The Devlin Diary (40 page)

“Mrs. Devlin, you say?”

“Yes.”

Ravenscroft stalks off to speak to a man who looks to be one of the foremen. Edward casts his gaze over the construction site. The embankment is teeming with men, most of them hauling buckets of water or handcarts piled with soil from the riverbed. Oxcarts line up to take the refuse away. The manner in which the Fleet has been diverted seems to him ingenious, though he knows little of such things. A narrow footbridge runs along the top of the gate damming the west side and all the way to the east bank, spanning the river. On the opposite embankment, a huge hoisting machine with a swing crane, used to drop pilings in the river, stands unmanned and motionless. It looks forlorn, he thinks, like a giant tamed animal on a leash.

Other than that, the opposite embankment is empty. The swollen river rises over the crest, encroaching on the land. Not long ago the area was full of pigpens and dying vats. Only the soot-stained shanties on the far side of the cleared area still remain, their sagging backs turned to the river.

Mr. Ravenscroft returns with the foreman, who tells Edward that a
carriage matching that description was seen crossing Holborn bridge. Ravenscroft looks up at the sky with wonder. An expression of pure and ecstatic joy crosses his face. “Mr. Abbott!” he exclaims. “It’s stopped raining!”

Mr. Abbott responds with a surprised, I’ll-be-damned sort of grin.

“Dr. Strathern!” Mr. Ravenscroft gives Edward’s leg, still in stirrups, a fraternal squeeze. “It’s stopped raining!” Indeed it has, though Edward isn’t quite sure why it’s an occasion for such great happiness. Preoccupied, he nods his farewell and guides his horse toward the Holborn bridge.

He’s nearing the stone steps when a woman runs out of a narrow alley onto the embankment on the other side of the river. She stops, as if stymied by the rushing water. The denizens of this area are generally of the lower sort, poverty-stricken and unwashed, but this one is covered in mud. She seems to have rolled in it, in fact; her hair is matted and her face is so thoroughly streaked with grime that only a few patches of skin show through. Something silvery glints in one hand. With the other she pushes her hair back from her face. That one gesture tells him everything he needs to know.

“Hannah!” he shouts. She turns to look in his direction, but her eyes pass right over him as if she doesn’t see him. How can she not see him? He’s a man on a horse. He calls her name again, louder this time, but she continues to stare blankly across the river. Just as he is about to call out once more, a man races out of the same alley. He runs into her, and together they tumble to the ground.

“Hannah!” Edward puts the spur to his horse.

Maitland’s assault knocks the wind out of Hannah, and her head smacks hard against the earth. Her delay has proved disastrous. She would have kept running, but she thought she’d heard Edward’s voice. She manages to keep a grip on her knife as she falls to the ground, but as they struggle Maitland wrests it from her hand. Her attacker stands up and yanks her to her feet. A horse gallops down the rise leading from the Holborn bridge. By the time she recognizes who’s riding it, Maitland has the blade up against her throat.

Edward reins in his horse and jumps to the ground.

“Stay back,” Maitland warns.

Hannah swallows nervously, feeling the sharpened steel against her skin. Maitland has her wrists clenched behind her back, holding her as close to him as a lover might. His breath is moist and heavy in her ear.

“Let her go,” Edward says, venturing a few steps forward.

“Stay back,” Maitland repeats angrily.

“You hurt her and you’ll go straight to Tyburn.” Edward gazes steadily upon them, as if he imagines that by giving them his absolute attention the unthinkable cannot happen. If only it were true. Hannah knows how close she is to dying. One simple cut and she will have only minutes of life left.

“Let them string me up, I don’t care,” Maitland says. “Wait until the king gets an earful of my last dying words. I’ll tell the entire world what I know.”

Edward looks at Hannah, his eyes questioning. She nods almost imperceptibly: yes, he’s the one, he’s the murderer, keep him talking.

“What do you know?” Edward says cautiously.

“The princess was murdered and her killer allowed to go free. Even Charles, her own brother, sought no punishment for her murderer. His love for her was a lie.”

“What has this to do with Mrs. Devlin?” Edward takes another step forward. “Let her go.”

