“No doubt, but one drama at a time. Aidan means the world to me, both the twins do. They are much like brothers instead of nephews, and when we were younger, they often followed me about like eager puppies.” He paused, as speaking of this caused a lump of emotion to lodge in his throat. “I love them. Aidan especially. Though always in one type of trouble or another, he possessed a good-natured charm, which meant that I couldn’t stay annoyed at him for long. There is goodness in him. He’s worth rescuing. I aim to be the one to do it.”
“Fair enough. I’ll do all I can to assist you in your quest.”
“I appreciate it, Edwin.”
“To continue. As your brother suggested, we’ve been watching your family’s bank for close to two months. Last week, a man approached the building, hesitating, as if deciding whether to proceed inside. He fit the description, and resembled the small portrait that you gave us, so we instigated a surveillance. I thought it best not to contact Julian until we were sure of his identity.” Edwin flipped a page over. “The subject did not enter the bank, and my man followed him to the aforementioned doss-house on Petticoat Lane. He’s not alone. There are at least four or five others, with many more coming and going at all hours of the day and night.”
After clearing his throat, Edwin continued. “I had my man blend in with the great unwashed, and he got close enough to observe that the place is used for deviant pursuits. Opium. Orgies. From what my man reported, financed by thievery and prostitution. There are two women in there with the men. Probably prostitutes.”
Garrett rubbed the bridge of his nose. Aidan had hit rock bottom, sunk to the lowest depths. Hearing this, he was glad that he’d decided to keep the discovery from Julian. “They’re living in total filth,” Edwin stated. “I’m not sure if you have ever been to St. Giles…”
Garrett stood. “Let us head there with all due haste. Extract him immediately.”
Edwin shook his head, motioning Garrett to take his seat. “One does not casually wander into St. Giles. This will take planning and a number of men, more than I employ. Also, when we snatch him up, what do we do with him?”
Garrett arched an eyebrow. “What is your meaning?”
“Aidan is in no fit state to return home. Let me read you this: ‘Aidan Wollstonecraft is emaciated, wearing dirty, ragged clothes, hair long and unwashed. Appears glassy-eyed, stumbling when he walks. When he speaks, his words are slurred. The subject is suffering from acute addiction.’” Edwin looked up and caught Garrett’s worried gaze.
“Your nephew will need medical attention, long-term care for his withdrawal. I have taken the liberty of contacting a private sanatorium. It is north of here, in Hertfordshire, outside the village of Standon. It is run by a Welsh physician and the cost is expensive. But he has done miraculous work with those addicted to opium. It’s becoming a rising problem in all classes. The place is confidential and clean; I have inspected it myself.”
“Aidan is in such poor condition, then?” Garrett whispered.
“Aye. He’s extremely ill, physically and otherwise. I’m sorry it has taken us this long to track him, but apparently the group of hooligans that he’s running with move about often. We may have never found him. It’s only by chance we spotted him when he approached the bank.” Edwin paused. “If he continues down the path he is on, Aidan will be dead in a matter of months. When the dragon gets its claws in you…well, it’s a sorry state indeed.”
Shaking his head, Garrett said sadly, “I never would have believed Aidan to be weak of character and sink to such depths.”
“Society sees opium and its derivatives as merely a bad habit. Dr. Bevan and his predecessor, Dr. Hughes, see it as an addiction of which certain people are more susceptible than others. Not by weak character, but by a brain disorder. His treatment is humane, not like at the asylums. There Aidan could be diagnosed with moral insanity and never see the light of day again. You do not want your nephew to go to one of those places.”
No. He didn’t. Garrett had heard the stories. People were locked up in no better than a prison cell. Mechanical restraints were used, as well as inhumane treatments that involved dousing with water hoses and hours of endless prayer. “What is your strategy?”
“We head in at the break of dawn. There will be ten men all told. We seize your nephew, and the three of us will head straight to Standon. We will need a private carriage. Fresh water. A bucket in case he starts to vomit before we arrive. The journey will take several hours, and he’ll begin to go through withdrawal, which includes nausea, vomiting, aches, cramps, body tremors. His bowels could let go.”
Garrett grimaced. “You know a good deal about this, Edwin.”
“Aye,” he replied softly. “More than I care to. Dr. Bevan set me on the path of recovery. He’ll do the same for your nephew.”
Edwin? Succumbing to an addiction? The man stood for all that is tough and unyielding. If addiction could fell him, what chance did Aidan have?
“Then we shall make plans.” How in hell could he explain all this to his father and brother? What will Riordan do? The twins were close, or had been up until Aidan disappeared. He rubbed his forehead, as a sharp ache had taken root.
No matter. Aidan was family, and Garrett would do anything to protect him. If cloistering him away in a small village clinic would assist in his recovery, then he would do it. The Wollstonecraft men stuck together. History had given them a hard hand, and their allegiance was the one constant they had, other than the curse.
* * * *
The early dawn sun cast a disturbing illumination over the slums of St. Giles, where raw sewage ran in rivulets down the broken cobblestone streets. Gin cellars and distillers packed the overcrowded courts and narrow lanes, while men and women addled by gin staggered about or lay unconscious in filthy alleyways. As the group of formidable men crossed into Petticoat Lane, Garrett saw a prostitute being rutted against a brick wall in the alley, her tattered skirt pulled up to her waist showing a dirty leg covered with sores.
Bile rose in Garrett’s throat, but he swallowed it down. The clash of rank odors was enough to bring up one’s breakfast. Sweat, human waste, and rotting garbage in overflowing rubbish bins. Dead animal carcasses—could be dogs and cats, hard to tell—lay in some of the alleys. The building that they were heading toward had broken and boarded-up windows and a decaying foundation. Gloom and despair were clearly present in this section of London. It was worse than he could have ever imagined.
Garrett carried a club, as did many of the men. Edwin held a pistol, and kept it in plain sight to show that they were not to be approached.
“We’ll have to make this quick, for our presence has no doubt been reported. The criminal in charge of this section of the rookery will send his men along sharpish,” Edwin said.
One of Edwin’s burly group kicked the door in with little effort, as the wood was rotten and splintered apart. Edwin ran up the dark, narrow stairway to the third floor, with Garrett right on his heels. The building was not quiet; shouting, swearing, and crying voices drifted in from all directions. Due to the boarded-up windows, the dour place lay in darkness. Luckily, one of the men carried a lighted lantern.
“In here?” Edwin indicated to one of his men.
“Aye.”
Edwin gave the door a shove with his shoulder and it gave way. At least there was some light, as the one window had a tattered piece of sheer material hanging over it. Garrett scanned the room. Dirty mattresses and wooden pallets filled the floor space with unconscious people of both sexes sprawled across them in various states of undress.
The stink was enough to gag a horse. Rubbish lay across the floor, rotting food, empty gin bottles, dried vomit, and buckets overflowing with piss and worse. There had to be close to twenty people crammed