“Sheldrake?” he called.
The door swung inwards and Lieutenant Walcott took step inside.
“Did you want something, sir?”
“No, no...” Torrance said, waving his hand dismissively, but then he changed his mind: “Stay and have a nightcap.”
“Yes, thank you, sir.”
Walcott was tall and broad-shouldered, and looked almost too young to have started shaving. Torrance knew the young man was closer to thirty than twenty. What did his own mother used to say about when the Guardsmen start to look like children? Walcott was young, enthusiastic, and honest: one of the new breed of Guardsmen, who had never fought in battle and served instead as protectors and peacekeepers. Thurlambria belonged to them now, and men like Torrance were relics from a long-ago story.
“Pour us each a glass,” Torrance said, nodding towards the black oak sideboard that held a silver tray with a jug of wine and two glasses.
Walcott poured the red wine and passed one of the glasses to Torrance. He held his own glass, waiting for the captain to drink first.
“Sheldrake has a private audience with Lord Eòghan,” Torrance said, staring down into his glass.
“Yes, sir.”
“His lordship wanted to thank him personally, for recovering the axe and dealing with the thief.” Torrance looked up and saw Walcott’s mouth twist into a grimace: it faded quickly, but it had been there. “What do you know about him? Sheldrake, I mean...” Torrance asked.
Walcott shrugged. “We work together. He doesn’t say much to anyone.”
“He was transferred here with a glowing reference from his previous commander,” Torrance said. “That’s never a good sign.” He raised his glass in salute and drank. He watched Walcott raise his own glass and sip dutifully. “You have heard nothing about him?” Torrance asked.
“Nothing I should repeat,” Walcott said.
“I would like to hear it anyway.”
“If you would insist I speak...?”
“It is a request, not an order,” Torrance said.
Walcott took another sip of the wine: Torrance couldn’t tell if it was the wine he didn’t like, the company, or the topic of conversation.
“There is a rumour...” Walcott said.
“Yes?”
“That... that he discovered his mother was a whore – and burned down the house with her in it.” Walcott laughed awkwardly. “But that’s just a story. You know what men are like – in the absence of facts we concoct a scandalous story to fill the gap.”
Torrance swallowed some more wine. “You don’t think it could be true?”
“It seems unlikely, doesn’t it? It’s just something people say – because they don’t like him,” Walcott said.
“Why don’t the men like him?” Torrance asked.
“Perhaps for the same reason you don’t,” Walcott said. His grin faded quickly as he realised he may have overstepped the bounds.
Torrance smiled and shook his head. “He’s an odd one, that’s for sure. He has no friends among the men?”
Walcott shook his head. “He never drinks with us. And I’ve never heard him talk about anything except Guard House business.”
“No family? No lover?”
“If he has either, he’s keeping them secret,” Walcott said. “There’s that old servant of his, but I’m sure they’re not lovers.” Walcott smiled again, then shrugged. “Sheldrake’s older than most of us – perhaps that makes him uncomfortable. Perhaps he thinks he should have been promoted above us by now?”
“Who knows?” Torrance said, draining his glass. He went over to the sideboard to refill it. “What did you make of his recent heroics?”
Walcott’s mouth twisted again, and this time he didn’t try to hide it. Torrance held the wine bottle towards him, but he shook his head.
“Anything strike you as odd about what happened that night?” Torrance asked.
“Only... well, all of it,” Walcott said.
Torrance didn’t speak, wanting the lieutenant to continue.
“How did one old man with a broken arm get into the castle and carry away the Skullsplitter?” Walcott asked.
“An accomplice?” Torrance suggested. “Young Conrad, perhaps?”
Walcott shook his head. “He was a good man. His father was in the Guard. And even if he was an accomplice, why kill him?”
“No honour among thieves,” Torrance said.
“There’s something not right about it,” Walcott said.
“The old man must have had assistance from someone inside the castle,” Torrance said.
“Conrad may have seen who it was – and been killed to make sure he couldn’t tell,” Walcott said.
A sound caught their attention, and both men turned. Sheldrake was standing silently in the open doorway. How long had he stood there? What had he heard?
Walcott cleared his throat and set down his half-full glass. “I should be on my way,” he said.
“Thank you, lieutenant, we will speak again tomorrow,” Torrance said.
Torrance watched Sheldrake stand aside to let Walcott out. Sheldrake’s skin always seemed impossibly pale, almost translucent, and damp – like a thing that lived in a cave and never saw daylight. Against this, the limp black moustache stood out starkly, as did the dark redness of his lips, like wine stains on wet silk. The watery blue eyes were hooded and never still. They were red-rimmed now, with dark circles around them, making him look even less healthy than usual. Torrance tried not to stare, but found his eye drawn to the swollen redness of the ear sticking out and making the head look unbalanced.
“You wished to speak with me, sir?” Sheldrake said. He closed the door behind him and stood in front of it.
“Your meeting with Lord Eòghan went well?” Torrance asked.
“Yes, thank you, sir.”
