Page 46 of Courier of Death
At Leicester Square, carriage traffic moved in spasms. Gas jets within the lamps surrounding the park square reflected off wet pavement and glistening cab roofs. Once residential, the square was now populated with shops, hotels, and entertainment, including a few museums and theatres. When Jasper came upon Number 7 Lisle Street, north off the square, he felt an itch of interest. The etched windows read Seale and Company Bank. Jasper tried the door, but it was after hours. The place was closed for the night.
He stared at the exterior a few more moments, considering why Niles Foster had the address for this bank in his pocket. How long ago had he stuffed it there? If it had been his ownbank, why write down the address as if he might forget it? He might have been running an errand for Sir Elliot…but the MP had been clear that they did not associate outside chambers. A banking errand seemed personal.
The spitting rain regained some of its strength, and Jasper turned back toward St. James’s Square. There was nothing more he could do with the bank lead that night. Exhaustion pulled him forward, as did the promise of warm, dry clothes, a liberal pour of whisky, and whatever Mrs. Zhao had created in the kitchen for his supper. He felt spoiled at times. She cared for him as if he was family, and he did not believe that was merely because she was paid to do so.
The first wrong thing he noticed as he approached the house on Charles Street was the darkened upstairs windows. At this time of night, the brackets and lamps in the study should have been lit. He’d never arrived home to find that room, or his own bedroom, unprepared. Jasper held still on the pavement an extra moment, then went to the front door. He used his key to enter, but as he did, he felt a chilly absence. The gasolier overhead was lit, but there were no sounds of approaching footfalls. Mrs. Zhao’s ears could detect the click of the front door lock from the kitchen. She should have been here by now to greet him, as was her custom.
He pocketed his key, his concern mounting. She was an older woman but not in ill health. That wasn’t to say she was invincible.
“Mrs. Zhao?” he called into the quiet. No answer came.
He started for the kitchen but pulled up short of reaching for the knob. Light reached under the base of the door, fanning out over the wooden boards and the tips of his boots. A prickle of premonition lifted the small hairs along his arms and the back of his neck. Jasper reached for his Webley revolver, smoothlydrawing it from the leather holster. Pushing open the door, he entered in a swift lunge, his revolver raised.
In a chair directly in front of him, Mrs. Zhao sat bound and gagged. Her muffled cry of warning came in tandem with the shove of a body slamming into his back, taking him to the floor. Jasper landed hard on his side. A foot connected with his wrist, dislodging the Webley from his grip. A sharp kick to his temple, and pain exploded in his head, wiping out his vision. The blows continued against his ribs as more boots assailed him from all sides. The unrelenting scream coming through Mrs. Zhao’s gag paired with the grunts of the men standing over him, as they repeatedly kicked his prone body.
And then, the attack ceased. He heaved for breath, his ribs searing as a man’s grating hiss burrowed into his ear: “Quit asking about the Angels.”
It was all he heard before another strike to the face brought an impenetrable cloak of darkness.
The dabbing of a cloth against his cheek stung. It pulled him from an endless, spinning abyss of nausea and pain. Fragments of a fever dream lingered in his head. Mrs. Zhao’s whimpering cries. A cold stretch of darkness. Leo’s strained voice, fraught with worry, as she called to him through ever-shifting shadows.
Jasper opened his eyes. Or rather,eye. The right one refused to budge.
“Leo.” Her name clawed along his dry throat. When he tried to move, every muscle, every joint and rib seized in pain.
“No, don’t move, Jasper. Please.”
Through his foggy vision, he saw her, perched over him. He might have thought he was dreaming if not for the bloodstained cloth in her hand.Hisblood.Christ.
The men in his kitchen. The attack.
“Mrs. Zhao.” He grimaced as he tried to lift himself up from… a sofa? He was on a sofa. In the front sitting room of his house on Charles Street, a room that usually collected dust.
“She’s perfectly fine, I promise.” Leo gently pressed her hands against his shoulders to try and keep him down. At the news, Jasper released his tightened muscles. He fell backward against the cushions, and a deep throb pulsed through his body. It was somehow both agonizing and pleasant.
“They didn’t harm her?” Jasper asked, his swollen bottom lip tugging painfully. It seemed to have its own heartbeat.
“No, they only frightened her,” Leo answered. She was backlit by the dim gas jet of a wall bracket. “They cut the rope from her wrists before leaving, so she came to Spring Street for my uncle. He’d already left, but I was still there. I’ve sent for him. He should be here any moment.”
Jasper closed his eye, grateful Mrs. Zhao hadn’t been hurt. They could have killed her. The Spitalfields Angels. Damn it.He took shallow breaths, his ribs complaining with each one.
“Who did this to you?” Leo asked, her damp cloth dabbing at his lip again. He winced and lifted his arm to stop her. Miraculously, his arm wasn’t broken. He recalled a kick that had felt as if it should have splintered the bone below his shoulder in two. Jasper stilled her hand.
“That hurts,” he said.
“Because you’ve been badly beaten,” she replied. “Mrs. Zhao said there were four men. They caught you by surprise and piled on.”
Only four?“It felt like a dozen.”
A swift knocking came, and Leo jumped from the edge of the sofa.
“Is he awake?” Claude appeared, a leather bag in hand as he came to stand over him.
“Were you at Duke Street?” Jasper asked. If the Angels had come here so soon after his and Leo’s visit to Holloway, they may have also gone to Leo’s house.
“Yes,” Claude answered.
“Everything was fine there?”
