And finally, at one of the sagging, broken-windowed houses along a street where gaslights were as rare as police constables and chickens’ teeth, Lachley finally stopped. He unlocked a door and vanished into a tumble-down brick house with filthy, broken glass windows. These were dark. The house was silent, seemingly deserted. Jenna glanced at Noah, then Marcus. “What now?”
Noah was frowning thoughtfully at the door. “If we annouce ourselves, it might provoke him into panic-stricken, drastic action. I don’t want to give him time for that.”
The detective tested the door gently, then backed up and smashed his booted foot against the heavy panel. The lock splintered on the second try. Jenna dragged her pistol out of her pocket and rushed in on Noah’s heels. Marcus brought up the rear. They found a cheerless room empty of anything save bits of refuse and appalling drifts of filth along the floor. A swift search, downstairs and up, revealed only one inhabitant: an enormous black hound chained in a room near the back of the house. The dog had been dead for a couple of days, judging from the stench. Beside the hideous, putrifying corpse lay a rug someone had turned back. And under the rug could be seen the outlines of a trap door.
“Right,” Noah said briskly, pulling up the trap.
Marcus helped lift the planks while Jenna gulped back nausea. Stone steps, damp brick walls, the smell and splash of water . . . They could hear Lachley’s footsteps receding quickly and Jenna caught a faint flicker of light at the bottom of the hole, which vanished a moment later. Noah glanced up into Jenna’s eyes. The gun in Noah’s hand looked like part of the detective’s arm, an organic piece that had grown there, like the fine hairs on the back of Noah’s wrist and the chipped nails that tipped short, strong fingers. “I’d feel better if you stayed here.”