The Passionate Friends. Meg Alexander

into an alley way.

      Wild with frustration, Dan retraced his steps. The delay had lost him his quarry.

      Damn Sebastian! Why must he always be one step ahead? Then common sense returned. At least his lordship had wasted no time in setting enquiries afoot. The Runner had seemed competent enough. His very appearance would make him inconspicuous in that nefarious area.

      Dan himself was unarmed. It hadn’t occurred to him to carry a weapon. Now, on reflection, he knew that the Runner had been right to stop him.

      Always a poor parish, in the previous century the Church Lane rookery had reached the depths of squalor with its population of hawkers, beggars and thieves. Every fourth building was a gin shop, where the verminous inhabitants could drink themselves into oblivion for a copper or two. Stupefied with liquor, they could forget the filthy decaying lodging houses in which they lived under wretched conditions.

      The narrow warrens and dimly lit courts had always attracted a transient population. Overcrowding was rife, and it was easy enough for the worst of criminals to cover their tracks, hiding in perfect safety among the teeming masses. They issued forth only to rob the unwary, and murder was a commonplace.

      Dan shuddered. He didn’t lack courage, but, unarmed, he’d be no match for a mob. He’d been a fool to think of entering that slum alone. His very appearance made him a tempting target. An attack might, at best, have left him injured. He could be of no possible service to Judith then.

      Meantime, the Reverend Charles Truscott had penetrated to the very heart of the thieves’ den. As a child he’d grown accustomed to the sight of the tumbledown hovels, the piles of rotting garbage in the streets, and the all-pervading stench.

      Now he had grown fastidious, and the smell which assailed his nostrils made him want to gag. Then his guide pushed open a door which swung drunkenly on its broken hinges, and beckoned him inside.

      “Up there!” The boy jerked a thumb towards a rickety flight of stairs and vanished.

      The preacher found that his stomach was churning, and he could taste bile in his throat. He was tempted to turn and flee, but he dared not risk the loss of all that had been so hard-won.

      He schooled his features into an expression of smooth benevolence, mounted the stairs, and knocked at the door which faced him.

      It swung open at his touch, and for a moment he thought the room was empty. He looked about him in disgust. He’d seen squalor in his time, but this was beyond all. Flies swarmed over a broken bowl of half-eaten food, and looking down, he saw that they had laid their eggs. The place was bare, except for a single chair without a back, and a battered wooden crate. A heap of rags lay upon the floor, but there was neither bed nor mattress.

      “Well, Charlie, how do you like it? A regular palace, ain’t it?” A face peered out at him from beneath the heap of rags.

      The preacher stared at his mother without affection.

      “What are you doing here?” he asked. “I thought you’d be long gone.”

      “In a wooden box? That would have suited you…”

      He was in full agreement with this sentiment, but he must not antagonise her.

      “I meant only that I thought you would have found a better place.”

      “Ho, yus? Look at me, Charlie!” With a swift movement she thrust aside the rags, and staggered to her feet. He was aware of the strong smell of gin.

      “You’re drunk,” he accused.

      “Drunk for a penny, dead drunk for twopence,” she jeered. “Well, son, how would you like to see me on a stage?” She thrust her face so close to his that the stench was overpowering.

      He hadn’t seen her for years, and now the raddled features shocked him. Nellie Truscott had been a beauty. Her looks were all she had had to offer in the marketplace. Now she was painfully thin, her hair grey and unkempt, and her face bloated with excess.

      He tried without success to hide his feelings, and his expression roused her to fury.

      “Quite the fine gentleman, ain’t you? Ashamed of your poor old mother? You done nothing to help me, Charlie. Now it’s time to pay.”

      “Don’t be a fool,” he told her roughly. “I’m naught but a poor parson.”

      “And on the way to being a rich one. You was always smooth, my lad. Now your lady wife will help me.”

      His face grew dark and the look in his eyes was frightening. She cowered away from him.

      “You’ll stay away from her,” he said softly. “Shall I remind you how I serve those who cross me?”

      She made a feeble attempt to placate him. “I shan’t do nothing you don’t like, but I must have money, Charlie. Even the men round here don’t want me now I’m sick…”

      The preacher had been about to grip her wrist. A reminder of his capacity for inflicting pain would have done no harm, but now he shrank back. Thank God he hadn’t touched her. He had no difficulty in guessing at the disease from which she suffered. It was a common cause of death in prostitutes.

      “Here!” He threw a handful of coins on to the wooden chest. “This is all I have with me.”

      “It ain’t much, Charlie. Can you come tomorrow?”

      “No, I can’t.” He was about to say more when a man and a woman entered the room.

      “It’s no matter, Nellie. Tomorrow we’ll all go up town to hear the Reverend preach. I hear it’s a rare treat.” The woman laughed, and even her companion smiled. They had him in their power and they knew it.

      The preacher ground his teeth, but he knew when he was beaten. With a sudden access of native cunning his mother had used her newfound knowledge of his coming fortune to surround herself with friends. She must have promised them a share.

      “I’ll come at the same time,” he said.

      Chapter Three

      Judith was puzzled. She’d promised to accompany the Reverend Truscott to the charity tea in aid of the foundling children. When he didn’t arrive she decided that she must have mistaken his instructions. Eventually, she went alone, only to discover that he had been called away on parish business.

      The next day, at her stepmother’s insistence, she stayed indoors to wait for his usual daily visit, but he did not arrive. That evening, a note was delivered to her, explaining that he would be away for several days in connection with a family matter. This did not trouble her unduly. In fact, it was something of a relief to be spared the need to agree with his sententious remarks.

      She took herself to task for this unworthy thought. No one was perfect, least of all herself, and if her betrothed seemed, at times, to be a little pompous, it was easy to forgive his didactic manner. He was a good man. That she believed with all her heart.

      She stayed in her sitting-room all morning, conscious of her own failings. She had not been entirely truthful with the man she was to marry. What would he say when he learned that she was actually writing a novel? It could not be considered a suitable occupation for a preacher’s wife, but the story begged to be written. Throughout each day she found herself composing further snatches of dialogue, or planning yet another scene.

      She was not destined to be left in peace for long. At nuncheon that day, Mrs Aveton made her displeasure clear.

      “Must I tell you yet again?” she cried. “You have not bought above one half of the items on your list. You put me out of all patience, Judith. Peace will return to this household only when you are wed and gone from here.”

      Judith doubted the truth of this statement. Mrs Aveton’s daughters were as ill-tempered as she was herself, and the servants were treated frequently to the sound of quarrelling, screams, and wild hysterics.