Phoenix Rising (18 page)

“You'd never catch me going down there.” Buford knocked back another swig of his beer. “Bloody deathtrap, it is.”

Eliza's stomach clenched. So there was another side to this respectable doctor. She should hardly be surprised. Still she kept her voice light, “Oh come off it, lads . . .”

Buford suddenly grabbed her arm and stared at her hard. “No, really, Miss Emma—don't go there.
Ever
. Even with that butcher in the ground, just don't go there.”

Death was everyday in Whitechapel, and so anything that caught the eye of the locals must have been gruesome indeed. She gave a little nod, a nod that anyone who had ever lived in reduced circumstances understood.

“Anyway, he's dead now,” Josiah muttered. “And it won't be us grateful for it—them nurses copped it good. Especially her.” He jerked his head to a dark-haired, sturdy-looking woman in the corner of the pub. Whether by chance or by personality, she had cleared a space even in this crowd.

“Who's she?” Eliza downed the last of her pint.

“Mary Grissom. Finest lady to ever grace the halls of the Royal Hospital, if'n you ask me, which you did, miss.” Josiah's wide face wrinkled in something bordering on sympathy—another emotion rarely found in Whitechapel. “Even that tosser Smith agreed as much and that is why she went on an' worked for Smith at that clinic. But she saw something at Ashfield. Something bad. Tried to blow the whistle on what he was doing down there, and Smithy caught wind of it. Now she can't get no work at all—not even in Bedlam.”

Buford let out a long burp, before pronouncing solemnly, “Poor cow—still hangs around the hospital though. Like a beat puppy coming back for another hiding.” He slammed his fist against the bar, making the other tankards jump. “It's not right. Not bloody right. Smith said horrible things what made her a leper. She deserves better!”

So that was the person she needed to talk to. “Gents, you all have earned another round. God bless you,” she said, plopping some coins in front of them. “But if you will excuse me, lads. Looks like Mary could use the ear of a lady.”

She worked her way to the other end of the Combobula and ordered a pair of sherries. Cradling the two glasses between fingers of her left hand, she slinked her way through the crowd until she came to stand before the solitary table where Mary Grissom sat. When Mary looked up into Eliza's own gaze, the disgraced nurse did indeed look rather like a lost, confused puppy.

“Here you go, love,” Eliza spoke gently, placing the sherry in front of her. She motioned her head back to the orderlies. “Them lot were telling me you could do with one of these.”

Grubby hands hesitantly took the drink. “Thank you,” she whispered, raising it to her lips.

“Don't think nothing of it—got a bit of a soft spot for my fellow woman who's been kicked about by the toffs.”

Mary gave her a hunted look. “What you on about?” She was trying very hard with an East End accent, but underneath was running a strain of education. Whatever Mary Grissom was now, once she'd been something else. Doctor Smith had beaten that Mary Grissom into submission, and now this ghost of a woman that once helped people on the mend was all that remained.

Eliza needed to take a different tactic with this one. Mary was not the normal sort to the East End. The absence of a drink in front of her told Eliza that the fallen nurse wasn't coming here to forget. She was hiding.

Leaning across the small wobbly table, she fixed Mary with the look of a hawk. “I know about that bastard Smith blacklisting you from the only honest work you could get—from the work you
should
be doing. In light of his untimely death, as well as the reasons behind him sullying your reputation, I am assuming you know something, something that could well get you killed.”

“Who . . .” Mary's bottom lip quivered. She blinked her eyes, a tear managing to escape as she finally asked, “Who are you?”

Eliza went to answer, but the sound of the pub's door opening grabbed her attention. If she hadn't seen through their guise, she would have laughed at these two “blokes of the working class.” When one of them pointed at Mary, Eliza caught the glint off a ring that clashed with the rest of his simple ensemble.

Her heart began to race, and she clamped her hand down on Mary's arm. “Right now, I am your best mate and the one chance you have in leaving here alive.” Eliza leaned towards Mary, her blue gaze hard and insistent. “Do you trust me?”

It was a crazy thing to ask, but on such moments many things could hinge.

Mary gaped, but she had not become a nurse by being a shrinking violet. Her jaw tightened and she nodded, “Yes—yes, I think I do.”

“Then just stay behind me, and whatever you do, no matter what happens, don't run.”

“Unless you tell me to?”

“Exactly,” Eliza spoke evenly, turning in her chair to welcome the newcomers. “If you leg it, their man outside will have you for certain. Understand?”

“Yes, miss.”

“I mean it,” she insisted. “No. Matter. What.”

She caught Mary knocking back the sherry quickly. It was a pity Eliza didn't have the time to return to the bar for another.

The men looked over the table, their eyes not leaving Mary Grissom, even when Eliza greeted them with a cheery, “Hello, chaps.”

“Piss off, whore,” one of them hissed. “We need a word with Miss Mary here.”

Eliza shifted in her chair. Her feet needed just the right leverage. “Got a sick friend?”

“You could be saying that, yeah,” the other one grunted. “Needs some attention.”

“Sorry about this, lads,” Eliza said, broadening her East End accent, “but the good nurse here is off duty. Ya follow?”

The lead one frowned, leaning forward to stop only a few inches from her. “If you want to have that pretty face of yours carved like a Christmas goose, then please, stay.”

Eliza looked over her shoulder.

Mary nodded, mouthing the words, “No. Matter. What.”

“If you would rather wish to walk out of here,” the thug spoke again. Eliza turned back to him, and his fetid breath caused her to blink as he said, “then I'll repeat myself, you dozy bint—piss off.”

She just grinned at him in reply, and that was when her gauntleted arm shot out, the brass fingers grabbing hold of the man's balls. With the sound of gears spinning and a tiny hiss of hydraulics, Eliza's armoured fingers squeezed.

