THE SHADOW OF THE HANSOM  Being the Remarkable Adventures of the Lady of the Carriage A Romance of Victorian London PROLOGUE In Which a Phantom Appears Upon the Rooftops of London The year of our Lord 1883 had drawn to its melancholy close, and the great metropolis of London lay shrouded in that peculiar darkness which only a December fog can bring. The gas-lamps along the Strand burned like dim stars through the yellow-grey veil that crept up from the Thames, casting their feeble light upon streets where the wealthy hurried to their clubs and theatres, while in the shadowed alleys beyond, the poor huddled in doorways, seeking what meagre shelter they could find from the biting cold. It was upon such a night, when the fog lay thickest upon the city, that the first whispered tales began to circulate among the cabmen of London. Old Thomas Grimes, who had driven his hansom along these streets for nigh upon thirty years, was the first to speak of it—though his fellow drivers were inclined at first to attribute his story to an excess of gin at the Cock and Crown. "I tell ye, I saw her plain as I see you now," Grimes insisted, his weathered hands trembling as they clutched his tankard. "She come down from the roof like a shadow, she did, while my cab was stopped at the crossing by Charing Cross. The gentleman inside—some toff with a gold watch-chain thick as my thumb—he never knew what happened. She was through that trapdoor quick as a wink, and out again with his pocket-book before the horse had taken three steps." "And you saw this female person yourself?" asked young Billy Hawkins, his eyes wide with wonder and scepticism in equal measure. "Saw her?" Grimes laughed, though there was little mirth in the sound. "She stood upon the roof of my very cab, bold as brass, and raised her finger to her lips as if to seal my silence. Then she was gone—up the side of the building like a cat up a drainpipe, and over the roof-ridge before I could draw breath to shout." Thus was born the legend of the Lady of the Carriage—or, as she would come to be known among the press-men who later chronicled her exploits, the Shadow of the Hansom. In those early days, however, she was merely a phantom, a whisper in the fog, a story told by cabmen over their ale to while away the long hours between fares. But stories, like fog, have a way of spreading. Within a fortnight, similar tales were being told across the city—from the fashionable squares of Mayfair to the teeming thoroughfares of the City. A mysterious woman, dressed in black from head to toe, with a veil obscuring her features, was seen to descend upon moving hansom cabs from the rooftops above. She would enter through the roof-hatch, relieve her victims of their valuables with the dexterity of a trained conjurer, and vanish once more into the night—sometimes scaling the very walls of buildings, sometimes leaping from roof to roof with an agility that seemed almost supernatural. Her targets were invariably the wealthy—the bankers, the industrialists, the lords and ladies who rode in comfort while the poor froze in the streets below. And it was this peculiar characteristic that first caught the attention of Inspector Edmund Blackwell of Scotland Yard, when the initial reports began to cross his desk in the second week of January. "A female burglar who preys exclusively upon the upper classes," Blackwell mused, stroking his greying moustache as he reviewed the accumulating pile of reports. "How very singular." Singular indeed. For London had known its share of criminals—pickpockets and footpads, housebreakers and confidence men—but never in the annals of the Metropolitan Police had there been a thief quite like this. A woman who operated not from the shadows of alleyways but from the very rooftops of the city itself, who struck with the precision of a surgeon and vanished like a ghost, who seemed to possess abilities that defied both gravity and reason. What Inspector Blackwell could not have known, as he sat in his office at Scotland Yard on that cold January morning, was that the woman who would soon occupy so much of his attention was no ordinary criminal. She was, in her own strange fashion, something of a revolutionary—a creature of the new age that was dawning, when the old certainties of class and privilege would begin to crumble before the rising tide of change. Nor could he have guessed that before their strange dance was concluded, the Shadow of the Hansom would challenge not only his skills as a detective but his very understanding of justice itself. But all that lay in the future. On this particular evening, as the fog rolled in from the river and the gas-lamps flickered in the damp air, the mysterious woman was preparing to strike again—and this time, she would leave behind a clue that would set the whole of London talking. CHAPTER ONE In Which the Shadow Claims Her First Notable Victim The hansom cab numbered 4,209—a vehicle well-known to the regular patrons of the West End—was making its way along Pall Mall at precisely half-past nine on the evening of January the fifteenth, when the extraordinary occurrence took place which would transform the Shadow of the Hansom from a cabman's tale into a matter of national sensation. The passenger within was none other than Sir Reginald Ashworth-Crewe, Bart., a gentleman whose name was familiar to every reader of the financial pages, and whose fortune—derived from the ownership of several Lancashire cotton mills—was estimated to be in excess of two hundred thousand pounds. Sir Reginald was returning from his club, the Athenaeum, where he had spent the evening in discussion with several fellow-members regarding the inadvisability of extending the franchise to the working classes. "The lower orders," Sir Reginald had declared with the confidence of a man who had never known a day's hardship, "lack both the education and the moral fibre necessary for the exercise of political power. Give them the vote, and they will merely use it to plunder the pockets of their betters." How ironic, then, that within the hour, Sir Reginald himself would be plundered—not by the ballot box, but by a method far more direct and, to his mind, infinitely more shocking. The cab had just passed the Reform Club when the driver, a reliable man named Higgins, heard a sound from above—a soft thud, such as might be made by a bird alighting upon the roof. Thinking nothing of it, for pigeons were common enough in that part of London, he continued on his way. It was only when he drew up before Sir Reginald's residence in Belgrave Square and opened the front panel of the cab that he discovered something was amiss. Sir Reginald Ashworth-Crewe sat in his seat, apparently unharmed but in a state of profound agitation, clutching his silk hat in one hand and groping at his waistcoat with the other. "My watch!" he exclaimed, his face flushed with indignation. "My pocket-book! My diamond pin! All gone—taken from my very person while I sat here!" Higgins, understandably alarmed, examined the interior of the cab with his lantern. The mystery deepened with every moment of inspection. The doors were still locked from the inside—the driver had not opened them since Sir Reginald entered at the Athenaeum. The windows were closed and fastened. There was no possible means by which anyone could have entered the compartment. And yet, enter someone clearly had. For there, upon the leather seat beside Sir Reginald, lay a single object that had not been there when the journey began: a small card of heavy black stock, upon which was printed in silver lettering the image of a hansom cab, and beneath it, the words: "From those who have taken much, a little is reclaimed." It was the calling card of the Shadow of the Hansom—and with its discovery, the game began in earnest. CHAPTER TWO In Which Inspector Blackwell Begins His Investigation Inspector Edmund Blackwell was not a man given to superstition or fancy. In his twenty-three years of service with the Metropolitan Police, he had encountered criminals of every