Part 26 (1/2)
”That also. Coleridge uses childlike rhyme and rhythm to make you feel that you are under opium's spell. In fact, he was under its spell when he wrote his poetry. But as much as it helped him create beauty, it destroyed his health. He tried desperately to gain his freedom, but it isn't easy to leave the pleasure dome.”
Shouts made the wagon stop. Bodies jostled the sides, shaking Emily awake.
”What's that noise?” she murmured.
”Inspector, you'd better get out here!” the driver yelled.
Becker and Ryan jumped hurriedly down, confronted by shadows storming from the fog.
A shrouded streetlamp revealed men holding swords, knives, rifles, and clubs.
”What's your business here?” one of the men demanded.
”I could ask you the same,” Ryan answered.
”But we know who we are, and you're a stranger.”
”We're police officers.”
”Look like beggars to me.” The smell of gin wafted from the man. ”The bloke next to you has a coat that's almost in rags.” The reference was to the knife slashes that De Quincey's attacker had inflicted on Becker's garment.
”And blood!” another man shouted, pointing.
One of the knife slashes had nicked Becker's chest, the blood now dried.
”Still has the victims' blood on 'im.”
”It's my own blood,” Becker told them. ”I'm an off-duty constable. This is Inspector Ryan. If you want to see a uniform, look at the driver.”
”Yes, the driver's wearin' a constable's uniform, but so was the killer when he slaughtered fifteen poor souls in a tavern. People first thought he was a sailor, but it turned out he was a constable. Dressed as a sergeant.”
”Not fifteen victims in a tavern,” Ryan insisted. ”Eight.”
”And six people in a surgeon's office!”
”Three,” Becker corrected him.
”How would you be so certain unless you was there! Uniform, my a.r.s.e. The killer was disguised as a policeman, so how can we believe a stranger wearin' a uniform?”
”Look, this other bloke has red hair peekin' under his cap!”
”Iris.h.!.+”
”Wait! I'll show you my badge!” Ryan reached into his coat.
”He's goin' for a knife!”
”Get 'im!”
The mob charged, pinning Ryan and Becker against the wagon. The impact knocked Becker's teeth together. A club struck his shoulder.
Ryan groaned.
Abruptly a woman screamed.
A man attacking Ryan swung toward the fog. ”Who's that?”
”Help!” the woman shrieked.
”Where?”
”There!”
”Help! He attacked me!”
Astonished, Becker saw a woman stumble from the fog. Her bonnet hung from her neck. Her coat was torn open, the top part of her dress ripped.
The woman was Emily.
”He grabbed me! He tried to-”
”Where?”
”Down that alley! A policeman! He ripped my dress! He tried to-”
”Let's go! The b.a.s.t.a.r.d's gettin' away!”
The mob raged past Ryan and Becker, disappearing into the fog toward where Emily pointed.
”Hurry,” Becker told her, helping her into the wagon.
Under the canvas roof, Becker heard Ryan jump up next to the driver. ”Get out of here fast.”
As the wagon jostled rapidly over the cobblestones, Emily fumbled to secure the top of her dress and to close her coat.
”Well done,” Becker told her.
”It was all I could think of.” Working to catch her breath, Emily adjusted her bonnet.
”And if that didn't distract them,” De Quincey indicated, ”this was the other plan.”
De Quincey had taken the lantern from its hook in the wagon and held it as if to throw it from the wagon.
”The crash when it landed and the explosion of flames might have confused them enough for you to escape into the fog.”
”But what about the two of you? The mob would have turned on you.”
”A short, elderly man and a young woman?” De Quincey shrugged. ”We were prepared to claim to be your prisoners. Not even drunkards would have thought we were dangerous.”
”But you are,” Becker said, studying them with admiration. ”You're two of the most dangerous people I ever met.”