the wood cracking beneath his weight, scrambling upward with hands and feet. He had never known real desperation until now, had never felt it racing like hot oil through his veins until every inch of his skin seemed to burn. He had to reach Victoria before it was too late...and if it was...he knew that he could not live in a world without her.