CHAPTER 216: CHAPTER TWO HUNDRED AND SIXTEEN

The prisoner carriage was a small, dark, rattling box. The air inside was stuffy, smelling of old leather and the damp wool of the constables’ uniforms. Light filtered in through a single, small window, its thick iron bars casting striped shadows that shifted with every lurch and sway of the vehicle.

Augusta sat between Constable Davies and Constable Miller, her hands bound in her lap with heavy iron manacles. To an outside observer, she looked like a broken woman—her expensive silk dress was still damp and wrinkled, her hair was a mess, and her head was bowed in what appeared to be a posture of defeat.

But inside, her mind was a whirlwind of calculations. She was waiting.

The two men, settled in for the long ride to the Criminal and Justice Division, were busy discussing a recent case that had the city talking.

"It’s the cleverness of it that’s the problem," said Davies, the older constable. He was a man whose face seemed to be permanently etched with a weary skepticism. "This new thief they’re calling ’The Magpie.’ He doesn’t break down doors. He talks his way inside. He charms the maids, flatters the lady of the house, and by the time he leaves, a pearl necklace or a diamond brooch has simply vanished. No force, no mess."

"But surely we can track him," replied Miller, the younger of the two. His face was still fresh, his expression earnest. He believed in procedure, in clues, in the inevitable triumph of the law. "witness descriptions..."

Davies let out a short, humorless chuckle. "This isn’t something you take lightly, boy. This is Albion. The witnesses are too flustered by his fancy words to remember his face properly." He shook his head. "The old ways are the only ways with a criminal like that. You have to understand how they think. They prey on weakness. On sympathy. They create a distraction, make you look one way while they steal from the other."

While they talked, Augusta listened to none of it. Her world had narrowed to the sounds and feelings of the carriage itself. She was listening to the rhythmic clop of the horses’ hooves, the constant rattle of the wheels on the cobblestones. She was feeling for the subtle lean, the slight change in momentum that would signal their approach to the sharp bend on Blackwood Lane, a turn she knew as well as her own name. She had a plan, a desperate, dangerous, and painful plan. But it was the only one she had.

Then, she felt it. A slight slowing of the carriage, a gentle lean to the left as the driver prepared to navigate the tight corner. It was time.

Her body remained still for one more second. Then, as the carriage entered the sharpest part of the turn, she acted. With a sudden, violent lurch, Augusta threw herself sideways. She deliberately struck her forehead against the corner of the iron-barred window. A sharp, sickening crack echoed in the small space, followed instantly by a bloom of crimson on her pale skin.

An open gash appeared on her forehead, and blood, dark and thick, began to drip down her face and onto the floor of the carriage.

"Help me!" she gasped, her voice weak and breathy, before slumping against against the hard wooden wall, her head lolling as if her neck could no longer support its weight before dropping to the floor. She let out a soft, piteous moan and let her eyes flutter shut.

"Sir!" Miller cried out, his voice high with panic. The change had been so sudden, so violent, he had barely had time to process it. He looked at Davies, who, to his astonishment, didn’t seem moved a bit. He knew the games of criminals, had seen every trick in his long years of service. But Miller, new to the profession, felt a surge of compassion.

"Sir, she’s bleeding! She’s lost consciousness!" he said, his voice frantic. "What should we do?"

Davies answered without even glancing at Augusta’s slumped form. His voice was as cold and hard as the iron bars on the window. "Let her be. When we get to the division, Inspector Wimbly will know what to do."

"But sir, she’s bleeding all over the floor!" Miller protested, his stomach churning at the sight of the growing puddle of blood. "She could have a serious head injury! We can’t just leave her like this!"

Davies’s voice was firmer this time, an order, not a suggestion. "I said, let her be, Miller. It’s an old trick, boy. They do it to get sympathy, to get you to lower your guard. Don’t fall for it."

Miller nodded, his face pale. "Okay, sir. Understood." He hesitated for a moment, his conscience warring with his orders. "But... can I at least try to stop the bleeding? I can’t just watch her..." He pulled a clean, white handkerchief from inside his coat.

Davies let out a long, weary sigh. The boy had a soft heart. It would get him into trouble one day. "Do whatever you want to do, boy," he grumbled. "But don’t be too compassionate with criminals. And don’t you dare unlock those manacles."

That was all the permission Miller needed. He crouched down in the cramped space, leaning in to gently lift Augusta’s head. "Can you hear me, Baroness?" he asked softly, pressing the handkerchief to the bloody cut on her forehead. "Can you hear me?"

He received no response. He was now close, his guard down, his focus entirely on the act of providing aid.

Now that both her jailers were distracted—Davies by his own indifference, staring at the passing scenery and Miller by his misguided compassion, stopping her bleeding—Augusta’s eyes snapped open.

In a single quick motion, she pulled a long, thin needle from where it had been cleverly hidden in the sleeve of her dress. The needle, its tip coated with a fast-acting paralyzing fluid, glinted for a fraction of a second in the dim light. It was the needle she had meant for Baron Edgar, a final solution she hadn’t had the opportunity to use.

She drove the needle deep into the soft, exposed flesh of Constable Miller’s neck.

His eyes widened in an uncomprehending shock. First, his arm went numb and useless. A strangled cry of pure agony escaped his lips as the poison shot through his veins, his body convulsing from the shock. As he recoiled in pain, Augusta used her manacled hands as a blunt instrument, swinging them with all her might into the side of his head. The heavy iron cuffs connected with a sickening thud. The impact was enough to daze him and send him sprawling sideways, directly into the lap of his partner.

Constable Davies was momentarily shocked and physically encumbered by his wounded, groaning partner falling onto him. This was the only opening she needed.

Her goal was not to kill him; it was to escape.

" He should be awake in the next hour." She said to herself.

While Davies was shoving the moaning Miller off him and fumbling for his truncheon, Augusta was already at the carriage door. Her hands were shaking with adrenaline, but her movements were swift and efficient. She fumbled with the heavy bolt on the door, her bound hands making the task difficult, but her desperation gave her strength. She unlatched it and shoved the door open.

Without a moment’s hesitation, she leaped from the still-moving carriage.

She landed hard on the damp cobblestones, the impact jarring her entire body. Pain shot through her knees and the palms of her hands as they scraped against the rough stone. But she immediately scrambled to her feet, ignoring the pain. She used the chaos of the Albion street—a startled horse rearing in its harness, the shouts of pedestrians, and Davies’s furious yells from the now-stopping carriage—to melt into the crowd. She vanished down the nearest choked, narrow alleyway without looking back if she was followed.