I wished powerfully that I had dealt swifter with that fellow Jackie. Why had I stood there dumbly and let him hold me? Why had I allowed Mariah to laugh at me? Why? Why? Why? I found myself trembling with frustration at the incident that was now minutes past. It was, I decided, best to put it out of my mind. Later, when I had the opportunity, I would think it through as best I could.
Looking about me as I passed the alley that led to St. Paul’s churchyard, I saw the yellow-red glow of the great bonfire in Covent Garden, and I heard the roar of the crowd made greater there. And, as I looked, I was surprised to see a wagon stopped in the alley with no driver about — something not surprising in itself, but this wagon was unmistakably the Raker’s own. Of that I was sure. Though I could not see the crude death’s head painted upon the side of it, I would have recognized those skeletal, somnolent horses anywhere. Each was a spectral gray, and each stood, head bowed, on trembling legs. I wondered where the Raker himself might be, though of course I knew his errand. Perhaps he was in that very building where his wagon was halted. Perhaps some poor soul who had lived behind one of those windows had expired from sickness or poverty. Better that, thought I, than dying the victim of a murderer. And then did a shudder pass through me.
At the end of Bedford Street, Mr. Perkins crossed into King Street. I slowed, for I saw him stop directly in front of Number 6 — Queen’s Court, the site of the last and most inhuman homicide. I wondered if he intended to enter the court to search it through. Had he heard something? Seen something? No, again he was trying to wrap that shawl round the pistol — this time using his teeth. I came up closer behind him, intending to insist upon giving him my help.
I was just at the passageway leading to the adjoining court, which was known as Three Kings, when I was pulled bodily into the passage by an assailant who had been altogether invisible to me — as indeed he remained invisible to me as I was dragged back into the dark passage.
One hand was clapped over my mouth so that I could not cry out. My right arm was twisted behind my back. It was a foul-smelling hand, and it tasted even fouler when I bit down upon it. I bit hard on one finger. I grinded and chewed, never letting it loose from my teeth. And as I did so. I beat hard as I was able with my left elbow upon the ribs of my attacker. He was large, as I could tell from the strength of him, and he was near as wide as he was tall. My feet were of no use as he pulled me back and back towards the court, but I tasted his blood in my mouth, and I knew he could not keep his hand there much longer. We stopped, and I slammed the heel of my shoe down onto his foot. With that he let go all but my arm, and I squirmed round to face him.
By God, it was the Raker! I saw him plain in a patch of moonlight.
”Perkins!’ I shouted out, loud as ever I could.
I heard footsteps from the street as he let go my arm, and a blade glinted in his right hand. He came lumbering at me, and I dodged him as we circled. He now had his back to King Street as Mr. Perkins appeared in the entrance to the passage, the pistol in his hand. I backed up.
The Raker must have sensed him there, for then did he come running at me down the narrow passage as fast as those bandy legs of his could move him. I saw he had no intention of stopping. I feinted left and jumped right — away from the knife. But as he passed, he threw me against the wall of the passage. Just as I heard Mr. Perkins fire his pistol, my head hit the brick wall, and I slipped into the black void of the unconscious state.
When next I came to myself I was quite alone, though no longer in the passageway. Of that I was sure, for I ran my hands over the space where I lay and found I was in a bed. My bed? With some effort I opened my eyes and found, casting them about, that yes, I was in my own bed in my own attic room. I made to rise, but the sudden pain at the back of my head sent me back ‘most immediate to my pillow. I touched my aching head and found it wrapped round in a great bandage.
How long had I been here? How long unconscious? How even had I got here?
I concentrated upon the events just preceding my loss of consciousness. They were clear in my mind, and for that I was grateful for I had heard that a knock on the head can sometimes cause a loss of memory, sometimes complete. I remembered it all too well — being dragged into the passage, fighting back as best I could, the taste of blood in my mouth, then breaking away and finding, to my astonishment, that it was the Raker who was my assailant. I remembered also being thrown against the wall by him as Mr. Perkins fired his pistol. Could he have hit me? Was that what caused this awful pain at the back of my head? No, more likely my head had hit some sharp brick, a place where the mortar had crumbled away. Perhaps my poor head had been broken. It felt quite so.
So Mr. Perkins had shot the Raker. The murders were done. I was content in that, and thus content and glad to be in my own bed, I fell unconscious again. Yet it was sleep that came, and quite welcome it was. My dreams were most plea.sant. I was on shipboard, a sturdy vessel with billowing sails which cut through the waves as smooth as a coach-and-four on a well-paved road. Mariah was beside me. We walked the decks together, fore and aft, feeling the wind in our faces. She did not laugh at me, but earnestly told me of her love for me. The seamen treated us with great respect, doffing their hats to us. And the captain of the ship, who was my near-brother, Tom Durham, invited us to the poop deck where he stood in his place of command. He opened a great, long telescope and took a view of what lay ahead. ”Land ho!” said he. “I see the Massachusetts shore.” Then did Annie Oakum appear.
Yet it was truly her and not a part in the dream. She had entered the room. My head was turned to her, and my eyes had opened; there was still moonlight enough for me to know her for who she was.
“You’re awake,” said she.
“Just now,” said I.
” ‘Land ho,’ you said. Was that in the dream?”
“Oh yes, but it was Tom said it.”
“Tom Durham? I dream of him often, though my dreams are worth little.”
I attempted to rise but again felt the pain at the back of my head, though not quite so severe as before. She pushed me gently back to my pillow.
“You must stay still,” said she. “Mr. Donnelly said so. He was right firm in that.”
“Was he here to see me?”
“Oh, indeed he was. He said you had a con … con …”
“Concussion?”
“So he said. And you was to stay in bed, and I was to keep a good eye on you. And here I am, you see.” And then did she give a little curtsey, and I noticed she wore her nightgown. “My second visit of the night.”
“What time is it, Annie?”
“That I cannot say, though it be late. The great fire in the Garden is all burned to naught.” She sighed. “I declare that when that one-armed constable carried you in, I feared you might never wake, not in this life. Oh, Jeremy, I am so glad to see you alive!”
And then did she bend down to me and plant a kiss upon my cheek. With her face so close, I saw that Annie had tears in her eyes.
“No more than I.”
“I must go and tell Sir John you are awake. He is so unhappy — you hurt so bad and all for naught.”
“For naught?” Again, impulsively I rose, with the same bad result. “Didn’t Mr. Perkins shoot him dead?”
“Oh no, all the constables was angry at themselves, for they let him get away. Didn’t even get a proper look at him who hurt you.”
“Annie, you must go and tell Sir John that I know the man. I know the murderer!”
Eyes wide and without another word, she fled. And in less than a minute there was a great thunder of footsteps upon the stairs. And of a sudden, my little room was crowded with visitors. Not only was Sir John present, but also Mr. Donnelly and Constable Perkins, now in proper attire — and Annie with them, as well.