Page 36

TWENTY-EIGHT

T he old church and the cemetery on Wickford Lane were both in a state of deep neglect.

The small chapel was locked and shuttered.

The nearby graveyard was overgrown with weeds.

The gates stood open, sagging on their hinges.

There were no fresh flowers on the graves.

The monuments and crypts looming in the fog were badly weathered and, in many cases, cracked and broken.

Ursula made her way slowly through the stone garden of grave markers, searching for a weeping angel.

She gripped her satchel in one hand. The pistol was in her other hand, concealed beneath the folds of her gray cloak.

The mist was thickening rapidly. She could no longer see the iron fencing that surrounded the cemetery.

The fog was a good thing, she told herself. It gave her ample cover for what she intended to do.

For a few unnerving minutes she worried that she might not be able to locate the weeping angel. In the end, she nearly collided with one broken wing.

She stepped back quickly and looked at the figure guarding the entrance to a crypt. It was a large, stone angel in a weeping pose.

The wrought-iron gate that had once secured the opening to the burial vault stood open.

The muffled sound of a footstep somewhere in the fog sent a shock of icy fear through her. The blackmailer was somewhere nearby, watching her. She resisted the temptation to turn around and search for him. She told herself she must give no indication that she was aware that she had heard him.

She moved through the doorway of the crypt. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the low light. Between the windowless interior and the gray glow from the entrance she could barely make out the stone bench that had been designed as a place to sit and contemplate mortality.

She took the envelope out of her satchel and set it on the bench.

The task accomplished, she moved out of the crypt and walked steadily toward the front gates. She listened closely and thought she heard the soft thud of footsteps in the fog. They seemed to be moving toward the burial vault but she could not be certain.

She hurried out of the cemetery trusting that, with her gray cloak, she would soon vanish into the mist. She made certain her footsteps echoed on the pavement for a time, hoping to give the impression that she had left the scene.

Then, walking as quietly as possible, she ducked into the arched doorway of the church.

From where she stood, she could just barely make out the posts of the iron gates at the entrance to the fogbound graveyard. As far as she had been able to discern, it was the only exit from the cemetery.

She waited, her heart pounding at the prospect of what she intended to do.

For a time nothing moved in the mist. She began to fear that her plan had gone awry, that the blackmailer had eluded her.

Perhaps she had been wrong about the footsteps in the cemetery.

But surely he had been waiting and watching for her, she thought.

He would want to seize his payment quickly before some vagrant searching for shelter happened upon it by accident.

She was in the middle of trying to concoct a new plan in the event the first one failed when she saw a shadowy figure moving in the dense fog that pooled inside the cemetery.

She stilled, hardly daring to hope that her scheme had worked and not wanting to consider too closely what she intended to do next.

She had made up her mind. She must not lose her nerve.

The figure in the mist proved to be a man in a shabby greatcoat. The collar was pulled up around his neck and a low-crowned hat concealed his features. He paused at the gate, searching the vicinity. Ursula knew he could see very little in the fog.

The time had come to implement her plan.

The goal was to trap him inside the cemetery.

If she waited until he exited, he might take off running.

It was highly unlikely that she would be able to outrun him—not burdened as she was with several pounds of clothing—and the small pistol was not accurate at any great distance.

It was meant for the close confines of a gaming hell or a carriage or a bedroom.

She gripped both her nerve and the handle of the gun very tightly, steeling herself, and then she stepped out of the vestibule and went swiftly toward the cemetery gates. The blackmailer did not see her at first.

When he heard her light, rapid footsteps he swung around, alarmed. But by then she was only steps away.

“Stop or I will shoot,” she said.

Her fierce anger and determination must have been evident in her tone because the blackmailer let out a startled squeak of fear and retreated deeper into the cemetery. He ducked behind a nearby stone marker.

“Don’t shoot,” he yelled in a voice freighted with panic.

It was not the response she had anticipated. She had just assumed that when confronted by a dangerous weapon, the blackmailer would freeze and obey her every command. It was certainly what she had done when Rosemont had held her at gunpoint. Evidently not everyone behaved the same in a crisis.

It dawned on her that her only option was to stalk the blackmailer through the fogbound cemetery. She moved uneasily through the entrance, heading toward the gravestone that shielded the villain.

“Come out,” she ordered. “I won’t shoot unless you make it necessary.”

“No, please, it’s all a terrible mistake.”

The blackmailer leaped to his feet like a startled rabbit and dashed deeper into the cemetery.

“Bloody hell,” Ursula whispered.

Monuments and grave markers loomed everywhere. She began a methodical search. There was more scurrying and harsh breathing. She knew her target had changed positions yet again.

It occurred to her that the mad game of hide-and-seek could go on indefinitely.

The plan was not working as intended. Perhaps the best option was to retreat to the entrance and outwait the extortionist. He could not remain inside the cemetery grounds indefinitely.

She was edging cautiously toward the gates when she heard pounding footsteps in the fog—not hers and not the blackmailer’s, she realized. At least two more people had arrived on the scene.

“Damn,” Slater said. He came up behind Ursula and seized her forearm, yanking her to a halt. “What the devil?” He broke off, glancing down at the pistol. “You’ve got a gun?”

He snapped the weapon out of her fingers before she realized his intent.

“Give that back to me,” she said. A fierce desperation surged through her. “He’ll get away.”

“No,” Slater said. He raised his voice a little to call out into the fog. “Griffith?”

“I’ve got him,” Griffith shouted.

He appeared from behind a crypt holding the blackmailer by the collar of the greatcoat. The extortionist’s feet kicked wildly a few inches above the ground.

“Among his many tasks with the traveling theatrical group, Griffith was the one who guarded the day’s receipts and made certain no one got in to see the performance without paying the price of admission,” Slater explained.

“Put me down,” the blackmailer yelped. “I’m an innocent citizen. The crazy woman pulled a gun on me. What else could I do but run?”

Griffith looked at Slater. “What do you want me to do with him, Mr. Roxton?”

“Bring him here, Griffith. We’re all going to have a short chat and sort this out.”

Griffith plopped the extortionist down on both feet.

“Who are you?” Slater asked.

But for the first time Ursula got a good look at the blackmailer. Fresh outrage slammed through her.

“His name is Otford,” she announced. “Gilbert Otford. He works for that gutter rag, The Flying Intelligencer .”