benefit of the mob. She punctuated it with firm closing of the shop’s door.
Chapter 13
Gage helped me open the umbrella, and then I gripped his arm tightly and lowered my head, trusting him to guide us through the swarm of people. Mrs. Tolliver might have thought our garments ill-advised, but they did the trick as we knew they would. Because they screamed quality, and because Gage oozed quiet authority, the people gathered on North Bridge Street moved out of our way without thought. Even my lowered head was to be expected, given the fact that gentlewomen were supposed to be reserved and demure.
For the most part, the mob was a silent, sullen mass, huddling beneath their drab clothes as they grew damper in the rain. For some, this was the only manner in which they washed themselves, and the smell attested to it. Only the men gathered at the front, near the windows, seemed to be making a disturbance—banging on the glass and shouting from time to time as they tried to intimidate Mr. Heron. In truth, I suspected the two watchmen positioned under an adjoining shop’s eaves were all that kept them from hurling a rock through the window.
I felt more at ease once we’d maneuvered through the thickest part of the crowd, but unfortunately we’d been forced to stroll toward High Street, deeper into Old Town. And while we were not near the area that had seen the greatest outbreak of cholera, I couldn’t banish it from my thoughts. Just as I knew Gage couldn’t either. I felt highly conscious of my breathing and every person who came near me. Most physicians believed it was spread through an influence in the atmosphere, a miasma of bad air, which was more likely to afflict those who had weakened themselves by exposure to certain foods, intemperance, or dissolute behavior. This was why it was believed to linger over certain areas of the city and not others. Cholera morbus seemed to be transmittable without direct personal contact, but that didn’t mean that contact with an afflicted person could not also infect you.
At the corner of High Street, Gage steered us to the left, still keeping me close. We hurried past Carrubbers Close and a couple of pubs before veering left into North Gray’s Close. This passage was even narrower than Carrubbers, and the buildings overhead seemed to lean inward toward one another, almost blocking out the light completely. Nevertheless, we were mostly alone, and the sound of the crowd gathered on North Bridge Street had receded, absorbed by the craggy stone buildings.
With each step I grew more damp and miserable, the umbrella heavy in my hand as I held it high enough to shelter Gage. Normally, he would have carried it, but it would only have hindered his ability to defend us. An act that might still be needed as we inched our way down the hill of slick cobblestone. When finally we reached our carriage parked near the old Physic Gardens behind Trinity Hospital, I was shivering, my limbs stiff with cold.
“Next time we speak with Mr. Heron, I think we should visit him at his rooms instead,” I pronounced as Gage tucked a blanket around me to ward off the chill.
“You’re already sure there will be a next time?”
There was no subtlety in the fact that this was a leading question, and I waited until he stopped fussing with the wool covering and looked up at me to answer. “Aren’t you?”
“Well, yes.” He sat back with a sigh, turning to frown through the curtain of rain at the orphan hospital in the distance. “For one, we forgot to ask him about the sequel.”
I’d also realized this once it was too late to turn back and do anything about it. “Do you think he knows who Nathan Mugdock really is?”
Gage leaned forward to lift the opposite bench and retrieve his travel writing desk. “I don’t know.” He flicked open the brass latch to reveal the smooth mahogany writing surface and slid open the drawer to extract a sheet of paper. He paused, his lips flattening as he mulled over some unsettling thought. “But I do think he knows who killed Rookwood. Or at least he suspects it.”
I didn’t speak as he jotted off a quick request to the men he’d promised Mr. Heron he would send to help him move Rookwood’s things, the scent of ink mixing with wet wool inside the carriage. “Why didn’t you press him on it?”