Paul was worried that there was something wrong with her yet determined not to let Hannah see that he was there because she might be tempted to spurn him in public. His greatest fear, of course, was that she’d already elected his deputy and would depart on the arm of one of the baying admirers. Most were older than him but there was a clutch of younger men, handsome, debonair and patently wealthy. Hannah would have a free choice.
It was an hour before they learnt the devastating truth about Belvidera. Coming out to confront them and raising his voice, the stage doorkeeper delivered the news for which they’d patiently waited.
‘Miss Granville has already left, gentlemen,’ he said with a twinkle in his eye. ‘She went off through the front entrance some time ago.’
There was a concerted groan of disapproval and annoyance. Unlike the rest of them, Paul was not hurt or fractious. Because he knew how much she relished male attention, he was concerned that she’d gone out of her way to evade it. Something was definitely amiss with Hannah Granville. He spent the whole of the long walk alone wondering what on earth it could be.
Nights were the worst. Though the bed was relatively comfortable, Anne Horner rarely slept for any length of time. She lay in the gloom with only the guttering candle to stave off complete darkness. During the day, she was at least able to see a small patch of sky through the grating. When that disappeared, she felt horribly alone and vulnerable. The worst thing about her imprisonment was that she had no idea what had prompted it or how long her incarceration would last. The woman who’d brought her food would answer no questions and stayed for less than a minute. She merely told Anne that she wouldn’t be harmed then locked the door again.
Yet, in her view, Anne had already been harmed. She’d been frightened by the attack on her, roughly handled, threatened with punishment, taken to a house, dragged down to the cellar and forced to endure dreadful conditions. Every day brought a succession of harmful assaults on her mind, body and emotions. The appearance of the woman had momentarily lifted her expectations but they’d been instantly crushed. It was the man who came next time, remaining silent, bringing her food and – to her intense embarrassment – taking out the bucket to empty and wash it out before returning it for further use. The stink might have lessened temporarily but she felt that her privacy had been invaded.
There were a few improvements. To while away the time, she was given some old newspapers to read and, because she obeyed orders not to yell for help, she was given freedom of movement in the cellar and allowed bigger meals. Unable to eat a morsel at first, she now devoured all the food put in front of her, if only as a way to break the soul-destroying boredom of her situation. For the rest, she was left completely alone. Early fears that the man would molest her in some way had now faded away. Like the female accomplice, he was not interested in Anne Horner as a person. They had kidnapped her for a purpose yet she still had no inkling of what that purpose might be.
One thing was certain. Nobody would come to rescue her. If she wanted to get out of her prison cell, she would have to take matters into her own hands.
It was time to plan her escape.
Donal Kearney was still throbbing with anger. When he’d been badly beaten in the fight with Moses Dagg, he’d lost some of his old authority. Instead of being able to swagger around the tenement, he now tended to skulk. Neighbours, who’d hitherto been afraid of him, actually dared to mock him, albeit from a safe distance. Kearney blamed Dermot Fallon for letting the two strangers stay with him. As long as Dagg and O’Gara were there, the chimney sweep was in danger. He had to find a means of getting rid of them. Since he was not on speaking terms with Fallon or his wife, Kearney had to move stealthily.
‘What did he say?’
‘Thar you was knocked out by the black ’un.’
‘What did he say about those two men?’
‘Thar the black ’un was stronger than you.’
‘That’s not what I asked you to find out.’
‘Isn’t it?’
‘No, you fool.’
‘Oh … I’m sorry.’
‘I wanted to know why they’re there.’
The boy let out a howl of pain as his father smacked him hard across the face, leaving a black palm print on his cheek. Niall Kearney was the youngest of the brood, a skinny, wide-eyed urchin of five years or so. He’d been ordered by his father to play with one of the Fallon children in the hope that he’d learn something about the two men who’d moved in with them. Grabbing his son by his shoulders, Kearney shook him until the boy cried out for mercy.