Torrance waited to see if Sheldrake would elaborate, but the pale man said nothing else. “It is a rare thing for his lordship to meet personally with someone of your rank,” Torrance said.
“Yes, sir.”
“You showed proper respect, I hope.”
“I know how to speak to my betters, sir.”
Torrance nodded. “He thanked you for recovering the axe?”
“He did, sir.”
Torrance sighed. “What more did he say to you?”
Sheldrake paused, as if deciding whether to answer. “He asked me how a thief could have made his way so deep into the castle unchallenged.”
“And?”
“And, sir?”
“What did you tell him?”
“I made some suggestions about how patrols might be improved, to prevent it from happening again,” Sheldrake said.
“You did, did you?” This made Torrance more uncomfortable than it should have.
“Lord Eòghan said he would think on what I had said, and discuss my suggestions with you, sir.”
As always, Sheldrake’s words were correct, and demonstrated a proper respect for authority. But Torrance could not help but feel the man was not the loyal soldier he appeared. The man was sly, that was the word for him. You could easily imagine him trying to undermine your authority. This was what had made Torrance uncomfortable about the private audience with Lord Eòghan.
“What else did you discuss with his lordship?” Torrance asked.
“He asked after my injury – of course, I told him it was nothing.”
Torrance glanced towards the swollen ear. “Of course.”
“Lord Eòghan told me I should not be so dismissive of my own actions that evening. A man must be proud of his successes, and bold in identifying ways to build on them. Or so he said.”
“His lordship always dispenses sage advice,” Torrance said.
“He told me I must define my goals, and then take whatever steps are necessary to reach them. Do not let anything – or anyone – stand in your way.”
“And just what goal have you chosen for yourself, Sheldrake?”
“To be t
he best Guardsman I can be,” Sheldrake said. “You know Lord Eòghan was a soldier, like us?”
Torrance nodded. He had been a soldier, but he was not a man like Sheldrake.
“If your ambition is to become a leader of men, you must learn to work more closely with your fellows,” Torrance said. “In the Guard, we support one another – we do not go off to battle our foes single-handed. You were lucky this time – you might not be so again.”
Sheldrake regarded him through slitted eyes. “I understand why you are concerned, sir.”
“We work together,” Torrance said, nodding.
“I also know that a man who would lead others must be prepared to stand alone. He must command respect – and cannot always share a friendly drink with those he would lead.”
“Respect must be earned, it cannot be demanded,” Torrance said.
“Yes, sir.”
“Did Lord Eòghan also ask you to tell him what you witnessed on the night of the theft?” Torrance asked.
“He did, sir.”
“And in telling him, were you able to recall anything that had slipped your mind previously?”
“I told him nothing that I haven’t already shared with you, captain.”
Torrance sighed. “There is still so much we do not know,” he said. “I must continue to investigate until the gaps are filled to my satisfaction.”
“Of course, sir. I wish I could be more help to you.”
Torrance regarded him closely, trying to read his expression. What was he hiding? Seeing the half-smile on Sheldrake’s lips, he thought it entirely possible the man might have burned his own mother alive.
“Was there anything else, sir?” Sheldrake asked.
Torrance waved a dismissive hand. “Go and get some sleep, Sheldrake, you look like hell.”
“Thank you, sir, I will.”
Chapter Eleven
The upper floor of the boarding-house was deserted. Edison slid the blade of the stout hunting knife between the door and the frame, just above the lock, and leaned his weight against the knife’s handle, at right-angles to the door. The gap between the door and frame widened, until the lock came free of the mortise, and the door swung inwards. He entered and closed the door behind him. The bedroom was in semi-darkness, the windows almost blocked by the dresses which hung from the curtain rail airing. Other dresses were piled on the floor, on chairs and covering most of the bed. A closet door was open, spewing most of its contents halfway across the room, a boned and laced corset standing up like a half-consumed carcass amongst the lace-edged bloomers and other off-white undergarments. Lined up neatly along one wall were pairs of shoes, ranging from flat plain house shoes, to glossy, beribboned creations with heels which would elevate the wearer a good eight inches. At the end of the row was a pile of odd shoes.
The dressing table was placed to get the best of the natural light from the windows, its surface mottled with the wax from the candles to either side and along the top of the mirror. The top of the dressing table was thickly dusted with face powder, and various stained jars of rouge, lip paint, eye make-up and facial creams were scattered across it, most with their lids missing. The air was heavy with the scents of perfumes, and the lady’s own musky smell.
Edison located a jewellery box – a big, metal-cased trunk with twin locks – under a pile of outfits more ostentatious than any he had encountered on stage. The locks were actually part of the box, and would need the attention of Edison’s lock picks: if they’d been external padlocks, they might have been smashed off, saving him time and effort. He took the cloth-wrapped tools from his pocket and laid them out on the floor beside the box. Some were lock-makers’ tools, either in their original state or slightly modified, and some had been specially made by a blacksmith, who had been adequately paid to ignore any suspicions he might have regarding the tools’ purposes.
