* * *
The early dawn sun cast a disturbing illumination over the slums of St. Giles, where raw sewage ran in rivulets down the broken cobblestone streets. Gin cellars and distillers packed the overcrowded courts and narrow lanes, while men and women addled by gin staggered about or lay unconscious in filthy alleyways. As the group of formidable men crossed into Petticoat Lane, Garrett saw a prostitute being rutted against a brick wall in the alley, her tattered skirt pulled up to her waist showing a dirty leg covered with sores.
Bile rose in Garrett’s throat, but he swallowed it down. The clash of rank odors was enough to bring up one’s breakfast. Sweat, human waste, and rotting garbage in overflowing rubbish bins. Dead animal carcasses—could be dogs and cats, hard to tell—lay in some of the alleys. The building that they were heading toward had broken and boarded-up windows and a decaying foundation. Gloom and despair were clearly present in this section of London. It was worse than he could have ever imagined.
Garrett carried a club, as did many of the men. Edwin held a pistol, and kept it in plain sight to show that they were not to be approached.
“We’ll have to make this quick, for our presence has no doubt been reported. The criminal in charge of this section of the rookery will send his men along sharpish,” Edwin said.
One of Edwin’s burly group kicked the door in with little effort, as the wood was rotten and splintered apart. Edwin ran up the dark, narrow stairway to the third floor, with Garrett right on his heels. The building was not quiet; shouting, swearing, and crying voices drifted in from all directions. Due to the boarded-up windows, the dour place lay in darkness. Luckily, one of the men carried a lighted lantern.
“In here?” Edwin indicated to one of his men.
“Aye.”
Edwin gave the door a shove with his shoulder and it gave way. At least there was some light, as the one window had a tattered piece of sheer material hanging over it. Garrett scanned the room. Dirty mattresses and wooden pallets filled the floor space with unconscious people of both sexes sprawled across them in various states of undress.
The stink was enough to gag a horse. Rubbish lay across the floor, rotting food, empty gin bottles, dried vomit, and buckets overflowing with piss and worse. There had to be close to twenty people crammed into the crowded area.
“Do you see him?” Edwin yelled.
His eyes lit on a familiar form. Aidan lay on a mattress, wearing nothing but frayed trousers, with a young man curled up to one side of him and an older woman curled up on the other. The young man stroked the front of Aidan’s trousers, as the woman trailed her tongue across Aidan’s nipple. An opium pipe lay on his nephew’s chest. Aidan looked ghastly, hollow-cheeked, haggard, and near death’s call from months of debauchery.
“Here,” Garrett called out. Edwin rushed to his side, and together they brought Aidan to his feet. He mumbled incoherently, limp in their grasp.
“Move out,” Edwin bellowed. They hurried toward the door, dragging Aidan, as he was semiconscious and not able to place one foot in front of the other. The stench of him made Garrett’s nose twitch and his stomach roil.
The older woman screamed, “They’re takin’ our luverly Aidan! Stop ’em!”
Some of the people on the pallets stirred, but the men were out of the room and down the stairs before any of them could take action.
“Head to the carriage,” Edwin commanded. Two men stepped in their path, as if to halt them, but Edwin’s men felled them with clubs before Garrett could even blink. Thank God Edwin could navigate the twisting lanes. They made it to New Oxford Street, the main thoroughfare that ran through the middle of the rookery. Since it was under construction, confusion reigned, making escape easier to achieve. Here they parted, with Edwin and Garrett bundling a moaning Aidan into the carriage while the other men splintered off, running in different directions.
Edwin thumped the roof of the carriage. “Move!” he shouted. With a snap of the reins, the conveyance lurched forward.
Aidan lay across Garrett’s lap, limp, with eyes closed.
Edwin grabbed a blanket. “We’d best wrap him in this; he no doubt has fleas and worse. Plus the cold chills will start soon enough.”
“I hardly recognize him,” Garrett whispered worriedly. “He’s lost too much weight.”
“Opium will do that. It leeches the good right out of you.” Edwin sighed. “I’ll not sugarcoat this: he’s in a bad way.”
Garrett nodded as he assisted in covering Aidan in the woolen blanket.
“I’ve sent word to Dr. Gethin Bevan, the physician that I told you about. I informed him to expect us later today. If we keep up a brisk pace, we should arrive just before the sun sets. He’s offered us a room for the night. I gave the name Aidan Black. You said your other nephew used Black when he accepted the schoolmaster position?”
“Yes. It’s their mother’s maiden name. Smart to use an alias, wish I’d thought of it.” He pulled Aidan close, and Garrett’s eyes glazed with unshed tears. Damn it all, they should have found him sooner. Never should have allowed him to descend into the darkness alone. The family should have locked him in the attic until this wave of destructive behavior passed.
He could only hope that this Welsh doctor could work miracles.
Chapter 2
As Abigail Wharton Hughes gathered her cloak, bonnet, and gloves, she mulled over her plans for the day. Very little happened in Standon, Hertfordshire, and she reveled in the serene quiet of the small country village. Living here the past fourteen years had brought contentment to Abbie.
She’d been a widow for more than two years, and seeing as her late husband, Dr. Elwyn Hughes, had been the local physician, she held a position of respect. Living in her tidy brick and wood bungalow on the outskirts of the village gave her the quiet privacy she needed. Since Elwyn had died, she spent her days toiling in her garden or volunteering at her late husband’s clinic.
Mrs. Jones would be by later to clean the house, so she must return by four o’clock. It gave her ample opportunity to shop at the small bakery. Well, it was not much of a bakery; a woman sold goods out of her front parlor. Then Abbie would stop in to the medical clinic and assist Dr. Gethin Bevan and his daughter, Cristyn.
Gethin Bevan, a colleague of her late husband, was a friend but nothing more. Although he’d hinted more than once that they could marry, seeing as he was a widower and she a widow. At thirty-two, Abbie was young enough to find another husband, only she did not want one. She was not looking for companionship or a lover. Living a quiet, contented life meant she could avoid any messy dramas that often accompanied most relationships. She’d never find another amiable partner like Elwyn—they were all too rare.
Stepping outside, she inhaled the crisp January air. A dusting of snow clung to the ground, but the temperature was not too cold for a brisk walk. The semi-frozen soil crunched under her boots as she headed to the village proper.
Once she’d purchased fresh rolls and a currant cake, Abbie made her way to the clinic, or as Gethin wished it to be called, the Standon Sanatorium. Being alone most of the week suited Abbie fine, though she was looking forward to her daughter Megan’s visit Friday afternoon. Megan attended Miss Bartley’s School for Young Ladies in nearby
