never visiting a bookmaker’s or the tracks again. She was about to become a respectable, married woman after all, and if Charlie ever learned about her problem, he would simply faint from shock, then ask for his mother’s ring back.
Thank God she’d not gambled that away.
No, she was never even playing a round of cards again unless she wagered in buttons and thimbles…
Well, perhaps she’d put a few quid down on her favorite automaton at Ascot this year, but aside from that, no more betting.
With a huff of decisiveness, Aline slipped into Witwicky and Sons: Bookmakers , a shabby, unobtrusive business on the corner of Aldwych and Fleet Street, the doorbell jangling above her head.
Suspicious eyes fastened on her through a haze of tobacco smoke, Witwicky’s lunchtime regulars lounging in the cramped public area talking statistics and studying the charts posted at the back of the house. It was not exactly forbidden for women to come to such places, but neither was it the usual order of things. A bookmaker’s was one of the few establishments in the world where Aline was noticed.
Her heart plummeted as a hulking figure bounded off a stool and clanked in her direction. The Bull himself, Witwicky’s favorite henchman, and more automaton than man. She squinted through the smoke, noticing he looked even worse than usual. His nose appeared to have been recently broken – again – and he was missing an entire mechanical arm. He glared at her venomously from a pair of crude, goggle-like Black Market eyes.
Or at least she thought he was glaring. It was hard to tell, since he only had one eyebrow left.
He bellowed for Witwicky, who came barreling out of his office at the back of the house. Witwicky’s right arm was in a sling, and both his eyes were blackened. When he caught sight of her, his face drained of color, as if she were a ghost. Or Jack the Ripper.
“Wot’re ye doin’ ‘ere! Are ye wantin’ to get me bloomin’ ‘ead shot off?” Witwicky breathed, taking her by the arm and leading her into the shadows of one corner of the room. The Bull hovered menacingly over his boss’ shoulder.
Aline had no idea what had gotten into these men. The last time she had been here, they had been as oily smooth and full of themselves as a pair of snakes toying with a mouse.
“I came here to settle my debt,” Aline said, reaching into her reticule for her purse.
Witwicky gasped and stepped away, holding up his hands as if she were about to extract a gun. “I won’t be takin’ your money, Miss Snitch, so just turn that little rump of yers out the door and don’t be comin’ back.”
“What are you talking about? I am no … snitch! And I thought you rather wanted my money, since last time I was here, you made that point very clear.”
Witwicky’s eyes narrowed to slits. “Aye, after that ye sent yer friend from the Yard ‘ere to settle your debt for you,” he said, gesturing towards his broken arm, then at the Bull’s missing one.
Aline was thoroughly baffled, but deep down in her belly, an awful suspicion was unfurling. “I sent no one. Who came here?” she demanded.
“The Devil Inspector’s mutt. Wot’s ‘is name, you know, the muscle wot looks like a bloody battleship wif’ fists.”
“Matthews,” Aline murmured. Inspector Drexler’s cockney prizefighting lieutenant, with literal fists of steel. Aline had met the man on many occasions when she accompanied Romanov to Drexler’s offices. He’d always seemed so nice, despite his bulk …
“’E came in ‘ere, told me we hain’t to be doing business with you, little miss, for the duration. In no uncertain terms.”
“Bleedin broke me nose,” the Bull wailed. “Again.”
“Aye, and gave our Reg” – an inveterate gambler who rarely left the premises – “a facer that right popped ‘is eye out, just for bein’ nearby.”
Aline gazed at the two men and almost felt sorry for them. Almost. But it was more out of outrage at her own
Thank God she’d not gambled that away.
No, she was never even playing a round of cards again unless she wagered in buttons and thimbles…
Well, perhaps she’d put a few quid down on her favorite automaton at Ascot this year, but aside from that, no more betting.
With a huff of decisiveness, Aline slipped into Witwicky and Sons: Bookmakers , a shabby, unobtrusive business on the corner of Aldwych and Fleet Street, the doorbell jangling above her head.
Suspicious eyes fastened on her through a haze of tobacco smoke, Witwicky’s lunchtime regulars lounging in the cramped public area talking statistics and studying the charts posted at the back of the house. It was not exactly forbidden for women to come to such places, but neither was it the usual order of things. A bookmaker’s was one of the few establishments in the world where Aline was noticed.
Her heart plummeted as a hulking figure bounded off a stool and clanked in her direction. The Bull himself, Witwicky’s favorite henchman, and more automaton than man. She squinted through the smoke, noticing he looked even worse than usual. His nose appeared to have been recently broken – again – and he was missing an entire mechanical arm. He glared at her venomously from a pair of crude, goggle-like Black Market eyes.
Or at least she thought he was glaring. It was hard to tell, since he only had one eyebrow left.
He bellowed for Witwicky, who came barreling out of his office at the back of the house. Witwicky’s right arm was in a sling, and both his eyes were blackened. When he caught sight of her, his face drained of color, as if she were a ghost. Or Jack the Ripper.
“Wot’re ye doin’ ‘ere! Are ye wantin’ to get me bloomin’ ‘ead shot off?” Witwicky breathed, taking her by the arm and leading her into the shadows of one corner of the room. The Bull hovered menacingly over his boss’ shoulder.
Aline had no idea what had gotten into these men. The last time she had been here, they had been as oily smooth and full of themselves as a pair of snakes toying with a mouse.
“I came here to settle my debt,” Aline said, reaching into her reticule for her purse.
Witwicky gasped and stepped away, holding up his hands as if she were about to extract a gun. “I won’t be takin’ your money, Miss Snitch, so just turn that little rump of yers out the door and don’t be comin’ back.”
“What are you talking about? I am no … snitch! And I thought you rather wanted my money, since last time I was here, you made that point very clear.”
Witwicky’s eyes narrowed to slits. “Aye, after that ye sent yer friend from the Yard ‘ere to settle your debt for you,” he said, gesturing towards his broken arm, then at the Bull’s missing one.
Aline was thoroughly baffled, but deep down in her belly, an awful suspicion was unfurling. “I sent no one. Who came here?” she demanded.
“The Devil Inspector’s mutt. Wot’s ‘is name, you know, the muscle wot looks like a bloody battleship wif’ fists.”
“Matthews,” Aline murmured. Inspector Drexler’s cockney prizefighting lieutenant, with literal fists of steel. Aline had met the man on many occasions when she accompanied Romanov to Drexler’s offices. He’d always seemed so nice, despite his bulk …
“’E came in ‘ere, told me we hain’t to be doing business with you, little miss, for the duration. In no uncertain terms.”
“Bleedin broke me nose,” the Bull wailed. “Again.”
“Aye, and gave our Reg” – an inveterate gambler who rarely left the premises – “a facer that right popped ‘is eye out, just for bein’ nearby.”
Aline gazed at the two men and almost felt sorry for them. Almost. But it was more out of outrage at her own
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