Vicky nodded. “ ‘E did. I ‘aven’t seen ‘im for a few days.”
“Which room—”
“Vicky!” came the sound of a woman’s voice from inside the flat behind her. The little girl jumped and scooped up the cat.
“I ‘ave to go.”
“Thank you for the help.”
The child took her cat and scooted inside the flat’s door then closed it.
Margaret glanced at the dark stairwell. So far everything she’d been told was accurate. The agent was here, and he was on the first floor. She had no idea which flat, but what kind of agent would she be if she couldn’t determine a detail like that?
Margaret lifted her skirts and started up the steps. She moved carefully as the shadows made it hard to see, and she did not want to step on any of the scurrying shapes on the steps. They might be shadows, and they might be rats. At the landing, she moved to the left where the stairs continued upward and a corridor extended the other way. She could make out three doors along the corridor. All three were closed and their chambers presumably occupied.
She could start knocking or pick one randomly, but her gaze kept returning to the first door. The little girl had looked up. She might have just been looking at the floor above, or she might have been looking at the chamber above her own. That chamber was behind this first door.
Margaret went to the door and tapped lightly.
No sound came from within.
“Holyoake?” she said, using the agent’s surname. “Are you in there?”
No sound.
Margaret knocked this time and said, “Holyoake, open the door.”
Not even a hint of movement. Margaret began to worry that he wasn’t here after all. She closed her eyes, leaned her head on the door and breathed. Ridiculous but for some reason she thought if he was behind that door, she would sense him. After a moment, she drew back. He was in there.
She knocked louder this time. “Holyoake!”
“Oy!” came a voice from behind another door. “Shut yer potato ‘ole or I’ll shut it for ye.”
Well, that sounded unpleasant. She could either come back later or find another way inside the flat. She peered at the door, using the little light that came through a small window at the end of the corridor. The door was thin and had probably been locked with a deadbolt that slid across once the inhabitant was inside. That was a flimsy sort of security and fortunately, she’d worn her walking boots today. Margaret took a step back, lifted her skirts, and with a twist sideways, kicked the door. It banged open with a metallicpingthat she assumed was the bolt giving way.
“Oy!” the unhappy neighbor called again. Margaret ignored him, dropped her skirts, and slid into the open door. She moved cautiously. No light came from within. The hearth was dark, and the drapes pulled tight. She pressed her back against the wall and felt in her pocket for her dagger. It was small but extremely sharp and deadly if one knew how to use it.
Margaret knew how to use it.
She reached over with her elbow and closed the door, which had swung back toward her. It wouldn’t close completely now, but she didn’t want anyone going in or out without her knowing. The flat was small, and it didn’t take her long to identify the objects within. To the right of the door, a rudimentary kitchen with a dark hearth, a cupboard, and a small table.
A lone chair sat near the hearth, but it was unoccupied.
Her gaze slid to the left. The sound of a pistol cocking came from the small bed pushed against the wall. Margaret drew in a breath.
“Take one more step,” said the deep male voice, “and I’ll put a hole in your head.”
“And here I thought you’d be happy to see me.”
The figure across the room didn’t lower the pistol. Margaret didn’t move. “Holyoake?” she asked after a long silence.
“What the devil are you doing here?”
“Looking for you,” she said. “Could you lower the pistol, please?”
He lowered it, and she took a tentative step forward.
“When you disappeared from Liverpool, Baron sent me to find you.”