“Stay back,” Maitland shouts. He threatens Edward with the knife, then points it at Hannah’s throat again and pulls her with him as he backs up along the river. “I cannot let her live. She’ll try to stop me from doing what I must do, as will you.”

Maitland’s words send a chill through her. She has seen for herself the results of his deadly attacks; she knows better than to imagine that his threats are empty. And now he is starting to panic. His heart is pounding so hard that she can feel it beating against her back, feel his hand wrapped around her wrists dampening with sweat. Her own heart quickens in response. People do desperate things when they’re afraid.

Maitland glances back over his shoulder. At first she thinks he’s going to drag her into the water, then her feet touch down on solid
wood. The footbridge is perhaps four to five feet wide. There’s no railing, just a short, raised beam along each side. The river’s risen so high it nearly overtakes the bridge. A bunch of downed foliage is caught in the churning water on the upstream side; downstream, the muddy water roils away furiously, sloughing away the embankment as it flows to the Thames. Patches of algae dot the damp surface of the bridge, which vibrates from the force of the water rushing underneath. The raging river flings droplets in her face. The water is so cold that it stings.

He’s going to slit her throat and throw her into the river. Edward moves forward, but Maitland backs away; he won’t allow him to get too close. Any second now, Maitland will do it, will press the knife into her throat and cut the artery. How easy it must seem to someone who has killed so many times.

Is this it, Hannah wonders, my last few moments of life? She feels her senses heightened, an intense awareness of every sound, every scent, every sight: the rushing river, the odors of sodden earth and wet wood, coal smoke rising from chimneys and drifting into the rain-freshened air. Edward’s face, in which she sees every bit of passionate concern he has for her; his love, even. Yes, his love.
Edward’s face
. Will she forget his beloved face once she is dead? Or is this what she was meant to remember? It’s all so precious and fleeting. How could she ever have considered ending her own life?

Edward is poised, ready to lunge and to make one final desperate bid for her freedom. Maitland takes another step backward. Hannah feels a tug on her wrists, almost like a warning, just before Maitland’s foot slips. He instinctively throws his arms out to break his fall. The tip of the knife nicks her just under the jaw, a sensation that feels more like a burn than a cut. Maitland lands on his back and the knife sails from his hand, skidding in giddy circles across the bridge’s slick surface.

Edward jumps onto the footbridge, going for the knife, but Maitland reaches it first. He’s on his feet and has the weapon in hand as Edward barrels toward him. Hannah screams as the blade flashes in the air. Maitland buries it to the hilt in Edward’s shoulder. Edward cries out and staggers back, then tumbles from the footbridge into the upstream side of the river.

“Edward!” Even before his name leaves her lips, he’s disappeared under the tumultuous surface of the water.

Maitland turns toward her. He’s nearly close enough to have her in his clutches again when he abruptly stops and lets loose with a terrifying howl. He looks down in horror to see the knife embedded in his calf. An arm’s length away, Edward clings to the side of the bridge.

Breathing heavily, Maitland bends to extract the knife. Soon he will have the weapon in hand and threaten Hannah again, or Edward, who still hangs on to the bridge with both hands. Hannah knows what she must do, but still she hesitates; she has never taken a human life before. Edward sees her uncertainty, her vacillation. “You must!” Edward shouts. “Do not delay!”

Maitland straightens, his head rising up, his large green eyes fierce and resolute. He wields the knife high above his head, ready to strike. Hannah barrels forward, her arms outstretched, and shoves him hard in the chest. He yells, not from pain but from anger, as he stumbles back and falls into the river. Hannah watches, amazed at what she’s done, as Maitland is quickly swept away downstream.

Like everyone else on the west bank, Ravenscroft has heard the screams and seen the very end of the struggle on the footbridge. He shoves his way through the men who have filled the narrow span to look with alarm on Hannah and Edward, then he urges his men to pull Edward out of the water.

“It’s no use,” Edward tells him. “My leg’s trapped. There’s something else caught down there, and I can’t break free.”

Ravenscroft kneels down. “Is it one leg or both, Dr. Strathern?”

“Just the one.”

“Can you push at the obstruction with your other foot?”

“I’ve tried. It’s something large, a tree stump perhaps. It’s wedged in the footings next to my leg.”

