The Infidel Stain by Carter M. J

Author:Carter, M. J. [Carter, M. J.]
Language: eng
Format: mobi
ISBN: 9780241966631
Publisher: Penguin Books Ltd
Published: 2015-04-29T16:00:00+00:00

I woke at six as the carters and cryers began plying their trade in the square and reached the Crown and Anchor well before seven. In the streets the hawkers were selling broadsides about ‘Woundy’s Monstrous Murder’ and the ‘Bookseller Butchered on His Own Press’. I purchased one. There was a lurid description of the discovery of the body which owed a great deal more to the author’s imagination than the actual circumstances, and no mention at all of Wedderburn and Blundell, nor thankfully of Blake and me.

I waited for Blake for nigh on an hour. When he did not appear I decided to go to his lodgings – concerned for his health, of course, but also secretly pleased to have a reason to see inside his living quarters. The morning was bright and the city seemed less unfriendly. I retraced our route of the day before through Covent Garden, across St Martin’s Lane and Leicester Square, asking for directions when I could not remember, feeling with some satisfaction that I was starting to know my way about. The shops in Dean Street were opening as I approached his door, a great solid panelled thing at least a hundred years old, I would have said. I gave two smart raps with the great curlicue of a tarnished knocker and waited. Then I gave another two.

Presently a throaty voice protested, ‘Awl right, awl right, doan wake the house!’ A large ill-tempered woman in a well-worn night bonnet and bed robe opened the door. She was wiping her hands on a dirty apron and was surrounded by an unpleasant, guttery smell.

‘My apologies. I’ve come to make inquiries after Mr Blake, madam. Is he in?’

‘You an’ everyone,’ she wheezed back grumpishly. ‘Dunno if he’s here. Doan tell me nuffin. Doan usually entertain guests. What’s your business?’

‘My own,’ I said, pushing past her. ‘What floor?’

‘Second,’ she said crossly. ‘And tell him to stop cooking those horrible furrin dishes. Stinks the place out.’

I took the stairs as quickly and quietly as I could, the rough drugget covering them dampening my steps. The smell receded as I reached the second floor. Another old door, studded with woodworm, three panels, slightly ajar.

‘Blake?’ I said, pushing the door open in one swift movement.

The room was cold.

He was on the floor, half on his side, his knees bent up to his stomach. One arm lay across his face, but I could see that he had taken a blow to the face. His nose and chin were smeared with blood and he had the beginnings of a black eye. Two men stood in the room: a very large one in a soft cap who stepped back in surprise when he saw me, and a shorter one in a grey worsted suit.

I threw myself at the taller man, catching him a blow full in the face. He staggered back, righted himself, brought up his fists and caught me in the stomach. I should have taken a fall but my blood was up and I threw myself on to him, driving my left fist, still holding my news sheet, into his face.

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