Edison probed the inside of the lock with an L-shaped tool, trying to visualise the layout of the parts he felt there. They did not appear to conform to any recognised pattern. The lock was obviously custom-made. He shrugged off his jacket: this was going to take some time.
“Shit!” Edison slapped the top of the box with his open palm. He had spent the best part of an hour trying to coax the lock mechanism open, and had succeeded only in bending one of his home-made tools. The lock did not seem to follow the standard logic of such a mechanism. A lock had to do a single thing: slide a piece of metal into a slot, and though there were several ways of designing a key and lock to do this, the basic principle was the same. It was almost as though the maker of this one had thought about all the moves a thief would make in order to open it, and designed the lock to specifically thwart those attempts.
“If I were to make a lock to outwit someone who knew how locks worked, how would I go about it?” Edison mused. Then he smiled. The answer was obvious: the ‘standard logic’ of the locking mechanism was the thing. Locksmith’s followed certain conventions, made their locks in accordance to particular patterns. Thieves learned these patterns and conventions, and used them to undo the work of the locksmith. Therefore, to beat the thief, ignore all that you have been taught and create a lock which even a locksmith wouldn’t recognise. Better still, make it seem to be something he did recognise, but make it work in a different way.
Edison selected two tools from his collection and slid them into the first lock: he closed his eyes, imagining the interior of the mechanism.
“This piece is supposed to make me believe that the key must be turned against it,” Edison muttered. “But it is a trick, the piece is of no importance: it is here that the key must turn.”
There was a click as the lock popped open.
“Hah!” Edison said. “Now, if I was designing this box, I would make the second lock different in its workings to the first, make the thief work twice as hard. I would also employ a different trick in order to outfox him...” Edison selected another tool, and inserted it into the second lock. “Ah, this piece releases the mechanism, and allows it to turn in the opposite direction to the first lock.”
There was another click.
It was followed by quiet applause. Edison looked up to find, sitting cross-legged on the bed atop a pile of crumpled gowns, the thief he had encountered two evenings previously, and who he now recognised as the street performer Meg had spoken with – Anton-something-or-other
“Bravo, Master Edison, another virtuoso performance!” Anton said.
“You!”
“I believe I would have found myself out-foxed by the complexities of such locks,” Anton admitted.
Edison smiled. “Then tonight I have beaten you to the spoils,” he said proudly. He flipped open the box and peered inside: it was empty.
“I had the advantage of the key,” Anton said, holding up a silver ring containing two brass keys.
“How did you obtain those?”
“I lifted them from between madam’s heaving breasts as she slept last evening.”
“How could you do so without waking her?”
“I warmed my hands first.” Anton rubbed his hands together and then flexed his fingers.
“You were here before I entered and watched as I struggled to gain entry to this box?” Edison was incredulous.
“It is always a pleasure to watch a master at work.” Anton smiled.
“Are we acquainted?” Edison asked.
“This is our third brief encounter,” Anton said.
“But other than that, we have no connection?”
“None of which I am aware.”
“And I have done nothing that might cause you embark upon a vendetta against me?” Edison asked.
“Indeed not, why do you ask?”
“I thought perhaps you deliberately set out to vex me.”
“Never. It is simply coincidence that we have chosen the same targets on these two occasions,” Anton assured him.
“Then perhaps we can agree upon different targets for subsequent
outings?” Edison suggested.
“A reasonable request.” Anton nodded.
“Tell me where you will strike next, and I will ensure I am elsewhere,” Edison said. “Tell me the name of your victim, and I will avoid their home.”
“You may know of him,” Anton said. “His name is Eòghan, he has a modest dwelling on the hill.”
Edison shook his head and there was no humour in his smile. “Now you mock me,” he said.
“How so?”
“Lord Eòghan’s castle is a fortress that no man could enter unobserved; it would be madness to try. How would you make your entry?” His tone was sceptical.
“Through the main gate, naturally.”
“Impossible!”
“Impossible, eh?” Anton smiled. “Perhaps you would care for a little wager?”
“You will fail.”
“I will enter the castle, and bring you a bottle of his lordship’s finest wine. If I fail, I will give you the coins I took from that chest.”
“You would risk your life for a bottle of grape’s blood?”
“You are not a betting man?” Anton asked.
“I am already thinking how I will spend the coin,” Edison said, holding out his hand to shake and accept the wager.
Anton did not accept it immediately. “If I am successful,” he said, “you must hand over the spoils from your next night’s work.”
Edison thought about this only briefly, and thrust his hand forwards, sure he would win. The two men shook hands, and then they both turned at a sound behind them: a hand upon the door latch. Edison glanced back towards Anton, but found him gone. He had only a moment then to throw himself under the bed, where he encountered dust balls the size of rabbits, and a plate containing a pile of green fur which might once have been half a veal pie. There was also an assortment of empty wine bottles and glasses, and a large feather with matted barbs. Edison lay there, nose twitching, knowing that the merest sound would have him found guilty of a theft he had not managed to commit.
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