description—from the crudest footpad to the most refined swindler—and he had learned that even the most apparently inexplicable crimes invariably yielded to patient investigation and logical reasoning. But the case of the Shadow of the Hansom tested even his considerable powers of rational analysis. "The roof-hatch," he said, examining the cab in question on the morning following the robbery. "That is the only possible point of entry." "But, Inspector," protested Higgins, the driver, "the hatch is controlled by a lever at my seat. I never opened it, sir, upon my oath I didn't. And even if I had, how could anyone get down from the roof without my seeing them? My seat is at the back of the cab, sir—I have a clear view of the road behind." Blackwell stroked his moustache thoughtfully. "And you noticed nothing unusual during the journey? No sound, no movement?" "Nothing, sir. The fog was thick, to be sure, but I saw no one following us, no one on the street who looked suspicious. And I swear to you, sir, I never stopped the cab from the moment we left the Athenaeum until we reached Belgrave Square." "Yet someone entered this compartment, relieved Sir Reginald of valuables worth nearly five hundred pounds, and departed again without leaving any trace of their passage—except for this card." Blackwell held the black card up to the light, studying it with the eye of a connoisseur. The quality was excellent—heavy linen stock, engraved silver lettering, the work of a first-class stationer. This was no common thief who left such tokens; this was someone with taste, with education, with a flair for the dramatic. "The modus operandi," he murmured to himself, "is identical to the other cases. Entry through the roof-hatch, selection of wealthy victims, no violence employed, and always this card left behind. But how does she reach the roof of a moving cab? And how does she depart again without being seen?" It was the second question that most perplexed him. For while it was conceivable that an agile person might drop from a building onto the roof of a passing hansom—though the timing required would be extraordinary—the departure was another matter entirely. In every case reported thus far, the thief had vanished within seconds, leaving no trace of her passage. Unless... "Higgins," Blackwell said suddenly, "when you reached Belgrave Square, did you look up? Did you examine the roof of your cab?" The driver shook his head. "No, sir. I came around to open the door for Sir Reginald, same as I always do. I had no reason to look at the roof." "And the buildings near where the robbery occurred—were there any with overhanging cornices, or balconies, or any structure that might permit someone to step from the roof of the cab to the building?" Higgins considered. "Well, sir, there's the houses in Pall Mall, of course. They all have them stone ledges above the windows, and some have balconies. But Inspector—even if she climbed from the cab to a balcony, she'd still have to get down from there, wouldn't she? And those houses are three, four storeys high." "Yes," Blackwell agreed. "She would have to get down. Or... up." For the first time since he had taken up the case, Inspector Blackwell felt a flicker of something that might have been excitement—or perhaps apprehension. He was beginning to form a theory, one so extraordinary that he hardly dared to voice it even to himself. But if he was correct, then the Shadow of the Hansom was no ordinary criminal. She was something quite unprecedented: a thief who had turned the very architecture of London itself into her accomplice. "I want men posted at every major intersection between the West End and the City," he ordered his subordinates. "Plain clothes, mind—you're to observe without being observed. And I want a complete list of every building along the main cab routes that has a roof accessible from the street, or that adjoins another building with such access." "You think she travels across the rooftops, sir?" asked Sergeant Wilkins, a young man whose ambition exceeded his experience. "I think," Blackwell replied carefully, "that we are dealing with someone who possesses abilities that go far beyond the ordinary. Whether those abilities are natural or acquired, I cannot yet say. But I intend to find out." As his men dispersed to carry out his orders, Blackwell remained standing beside the hansom cab, staring up at the grey London sky. Somewhere above him, he felt certain, the Shadow of the Hansom was watching—planning her next move, selecting her next victim, laughing at the futile efforts of the police to apprehend her. But Inspector Blackwell was not a man to be easily discouraged. If the thief wanted to play a game, then a game she would have. And he had every intention of winning. CHAPTER THREE In Which the Shadow Strikes Again—and a Pattern Emerges The second week of February brought with it a spell of unseasonably mild weather, and the citizens of London emerged from their winter seclusion to take the air in Hyde Park and along the Embankment. The wealthy displayed their newest carriages and their finest equipages, while the poor—those who had the leisure to do so—watched from the sidelines with that peculiar mixture of envy and resentment that is the inevitable product of gross inequality. It was upon one such afternoon, when the sun shone weakly through the haze of coal-smoke that perpetually hung over the city, that the Shadow of the Hansom struck again. Her victim on this occasion was Lady Constance Harrowby, wife of the prominent railway magnate Lord Edgar Harrowby. Lady Constance was returning from a shopping expedition to the new department store in Oxford Street—a temple of commerce that had lately become the favourite haunt of fashionable ladies—and her hansom was proceeding along Park Lane when the incident occurred. Unlike Sir Reginald Ashworth-Crewe, Lady Constance was not a passive victim. She was, by her own account, a woman of considerable spirit, and when she detected the movement of the roof-hatch above her, she did not sit quietly and await her fate. Instead, she reached into her reticule and withdrew a small but serviceable hat-pin, which she brandished with determination. "I saw her face," Lady Constance told Inspector Blackwell later that evening, her voice still trembling with a mixture of indignation and excitement. "She dropped through the hatch like—like a spider descending upon its prey. But I was ready for her, Inspector. I jabbed at her with my pin, and I believe I may have drawn blood." "You wounded her?" Blackwell asked, leaning forward with interest. "I believe so. But she was—she was so quick, Inspector. She caught my wrist and twisted it most painfully, and before I knew what had happened, she had relieved me of my pearls and my purse. And then she was gone—up through the hatch and away." "And the driver? Did he see nothing?" "He claimed to have heard a sound upon the roof, but when he looked back, he saw no one. It was only when I screamed that he stopped the cab—and by then, of course, she was long gone." Blackwell made notes in his methodical fashion. "You said you saw her face, Lady Constance. Can you describe her?" The lady hesitated. "She wore a veil—a black veil that covered her features. But it slipped, Inspector, when I struck at her with my pin. Just for a moment, I saw her face." "And?" "She was young. Not more than five-and-twenty, I should say. And—and she was beautiful, Inspector. Not in the common way, but with a kind of wild beauty, like a creature of the forest. Her eyes were grey, I think, or perhaps green—it was hard to tell in the dim light. And her hair was dark, very dark, pulled back beneath a kind of cap." "Did you notice anything else? Any scar, any mark, any distinctive feature?" Lady Constance shook her head. "Nothing. But there was something in her expression, Inspector—something I cannot quite describe. She looked at me not with hatred, nor with greed, but with—how shall I put it?