Read Online Sergeant Verity and the Blood Royal by Francis Selwyn - Free Book Online
Authors: Francis Selwyn
Tags: Crime, Historical Novel
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swift movement of retrieval. In his hand was the 'cage' which she had worn under her crinoline, a series of descending wire hoops suspended by strips of material to spread the dress outward. He ripped the largest hoop from its stitching and let it spring open into a length of steel, long as a rapier and as lethal as a razor. Whipping the air with it, he advanced towards the policeman and the card-player, who now backed prudently in the direction of the door.
In his mind, Verity planned the route. Down the stairs, into the darkened room, out on to the verandah, and jump.
There was no time for anything more elaborate. He had just decided on this when there was a slithering sound to one side of him. Across the floor shot the remains of the crinoline cage, tossed by the girl so that it landed just at the feet of the card-player. In a moment more both his adversaries would be armed as he was and his last hope would have gone. As the card-player stooped cautiously, Verity's quivering steel described an arabesque in the lamplight and lashed the man across his hand. To Verity's dismay, the weapon was far more effective than he had imagined. The card-player screamed and fell backwards on his knees, his head bowing up and down in agony, as if in some absurd obeisance. Blood was spattering on to the wooden boards like heavy drops at the beginning of a thunder-storm.
'Oh God!' wailed the man, his voice rising again to a shriek. 'Oh God in heaven, I'm maimed!'
There was nothing for it but to finish the business quickly. Verity threw down the rippling wire and advanced on the man in the tunic. He dodged the repeated blow to his jaw, lowered his head and butted his antagonist in the face. The Irishman fell back a couple of steps, blinking away tears of pain, his face now distorted by sudden anxiety. He snatched at Verity's hair, exposing his under-jaw to the force of Verity's right fist which snapped the man's head back with a nauseating click of bone. He followed this by getting the Irishman's head under his arm, 'In Chancery', and running him full tilt into the wall. The skull and the plastered wall met with a crack, the Irishman slithering limply to the floor.
But now there were three more burly figures in the room. Verity threw himself on the first, the man staggering under the impact and sitting heavily on a wooden chair which crashed like matchwood under their combined weight. Only Verity got up again. He faced his remaining opponents his face glowing and his bull-neck flushed.
'Lost yer taste for it, then?' he croaked derisively.
One man jumped at him, and Verity threw him off with his powerful shoulders. He was gathering himself to rush the other man when suddenly a shimmery and agonizing deluge bowed him, choking and blinking. He knew instantly that he had made the mistake of forgetting the girl and being deaf to her soft, barefoot approach. The harsh, perfumed carbolic of Miss Jolly's bath-water was in his throat as he fought for breath, and its sharper agony streamed in tears from his eyes. A numbing blow to the back of his skull brought him to his knees in a drunken daze, so that he was hardly aware of what happened next. Their boots were hammering his spine, but he could barely feel it, the first pain having anaesthetized him to the rest by its numbing impact. Of all that was said by his attackers, he heard only one sentence, treasuring it against oblivion. 'You fat Irish bastud! You got the wrong one!'
The wrong one. Verity lay half-stunned on the floor of a wagon. Remember, he told himself, the wrong one. Above him was night sky, the tops of buildings, and what looked like balloons illuminated internally by candles and bearing inexplicable messages. 'Bowery Street Rooms.' 'Bespoke Tailors.' 'Oysters in every style.' For the first time since he had entered the Magdalen Asylum, he thought of Captain Smiles. He tried to sit up, but his hands were cuffed behind him and the effort was too great.
'Smiles!' he bleated
In his mind, Verity planned the route. Down the stairs, into the darkened room, out on to the verandah, and jump.
There was no time for anything more elaborate. He had just decided on this when there was a slithering sound to one side of him. Across the floor shot the remains of the crinoline cage, tossed by the girl so that it landed just at the feet of the card-player. In a moment more both his adversaries would be armed as he was and his last hope would have gone. As the card-player stooped cautiously, Verity's quivering steel described an arabesque in the lamplight and lashed the man across his hand. To Verity's dismay, the weapon was far more effective than he had imagined. The card-player screamed and fell backwards on his knees, his head bowing up and down in agony, as if in some absurd obeisance. Blood was spattering on to the wooden boards like heavy drops at the beginning of a thunder-storm.
'Oh God!' wailed the man, his voice rising again to a shriek. 'Oh God in heaven, I'm maimed!'
There was nothing for it but to finish the business quickly. Verity threw down the rippling wire and advanced on the man in the tunic. He dodged the repeated blow to his jaw, lowered his head and butted his antagonist in the face. The Irishman fell back a couple of steps, blinking away tears of pain, his face now distorted by sudden anxiety. He snatched at Verity's hair, exposing his under-jaw to the force of Verity's right fist which snapped the man's head back with a nauseating click of bone. He followed this by getting the Irishman's head under his arm, 'In Chancery', and running him full tilt into the wall. The skull and the plastered wall met with a crack, the Irishman slithering limply to the floor.
But now there were three more burly figures in the room. Verity threw himself on the first, the man staggering under the impact and sitting heavily on a wooden chair which crashed like matchwood under their combined weight. Only Verity got up again. He faced his remaining opponents his face glowing and his bull-neck flushed.
'Lost yer taste for it, then?' he croaked derisively.
One man jumped at him, and Verity threw him off with his powerful shoulders. He was gathering himself to rush the other man when suddenly a shimmery and agonizing deluge bowed him, choking and blinking. He knew instantly that he had made the mistake of forgetting the girl and being deaf to her soft, barefoot approach. The harsh, perfumed carbolic of Miss Jolly's bath-water was in his throat as he fought for breath, and its sharper agony streamed in tears from his eyes. A numbing blow to the back of his skull brought him to his knees in a drunken daze, so that he was hardly aware of what happened next. Their boots were hammering his spine, but he could barely feel it, the first pain having anaesthetized him to the rest by its numbing impact. Of all that was said by his attackers, he heard only one sentence, treasuring it against oblivion. 'You fat Irish bastud! You got the wrong one!'
The wrong one. Verity lay half-stunned on the floor of a wagon. Remember, he told himself, the wrong one. Above him was night sky, the tops of buildings, and what looked like balloons illuminated internally by candles and bearing inexplicable messages. 'Bowery Street Rooms.' 'Bespoke Tailors.' 'Oysters in every style.' For the first time since he had entered the Magdalen Asylum, he thought of Captain Smiles. He tried to sit up, but his hands were cuffed behind him and the effort was too great.
'Smiles!' he bleated
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