time.
Tuesday, 16 October, 7 p.m.
Along the border of Soho and Bloomsbury
He didn’t hear it coming.
One moment, James was walking home from his offices in Great George Street, enjoying the brief respite from rain and thinking about what Mary might be doing. The next moment, the ground rose up to meet him. His hands failed to break his fall and he slammed, with crushing force, into the foul, pebbly soil of a narrow alleyway. He kept his head up and thus managed to avoid smashing his face, but the impact was such that all he could do, for several long seconds, was try to breathe. What had happened? What was wrong with his arms? Why could he not move?
“Where’s your wallet?” snarled a voice in his ear.
Light dawned. “Breast pocket,” he said, and was relieved to find his tongue and teeth still intact.
His right shoulder was pinned to the ground – he guessed it was the thief’s knee – and an unknown hand fumbled to extract the billfold from his suit. James moved his legs experimentally and the voice hissed, “Keep still, or I’ll slit your throat.” The threat was accompanied by the flash of a long metal blade.
The same clumsy hand began to pat down his coat pockets. James’s arms were still pinioned behind him and he wondered what the thief would do next. Few thieves killed their marks; it only slowed their escape. And this one had the advantage of coming from behind so that James couldn’t identify him. However, logic might not be a street thief’s forte. How could James possibly presume that his life was worth anything at all to the man kneeling on his back? He could only wait. This ordeal would end, one way or another, in a minute or two.
In fact, it was quicker than that. An instant later, he heard the clatter of a wooden rattle. The thief stiffened, cursed, and the weight on James’s back suddenly lifted. There was a slight scrabbling sound, and footsteps skittered away down the alley. A moment later, heavier, slightly slower footsteps approached, slipping and crunching their way down the alley. “Sir! Can you speak, sir?”
He groaned and tried to roll over.
“Don’t move, sir! Keep still until I can see what damage that dastard has done.”
James ignored this advice and rolled onto his side, then heaved himself to a seated position. “It’s all right, Constable. Mainly scrapes and bruises, I suspect.”
The police constable frowned anxiously. “Well, I’m glad to hear it, sir. That was a nasty great knife he was carrying.”
“All’s well that ends well, isn’t that so?” James tried to stand and groaned. “I think this overcoat, however, is done for.”
The constable offered him a hand up. As James stood, the faint jingling of his pockets made them both pause. “You were quick, Constable. I still have my keys and coins and pocket watch.” This last would be cracked or broken from the impact, but James was glad to have it, nevertheless. It had been his father’s. He glanced around the alleyway. “But I don’t see my drawings.”
“Drawings, sir?”
“A roll of architectural plans. In a cardboard tube.”
The constable searched the alley, quickly and carefully. “Not here, sir. You certain you had them, until that cove tackled you?”
“Under my arm.”
The constable pursed his lips. “It’s a funny thing to take, that. I’ve never known a thief to take papers and leave a watch.”
“He may have lost his wits when he heard your rattle.” Or perhaps he’d wanted the drawings all along.
“I don’t suppose you saw his face at all, sir?”
“Afraid not. I shouldn’t think there’s much use in filing a report, Constable. All I know is that it was a man with a knife.”
The constable was reluctant to let him go, but short of arresting the victim, there was nothing he could do. “Shall I find you a cab, sir?”
James looked down ruefully. “I doubt a hansom would have me, in this condition. I’ll be all right walking.”
He was only ten minutes from
Tuesday, 16 October, 7 p.m.
Along the border of Soho and Bloomsbury
He didn’t hear it coming.
One moment, James was walking home from his offices in Great George Street, enjoying the brief respite from rain and thinking about what Mary might be doing. The next moment, the ground rose up to meet him. His hands failed to break his fall and he slammed, with crushing force, into the foul, pebbly soil of a narrow alleyway. He kept his head up and thus managed to avoid smashing his face, but the impact was such that all he could do, for several long seconds, was try to breathe. What had happened? What was wrong with his arms? Why could he not move?
“Where’s your wallet?” snarled a voice in his ear.
Light dawned. “Breast pocket,” he said, and was relieved to find his tongue and teeth still intact.
His right shoulder was pinned to the ground – he guessed it was the thief’s knee – and an unknown hand fumbled to extract the billfold from his suit. James moved his legs experimentally and the voice hissed, “Keep still, or I’ll slit your throat.” The threat was accompanied by the flash of a long metal blade.
The same clumsy hand began to pat down his coat pockets. James’s arms were still pinioned behind him and he wondered what the thief would do next. Few thieves killed their marks; it only slowed their escape. And this one had the advantage of coming from behind so that James couldn’t identify him. However, logic might not be a street thief’s forte. How could James possibly presume that his life was worth anything at all to the man kneeling on his back? He could only wait. This ordeal would end, one way or another, in a minute or two.
In fact, it was quicker than that. An instant later, he heard the clatter of a wooden rattle. The thief stiffened, cursed, and the weight on James’s back suddenly lifted. There was a slight scrabbling sound, and footsteps skittered away down the alley. A moment later, heavier, slightly slower footsteps approached, slipping and crunching their way down the alley. “Sir! Can you speak, sir?”
He groaned and tried to roll over.
“Don’t move, sir! Keep still until I can see what damage that dastard has done.”
James ignored this advice and rolled onto his side, then heaved himself to a seated position. “It’s all right, Constable. Mainly scrapes and bruises, I suspect.”
The police constable frowned anxiously. “Well, I’m glad to hear it, sir. That was a nasty great knife he was carrying.”
“All’s well that ends well, isn’t that so?” James tried to stand and groaned. “I think this overcoat, however, is done for.”
The constable offered him a hand up. As James stood, the faint jingling of his pockets made them both pause. “You were quick, Constable. I still have my keys and coins and pocket watch.” This last would be cracked or broken from the impact, but James was glad to have it, nevertheless. It had been his father’s. He glanced around the alleyway. “But I don’t see my drawings.”
“Drawings, sir?”
“A roll of architectural plans. In a cardboard tube.”
The constable searched the alley, quickly and carefully. “Not here, sir. You certain you had them, until that cove tackled you?”
“Under my arm.”
The constable pursed his lips. “It’s a funny thing to take, that. I’ve never known a thief to take papers and leave a watch.”
“He may have lost his wits when he heard your rattle.” Or perhaps he’d wanted the drawings all along.
“I don’t suppose you saw his face at all, sir?”
“Afraid not. I shouldn’t think there’s much use in filing a report, Constable. All I know is that it was a man with a knife.”
The constable was reluctant to let him go, but short of arresting the victim, there was nothing he could do. “Shall I find you a cab, sir?”
James looked down ruefully. “I doubt a hansom would have me, in this condition. I’ll be all right walking.”
He was only ten minutes from
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