Everyone looked at Deverell. A slow smile curved his lips.
“The good sisters of the Little Sisters of Mercy off the Whitechapel Road have been caring for a young man who answers to the name of Jonathon Martinbury.” Deverell glanced at the note; his face hardened. “He was brought to them two weeks ago, the victim of a vicious
beating left to die in a gutter.”
Arranging to fetch Martinbury—they all agreed he had to be fetched—was an exercise in logistics. In the end, it was agreed that Leonora and Tristan would go; neither St. Austell nor Deverell wanted to risk being seen leaving or returning to Number 14. Even Leonora and Tristan had to be cautious. They left the house via the front door, with Henrietta on her lead.
Once on the street, the line of trees along the boundary of Number 12 screened them from anyone watching from Number 16. They turned in at the gate of the club and, much to Henrietta’s disgruntlement, left her in the kitchens there.
Tristan hurried Leonora down the back path of the club, then out into the alleyway behind. From there it was easy to reach the next street, where they hired a hackney and headed with all speed for the Whitechapel Road.
In the infirmary at the convent, they found Jonathon Martinbury. He looked to be a stalwart young man, squarish of both build and countenance, with brown hair visible through the breaks in the bandages wrapping his head. Much of him seemed bandaged; one arm rested in a sling. His face was badly bruised and cut, with a massive contusion above one eye.
He was lucid, if weak. When Leonora explained their presence by saying they’d been searching for him in relation to Cedric Carling’s work with A. J. Carruthers, his eyes lit.
“Thank God!” Briefly, he closed his eyes, then opened them. His voice was rough, still hoarse. “I got your letter. I came down to town early, intending to call on you—” He broke off, his face clouding. “Everything since has been a nightmare.”
Tristan talked to the sisters. Although concerned, they agreed that Martinbury was well enough to be moved, given he was now with friends.
Between them, Tristan and the convent’s gardener supported Jonathon out to the waiting hackney. Leonora and the sisters fussed. Climbing into the carriage severely tried the young man’s composure; he was tight-lipped and pale when they had him finally settled on the seat, wrapped in a blanket and cushioned by old pillows. Tristan had given Jonathon his greatcoat; Jonathon’s coat had been ripped beyond redemption.
Together with Leonora, Tristan repeated Jonathon’s thanks to the sisters and promised a much-needed donation as soon as he could arrange it. Leonora gave him an approving look. He handed her up into the carriage, and was about to follow when a motherly sister came hurrying up.
“Wait! Wait!” Lugging a large leather bag, she huffed out of the convent gate.
Tristan stepped forward and took the bag from her. She beamed in at Jonathon. “A pity after all you’ve been through to lose that one little piece of good luck!”
As Tristan hoisted the bag onto the carriage floor, Jonathon leaned down, reaching to touch it as if to reassure himself. “Indeed,” he gasped, nodding as well as he could. “Many thanks, Sister.”
The sisters waved and called blessings; Leonora waved back. Tristan climbed up and closed the door, settling beside Leonora as the carriage rumbled off.
He looked at the large leather traveling bag sitting on the floor between the seats. He glanced at Jonathon. “What’s in it?”
Jonathon laid his head back against the squabs. “I think it’s what the people who did this to me were after.”
Both Leonora and Tristan looked at the bag.
Jonathon drew a painful breath. “You see—”
“No.” Tristan held up a hand. “Wait. This journey’s going to be bad enough. Just rest. Once we’ve got you settled and comfortable again, then you can tell us all your story.”
“All?” Through half-closed lids Jonathon regarded him. “How many of you are there?”
“Quite a few. Better if you have to tell your tale only once.”
A fever of impatience gripped Leonora, centered on Jonathon’s black leather bag. A perfectly ordinary traveling bag, but she could imagine what it might contain; she was almost beside herself with frustrated curiosity by the time the carriage finally rolled to a halt in the alleyway alongside the back gate of Number 14 Montrose Place.
Tristan had first halted the carriage in a street closer to the park; he’d left them there, saying he needed to get things in place.
He’d returned more than half an hour later. Jonathon had been sleeping; he was still groggy when they stopped for the last time, and Deverell opened the carriage door.
“Go.” Tristan gave her a little push.
She gave Deverell her hand and he helped her down; behind him, the garden gate stood open, with Charles St. Austell beyond—he beckoned her through.
Their largest footman, Clyde, was standing behind Charles with what Leonora realized was a makeshift stretcher in his hands.
Charles saw her looking. “We’re going to carry him in. Too slow and painful otherwise.”