The man could barely scream, let alone breathe.

“Mate,” Eliza said, keeping the first thug firm in her grasp, but addressing the second one as if sharing a high tea, “if you want to make sure your pal here doesn't become a soprano in the church choir, I'd suggest you both lea—”

The partner blew hard on a whistle, its shrill tone higher than that of a Blue Bottle's. Two more lummoxes, dressed head to toe in black, burst through the door, looked in their direction, and started pushing patrons aside, not a care where those in their way landed.

Eliza's gauntlet released the thug, his breath coming back in a hard, sharp gasp. As he took a second gulp of air, the brass fist clocked his chin. He remained suspended there for a moment, his arms reaching for her in a feeble, futile way. Before he fell back, though, Eliza grabbed his wrist and removed the ring from his finger.

“Thanks, mate,” she quipped. “My partner's been on me to get a clue. Mayhaps this will appease him.”

The first thug toppled on top of his partner, but reinforcements—considerably larger than the two on the floor—had already made work of the crowd and now closed on her.
Two
, she thought.
Whoever these people are, they really want this woman dead.

The newcomers apparently hadn't seen Eliza's gauntlet, and the lead thug might have wished he had after feeling it backfist him in the nose. The last man in, however, evaded her hook punch and slapped Eliza hard. His follow-through sent her into the crush of pub patrons.

Eliza's head spun, her senses swimming in a fog of confusion.
Don't you
dare
swoon, Braun
, she chided herself.
You haven't been out of the field that long that you've forgotten how to take a punch. Pull yourself together!
Her vision cleared first, and that was when she heard the scream. She saw Mary recoiling on account of the killer reaching for her.
Bugger!

The thug's wrist suddenly disappeared under a mass of flesh and muscle. Eliza would have thought only someone from her home's national rugby team could possess such speed and still carry that much girth.
What a shame
he's English.

“That's Miss Emma you're shoving about there!” Buford bellowed, bending the thug's wrist back. If it snapped (and judging by its angle, it should have), no one heard it over the raucous crowd. “She's going to be judging our moustache competition!”

The thug flew into another unsuspecting group of patrons, who did not appreciate losing their drinks to some bloke dressed like an undertaker. Both reinforcements were now lost in a sea of uppercuts and kidney punches. Eliza was free to return her focus to the original pair, the first one still unconscious but the second regaining his feet. She didn't bother to look for a blade or a pistol. Eliza flicked the switch on her brass-encased arm, felt the mechanisms within whir and spin against her bicep, and fired the
plures ornamentum
in one smooth motion.

The weighted bolas shot from the arm, the long outer cord sending its attached brethren wide, wrapping the man's legs against each other. He went down cursing, tipping into the arms of Josiah and Seth. Both men returned him upright, and then lifted him off the floor with a double-dealt uppercut.

The Oath's crowd, now enjoying the theatre of the brawl, roared with a delight as the last man fell backwards, his eyes rolling in his head. Eliza could feel her blood pounding in her ears, her warrior's urges encouraging her to leap into the fray. Ministry training, however, took hold:
Grab Mary and make for the most convenient exit.

A pair of arms wrapped around her in what could have been a very intimate bear hug, just as she turned towards her table. The air was being squeezed out of her, and her ribs felt hot and in danger of cracking. The brass of the gauntlet pressed painfully into her corset, and stars exploded in her vision.

“Don't know who you are, bitch,” the gruff voice wheezed into her ear. She must have really squeezed the life out of his manhood. “But you are making my job most difficult tonight!”

The impact of the back of her head into the bridge of his nose made a snap that could just be heard over the general chaos of the brawl. When he howled, his grip relaxed slightly, and Eliza followed it up by scraping her boot hard down his leg. That and a brass-covered elbow in his gut got her free enough to spin about and deliver a snap to his jaw. His crash to the floor was most satisfactory.

Eliza turned back to Mary who gave her a polite wave. She had done exactly as she was told.

“Now we run?” Mary asked anxiously.

“Now, dearie, we run,” she said, pulling the nurse out of the chair and into the crowd.

The Combobula whirred and buzzed as it closed down to protect itself. Just how it sensed a brawl was in progress Eliza had no idea—but she got a new appreciation for Mad McTighe's invention. The two women had made it to the door just as pints and chairs began flying.

“Wait!” Eliza poked her head out of the pub and looked around. No one about. She then shouted over the brawl, “Buford!”

The orderly had just taken down one of the men in black when he heard Eliza. He cheerfully waved back and pointed to the unconscious assailant. He seemed quite proud of his brawling proficiency.

“I vote for Seth!”

He blinked, pointed at Seth, and then cocked his head to one side.

“On account of the colour!” Eliza shrugged and added, “I have a fondness for redheads!”

She chuckled as the thug Buford had taken down was apparently struggling to get back on his feet. This time, Buford helped him up, and then decked him again. Then, he helped the thug back on his feet. And proceeded to send him back to the floor again.

“Oh dear,” Eliza said to Mary just before opening the door, “Buford isn't taking my judgement well.”

Once outside in the relative calm of the street, Eliza pulled Mary along, ducking into the first dark doorway she could find. She pressed a finger to Mary's lips and kept the nurse concealed in the shadows as she looked down the alleyway and then out into the open street. They were safe, but only for the moment. The refuge of her apartments felt leagues away.

Removing her finger, Eliza smiled and patted the nurse's hand. “I would love to hear everything you can tell me about Doctor Smith and what nefarious antics he was up to at the Ashfield Clinic.”

Under her grip, Mary was trembling, but her gaze was steady and strong. Not bad for a destitute woman who had just brushed her own imminent death. “Whatever you need.”