—with pity. As though she felt sorry for me. For me! Can you imagine?" Blackwell could imagine, though he chose not to say so. He was beginning to form a picture of his quarry, and it was not the picture of a common criminal. The Shadow of the Hansom was something else entirely—a thief with a conscience, a robber with a code, a woman who stole from the rich not for personal gain but for... what? That was the question that occupied his thoughts as he made his way back to Scotland Yard. What did she do with the money? The jewels she stole were easily worth thousands of pounds, yet no attempt had been made to fence them through the usual channels. The police informants in the underworld had heard nothing, seen nothing. It was as though the stolen goods simply vanished into thin air. Unless... Blackwell stopped in his tracks, causing a passer-by to collide with him and mutter a curse. He barely noticed. A thought had occurred to him—a possibility so unlikely that he had dismissed it out of hand when it first occurred to him. But now, as he considered the evidence, it began to seem less impossible. What if the Shadow of the Hansom was not keeping the money for herself? What if she was giving it away? The notion seemed absurd. A female Robin Hood, operating in the heart of Victorian London? And yet, it would explain so much. The selection of wealthy victims, the theatrical nature of the crimes, the calling cards left behind—all of it suggested not mere greed but a purpose, a mission, a crusade of some kind. He needed to know more. And there was one place, he realized, where he might find the answers he sought. The East End. For if the Shadow of the Hansom was indeed distributing her ill-gotten gains among the poor, it was there—in the teeming slums of Whitechapel and Spitalfields, in the rookeries of Bethnal Green and Shoreditch—that the evidence would be found. The wealthy victims might never know what became of their stolen property, but the poor who received it would remember. And they would talk—if one knew how to ask. Inspector Blackwell squared his shoulders and set off in the direction of the City. He had never been a man to shrink from unpleasant duty, and if his investigation required him to venture into the most dangerous quarters of London, then venture he would. But even he could not have foreseen what awaited him in the darkness of the East End, or how profoundly his encounter with the Shadow's world would change his understanding of justice and mercy. CHAPTER FOUR In Which the Inspector Ventures into Darkest London The boundary between the respectable City of London and the notorious East End is not marked by any wall or gate, but the traveller who crosses it knows at once that he has entered a different world. The streets grow narrower and dirtier, the air thickens with the smoke of countless factory chimneys, and the faces of the passers-by take on a pinched, hungry look that speaks of lives lived on the very edge of destitution. Inspector Blackwell, who had spent his career policing the relatively orderly streets of the West End, found himself profoundly affected by the conditions he encountered as he made his way through Whitechapel on the evening following his interview with Lady Constance. He had read the reports, of course—every police officer had—of the overcrowding, the poverty, the disease that ran rampant through these slums. But reading about such things and seeing them with one's own eyes are very different matters. He walked along Commercial Street, where the gas-lamps cast their fitful light upon crowds of ragged men and women who huddled in doorways or gathered around the stalls of costermongers selling wilted vegetables and dubious meat. Children—thin, pale children with enormous eyes—played in the gutters or begged for pennies from the better-dressed passers-by. The smell was indescribable: a mixture of sewage, industrial waste, and human misery that seemed to cling to everything like a physical presence. And yet, amid the squalor, Blackwell noticed something that surprised him. There was a kind of community here, a solidarity among the poor that he had not expected to find. He saw neighbours sharing what little food they had, saw old women tending to the sick, saw young men offering their arms to the elderly. These were not the degraded creatures described in the sensational press; they were human beings, struggling to survive with what dignity they could muster. His destination was a public house known as the Jolly Sailor, situated in a narrow court off Flower and Dean Street. It was not the kind of establishment that a respectable police officer would normally frequent, but Blackwell had received information that it was a gathering place for those who knew the secrets of the East End—and he was prepared to buy whatever information was on offer. The interior of the Jolly Sailor was dim and smoky, filled with the smell of stale beer and unwashed bodies. Blackwell made his way to the bar and ordered a pint of porter, which he had no intention of drinking. The landlord, a burly man with a scar running down one cheek, eyed him with suspicion. "You ain't from these parts," he observed. "No," Blackwell agreed. "I'm looking for information." "Information costs money." Blackwell placed a sovereign on the bar. "I'm interested in a particular individual. A woman, dressed in black, who may have been distributing money in this neighbourhood." The landlord's expression did not change, but Blackwell noticed that his hand trembled slightly as he reached for the coin. "Don't know what you're talking about, guv." "I think you do. I think everyone in this neighbourhood knows. The question is whether they're willing to talk." For a long moment, the two men stared at each other. Then, slowly, the landlord leaned forward. "You'd best come in the back, guv. This ain't a conversation for public ears." The back room of the Jolly Sailor was even less prepossessing than the front, consisting of little more than a table, two chairs, and a window that looked out upon a brick wall. But it was private, and that was what mattered. "Now then," the landlord said, settling into a chair, "what's a copper doing asking about the Lady?" "The Lady?" "That's what we call her. The Lady of the Shadows. She's been coming here regular, these past three months—always at night, always dressed in black, always with a purse full of gold." "She gives money to the poor?" The landlord laughed, though there was little humour in the sound. "Gives? That's one way of putting it. She don't just give, guv—she seeks out those who need it most. The widow with six children and no means of support. The man crippled in the factory accident. The girl who's turned to—well, to a life she'd rather not lead, just to put bread on the table. The Lady finds them, somehow, and she helps them." "And in return?" "Nothing. That's the strange part. She asks for nothing—no favours, no loyalty, no silence even. She just gives, and goes, and leaves behind enough to keep a family from starvation for a month or more." Blackwell frowned. "This is hard to credit. A thief who steals from the rich and gives to the poor? It sounds like something from a penny dreadful." "Maybe so. But I've seen it with my own eyes, guv. My own sister—she was dying of the consumption, see, and we had no money for a doctor. The Lady came to her, in the middle of the night, and left enough to pay for the best medical care. My sister's alive today because of her." "And you have no idea who she is? Where she comes from?" The landlord shook his head. "She's a ghost, guv. She appears and disappears like a shadow. Some say she's a fallen gentlewoman, turned criminal by cruel circumstances. Others say she's a foreigner—a Russian princess, or an Italian contessa, or some such. Me, I don't care who she is. I just know she's done more good in this neighbourhood than all the charity societies and missionary groups put together." Blackwell was silent for a long moment, digesting this information. If what the landlord said was true—and he had no reason to doubt it—then the Shadow of the