Page 29 of Angel of Vengeance
She looked around. The room was spare, with a narrow but comfortable bed, a chair, and a bedside table with some books. The walls were of windowless stone. A riveted iron door stood at the far end, with a grated window, into which was set a small panel, also shut. A single taper burned on a table by her bedside. It was warm and dry—not at all like the Tombs—yet it had the feeling of a prison chamber.
Daisy tried to shake off the feeling of sleepiness. She felt grateful the man had not pressed himself upon her, but it also made her wonder: what was he after, if not that? She rose from the bed and went to the iron door; the handle was, as she expected, locked.
She went back to the bed and sat down. For the first time in months she was neither cold nor hungry. The clothes he’d given her were of good quality, a cotton dress and woolen shawl, along with clean, warm undergarments, stockings, and slippers.
She idly picked up one of the books on the bedside table and squinted at the title. The Light Princess, by George MacDonald. With a shock, she recognized it as a book her father had read to her as a child, about a princess who had no weight and floated everywhere. The unexpected sight of the book was like a knife twisting in her heart, and back flooded all the memories that, for five years now, she’d tried to suppress: her father, killed in the factory; her mother, dead of consumption; her little sister, dead of hunger—and herself now part of the lost sisterhood, forced like so many other penniless women to walk the streets in order to stay alive. She didn’t know what this man—this doctor—wanted, but he hadn’t tried to interfere with her; he’d promised to treat her with respect, and in fact he had, calling her “dear” and making sure she was warm and well fed.
She opened the book with a trembling hand.
Once upon a time, so long ago that I have quite forgotten the date, there lived a king and queen who had no children.
Reading was difficult and slow—it had been so long since she’d had anything of interest to read—and she found herself sounding the words out aloud as she went along. As she did so, more recollections came back—of her mother, teaching her to read. She felt so old and worthless now, so vile, even though she was only eighteen. If her father hadn’t been drawn into the machinery, they’d still be living in their three rooms down on Peck’s Slip at the bottom of Ferry, with the steamers coming and going and blowing their whistles, and maybe her with a seamstress job on Pearl Street and a young suitor bringing flowers—
She put the book down. What time was it? She got up from the bed again and went to the door. She knocked politely.
Nothing.
She knocked again, louder this time. “Hello? Dr. Leng?”
Again, nothing.
“Hello?”
She felt a twinge of alarm. What did he want? Despite his nice talk and the fancy meal and clean clothes, he seemed a strange, cold man, and thinking of him made her shiver.
Then she heard footsteps outside the door. She held her breath.
There was a grating of metal on metal, and the panel in the window grate slid open. The light beyond was dim, but she could see the doctor’s wet lips glisten as he spoke.
“Please do not discompose yourself,” he crooned. “All this will be over shortly. Forgive me for not playing the host at the present moment, but I have some pressing business to take care of. I assure you that, in the near future, I will be able to give you the benefit of my undivided attention.”
“But, Doctor, sir—?” Daisy began, then stopped when she noticed the little panel had already shut with a rusty scraping sound.
21
PENDERGAST WAITED WITH BLOOM on the seat of the large wagon, parked on Broadway across Longacre Square from Smee’s Alley. A winter wind blew across the empty intersection, bringing with it the smell of coal smoke and horse manure. The gas lanterns cast pools of yellow light at regular intervals in the sea of darkness.
Held out in Pendergast’s hand was a gold pocket watch, which both men examined closely. At one minute to nine precisely, Bloom nodded at Pendergast. A moment later a muffled explosion came from across the street, followed by the sound of collapsing brickwork. A great cloud of dust issued from the mouth of Smee’s Alley.
Pendergast turned to his companion. “Mr. Bloom, if you are as good at construction as you are at demolition, I shall be the first to cross the Brooklyn Bridge upon its completion.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Now, would you be so kind as to block the alleyway?”
Bloom urged the horses across the square and stopped directly before the alley, the horse prancing nervously as dust from the explosion billowed around them. The air, full of pulverized brick, slowly cleared—revealing that a portion of an empty tenement’s outer wall had collapsed into the alley, bricks strewn about.
On cue, the nine sandhogs converged on the scene, as if drawn by the noise.
“Gentlemen!” Pendergast called out. “You’ve come just in time. There’s been an accident—a wall of this tenement has collapsed, as you can see. Shoddy construction, naturally—unfortunate, but hardly uncommon. I want this alleyway permanently blocked off. In the wagon you will find all the tools and materials needed to erect scaffolding, shore up the walls, and begin repairs. We have no time to lose! Mr. Bloom, please see to it that the work is done correctly.”
“Yes, sir,” Bloom said, hopping off the wagon and crying out orders to the men. The sandhogs immediately began unloading. Pendergast also alighted to watch the process, drawing his greatcoat around his narrow frame.
Within ten minutes there came the sound of horns and motors, and then a firewagon arrived: pulled by four stout horses, uniformed men hanging off the sides. They came to a halt and leapt off, bell clanging.
“Over here, fellows!” Pendergast cried, approaching and waving his badge. “Alphonse Billington, at your service. I commend you on responding so promptly. I happened to be passing, and it was my great luck to enlist the workers that you see here to put things temporarily aright. Nothing to worry about—the collapse of a wall of an alley tenement. I have inspected, and there’s no fire or further danger of instability, thank the Lord.”
“All the same, we’d like to take a look, sir,” said the fire chief.