Ashley Gardner - A Regimental Murder

London, 1816

A new bridge was rising to cross the Thames just south and east of Covent Garden, a silent hulk of stone and scaffolding slowly stretching its arches across the river. I walked down to this unfinished bridge one sweltering July night through darkness that belonged to pickpockets and game girls, from Grimpen Lane to Russel Street through Covent Garden, its stalls shut up and silent, along Southampton Street and the Strand to the pathways that led to the bridge.

I walked to escape my dreams. I had dreamed of a Spanish summer, one as hot as this, but with dry breezes from rocky hillsides under a baking sun. The long days came back to me and the steamy rains that muddied the roads and fell on my tent like needles in the night. The warmth took me back to the days I had been a cavalry captain, and to one particular night when it had stormed and things had changed for me.

Now I was in London, Iberia far away. The damp warmth of cobblestones caressed my feet, soft rain striking my face and rolling in little rivulets down my nose. The hulk of the bridge was silent, a dark presence not yet born.

That is not to say it was deserted. A street theatre distracted passersby on the Strand and game girls stood at the edges of the pavement. A threesome of burly men, arm in arm and smelling of ale, pushed through singing a happy tune off-key. They slithered and dodged among wheeled conveyances, never loosening their hold on one another. Their merry song drifted into the night.

A woman brushed past me, making for the tunnel of darkness that led to the bridge. Droplets of rain sparkled on her dark cloak, and I glimpsed beneath her hood a fine, sculpted face and the glitter of jewels. She passed so close to me that I saw the shape of each slender gloved finger that had held her cloak, and the fine chain of gold that adorned her wrist.

She was a furtive shadow in the midst of the city night, a lady where no lady should be. She was alone-no footman or maid pattered after her, holding slipper box or lantern. She was dressed for the opera or the theatre or a Mayfair ballroom, and yet she hastened here, to the dark of the incomplete bridge.

She interested me, this lady, pricking the curiosity beneath my melancholia. She might, of course, be a high flyer, an upper-class woman of dubious reputation, but I did not think so. High flyers were even more prone than ladies of quality to shutting themselves away in gaudy carriages and taking great care of their clothes and slippers. Also, this woman did not carry herself like a lady of doubtful morals, but like a lady who knew she was out of place and strove to be every inch a lady even so.

I turned, my curiosity and alarm aroused, and followed her.

Darkness quickly closed on us, the soft rain our only companion. She walked out onto an unfinished arch of the bridge, slippers whispering on boards laid over stones.

I quickened my steps. The boards moved beneath my feet, the hollow sound carrying to her. She looked back, her face pale in the darkness. Her cloak swirled back to reveal a dove gray gown, and her slender legs in white stockings flashed against the night.

She reached the crest of the arch. The rain thickened, a gust of wind blowing it like mist across the bridge. When it cleared, a shadow detached itself from the dark arms of scaffolding and moved toward her. The woman started, but did not flee.

The person-man or woman, I could not tell which-bent to her, speaking rapidly. The lady appeared to listen, then she stepped back. "No," she said clearly. "I cannot."

The shadow leaned forward, hands moving in persuasive gestures. She backed away, shaking her head.

Suddenly, she cried out, turned, started to run. The assailant lunged at her, and I heard the ring of a knife.

I ran forward. The assailant-male-looked up, saw me coming. I was a large man, and I carried a walking stick, within which was concealed a stout sword. Perhaps he knew who I was, perhaps he'd seen me and my famous temper at work. In any event, he flung the woman from him and fled.

She landed hard on the stones and boards, too near the edge. I snatched at the assailant, but his knife flashed in the rain, catching me across my palm. I grunted. He scuttled away into the darkness, disappearing in a wash of rain.

I let him go. I balanced myself on the slippery boards and made my way to her. To my left, empty air rose from the roiling Thames, mist and hot rain and foul odors. One misstep and I would plunge down into the waiting, noisome river.

The woman lay facedown, her body half over the edge. Her cloak tangled her so that she could not roll to safety, and her hands worked fruitlessly to pull herself to the firm stones.

I leaned down, seized her about her waist, and hauled her back to the middle of the bridge. She cringed from me, her hands strong as she pushed me away.

"Carefully," I said. "He is gone. You are safe."

Her hood had fallen back. The jewels I'd glimpsed were diamonds, a fine tiara of them. They sparkled against her dark hair, which lay in snarls over her cloak.

"Who was he?" I asked in s gentle voice.

She looked about wildly, as though unsure of who I meant. "I do not know. A-a beggar, I think."

One with a sharp knife. My hand stung and my glove was ruined.

I helped her to her feet. She clung to me a moment, her fright still too close.

Gradually, as the rain quieted into a soft summer shower, she returned to herself again. Her hands uncurled from my coat, and her panicked grip relaxed.

"Thank you," she said. "Thank you for helping me."

I said something polite, as though I had merely opened a door for her at a soiree.

I led her off the bridge and out of the darkness, back to the solid reality of the Strand. I kept a sharp eye out for her assailant, but I saw no one. He had fled.

Our adventure had not gone without attention. By the time we reached the Strand, a small crowd had gathered to peer curiously at us. A group of ladies in tawdry finery looked the woman over.

"Why'd she go out there, then?" one remarked to the crowd in general.

"Tried to throw herself over," another answered.

"Belly-full, I'd wager."

The second nodded. "Most like."

The woman appeared not to hear them, but she moved closer to me, her hand tightening on my sleeve.

A spindly man in faded black fell in beside us as we moved on. He grinned, showing crooked teeth and bathing me with coffee-scented breath. "Excellent work, Captain. How brave you are."

I knew him. The man's name was Billings, and he was a journalist, one of those damned insolent breed who dressed badly and followed the rich and prominent, hoping for a breath of scandal. Billings hung about the theatres at Drury Lane and Covent Garden, waiting for members of the haut ton to do something indiscreet.

I toyed with the idea of beating him off, but knew that such an action would only replay itself in the paragraphs of whatever scurrilous story he chose to write.

The curious thing was, the lady seemed to recognize him. She pressed her face into my sleeve, not in a gesture of fear, but betraying a wish to hide.

His grin grew broader. He saluted me and sauntered off, no doubt to pen an entirely false version of events for the Morning Herald.

I led the lady along the Strand toward Southampton Street. She was still shaking and shocked and needed to get indoors.

"I want to take you home," I said. "You must tell me where that is."

She shook her head vehemently. "No." Her voice was little more than a scratch. "Not home. Not there."

"Where, then?"

But she would not give me an alternate direction, no matter how much I plied her. I wondered where she had left her conveyance, where her retinue of servants waited for her. She offered nothing, only moved swiftly along beside me, head bent so I could not see her face.