Ravenscroft peers down into the turbulent river, then gets down on his knees to look closely. Already Strathern’s having a tough time keeping his head above water. Even though the rain has stopped, it could be hours before it’s low enough for a crew to get at the debris. How long can a man survive in this frigid water?

“Hold on,” Ravenscroft says to Edward, then instructs two of the men to keep a firm grip on the physician’s arms. Even before Ravenscroft has struggled to his feet and completely unbent his crooked body, even before he has looked into the eyes of Mr. Abbott or into those of Mrs. Devlin, he understands the choice he has to make. He can see quite clearly two divergent paths: one leads to his shining success, the implementation of his unprecedented invention, a changed London, a grateful king, respectful peers. On the other lies the destruction of all he has worked for, ruination, disgrace, imprisonment, and possibly even his own death. How long would he survive in one of the Tower’s arctic cells?

Abbott has quickly assessed the situation. “We’re going to have to open the dam, sir.”

After all Ravenscroft has worked toward, it has come down to this: his own glory, perhaps even everlasting fame, for the life of his friend. It would not be an exaggeration to say his only friend: a man who looks beyond his bent body, his gruff manner, his sometimes unappealing self, to see him for what he truly is, or at least for what he can be. Dr. Strathern has often been more kind in his assessment of Ravenscroft’s character than he is himself. He envisions a great, heavenly scale on which he weighs his two choices, and they do not seem at all equal; fame being as light as a feather and as easily swept away. A small, childish voice inside him complains,
It isn’t fair,
while his more rational self replies that of course it isn’t fair: what is? He must make a choice.

“Mr. Ravenscroft,” Hannah says. “Please.”

If he had not known it before—for what does he know of this kind of love?—he is in no doubt of it now; if the life of his good friend is lost, so too will be the woman who loves him.

“Of course,” Ravenscroft says. “Of course.” The outcome he will leave up to God. If it means his total ruin, then so be it. He turns to Abbott. “Get the men out of the Ditch, now. Go on, all of you. Spread the word. Abbott, what are you waiting for?”

The foreman glances down at Edward. “You’re going to need help, sir,” he says to Ravenscroft.

“I need your help to supervise the men and open the dam. Mrs. Devlin and I will do just fine. You have a family to think of, Mr. Abbott. Now be gone with you,” Ravenscroft says crossly.

Abbott nods solemnly. “Yes, sir, Mr. Ravenscroft.”

“Why is everyone leaving?” Hannah asks as they kneel down and each take hold of Edward’s arms.

“They have their job to do and we have ours. When the dam is opened, the water will rush to fill the empty riverbed and the current will be very powerful indeed. Powerful enough perhaps to take Edward with it. Or, in the worst case, the entire footbridge.”

“You mean you don’t know if this bridge will hold?” Edward asks. He’s shivering now, blue with cold.

“It worked on paper,” Ravenscroft admits, “but reality’s always a little different.”

They hear shouts from the riverbank as the oxen are whipped into action and, with a loping gait, turn the cog attached to the counterweight. As the dam slowly opens, the footbridge begins to shake violently and the ebbing water tugs at Edward’s body. The sound of the rushing river grows to a roar as it rages downstream and across stream and into the empty riverbed. It takes every bit of strength they possess to keep Edward in their grasp.

With a thunderous noise, the wall of water meets the wood framing of the filter apparatus, breaking it apart as if it were no more than a toy made of sticks. Monstrous cracking sounds, like bolts of lightning, reverberate across the river. Almost at once the water level falls a few feet, then, inch by inch, farther still. There’s a hushed sort of silence as the river settles into its new wider and calmer form. By peering over the side of the footbridge, Ravenscroft can see the tree limb caught next to Edward’s leg. He anchors his knees next to the raised beam and bends at the waist to grab hold of the tree limb and work it loose. With one last Herculean effort, he frees the limb from the footings and lets it fall from his hands to drift away in the current. Gasping and panting, he sits back. Then, together with Hannah, he helps pulls Edward out of the river and onto the footbridge. Strathern lays on his back, shivering, as Abbott and some others make their way over the Holborn bridge.

“We’ll need blankets and dry clothes, if you can round them up,” Hannah says, “and a carriage to take him home.” Ravenscroft rises and begins shouting orders as Hannah stays on the footbridge, hovering over Edward.