Page 84 of An Artful Dodge
He was right, of course. I’d have said the same thing to him if our positions were reversed and Emma was the one being held. Still, I was nearly drowning in worry and impatience.
“What if we can’t do it tomorrow, either?” I asked, but answered before he could: “I know. It means I go through with Maggie’s plan, including a constable’s murder. And Maggie will make sure I hang for some part of it, to save the trouble and risk of killing me herself.”
James stilled. “You still think she wants you dead?”
“How can she not?” I asked. “With what I know? I could hold it over her head forever. She won’t let that happen.”
James closed the deck and set down the cards. “I won’t let Maggie hurt you, or Sarah.” He came around the table and cupped my face in his hands, his face sober. “I swear to you, Kit. We will get you out of this whole and alive. And Sarah, too.” His eyes fixed on mine, his words came fast. “Maggie’s damned clever, and she’s plotted it well, but she’s not cleverer than all of us together. Remember, Maggie thinks you’re going along with it. I’m not saying she’ll let her guard down. But she’s not looking for you to spike her dodge. Sarah’s alive, and we’ll do this tomorrow night. Stay the course, love.” He rested his forehead against mine before drawing back. “All right?”
“I’m afraid,” I said, my voice breaking. Tears burned, and I blinked them back. “What if I fail?”
“Ah.” His face softened, and he pulled me against his chest, pressing his lips to the crown of my head while my fists clenched the back of his shirt. “You’ve never failed her, Kit. You kept her alive and safe for years after your mum died, against odds no better than these. Remember that.”
Not wanting to tip Maggie to anything out of the ordinary, I planned to remain around Elephant and Castle for all of Saturday. Feigning a quarrel, Mary had left our room on Thursday, so I had it to myself, which was for the best, as I struggled to sleep.
In the early morning, I looked over my choice of black trousers, dark woolen sweater, and coat, and placed them back under my mattress. Then I practiced at Mr. Ardle’s shop for several hours, slipping the necessary tools into my pocket, and took an early supper at the Elephant and Castle, keeping an anxious eye on the darkening sky. There were clouds, but no rain.
At nine o’clock, I turned out the light in my room; at ten, I donned my borrowed clothes, picked up my tools, and slipped out of my room. By a circuitous route, I made my way across the river, and at half past eleven, I arrived at James’s rooms. Though my dark brown hair was tightly pinned, he gave me a black cap to cover it.
Amelia was there, as was Art. He picked up an unlikely looking sack that clinked as he angled the rope strap over his shoulder and across his chest. I handed him my bound parcel of tools to put inside.
Amelia pulled me close, muttering in my ear, “I’m sorry.”
I drew back. “Don’t, Amelia. She did this, not you. And we’d never have this plan without your map and Art.”
“Come to me afterward.” She looked me hard in the eyes. “Keep your wits about you, and you’ll be all right.”
At midnight, James, Art, and I departed.
The Thames was a few hours into an ebb tide, with its lowest point three hours away. James was timing our arrival at the tunnels for two o’clock, coming out at four. We didn’t want to be fighting the Thames more than we had to.
Above, the clouds had peeled back to the margins, leaving the moon a yellow yolk above the rooftops. We stole west along Upper Thames Road, with its long shallow puddles, the air holding the musty smell of damp stone and earth from the previous rains. Past Queenhithe Dock, we cut down an alley to Maidstone Wharf, where a wooden boathouse stood. An old padlock linked two ends of a chain around the doors; Art had it undone in under a minute, and I let out my breath. I trusted Amelia’s judgment, but still, Art’s ease at this first obstacle reassured me.
The inside smelled of rotting wood and trapped sewage. Together we lifted the small boat off the pegs, flipped it, and dropped it into the water carefully so it didn’t slap or overturn. Art climbed in and folded himself into a small shape, drawing his knees to his chin. I followed, and James gave me the oars to hold until he pushed us away from the piling. Despite the late hour, half a dozen boats and ships were within sight. The Thames was never empty.
James took the oars back, dropped them into the metal oarlocks, and settled in with his back to me, rowing us away from shore and through the inky water toward our landmark, Blackfriars Bridge, the gaps between the carved posts of the guardrail showing like Belgian lace in the moonlight.
Under the bridge we went, James’s steady stroke bringing us near the opening where the Fleet poured into the Thames. The bells of a nearby church chimed two, the sound a doleful echo. Art lit the lantern, keeping it dim, as the boat slid toward the dark semicircle of the tunnel above the water. Though it was unnecessary, I instinctively ducked going inside. The Fleet was still deep and moving quickly, with fits and starts, so it was hard work rowing upstream, and James had sweat on his brow by the time we reached the third tunnel, the one that led to Simonson’s.
“I’m turning,” he warned us. I tightened my grip on the thwart, and an agile maneuvering of oars pivoted the boat into a smaller waterway. Immediately the rushing noise subsided, and the boat’s hull scraped against the side of the tunnel. “Go on, get out,” James said. “It should be a foot deep at most.”
The boat rocked as Art and I shifted our weight. I clambered out first, awkwardly, the cold water reaching just below my knee, and Art climbed out after me. But as James stepped out, a sudden rush of water from the main river flung the boat into the wall—with James’s leg caught between the two. He managed to avoid dropping the lamp, which would have cast us all into utter darkness, but his shoulder met the stone with a thunk.
“Merde,” burst from him in a hoarse whisper.
I seized the lamp from his hand as Art sprang forward to help James get out from behind the boat. James hopped, and it was clear he could put no weight on the leg.
James let out a soft groan and lifted his foot into the boat to roll his trousers. Even before he reached the place where the boat had struck him, I could see the blood. The metal gunwale had cut the skin, a three-inch gash straight across.
“Keep i’ up. The water’s fe’id and full o’ poisons,” Art said as he reached into his bag. He withdrew a narrow roll of silk fabric and wrapped James’s leg half a dozen times, so deftly I wondered if he was a surgeon on top of everything else. “Likely the bone’s cracked,” Art said. “This’ll stanch the bleedin’, but we should get ou’ of here.”
“No,” James barked. “I’ll stay here with the boat. You go. You know everything you need.”
“James,” I said.
He was shaking his head at me. “I’d agree with you if we had another night, but we don’t.”
I swallowed down my aching regret as I watched Art bending his head to bite a small rip in the cloth’s end, then tearing it lengthwise, so he could wrap the split bandage opposite ways and tie a knot. “Sit down and stay still, wi’ your leg up,” Art said.
