“Get back in the room!” he ordered, grabbing Edie by the arm and forcibly pulling her away from the stairwell.
“We’ll never get out of here alive! This is a bookshop. It’s a tinderbox ready to blow!”
Well aware that a raging inferno would soon engulf them unless they could put out the fire, he scanned the wood-paneled room. He needed something with which to smother the flames. Charging toward the window, he reached up and yanked the heavy velvet drapes off the wall. Rod and all.
Ignoring Edie’s wild-eyed stare, he dashed back to the stairwell. In the short time since he’d been gone, the flames had traveled nearly to the top of the stairs. Quickly he pulled the metal rod through the fabric. He then unfurled the fabric and laid the heavy swath on top of the roaring flames.
Like humans, fire required oxygen to breathe. Cut the oxygen flow, kill the fire.
“Damn it,” he swore as the flames consumed the velvet drapery in a fiery burst. The soft crackle they’d heard a few moments ago now a deadly roar.
His lungs filling with smoke, he noisily hacked. Reflexively crooking his elbow, he placed his bent arm over his mouth and nose as he backed away from the stairwell. There were more flames in the stairwell than London during the Blitz. The funeral pyre had been carefully planned to the last detail. The jumble of boxes at the foot of the steps had been set on fire. Probably soon after Edie ran up the stairs. For all he knew, the bastard had been in the bookshop the entire time. Waiting. Watching.
“Caedmon!”
“Window!” he hollered back at her. “Quickly!”
Knowing it was their last line of retreat, he rushed toward the window, relieved to see a narrow ledge on the other side of the glass.
“We’re a full story aboveground. We’ll break our necks if we try to jump.”
“And we’ll meet a fiery end if we don’t,” he told Edie as he hurriedly unlatched the window. Legs straddled wide, he put a hand on either side of the wood rail and shoved upward.
“Bloody hell! It’s painted shut!”
Edie began to cough. “Fire . . . in the . . . foyer!” she gasped.
“Right.” Knowing they only had a few seconds before the menacing flames devoured the wood-paneled room—an incinerator in the making—he hurriedly shrugged out of his anorak. He then wrapped it around his right forearm and hand. “Stand back!”
Order issued, he smashed through the glass with his heavily padded arm. It took a few seconds of determined bashing before he’d cleared all the jagged pieces out of the frame. As he unraveled the coat from his arm, he glanced over his shoulder. The fire was now lapping at Rubin’s bare legs.
Grabbing Edie by the hand, he pulled her toward the opening. “Out you go!”
A stricken expression on her face, Edie ducked her head through the window. Carefully holding on to the frame, she bent at the waist and swung a jean-clad leg through the opening. Seconds later, she was on the ledge.
In the near distance, Caedmon heard the blare of sirens.
“Probably best if you don’t look down,” he warned as he made his way through the window, hoping she didn’t suffer from acrophobia. A few seconds later, hugging the painted brick exterior wall, he carefully sidled next to Edie. “You all right, love?”
Brown eyes fearfully opened wide, she nodded. “All things considered.” She attempted a brave smile. One that fell woefully shy of the mark.
A few feet from where they stood, tangerine flames darted through the open window.
Taking Edie gently by the wrist, he wordlessly coaxed her to sidestep as far away from the window as possible. They got no more than four feet before they were stopped by a chunky bit of architectural ornamentation: a coved bulwark that protruded from the exterior façade. There was no way to straddle the bloody thing without falling off the ledge.
Edie turned to him with a stricken expression. “Now what?”
Excellent question.
He scanned Cecil Court. Pure pandemonium reigned in both directions. Several frantic book dealers ran toward Charing Cross. Presumably to direct the fire brigade that had just pulled up at the end of the block. To ensure they didn’t lose their precious inventories. A cluster of gawking pedestrians had gathered near Rubin’s shop, several of them holding up their mobiles, capturing the fire on video. Beneath them, the plate-glass window on the ground floor violently shattered. Inciting several of the gawkers to scream.
“Wouldn’t you know . . . not a ladder in sight,” Edie muttered.
“Although I see something that will do in a pinch.” About fifteen feet from the entrance to Rubin’s bookshop, Caedmon sighted a sturdy trash receptacle.
“You there! Drag that receptacle under the ledge!” he shouted to a burly fellow who stood in the crowd. He gestured, first to the receptacle, then to a spot directly beneath the ledge. “And be quick about it!” Before our bloody arses catch fire.
Beside him, Edie tensed, evidently sensing what he had in mind. “The trash can only shaves off three feet. A fire truck just pulled up at the end of the block. Let’s wait.”
“Waiting isn’t an option.” Already he could see that the flames shooting through the window had ignited the elaborate woodwork around the opening. A goodly amount of the exterior trim was made of wood and covered in oilbased paint. He feared that all too soon, it would erupt in a fiery blaze. “Don’t worry, love. I’ll go first.”
Normally, ladies would go first, but he knew that Edie didn’t have the requisite upper-body strength to maintain her grip while she lowered herself off the ledge. He had the strength and was nine inches taller. With those advantages in his favor, he would be able to lower himself to the trash receptacle, then reach up and pluck Edie off the ledge. Piece of cake, as the Americans were fond of saying.
It ended up taking two men to roll the heavy receptacle in place.
Caedmon carefully pivoted so that he faced the painted brick wall behind him. Then, squatting, he grasped the edge of the ledge as he swung, first one leg, then the other, over the edge. For several seconds, he dangled, suspended in midair. An intense bolt of pain radiated out from the puncture wound on his left bicep. Bloody hell. Glancing down, he could see that the trash receptacle was directly beneath him. No more than a two-foot drop. The lid was made of metal with a round ten-inch opening in the middle. His plan was to land on the solid metal rim.
“Caedmon, be careful!” Edie called out. There was no mistaking the panic in her voice.
Hoping his aim was true, he let go of the ledge.
The two obliging chaps reached out just as he landed on top of the receptacle. Their steadying hands prevented him from toppling over the side.
There being no time to congratulate himself on a safe landing, he planted his feet squarely on either side of the sturdy bin. “Edie, you need to lower yourself over the edge,” he instructed in a calm, measured tone. Hoping that would quell her fear.
Edie peered down at him, a determined gleam in her eyes.
That’s my girl.
His heart in his throat, Caedmon watched as Edie removed the oversized leather bag that was draped bandolier-style across her chest and let it drop to the ground. She then turned toward the brick wall directly behind her, keeping the flat of both hands in contact with the brick. As though that ephemeral connection would somehow hold her in place should she lose her balance.
The two stalwart bystanders who’d just spotted his plunge stood at the ready.
Suddenly a blast shook the bookshop; the glass in the upper panes of the window shattered.