Hansom was indeed a kind of female Robin Hood, stealing from those who had too much and giving to those who had nothing. But that did not make her any less a criminal. The law was the law, and Blackwell was sworn to uphold it. If the Lady of the Shadows was breaking the law, then she must be brought to justice—no matter how noble her motives might be. "I need to find her," he said at last. "I need to know where she will strike next." The landlord regarded him with a mixture of pity and contempt. "You won't catch her, guv. She's too clever for that. She knows every rooftop in London, every alley, every hiding place. She's like a cat—nine lives, and always lands on her feet." "Perhaps. But every criminal makes mistakes eventually. And when she does, I will be there." He rose to leave, but the landlord's voice stopped him at the door. "Inspector—if you do catch her, what then? Will you drag her through the courts, make a spectacle of her for the amusement of the newspapers? Will you see her transported, or hanged perhaps, for the crime of helping those that society has forgotten?" Blackwell did not answer. He was not sure he knew the answer himself. As he made his way back through the darkened streets of Whitechapel, he could not shake the feeling that he was caught in a drama larger than himself—a drama that pitted not merely thief against policeman, but two different visions of justice against each other. The law said that property was sacred, that theft was wrong regardless of the victim's wealth or the thief's motives. But his heart—his heart was beginning to whisper a different truth. He thought of the children he had seen playing in the gutters, of the old women huddled in doorways, of the countless lives blighted by poverty and despair. And he thought of Sir Reginald Ashworth-Crewe, with his two hundred thousand pounds and his contempt for the lower orders, and Lady Constance Harrowby with her pearl necklace worth more than a working man would earn in a lifetime. Was it justice that allowed such inequality to exist? Was it justice that condemned thousands to starvation while a few lived in luxury? These were dangerous thoughts for a police officer, and Blackwell tried to push them aside. He had a duty to perform, an oath to uphold. The Shadow of the Hansom was a criminal, and criminals must be caught. But as he emerged from the East End and made his way back to the respectable world of Scotland Yard, he could not help wondering whether the true criminal was the thief who stole to feed the hungry, or the society that made such theft necessary. CHAPTER FIVE In Which the Lady Reveals Her True Name The winter of 1883-84 was one of the coldest in living memory, and the suffering in the East End reached proportions that even the hardiest residents found difficult to bear. The workhouses were filled to overflowing, the charitable institutions were overwhelmed with appeals for assistance, and in the streets, the weak and the elderly succumbed to the cold with a regularity that horrified those who kept count. It was in these circumstances that the Shadow of the Hansom became more than a mere curiosity or a subject for sensational journalism. She became, to the poor of London, a kind of folk hero—a symbol of hope in the midst of despair, a proof that even in the darkest times, someone cared for their welfare. The newspapers, ever eager for a story that would sell copies, began to take notice. "The Female Robin Hood of London" screamed the headlines of the penny press, accompanied by lurid illustrations showing a masked woman in black descending from the rooftops to rob wealthy passengers in their carriages. The respectable papers were more circumspect, but even they could not ignore the phenomenon. Editorials were written debating the morality of the Shadow's actions; letters poured in from readers expressing opinions that ranged from outright condemnation to fervent admiration. Inspector Blackwell, meanwhile, pursued his investigation with a dogged determination that bordered on obsession. He had spent weeks mapping the routes taken by the Shadow's victims, analyzing the patterns of her attacks, studying the architecture of the buildings along those routes. He had learned more about the rooftops of London than any man alive—knew every chimney-pot, every gutter, every fire-escape that might provide a means of passage through the aerial world above the streets. And slowly, painstakingly, he had begun to understand her methods. She was, he realized, not merely a thief but an athlete of extraordinary ability. The way she moved across the rooftops—the witnesses who had caught glimpses of her described it as something between running and flying, a kind of dance that carried her from one building to the next with apparent effortlessness. She must have trained for years, he thought, developing the strength and agility necessary for such feats. But there was something more. She knew the city in a way that suggested intimate familiarity—knew which roofs were strong enough to bear her weight and which would collapse under the slightest pressure; knew which chimneys provided handholds and which were too crumbling to trust; knew the patterns of the night watchmen and the habits of the constables on their beats. This was not the knowledge of a casual criminal. This was the knowledge of someone who had made the rooftops of London her home. It was this realization that led Blackwell to the discovery that would change everything. He had been investigating the history of the buildings along Park Lane, where Lady Harrowby had been robbed, when he came across a curious story. Thirty years earlier, the house at number 147 had been owned by a family named Vane—an old aristocratic family that had fallen on hard times. The last of the Vanes, a girl named Eleanor, had been raised in that house by her grandfather, the old Lord Vane, after her parents died in a carriage accident. But Lord Vane had been a gambler and a wastrel, and by the time Eleanor was fifteen, the family fortune was exhausted. The house was sold to pay debts, and Lord Vane died shortly thereafter, leaving his granddaughter penniless and alone. What had become of her, Blackwell wondered? The records showed that she had been sent to live with relatives in the country, but there the trail ended. No marriage record, no death certificate, no trace of Eleanor Vane in any official document after 1868. But Blackwell was not satisfied. He continued to dig, and eventually he found an old servant who had worked in the Vane household—a woman now in her seventies, living in a charitable institution in Southwark. "Miss Eleanor?" the old woman said, her eyes lighting up with memory. "Oh, she was a lovely child, Inspector. A bit wild, perhaps—her grandfather let her run free more than was proper for a young lady. She used to climb the trees in the garden, and once I found her on the roof of the house, just sitting there looking at the sky. 'I can see the whole world from up here, Martha,' she said to me. 