and surprise. His legs kicked out ineffectually as he scrabbled back against the wall. With a backward glance â the bottomless black in the amber eyes betraying no fear â the fox slunk off in search of easier prey.
Someone had given him a right going-over. His head felt as if it had been stamped on. His nose was bleeding â the blood must have been what attracted Reynard â and, judging from his difficulty in breathing, at least a couple of ribs were cracked. His clothes â but not the ground â were damp. Sweat? He sniffed his fingers gingerly. Unfortunately not. The bastard or bastards had pissed on him. Foxes didnât eat asparagus.
Wincing and cursing, he dragged himself upright and leaned against the wall. He swore even more when he realised his wallet and notebook had gone. The key was still in his pocket though. Why hadnât it been taken? Perhaps his assault had nothing to do with the Callingham case or George Fewtrell. The police had said he was a target. Nevertheless, what had he done to deserve this? To urinate on someone was to show them utter contempt. Anger stung him into action. He had to get out of these clothes.
Wardrobe Place was round the corner but he wasnât going to let Corser or Wauchope see him like this. Besides, he wouldnât accept charity from a pair of liars. Actually, when he thought about it, they hadnât lied: they had only misled him. Corserâs reply to the question of Fewtrellâs whereabouts â âHe couldnât wait, Iâm afraidâ â was worthy of a Jesuit. It wasnât the same as saying: âHeâs already left.â Similarly, âparochial businessâ could hide a multitude of sins. He needed to grill the priests again. An unchristian image of St Lawrence on the gridiron came to mind. For now though he would let the sleeping dog-collars lie.
What about The Cock? Smithfield was a lot closer than Islington. He would no doubt be calling on the Bennions later in the day. There was no point in disturbing them now. He could just see Stellaâs father staring at him in dismay, thinking how could he possibly look after his daughter when he couldnât even look after himself. No, the sensible thing was to go across the road from the pub and use the emergency department at Bartâs. The News would pay.
He saw stars when he started walking, even though his eyes were on the ground. The dizziness and nausea came in waves. He hugged himself but his ribs stabbed him viciously each time he stumbled. It was impossible to take more than the shallowest of breaths.
St Andrewâs Hill seemed far steeper than he remembered. As he crossed Carter Lane and entered Creed Lane, which would take him up to St Paulâs, he heard the welcome sound of a cab approaching. Raising his arm caused more pain, but the thought of his wounds being dressed by a sexy, sympathetic nurse gave him strength. The lane was badly lit, and the driver didnât appear to have spotted him, so he stepped off the pavement and, wincing once again, waved at the taxi. The cab was on the point of swerving out of the way when its brakes were slammed on.
âWhat you playing at? Trying to get yerself killed?â The unshaven cabbie glowered at him. Even in this weather he was wearing a flat cap. âMy ticker nearly burst out me chest.â
âIâm already half-dead. Iâve been attacked.â Johnny breathed in and out rapidly. Surely he wasnât going to faint? âI really need to get to Bartâs.â
The driverâs eyes narrowed. He sniffed suspiciously then let out the clutch and pulled away, not caring that Johnny was leaning into the open window. âFucking tramp!â
Johnny, whose nose was now blocked with bloody mucus, had momentarily forgotten how vile he smelt. He trudged on, up Ave Maria Lane, down Warwick Lane â where he was forced to rest on a bench outside Cutlersâ Hall, and
Someone had given him a right going-over. His head felt as if it had been stamped on. His nose was bleeding â the blood must have been what attracted Reynard â and, judging from his difficulty in breathing, at least a couple of ribs were cracked. His clothes â but not the ground â were damp. Sweat? He sniffed his fingers gingerly. Unfortunately not. The bastard or bastards had pissed on him. Foxes didnât eat asparagus.
Wincing and cursing, he dragged himself upright and leaned against the wall. He swore even more when he realised his wallet and notebook had gone. The key was still in his pocket though. Why hadnât it been taken? Perhaps his assault had nothing to do with the Callingham case or George Fewtrell. The police had said he was a target. Nevertheless, what had he done to deserve this? To urinate on someone was to show them utter contempt. Anger stung him into action. He had to get out of these clothes.
Wardrobe Place was round the corner but he wasnât going to let Corser or Wauchope see him like this. Besides, he wouldnât accept charity from a pair of liars. Actually, when he thought about it, they hadnât lied: they had only misled him. Corserâs reply to the question of Fewtrellâs whereabouts â âHe couldnât wait, Iâm afraidâ â was worthy of a Jesuit. It wasnât the same as saying: âHeâs already left.â Similarly, âparochial businessâ could hide a multitude of sins. He needed to grill the priests again. An unchristian image of St Lawrence on the gridiron came to mind. For now though he would let the sleeping dog-collars lie.
What about The Cock? Smithfield was a lot closer than Islington. He would no doubt be calling on the Bennions later in the day. There was no point in disturbing them now. He could just see Stellaâs father staring at him in dismay, thinking how could he possibly look after his daughter when he couldnât even look after himself. No, the sensible thing was to go across the road from the pub and use the emergency department at Bartâs. The News would pay.
He saw stars when he started walking, even though his eyes were on the ground. The dizziness and nausea came in waves. He hugged himself but his ribs stabbed him viciously each time he stumbled. It was impossible to take more than the shallowest of breaths.
St Andrewâs Hill seemed far steeper than he remembered. As he crossed Carter Lane and entered Creed Lane, which would take him up to St Paulâs, he heard the welcome sound of a cab approaching. Raising his arm caused more pain, but the thought of his wounds being dressed by a sexy, sympathetic nurse gave him strength. The lane was badly lit, and the driver didnât appear to have spotted him, so he stepped off the pavement and, wincing once again, waved at the taxi. The cab was on the point of swerving out of the way when its brakes were slammed on.
âWhat you playing at? Trying to get yerself killed?â The unshaven cabbie glowered at him. Even in this weather he was wearing a flat cap. âMy ticker nearly burst out me chest.â
âIâm already half-dead. Iâve been attacked.â Johnny breathed in and out rapidly. Surely he wasnât going to faint? âI really need to get to Bartâs.â
The driverâs eyes narrowed. He sniffed suspiciously then let out the clutch and pulled away, not caring that Johnny was leaning into the open window. âFucking tramp!â
Johnny, whose nose was now blocked with bloody mucus, had momentarily forgotten how vile he smelt. He trudged on, up Ave Maria Lane, down Warwick Lane â where he was forced to rest on a bench outside Cutlersâ Hall, and
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