To Live and To Breathe (Could Be #2)

Chapter 44

The two of them crept up the stairs and listened. The pacing footsteps had stopped, and there was no other sound to break the stuffy silence of death than the ticking of a great grandfather clock in a room across the hallway from them.

"Right, what happens if Mr. Hund shows up again?" Timothy whispered, wishing the tingling presence of his phantom limb would go away. He hadn't noticed it until he'd stood, but it made walking quietly even harder than it usually was, and never had he wanted to walk quietly more badly.

"He won't." Sam looked up and down the hallway, then peered into the room with the clock, and at the railings of the staircase overhead. "I think he's probably gone to tell his master of our presence."

Timothy joined him with a frown. "What makes you think he's got a master to tell about us? Someone is pacing upstairs."

Sam began making his way to the front door, exhibiting an enviable ability to walk without making a sound. "I think he locked up the servants—at least, I hope he did. And anyway, he was Mr. Basken's butler. He could only stand to lose if his employer died, unless he had another reason for killing him."

"I told Jack you were smart ones," a voice mused from the stairs. "But why ever listen to John?" The steps creaked. "He's only got an extra mouth to feed. He's good for anything. Desperation is motivation."

Timothy's blood ran cold, the first real feeling he'd had since waking up in the cellar. Had they been spared by Mr. Hund to die at the hands of another? He backed up to the wall with a lurch, and looked from the stairs to Sam and back again. A confused expression passed across Sam's face, but he didn't have time to wonder at it. Timothy's fingers itched for his pocket knife.

John Bradley stepped into view at the bottom of the steps, holding Sam's cane like a bat. His pinched, wasted face was the more repellent in person, but there was an additional ugliness of bitterness that caused Timothy to recoil.

"What will you give me to let you go?" Mr. Bradley asked.

Sam laughed as if he were faint. "A guilt-free conscience."

Timothy did not think that now was the time for jest. He pulled his left pocket inside out, coins rattling to the floor, and crouched painfully to pick them up. It wasn't much. "I've got—I've got one thaler and fifty pence," he held it out. "At least two hearty dinners for you and your son."

Something like fierce amusement flashed behind Mr. Bradley's eyes. "It's a start. What about your leg? If I'm going to risk my butcher brother's wrath I ought to be well compensated."

Timothy thought his senses were failing him. "I beg your pardon?"

"There's buyers for that sort of thing," Mr. Bradley gestured at Timothy's foot with the cane. "My brother and I make a living in different ways. I sell items of interest, and he—the great Jack Bradley—murders innocents."

Had Timothy's coffee been tainted? "I fail to understand—" Jack Bradley?

Mr. Bradley swung the cane. "By my estimation you have another twenty minutes before my brother comes back after trapping you per master's orders. Your wooden leg and the thalers, or back to the cellar you go. Surely you understand that."

Timothy looked helplessly at Sam. Why were his ears ringing? He tried to breathe, but it seemed as if his lungs wouldn't work. How would they escape if he couldn't walk? It felt dreadfully like the day that Mrs. Bradley had threatened to burn his crutches, but this time he had nothing to fight back with. There were no parents in the next room, or parrot to remember hateful words. God, help us.

"No, sir," Sam said unexpectedly. "No. And it's cruel of you even to ask it."

Something in that left a bitter taste in Timothy's mouth. Before Mr. Bradley could scorn Sam's morals, Timothy slid down the wall and began tugging at the straps of his prosthetic. Sam gaped at him. "What are you doing? You can't really—"

It came loose, leaving Timothy feeling horribly naked and helpless. He offered it to Mr. Bradley, jaw clenched so tight his teeth hurt. "If robbing me of my freedom makes your good deed worth it, so be it."

Sam held out a hand to bar Mr. Bradley from reaching the prize. "You can't—"

"I can!" Timothy snapped. "And I'd rather live, if it's all the same to you."

He regretted being sharp the moment Sam retreated, but Timothy wanted very much to remain in the land of the living long enough to make it through next Sunday, and he couldn't do that if he was cut off now. Coming here had been Sam's idea. The thought rankled, even though Timothy knew it had been his choice that brought him along—here to this house with a corpse, imprisoned servants, and a man who wanted to sell him freedom at the cost of it.

It would be a long time before he'd be able to afford another prosthetic leg. His throat constricted.

Mr. Bradley took Timothy's wooden leg and his money with grim satisfaction, then retreated up the stairs. "I thought I heard a noise," he said sarcastically, passing out of sight, "but I suppose it's just the servants locked in the hall closet."

For a moment Timothy glared at Sam, and Sam avoided looking back, and then the latter offered his hand. "We have to go. The police will free the servants."

Timothy had no choice but to submit to being hauled to his feet and toted alongside Sam like a sack of flour. As soon as they'd struggled out of the house, Sam began to apologize.

Timothy cut him off in the middle. "I don't want to hear it," he growled. He had enough to do trying to remain standing on a leg too weakened to bear his full weight for long without suffering through apologies he knew he didn't deserve.

Sam fell silent again, and Timothy didn't dare look at him.

After another few minutes of struggling in silence, Sam deposited him on a doorstep. "I'm going to run," he said, already breathless, "and catch a cab to bring here for you. Then I'll go to the police."

Timothy settled against the building and crossed his arms, too angry to speak. He knew Sam was being practical, and the truth was he wouldn't have been able to make it much farther, but he didn't want to be treated as if he were a fragile thing. He wanted to be as useful as Sam—or anybody else with two feet—able to do the things they wanted to.

The unbearable thing was that his heart seemed to belong to someone whole. He wanted to go for the police. He wanted to be invulnerable to attack. He wanted to have a future that didn't depend on whether or not he could walk from one day to the next.

Every time he thought he'd make it, life proved that his abilities were nothing but an illusion.

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Jack the Ripper was officially active in crime for a few months during 1888, but it has been speculated committed murders until 1891.

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