'The whole world, and it's all mine.'" "She climbed onto the roof?" "Oh, yes. She was never happier than when she was up high. Her grandfather used to say she was part squirrel, the way she could scamper up a drainpipe. He thought it amusing—didn't see any harm in it." "And after the house was sold? What became of her?" The old woman's face clouded. "She ran away, Inspector. The night before she was to be sent to her relatives, she disappeared. Climbed out her window and down the ivy, they said, and vanished into the night. We never saw her again." "Did she have any money? Any resources?" "Nothing. Her grandfather had sold everything of value. But—" The old woman hesitated. "There was a story, Inspector. A rumour that went around among the servants. They said that Lord Vane, before he died, had told Miss Eleanor about a secret—a hiding place where he had kept some money, something he hadn't gambled away. They said she knew where it was, and that she took it when she ran away." Blackwell felt a thrill of excitement. This was it—the connection he had been seeking. Eleanor Vane, the girl who climbed roofs, who vanished into the night with a secret hoard of money, who had never been seen again. Until now. "One more question," he said. "Did Miss Eleanor Vane have any particular skills? Any training that might have helped her survive on the streets?" The old woman nodded. "Her grandfather hired a tutor for her—a foreign gentleman, from Italy or some such place. He taught her languages, and history, and suchlike. But he was also a gymnast, Inspector, one of those performers who do tricks on the high wire. He taught Miss Eleanor all his skills—how to balance, how to fall, how to move her body with precision and grace. She used to practice in the garden, walking along the walls and fences like a tightrope walker." It was enough. More than enough. Blackwell was certain now that he had identified the Shadow of the Hansom. Eleanor Vane, the dispossessed heiress, trained in acrobatics, familiar with the rooftops of London, possessed of a grievance against the wealthy class that had destroyed her family. But knowing who she was and catching her were two very different things. Eleanor Vane had spent fifteen years evading detection—she would not be easily trapped. If Blackwell was to apprehend her, he would need to be cleverer than she was, to anticipate her moves, to lay a trap that she could not escape. And he thought he knew just how to do it. CHAPTER SIX In Which a Trap Is Laid The plan was simplicity itself—or so Blackwell believed. He would bait a trap with the one thing the Shadow of the Hansom could not resist: a wealthy victim traveling in a hansom cab along a route she had used before. His chosen bait was Mr. Cornelius Van der Berg, an American millionaire who had lately arrived in London and made himself conspicuous by his extravagant expenditures. Van der Berg was everything the Shadow preyed upon: rich, ostentatious, and contemptuous of the lower classes. He had, in the space of a fortnight, managed to offend nearly everyone he met with his boasts about American superiority and his dismissive attitude toward English customs. Blackwell approached him through an intermediary—a society hostess who had connections to both the police and the fashionable world—and explained the situation. To his surprise, Van der Berg proved eager to cooperate. "A female burglar, you say?" the American exclaimed, his eyes gleaming with excitement. "By Jove, that sounds like a lark! You want me to ride in a cab and wait for her to drop in? I'm your man, Inspector—just say the word." "It may be dangerous," Blackwell warned. "She has not yet resorted to violence, but we cannot be certain how she will react if cornered." "Dangerous?" Van der Berg laughed. "I've faced grizzly bears in the Rockies and hostile Indians on the plains. I think I can handle one little lady." Blackwell did not share his confidence, but he had no better option. The trap was set for the evening of February the twenty-fourth—a night when the fog was expected to be particularly thick, providing ideal conditions for the Shadow's operations. The route was carefully chosen: from the American's hotel in Piccadilly, along Pall Mall and through Trafalgar Square, then northward toward his dinner engagement in Portland Place. It was a route the Shadow had used before, and Blackwell had reason to believe she would use it again. His men were stationed at intervals along the way—some in plain clothes on the street, others concealed in buildings overlooking the likely points of attack. Blackwell himself rode in a closed carriage fifty yards behind the bait cab, ready to move at a moment's notice. The first part of the journey passed without incident. The American's hansom made its way through the crowded streets, the driver unaware of the drama that was supposed to unfold. Blackwell watched from his window, his heart pounding with a mixture of anticipation and anxiety. Then, just as the cab was passing the National Gallery, it happened. Blackwell saw a dark shape detach itself from the roof of the building and drop—seemingly in defiance of gravity—onto the roof of the moving hansom. It was her. There was no doubt about it. The Shadow of the Hansom had taken the bait. "Now!" Blackwell shouted to his driver. "Close the distance—quickly!" His carriage surged forward, but even as it did, he saw the roof-hatch of the American's cab open, saw the dark-clad figure drop inside. In seconds she would have relieved Van der Berg of his valuables and be on her way—and this time, Blackwell was determined, she would not escape. He flung open the door of his carriage and leaped to the ground, running toward the hansom with a speed that belied his years. His men were converging from all directions, closing off the escape routes, surrounding the cab. "Surrender!" Blackwell shouted, drawing his pistol. "You are surrounded! There is no escape!" For a moment, nothing happened. The hansom continued to move forward, the driver apparently unaware of the drama taking place behind him. Then the roof-hatch opened, and the Shadow emerged. She stood upon the roof of the moving cab, and for the first time, Blackwell saw her clearly. She was tall and slender, dressed in a close-fitting costume of black velvet that covered her from neck to toe. A black mask concealed the upper part of her face, but her eyes—grey-green eyes that seemed to glow in the lamplight—were fixed upon him with an expression that was almost amused. "Inspector Blackwell, I presume," she said, and her voice was low and musical, with the accent of a gentlewoman. "I have heard so much about you." "Surrender," Blackwell repeated, though his voice lacked conviction. "You cannot escape." "Cannot?" She laughed, a sound like silver bells. "Watch me." And with that, she leaped—not to the street, where Blackwell's men were waiting, but to the facade of the National Gallery itself. Her hands found purchase on a stone ledge, her feet scrambled for a moment against the carved masonry, and then she was climbing—up, up, toward the roof with a speed and agility that took Blackwell's breath away. "After her!" he shouted, though even as he spoke, he knew it was futile. His men were not climbers; they were ordinary constables, trained for street policing, not for acrobatics. By the time they found a way to the roof, she would be gone. But Blackwell was not so easily defeated. He had anticipated this possibility, and he had prepared for it. Hidden among his men, waiting in the shadows of the building's entrance, was a figure that even the Shadow would not expect. A woman. Constable Mary O'Brien was one of the newest recruits to the Metropolitan Police—a young Irishwoman who had joined the force as part of an experimental program to employ female officers for certain duties. She was young and athletic, and she had a particular skill that Blackwell had thought might prove useful: she had been a gymnast in her youth, performing with a travelling circus before settling into more respectable employment. "Now, Constable!" Blackwell shouted. Mary O'Brien emerged from the shadows and began to climb. She was not as fast as the Shadow—few people were—but she was determined, and she knew the building. She had spent hours studying its architecture, finding the handholds, planning the route to the roof. The Shadow paused at the roof-ridge, looking back in surprise as she saw her pursuer. For a moment, the two women stared at each other—one the legendary thief, the other an unknown policewoman—and then the Shadow smiled. "Bravo, Inspector," she called down. "I did not think you had it in you." And then she was gone, over the roof and away, moving across the skyline of London with a speed that even Mary O'Brien could not match. Blackwell stood in the street, his pistol still in his hand, watching as his quarry vanished into the night. He had failed. The trap had been sprung, and the prey had escaped. But as he turned to help Mr. Van der Berg from the cab—finding the American shaken but unharmed, his