Devoured by D. E. Meredith

just a quick hop from Great Russell Street. His rooms were in a house on the corner, opposite a monstrous church, and as they reached his door, the bells rang out, a great peel of chimes calling the faithful to prayer.
    The sky was tin metal with great puffing clouds, and Flora was glad to be inside the narrow stairwell because she couldn’t help thinking they were being followed. But there was nothing, of course. And no one.
    Dr Canning had busied himself arranging the furnishings to ensure she had some privacy; this simple act of kindness to her, a maid and nothing more, not unnoticed, and Flora stayed in this little room of his for what felt like for ever.
     
    She sighed remembering all that had passed. It seemed like an age but was only two days ago. She swayed as she stood, the funeral card still in her hand.
    But then a tread on the stairs. A little tread and a creaking sound. Was it near, or far away? Her heart stood still. Her blood ran cold. There was nowhere to hide. She’d been right. Someone had followed them. How foolish. How ridiculously foolish to think they could pass unnoticed, for there is always someone prepared to sell a stranger’s life for practically nothing.
    The card dropped to the floor. She listened. Steps quite heavy coming up the stairs, nearer and nearer. She was panicking, but where could she go?
    When the bang on the door to the room came, it was loud. Like a hammer. Did they hammer her mistress’s head in? Is that what the footman said?
    Quick, think, for heaven’s sake, Flora, she begged herself, then, wild-eyed, looked at the window, pressing her face against it, knowing she could fit through, yes, but fall to her death? There were up five flights. It was certain. So instead, she simply waited. Until she heard the person move away again with a clack, clack, clack down the stairs.

SEVEN
     
     
     

BLOOMSBURY
     
    The banging at the front door was insistent, but it was the yapping which probably disturbed him. It was only seven o’clock in the evening but it was not uncommon for Professor Hatton to take to his bed by this time, if he’d been up all night. Perhaps it was his country upbringing which gave him the constitution of a larger man, because Hatton wasn’t robust-looking. He was sinewy, sharp featured, milk-pale. But despite his catatonic stupor, he sprang up fully dressed, already sensing the knock was for him, and headed down the stairs to see his friend, Roumande, patting the King Charles spaniel which was wagging its tail.
    ‘Forgive me, Adolphus. But something peculiar has happened. I waited an hour before I decided that it would be best to fetch you. I’m deeply troubled by something.’
    Hatton, asking nothing, immediately took his cane, his thick coat, and a derby, hoping that at least his friend had brought a carriage. But he hadn’t. ‘Are we walking then, Albert?’
    ‘I went round the block twice. I went in and out of a tavern, but it was no good. My mind wouldn’t settle. We’ve had a delivery, Professor.’
    ‘And will you tell me, in heaven’s name, what of? Or I am to be suspended in aspic, like one of your organs, Albert?’
    Roumande laughed and let the snow settle on his nose and his lashes, looking skywards. A cold beam from an ornate gas lamp highlighted the spot where he stood, a circle of white. A shimmer of ice.
    ‘Round and round the block, but nothing, and so I thought a puzzle is a puzzle. And I know how you love a puzzle, and Mr Broderig isn’t the only fellow in London with a hip flask.’ Roumande tapped the side of his coat. ‘She’s just along here a bit. The body collectors wouldn’t bring her all the way. Said they were unnerved by her.’
    ‘She? What sort of she?’ asked Hatton.
    ‘Another girl, Professor. From her ragged clothes, clearly a pauper.’
    By now, the two men were on the corner of Charterhouse Street. Roumande took Hatton by the arm and guided him down an alley. ‘It’s not much farther,’ he said, his voice