The Angel of Highgate by Vaughn Entwistle

card and his jaw clenched.
    The Tower, struck by lightning, collapsing masonry tumbling down on several terrified figures below.
    Garrette ground his molars, then swept up the cards with a deft movement.
    Overhead, the driver coughed liquidly, hawked and spat. A gleaming wad of phlegm flew past the carriage window and splattered in the gutter.
    The doctor sat plunged in thought, the deck of Tarot cards flexing in his hand. What he had seen in the reading disturbed him greatly. He began to shuffle them for a second reading, but was interrupted by the bruising drum of knuckles on the carriage door. He looked up at the face of a filthy gorilla framed in the window. The door opened and the carriage listed on its saggy springs as Mordecai Fowler squeezed aboard, his rank stink crowding in with him. The mobsman oofed as he sank onto the worn seat opposite.
    “Well?” Garrette said. “I trust you have it?”
    Fowler lifted his bowler hat and resettled it, offering a slack grin. “Ah, that,” Fowler began. “We had a bit of bother—”
    “Bother?” Silas Garrette’s face stiffened like hardening cement. “What do you mean, bother?”
    “We had company.”
    “Company? At Highgate? In the middle of the night?”
    “We almost ’ad her out the ground when this moxie shows up… and then this toff wiv a walking stick. He starts a barney, but Snudge gives him the cosh. I’m ready to finish ’im off when the sexton comes running wiv a bloody great gun. Nearly took me ’ead off.”
    “What on earth are you talking about?” the doctor barked, hurling a look of pure death.
    “A toff it were. Wiv a fancy walkin’ stick. He gimme this. Fowler tilted his head to show off a livid purple welt along his jawline. Fowler growled, “Ever I see that barsterd again…”
    The doctor’s brows arched skeptically. “He’s not dead?”
    Fowler squirmed. “No. Yeah. I dunno. Most like he is.”
    “Most like?” The doctor’s lip curled.
    Fowler gave a noncommittal shrug. “Good as, I reckon. Good as dead.”
    “But you failed in your primary mission.”
    Fowler forced a cheery laugh. “Not to worry, guvnor. No shortage of stiffs in this manor. The peelers dredge a fresh moxie out the Thames every other day—”
    “Fool!” Garrette spat. “This was no ordinary corpse. I can procure the stinking carcass of a diseased whore from any dozen of you flesh-peddlers. This was a unique specimen!”
    “Oh, you mean the stillborn? The mooncalf that done her in?”
    “Do not ever speak that word in my presence!”
    Fowler failed to see the rising anger in the doctor’s face and blundered on: “Hundreds of them sort flushed down the sewers every day.”
    The doctor lunged across the carriage with a demon’s ferocious speed and Fowler could only squawk to find the wicked keen edge of a scalpel pressed against his Adam’s apple. With his free hand the mobsman stealthily groped for the gnarled handle of Mister Pierce, only to feel the leather scabbard part in two and slide away as the spike hit the carriage floor with a
thunk
. Fowler’s eyes bugged. He had seen men who were fast with a blade before, but the doctor moved quick as a nightmare.
    “Listen to me, Fowler,” Garrette hissed. “I need these… children… for my studies. They are especially precious to me.” In the dim carriage, the twin rose disks of his pince-nez glowed luminous. The doctor’s posture finally relaxed. He drew back into the shadows on his side of the carriage, a venomous eel withdrawing into its sea cave. Fowler caught a brief flash of silver as the blade slipped back into the doctor’s coat pocket in one fluid motion.
    The mobsman shuddered and rubbed stubby fingers along his prickling windpipe, expecting them to come away red, but finding no blood. When he at last found his voice again, Fowler muttered: “I’ll keep me ears and eyes peeled.”
    He rummaged the floorboards until he snatched up Mister Pierce and the flapping ends of the leather