wallet still in his pocket—he realized that something had changed. The Shadow had been surprised by Mary O'Brien's pursuit; she had not expected to be followed onto the rooftops. Next time—and Blackwell was determined there would be a next time—she would find the game more difficult. For he had learned something valuable tonight. The Shadow of the Hansom was not invincible. She could be surprised, she could be challenged, she could be made to run. And if she could be made to run, she could eventually be made to fall. CHAPTER SEVEN In Which the Shadow's Motives Are Revealed The failed trap at the National Gallery marked a turning point in the career of the Shadow of the Hansom. For the first time since she had begun her nocturnal activities, she had been forced to flee from pursuit; for the first time, she had encountered someone who could match her, however imperfectly, in the aerial world she had made her own. Inspector Blackwell, meanwhile, redoubled his efforts. He knew now that his quarry was Eleanor Vane, and he set about learning everything he could about her history, her training, her possible hiding places. He discovered that the Italian acrobat who had taught her gymnastics had been a man named Antonio Caruso, who had performed under the stage name "The Flying Neapolitan" and who had died in a tragic accident in 1865. He learned that Eleanor had spent her teenage years in a series of theatrical companies, working as an acrobat and tightrope walker under an assumed name. And he learned that in 1870, she had disappeared from the theatrical world as suddenly as she had appeared, leaving behind no trace of her whereabouts. Where had she been for thirteen years? How had she survived? And what had transformed her from a struggling performer into the legendary thief known as the Shadow of the Hansom? The answer, when it came, was not what Blackwell expected. It arrived in the form of a letter, delivered to his office at Scotland Yard on a rainy morning in early March. The envelope was of plain white paper, the address written in a flowing feminine hand. Inside was a single sheet of the same paper, covered with the same elegant script. "To Inspector Edmund Blackwell," the letter began. "You have been seeking me with a persistence that I cannot but admire. You have discovered my identity, traced my history, and even managed to surprise me upon the rooftops—a feat that no one else has accomplished. In recognition of your efforts, and in the hope that understanding may lead to wisdom, I propose to tell you my story." Blackwell read on, his heart pounding with excitement. "I was born Eleanor Vane, as you have discovered, into a family that had once been great but was already in decline by the time I came into the world. My father died when I was an infant, my mother when I was ten. I was raised by my grandfather, a weak and foolish man who gambled away our fortune and left me destitute. "But my grandfather, for all his faults, loved me. He saw in me something of his own wild spirit, and he encouraged my love of climbing, of heights, of the freedom that comes from looking down upon the world from above. He hired Antonio Caruso to teach me gymnastics, and under his tutelage I developed the skills that would later sustain me. "When my grandfather died and our house was sold, I was fifteen years old and alone in the world. I ran away from the relatives who would have taken me in—I who had been raised in a mansion could not bear to become a poor relation, dependent upon the charity of strangers. Instead, I made my way in the only world that would accept me: the theatre. "For five years I performed as 'Mademoiselle Eleonora, the Aerial Wonder.' I walked the tightrope, I swung on the trapeze, I leaped through hoops of fire. I was successful—more successful than I had any right to be. But I was not happy. The theatrical world was coarse and cruel, and I saw how my fellow performers suffered—how they aged before their time, how they were cast aside when their bodies failed them, how they died in poverty and obscurity. "And then, in 1870, I witnessed something that changed my life forever. "I was performing in Manchester, at a music hall in one of the poorer quarters of the city. After the show, I went out for a walk and found myself in a district of slums—not unlike the East End of London, though on a smaller scale. And there, in a doorway, I saw a woman huddled with three children, all of them starving, all of them dressed in rags. "I gave them what money I had—only a few shillings, but it was all I possessed. And as I walked away, I realized something that I had never understood before. I had been poor, yes, but I had always had skills, always had options. These people had nothing. They had been born into poverty, raised in poverty, and they would die in poverty—not because they were lazy or wicked, as the rich liked to claim, but because the system was rigged against them. "From that day, I began to study the condition of the poor. I read the works of the social reformers, the economists, the philosophers. I learned about the exploitation of the working classes, the theft of common lands, the enclosure acts that had driven millions from the countryside into the cities. I understood, at last, that poverty was not a moral failing but a structural injustice—and that those who profited from this injustice were the true criminals. "I determined to devote my life to fighting this injustice—not through politics, which I saw was controlled by the wealthy, but through direct action. I would take from those who had stolen from the poor, and I would return what I took to those who needed it most. "For thirteen years I prepared. I trained my body to perfection, developing the strength and agility that my work would require. I studied the city of London, learning every street, every alley, every rooftop. I saved money from my theatrical earnings, enough to support myself while I established my new career. And in the autumn of 1883, I made my first strike. "Since then, I have taken nearly ten thousand pounds from the wealthy. Every penny of it has gone to the poor—to the widows and orphans, the sick and the elderly, the unemployed and the destitute. I have no need of wealth myself; I live simply, in hiding, content with the knowledge that I am doing what is right. "You may call me a criminal, Inspector, and by the letter of the law, you are correct. But I ask you to consider: whose law is it? The law that protects property was made by the propertied, to serve their interests. The law that punishes theft was made by thieves—the greatest thieves in history, who stole the land and labour of a nation and called it 'enterprise.' "I am a thief, yes. But I am a thief who steals from thieves, who takes back what was stolen, who tries—however imperfectly—to balance the scales of justice. "You are an honourable man, Inspector Blackwell. I have watched you, these past weeks, and I have seen your confusion, your growing doubt about the justice of your cause. I am writing to you now in the hope that you will understand mine. "I do not expect you to stop hunting me. You have your duty, as I have mine. But I ask you to consider, when next you lay a trap for me, whether you are serving justice or merely preserving privilege. "Yours, etc., "E.V." Blackwell read the letter three times, his hands trembling slightly as he held the paper. It was extraordinary—a confession, a manifesto, a challenge. Eleanor Vane had laid bare her soul to him, had explained her motives with a clarity and eloquence that he could not dismiss. And she was right about one thing: he was confused. He had entered this investigation believing in the simple morality of law and order, the clear distinction between right and wrong. But the more he learned about the Shadow of the Hansom, the more that clarity dissolved into shades of grey. Was she a criminal? Undoubtedly. She had stolen thousands of pounds, had violated the property rights of dozens of wealthy citizens, had made a mockery of the police force