Page 65

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D ’A GOSTA HEARD THE TWO shots and, waving away the clouds of dust, saw Pendergast kneeling over someone on the floor—Constance, gasping, lying in a pool of blood. Nearby were two figures, their heads mostly gone. Muffled cries, moans, and calls for help came from scattered spots under the collapsed ceiling, primarily from the far end of the room.

“The children,” Constance said in a whisper. “The children got out.”

“We’re going to get you out, too,” Pendergast told her.

He eased Constance onto her back. Pulling off his coat, he tore it into strips, balled up one of them, and pressed it hard against her abdomen; Constance cried out once, then fainted. He then tied the remaining strips around her midriff in an improvised tourniquet.

“Go first and clear the way!” he called to D’Agosta, heaving Constance up and draping her over his shoulders. “Keep an eye out for any resistance!”

D’Agosta stumbled forward, Pendergast calling out directions through the wrecked house. They had to negotiate fallen beams and push aside sections of plaster and lath. The fire above was now working its way down with frightening speed, filling the corridors with smoke. They ran into a couple of Milk Drinkers, but they were disoriented and terrified, trying to find their own way out; the two groups ignored each other.

Finally they reached the central staircase and descended to the main floor. A tremendous amount of destruction in the reception area blocked the front door. Turning, Pendergast directed them through the salon instead.

“Take that battle-axe,” he said as they passed a suit of armor.

D’Agosta wrenched it from the knight’s hand with a rattle of steel. He’d always wondered if these suits of armor on display were real or not—he wondered no more; the axe weighed at least twenty pounds. They continued around to the side of the house to an oaken door. D’Agosta tried it, found it locked.

“Use the axe!” Pendergast said.

With a mighty swing, D’Agosta split the door down the middle; two more strikes opened it wide.

Pendergast carried Constance outside. They paused, coughing from the smoke and sucking in the fresh air. D’Agosta peered into the fading light; they had exited on the northern side of the mansion.

“Vincent,” Pendergast said, “go around to the mews and get the carriage.”

But just as D’Agosta was turning to run, wondering how the hell he was going to drive a carriage—assuming its horses were even hitched—there came a clatter of hooves… and then Leng’s barouche came flying out from behind the house and onto the drive. Murphy, sitting in the coachman’s seat, pulled on the reins and halted the stamping animals.

“Oh, my dear Lord!” Murphy cried, seeing Pendergast holding Constance, the two of them covered in blood.

“Who’s driving the clarence?” D’Agosta asked.

“Gosnold, sir. He insisted on coming along. Shall we follow them back to the mansion, guv?”

“No!” Pendergast said as he eased Constance’s body into the coach. He leapt in behind as D’Agosta climbed up next to Murphy.

“Longacre Square!” cried Pendergast. Then he murmured, to himself rather than the unconscious Constance: “That signal from Diogenes is our only chance.”

“ Hyaa! ” Murphy shook the reins and the horses took off at a gallop.