Jenna felt sick, trapped in the same room with him. “Noah, we have to find out where he lives.”
At her side, the young Irishman named Yeats gave a start and turned toward her. “Are you ill, sir?” he asked at once. “Dr. Lachley keeps a surgery in Cleveland Street, of course, but I daresay I wouldn’t go near it. The man’s raving, tonight. I’ve never seen him in such a state.”
Jenna took a risk. “Do you know anything about the girl that man Crowley was talking about?”
Yeats frowned, his intense eyes turning frosty. “No. And I don’t care to discuss filth with you, sir.”
Noah spoke up. “You misunderstand. Our friend, here,” he nodded toward Marcus, “is searching for his wife. She was the victim of foul play. This gentleman,” the detective nodded toward Jenna, “was escorting her from the docks the night of her arrival in London and was set upon, shot nearly to death. We are merely hoping that Dr. Lachley may help us. We’ve reason to believe he witnessed the lady’s abduction. Cleveland Street, you said? Thank you, sir. We’ll meet the good doctor there, no need to bother him now, while he’s busy with the lecture audience.”
Noah hustled them out of the hall, rushing Jenna and Marcus through the darkened museum, its collection of oddities and antiquities looming like something out of a horror flick. They finally reached the street. Picadilly was brightly lit, jammed with carriages as the fashionable and wealthy of London took to the streets in search of diverting entertainment. “We’ll have to reach his house before he returns,” Noah said grimly. “She must be there. We’ll break in and carry her out by force if the servants object. Hurry, there’s a cab rank further along.”