he served. But was she wrong? That was a harder question. The society she described—the society that allowed children to starve while adults feasted, that condemned millions to poverty while a few lived in luxury—was that a just society? And if it was not, then who was the greater criminal: the woman who stole to feed the hungry, or the system that made such theft necessary? Blackwell thought of the old woman in the workhouse, describing how Eleanor Vane had saved her sister's life. He thought of the landlord at the Jolly Sailor, speaking of the Lady who came in the night with her purse full of gold. He thought of the children in the gutters of Whitechapel, and of Sir Reginald Ashworth-Crewe with his contempt for the lower orders. And he thought of Eleanor Vane herself—the girl who had lost everything, who had been cast out by the society that had consumed her family, who had found in the rooftops of London a kind of freedom that no one could take away. What was he to do? He could continue the hunt, lay more traps, deploy more resources in the effort to capture her. He could drag her before the courts, see her sentenced to prison or transportation, watch as the newspapers made a spectacle of her downfall. He could do his duty, as he had always done. Or he could... what? Let her go? Deliberately fail to catch her? That would be a betrayal of everything he had sworn to uphold, a violation of his oath as a police officer. But what if his oath was wrong? What if the law he served was unjust? These were dangerous thoughts, and Blackwell tried to push them aside. He was a practical man, not a philosopher. His job was to catch criminals, not to debate the nature of justice. And yet, as he sat in his office with Eleanor Vane's letter in his hand, he could not shake the feeling that he was being offered a choice—a choice between the law and justice, between duty and conscience, between the world as it was and the world as it might be. He did not know what he would choose. But he knew that whatever he decided, nothing would ever be the same again. CHAPTER EIGHT In Which the Final Confrontation Takes Place The month of March brought with it a series of events that would determine the fate of the Shadow of the Hansom—and, in a sense, the fate of Inspector Edmund Blackwell as well. It began with a tragedy in the East End. A family named Murphy, consisting of a widow and five children, had been turned out of their lodgings for non-payment of rent. They had taken shelter in a derelict building, where a fire broke out in the night. The mother and three of the children perished; the two survivors, girls aged eight and ten, were left orphaned and destitute. The story was reported in the newspapers, briefly and without much detail—the deaths of the poor were not considered newsworthy unless they could be sensationalized in some way. But the Shadow of the Hansom read the account, and she was moved to action. That night, she struck three times—each time selecting victims who were known for their harsh treatment of the poor. A slum landlord who had evicted dozens of families was relieved of his pocket-book and his gold watch. A factory owner who had reduced wages to starvation levels lost his diamond ring and his bank-notes. A magistrate who had sentenced a starving man to prison for stealing a loaf of bread found his own purse empty and a black card upon his seat. The total value of the night's takings was nearly two thousand pounds. By morning, every penny of it had been distributed among the poor of the East End—with a substantial portion going to establish a trust fund for the surviving Murphy children. But the Shadow had been reckless. In her haste and her anger, she had made mistakes. She had been seen by several witnesses—seen clearly enough that descriptions were given to the police. And she had left behind a clue: a small piece of black velvet, torn from her costume as she squeezed through a narrow window. Blackwell studied the fragment with the eye of a detective. It was high-quality material, the kind used by theatrical costumers or by gentlewomen for evening wear. It would not lead him directly to Eleanor Vane, but it confirmed what he already knew: that his quarry was a woman of education and refinement, not a common criminal. More importantly, the night's events had given him something he had lacked before: a pattern of behaviour that he could predict. The Shadow struck when she was angry, when she had been moved by some injustice to take action. If he could anticipate what would trigger her next attack, he could be waiting for her. And he thought he knew just what would draw her out. The announcement appeared in the newspapers on the morning of March the fifteenth. Sir Reginald Ashworth-Crewe—the same Sir Reginald who had been the Shadow's first notable victim—was to give a speech at the Mansion House on the subject of "The Dangerous Classes: How to Deal with the Criminal Poor." In his speech, Sir Reginald intended to propose a series of measures that would, in his words, "make the streets of London safe for respectable persons by removing the criminal element to penal colonies where they can do no further harm." It was precisely the kind of provocation that the Shadow could not resist. Blackwell was certain that she would attempt to strike at Sir Reginald on his way to or from the Mansion House—and he made his preparations accordingly. The evening of the speech was cold and clear, with a full moon that cast long shadows across the streets of the City. Sir Reginald traveled in his private carriage—a closed brougham drawn by two horses—escorted by two armed outriders. It was a level of security that would have deterred any ordinary criminal. But the Shadow of the Hansom was no ordinary criminal. Blackwell had positioned himself on the roof of a building overlooking the route, accompanied by Constable Mary O'Brien. They had been waiting for nearly an hour when they saw Sir Reginald's carriage approach, the moonlight glinting on its polished panels. "There," Mary whispered, pointing to a building on the opposite side of the street. Blackwell saw it too: a dark shape moving along the roofline, keeping pace with the carriage below. The Shadow was preparing to strike. But this time, Blackwell was ready. He had studied the buildings along this route for days, mapping every possible point of attack. He knew where she would have to position herself, knew the route she would have to take to reach the carriage. "Follow me," he said to Mary, and began to move along the roof. They ran across the slates, leaping the gaps between buildings, moving as quickly as they dared. Blackwell was no acrobat—he was a middle-aged man with a sedentary occupation—but he had trained for this moment, practicing the movements until they were almost second nature. They reached the building directly opposite the Shadow's position just as she was preparing to make her leap. For a moment, the two women faced each other across the narrow street—Mary O'Brien and the legendary thief, each recognizing in the other a kindred spirit. "You again," the Shadow said, and there was a note of respect in her voice. "The Inspector has trained you well." "Surrender," Mary said, though without much hope. "There's nowhere to go." "There's always somewhere to go," the Shadow replied. "Watch." And she leaped—not toward the carriage, as Blackwell had expected, but toward the building where he and Mary stood. She landed on the parapet not three feet from where Blackwell crouched, her eyes meeting his through the darkness. "Inspector," she said. "I wondered if you would come." "Eleanor Vane," Blackwell said, rising to his feet. "You are under arrest." "Am I?" She smiled behind her mask. "And how do you propose to take me?" "There are men below, blocking every exit. There are more on the surrounding roofs. You cannot escape." "Cannot?" She shook her head. "You still don't understand, Inspector. I can go where you cannot follow. I can—" She moved suddenly, darting toward the edge of the roof. Blackwell