Grimly, Malcolm signalled to continue the hunt. Even Shahdi Feroz’s eyes had taken on a strained, hopeless look. The Ripper scholar clearly knew Catlin’s odds as well as Malcom did.
They reached the final, narrow stretches of Drury Lane where Wych Street snaked off to the left, along a route that would eventually be demolished to create Aldwych. That upscale urban renewal was destined to gobble up an entire twenty-eight acres of this mean district. They kept to the right, avoiding the narrow trap of Wych Street, but even this route was a dangerous one. The buildings closed in, ill-lit along this echoing, drizzle-shrouded stretch, and still the Alsatian shepherd strained eagerly forward, nose to the pavement. When they emerged at last into the famous Strand, another juxtaposition of wealth in the midst of slums, their first sight was St. Mary le Strand church, which stood as an island in the middle of the broad street.
Philip Stoddard muttered, “What the devil was after him, to send him walking down this way in the middle of the night?”
Malcolm glanced sharply at the stable master and nodded warningly toward the Shannons, then said, “I fear Miss Smith is greatly distressed.”
Margo was emitting little sounds of horror as she took in their surroundings. She had transferred her act to the Ripper scholar and clung to Shahdi Feroz’ arm as though to a lifeline, tottering at the end of her strength and wits. “Where can he be?” Margo was murmuring over and over. “Oh, God, what’s happened to him? This is a terrible place, dreadful . . .”