As he spoke, he knelt at Stephen’s side, lifted his wrist to sound his pulse, used his handkerchief to bind the deep wound in his head, neatly explaining away the blood on the snowy linen. The stranger crouched beside him, expression deeply concerned.
“We must get him to safety at once! Here . . . cradle the poor man’s head and I’ll lift his feet. We’ll put him in my saddle and I’ll ride behind, keep him from falling. Alice, love, don’t look too closely, his head’s a dreadful sight, covered in blood.”
Lachley ground his teeth in a raging frustration and gave the man a seemingly relieved smile. “Capital idea! Splendid. Careful, now . . .”
Ten minutes later the man he’d come all this way to murder lay in a bed in a Greenwich Village doctor’s cottage, in a deep coma and not—as the doctor said with a sad shake of his head—expected to survive. Lachley agreed that it was a terrible tragedy and explained to the village constable what had occurred, then gave the man his name and address in case he were needed again.
The constable said with genuine concern, “Not that there’s likely to be any inquest, even if the poor chap dies, it’s clearly an accident, terrible freak of an accident, and I appreciate your help, sir, that I do.”
The bastard who’d come along at just the wrong instant gave the constable his own name, as well, a merchant down from Manchester, visiting London with his younger sister. Lachley wanted to snatch the lead sap out of his pocket and smash in the merchant’s skull with it. Instead, he took his leave of the miserable little physician’s cottage while the constable arranged to contact James Stephen’s family. It was some consolation, at least, that Stephen was not likely to survive much longer. And, of course, even if Stephen did live, the man would not realize that the blow which had struck him down had been an intentional one. The story of the accident would be relayed to the victim by the constable, the village doctor, even his own family. And if Stephen did survive . . .
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