lunged to stop her, his hand closing on her arm. For a moment they struggled, balanced precariously on the edge of the abyss. Then the Shadow twisted free—and in doing so, she lost her balance. She fell. Blackwell reached out, his hand closing on empty air. He saw her drop, saw her body tumble toward the street below, and his heart stopped with horror. But Eleanor Vane was not so easily defeated. Even as she fell, she was twisting, turning, reaching for the fire-escape that ran down the side of the building. Her hands caught the iron railing, her body swung with the impact, and then she was clinging to the ladder, safe for the moment. "After her!" Blackwell shouted, though his voice was hoarse with relief. He and Mary scrambled down to the street, reaching the ground just as the Shadow reached the bottom of the fire-escape. She was limping slightly—she must have injured her leg in the fall—but she was still mobile, still dangerous. The street was blocked at both ends by Blackwell's men. She was surrounded, trapped, with no hope of escape. And yet she smiled. "Well played, Inspector," she said. "But the game is not yet over." She reached into her costume and withdrew something that glinted in the moonlight—a small metal object that Blackwell recognized with horror. "A smoke bomb," she said. "A little device I learned to make from my theatrical friends. I suggest you stand back." She threw it to the ground, and the street was instantly filled with thick, choking smoke. Blackwell coughed, his eyes streaming, unable to see more than a few inches in front of his face. He heard shouts, confusion, the sound of running feet. When the smoke cleared, she was gone. But she had not escaped unscathed. In her haste to flee, she had left something behind—a small leather satchel that had fallen from her belt. Blackwell picked it up and opened it, his hands trembling with excitement. Inside was money—several hundred pounds in gold and bank-notes. And beneath the money, wrapped in tissue paper, was a small portrait in a silver frame. Blackwell held it up to the light. It showed a young woman, not more than twenty, with dark hair and grey-green eyes that seemed to sparkle with mischief. She was dressed in the fashion of twenty years ago, and she was smiling—a smile of such joy and freedom that it made Blackwell's heart ache. On the back of the portrait, in faded ink, were the words: "Eleanor Vane, aged 19, 1868." He had seen her face at last. And he knew, with a certainty that surprised him, that he would never forget it. CHAPTER NINE In Which a Decision Must Be Made The satchel and its contents were locked away in the evidence room at Scotland Yard, but the portrait remained with Inspector Blackwell. He told himself that he kept it for professional reasons—that it was evidence, a means of identifying his quarry should they meet again. But in his heart, he knew the truth. He could not stop thinking about her. Eleanor Vane. The girl who had lost everything and built a new life from nothing. The woman who had turned the rooftops of London into her kingdom. The thief who stole from the rich and gave to the poor, who risked her life and her freedom for the sake of strangers she would never meet. Was she a criminal? Yes. But was she evil? Blackwell could no longer say with certainty that she was. He thought of the letter she had written him, the manifesto of a woman who had thought deeply about justice and society. He thought of the old woman in the workhouse, whose sister's life had been saved by the Lady's generosity. He thought of the Murphy children, who would now have a future thanks to the Shadow's intervention. And he thought of Sir Reginald Ashworth-Crewe, whose speech at the Mansion House had called for the removal of the "criminal poor" to penal colonies. Sir Reginald, who had inherited his fortune from the sweat of child labourers in his cotton mills. Sir Reginald, who had never done a day's honest work in his life. Who was the greater criminal? These thoughts occupied Blackwell's mind as the days passed and the hunt for the Shadow of the Hansom continued. His superiors at Scotland Yard were growing impatient; the press was demanding results; the wealthy victims were calling for action. And Blackwell, who had always been the most diligent of officers, found himself dragging his feet. He did not lay more traps. He did not deploy more men. He went through the motions of the investigation, but his heart was no longer in it. And then, on the morning of April the first, he received a visitor. She came to his office at Scotland Yard, dressed in the plain grey costume of a governess or a lady's companion. She wore no veil, no mask, nothing to conceal her features. And yet Blackwell knew her at once. "Eleanor Vane," he said, rising from his desk. "Inspector Blackwell," she replied, and her voice was the same he had heard on the rooftop—low, musical, with that hint of amusement that never seemed far away. "I hope you will forgive the intrusion." "You are under arrest," he said automatically, though he made no move to summon assistance. "Am I?" She smiled. "Then you had best call your constables, Inspector. I will not resist." But Blackwell did not call. He stood there, staring at her, trying to understand what was happening. "Why have you come?" he asked at last. "To surrender myself," she said simply. "The game is over, Inspector. I am tired of running, tired of hiding, tired of living in the shadows. I have done what I set out to do—I have helped those I could help, I have struck blows against the injustice I saw around me. Now it is time to face the consequences." "You could have escaped," Blackwell said. "You have escaped, time and again. Why surrender now?" "Because I have been thinking about what you said, Inspector. About duty, about the law, about the oath you swore to uphold. And I realized that I, too, have a duty—not to the law, perhaps, but to something higher. I have a duty to stand by my principles, to accept the consequences of my actions, to show the world that I am not ashamed of what I have done." She stepped closer, and Blackwell could see the weariness in her eyes, the lines of strain that age and hardship had etched upon her face. She was still beautiful—more beautiful, perhaps, than the girl in the portrait, for her beauty had been tempered by suffering and given depth by compassion. "I am not sorry for what I did, Inspector. I believe that what I did was right—morally right, if not legally so. But I am willing to accept punishment for it, if that is what justice demands." Blackwell was silent for a long moment. He thought of all the crimes he had investigated in his career, all the criminals he had apprehended. He had never hesitated to arrest a murderer, a thief, a swindler. He had believed, with the fervour of a righteous man, that the law was the foundation of civilization, that without it society would descend into chaos. But now, looking at Eleanor Vane, he was not so sure. "What if," he said slowly, "there were another way?" "Another way?" "What if you were to leave London? To go abroad, to America perhaps, or to the Continent? To start a new life, under a new name, far from the reach of British justice?" Eleanor stared at him. "You would let me go?" "I would... not stop you." Blackwell turned away, unable to meet her eyes. "I have been a police officer for twenty-three years, Miss Vane. I have sworn an oath to uphold the law, to apprehend criminals, to see justice done. But I have come to believe that there is a justice higher than the law—a justice that you have served, in your own strange way." He turned back to face her. "I cannot arrest you. Not because I lack the evidence, not because I fear the consequences, but because I believe, in my heart, that you have done more good than harm. That your crimes were acts of conscience, not of greed. That the world is a better place for your presence in it." Eleanor was silent for a long moment. When she spoke, her voice was soft, almost wondering. "You are a remarkable man, In