“Dr. Kostenka!” Shahdi Feroz cried. “You’re injured!”
He was snuffling blood back into his sinuses. Margo hauled a handkerchief out of one pocket and thrust it into his hand. “Come on, let’s clear out of here. We got what we came for. Pack this into your nostrils, hold it tight. Come on!” That, to Guy Pendergast, who was still intent on filming the riot with his hidden camera. “If we get to the Whitechapel Working Lads’ Institute now, we can scramble for the best seats at the inquest.”
That got the reporter’s attention. He turned, belatedly, to help steer Dr. Pavel Kostenka down the street and away from the mortuary riot. Margo escorted her shaken charges several blocks away before pausing at a coffee stall to buy hot coffee for everyone. “Here, drink this,” she said, handing Dr. Kostenka a chipped earthenware mug. “You’re fighting shock. It’ll warm you up.”
Dominica Nosette too, was battling shock, although hers was emotional rather than from physical injuries sustained. Margo got a mugful of coffee down her, as well, and Doug bought crumpets for everyone. “Here you go. Carbs and hot coffee will set you to rights, mates.” Pavel Kostenka had seated himself on the chilly stone kerb, elbows propped on knees, shabby boots in the gutter. He was trembling so violently, he had trouble holding Margo’s now-stained handkerchief against his battered nose. Margo crouched beside him.
“You okay?” she asked quietly.
He shuddered once, then nodded, slowly. When he lowered the handkerchief to his lap, he left a smear of blood down his chin. “I do believe you saved my life, back there.”