Harry ignored him, aware that there was a stir of interest occurring among the tavern patrons as they turned to eye the commotion at the back of the room.
"The back door, I think," Harry said to Peter. "It suddenly looks like a very long way to the front door."
"Excellent observation. I have always been a great believer in the virtue of a strategic retreat." Peter flashed a brief grin and quickly opened the rear door. "After you, sir." He waved Harry politely ahead of him.
Harry stepped out into the alley. Peter was right behind him, slamming the door shut on the angry shouts of Bleeker and the restless horde of tavern patrons.
"Damn," said Harry as he saw the man with the knife looming up out of the reeking shadows.
Moonlight glinted on the blade as the man leaped for Harry's throat.
17
Harry swept his ebony walking stick up in a slashing arc. The cane struck his assailant's outstretched arm in a savage blow that sent the knife flying off into the shadows.
Harry rotated the stick's handle a quarter turn with a practiced one-handed movement. The hidden blade inside the walking stick leaped out, pressing against the assailant's neck.
"Bloody 'ell." The man jumped — back and promptly stumbled over a heap of garbage. He lost his footing on the greasy stones and fell to the pavement. He flailed wildly and began screaming curses.
"Best be on our way," Peter said cheerfully with only a passing glance at Harry's victim. "I expect our friends will be coming through that door any minute."
"I had no intention of delaying our departure." Harry flicked the walking stick handle back a quarter turn and the blade disappeared as silently as it had emerged.
Peter led the way out of the alley. Harry followed quickly. They raced out into the lane where Peter unhesitatingly turned to the right.
"It occurs to me," Peter growled as they dashed up the lane, "that I have found myself in this sort of situation more than once with you, Graystone. I am beginning to think these things come about because you never leave a decent tip."
"Very likely."
"Cheeseparing, that's you, Graystone."
"I, on the other hand," Harry said as he pounded down the street beside his friend, "have noticed that I only seem to find myself in these circumstances when I have you along as a guide. One does tend to wonder if there is not some logical connection."
"Nonsense. Simply your imagination."
Thanks to Peter's intimate knowledge of the underbelly of the city and the general reluctance of the denizens of the stews to get involved in what looked like trouble, both men soon found themselves standing in relative safety on a busy street.
Harry used his walking stick to hail a hackney carriage which had just set down a group of drunken young dandies. Apparently the hackney's previous passengers intended to sample the darker side of London's nightlife.
For his part, Harry had seen more than enough. He bounded up into the cab and dropped down on the seat across from Peter.
A thoughtful silence descended. Harry idly studied the dark streets outside the window as the hackney headed toward a better part of Town. Peter watched him from the shadows, saying nothing for several minutes. Then he spoke.
"An interesting story, was it not?" Peter finally asked.
"Yes."
"What do you make of it?"
Harry went over Bleeker's tale again in his mind, searching for possibilities. "I am not yet certain."
"The timing fits," Peter said slowly. "Ballinger was killed the night after the fire at the Saber Club. He could have set the fire to muddy his own trail and killed that witness. And then gotten himself shot by that highwayman the next night."
"Yes."
"So far as we know, the Spider became inactive shortly before Napoleon abdicated in April of 1814. That would fit with the time of Ballinger's death, too. He was shot in late March of that year. There was no sign of the Spider having resumed his work during the short time between Napoleon's escape from Elba and the final defeat at Waterloo."
"The Spider was too shrewd to have cast his lot with Napoleon a second time. The attempt to regain the throne of France in 1815 was a lost cause from the start and everyone but Napoleon knew it. Defeat was inevitable the second time and the Spider would have realized it. He would have stayed out of the affair."
Peter's mouth twisted wryly. "You may be correct. You always did have a talent for second-guessing the bastard. But the end result is the same. The Spider vanished from the scene in the spring of 1814. Perhaps the reason we never heard from him again was simply because he had the bad luck to fall victim to a highwayman's bullet. Richard Ballinger could have been the Spider."
"Hmmm."
"Even brilliant spymasters must occasionally find themselves on the wrong road at the wrong time of night. They are no more immune to the odd highwayman than anyone else, I should imagine," Peter said.
"Hmmmm."
Peter groaned. "I detest it when you get into this mood, Graystone. You are not an entertaining conversationalist at such times."
Harry finally turned his head and met his friend's eyes. "I am certain there is no need to mention that I would not want any of these speculations of yours to get back to Augusta, Sheldrake."
Peter grinned briefly. "Credit me with some sense, Graystone. I have every intention of living to see my wedding night. I am not about to overset Augusta and thereby risk your wrath." His smile faded. "In any event, I count Augusta a good friend, as well as a member of my future wife's family. I have no more wish to see her suffer because of her brother's dishonorable actions than you do."
"Precisely."
Half an hour later, after the hackney had made its way through the clogged streets of the more fashionable part of town, Harry alighted at the door of his town house. He bid Peter a good night and went up the steps.
Craddock, stifling a yawn, opened the door and informed his master that everyone else, including Lady Graystone, had retired for the evening.
Harry nodded and went into the library. He poured himself a small glass of brandy and went to the window. He stood gazing out into the shadowed garden for a long while, mulling over the evening's events.
When he had finished the brandy he crossed to the desk and frowned as he glanced down and saw a sheet of foolscap lying squarely in the center. It had obviously been placed where he could not fail to see it. The plump, curving handwriting was Augusta's.
SCHEDULE FOR THURSDAY:
1. Morning: Visit Hatchards and other booksellers to purchase books.
2. Afternoon: Observe Mr. Mitford's balloon ascent in park.
There was a brief note scrawled beneath the short list of activities. I trust the above schedule meets with your approval.
Harry wondered glumly if the paper would singe his fingers if he were to pick it up. The thing about his volatile Augusta, he reflected, was that one always knew what sort of mood she was in, even when she communicated in writing.
A large crowd had turned out in the park to observe Mr. Mitford's hot air balloon ascend into a cloudless blue summer sky. Meredith was enthralled from the moment she and Augusta arrived. She began asking questions at once and did not cease, although Augusta was hard put to answer most of them. That did not stop Meredith.
"What makes the balloon go up into the sky?"
"Well, sometimes hydrogen is used, but it is rather dangerous, I understand. Mr. Mitford is apparently using hot air today. The air inside the balloon is being heated by that big fire you see. The hot air will cause the balloon to rise. See those sacks of sand they are loading into the basket? Mr. Mitford will toss them overboard to make the craft lighter as the air in the balloon cools. That way he can keep traveling for an enormous distance."