Breaths of Suspicion Read Online Free PDF

conveyance to take us to my chambers, or those of my companion, whom I recalled vaguely as being lodged near to the Inner Temple.
    We staggered forward, Jervis’s arm firmly lodged in mine, and I cursed Lewis Goodman roundly under my breath: this was not the manner in which I was accustomed to ending my nights on the town. Additionally, this evening there was a certain complaisantlady, neglected wife of a laudanum-addicted baronet, waiting expectantly in St John’s Wood … but she would have to wait. At least looking after Jervis would serve to cancel a pecuniary transaction with the night club owner.…
    We were some twenty yards from the corner that debouched into the main thoroughfare of the Strand when they materialized out of the haziness of the fog. There were three of them, broad-shouldered , flat-capped, hulking apparitions, armed with cudgels. They emerged from a side alley and were making their way directly towards us but their approach was neither hesitant nor indeterminate: I instantly realized that we were targets. Whether they had been lying in wait for specific individuals emerging from the night house, or we simply happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time I had no opportunity to determine.
    You, my boy, as a man of the sea, you will have knowledge of dockside brawls, no doubt, and your mother has often told me you do not lack bravery. But as for me, well, I have no hesitation in confirming that I had never been over-endowed with physical courage, and I must admit that my first inclination at a possible confrontation was always to turn and run, but my companion’s arm was still linked with mine and he chose this inopportune moment to gently slide towards the cobbles, sighing deeply, clearly dizzy, finally overcome by the night air, and befuddled with drink. As the thugs advanced on us I tried desperately to drag Jervis to his feet, turn with me and run back to hammer at the closed doors of the night house we had just left but he complained drunkenly and incoherently, clinging to my arm like a dead weight as the three villains grew closer. I caught a glimpse of raised cudgels and knew we were done for: the area was well known for being haunted by garrotters and I feared the worst. I struggled to release myself from young Jervis’s grip so I could take to my heels and leave him to his fate but he hung on tightly in his drunken stubbornness and his weight brought me down with him so that I myself stumbled tomy knees. In panic I raised my free arm instinctively to protect my head. There was a swishing sound, and I felt a sharp pain on my forearm, but it was a glancing blow, merely. There would be further blows, I knew, and more crushing. I was on my knees, and John Jervis was huddled against me, helplessly, grunting out the garbled words of some obscene drinking song. There was a stamping of feet, a whirling of bodies, and I heard the clashing of cudgels but amazingly I felt no more blows raining down upon me.
    Scraping and stamping and shouting and swearing, heavy breathing, hobnailed boots striking sparks on the cobbled road: I felt I was in the middle of some crazed whirligig and a heavy body suddenly thudded into me, knocked me sideways and then rolled beside me on the cobbles before rising hurriedly again, scrambling back into the darkness behind him. A confused shouting still whirled around me; there was the stink of sweat in my nostrils and I lowered my protective arm, looked fearfully about me to make out bodies closely locked, struggling in some kind of stamping, macabre dance in the drifting fog. A further clashing of cudgels, and a stray heavy boot thudded into my ribs, but I got the impression it was a wayward blow, not even directed towards me. But it slammed the breath out of my lungs and I sank down again, winded. I still feared the worst. But there were no more blows, I heard the clattering of running feet, caught a glimpse of vague outlines fading into the wisps of fog and then a