by Mark Hodder
“Bloody ‘ell. What are they?”
“Dunno, mate. Dogs. Wolves. Men. Summick in-between. You know they explode?”
“Explode?” uttered Burton. “What do yer mean?”
“I’ve ‘eard of three occasions when it’s ‘appened: they burst into flames for no reason and burn like dry straw ‘til there ain’t nuffink of’em left! I wish the ‘ole lot o’ them would go up like that. It’s hell draggin’ ‘em back, if yer arsk me!”
“It’s a rum do, that’s fer sure!” said Burton.
“Come on, Pa—we’d better be off,” urged Penniforth.
“I’ll finish me drink first,” objected Burton.
“‘Urry it up, then!”
“You seen an artist around?” Burton asked Spooner.
“Aye. Slick Sid Sedgewick is the best in the business. Why, you got a scam?”
“No, mate. Not a con artist. I mean an artist what draws and paints.”
Spooner spluttered into his glass. “You gotta be jokin’! A paintin’ artist around ‘ere!”
“I just ‘eard there was one, that’s all.”
“What is it, Dad? You wanna get yer portrait done ‘n’ hanged in the National bleedin’ Gallery?”
“All right, all right!” protested Burton.
He and Penniforth swigged back the last of their gin and bid Spooner farewell.
“Good luck to yer!” he said as they pushed away from the bar and heaved their way through the throng to the door. They burst out into the alleyway hoping for a breath of fresh air and getting quite the opposite.
It was well past midnight. The atmosphere was thick, loathsome, and catarrhal.
“Wapping’s about a mile away as the crow flies,” said Burton in a low voice. “Probably considerably farther through this maze.”
“Don’t worry, guv’nor, I knows the way.”
“Are you up for it?”
“In for a penny, in for a pound.”
“Good man! And well done—the way you got information out of that Spooner fellow was admirable! Thanks to you, we now know where the loups-garous are hunting.”
“The what?”
“Men-wolves.”
They resumed their trek through the hellish backstreets and, once again, were accosted every few minutes with varying degrees of pleading and promised violence. Only their pistols and Montague Penniforth’s great size kept the knifemen, club wielders, and garrotters at bay.
Even those deterrents failed as they crossed Cable Street and entered the outskirts of Wapping.
They’d just passed along juniper Street and turned left into an unnamed alley when, from dark doorways to either side, a gang of men hurled themselves out and threw a large blanket over Penniforth, tripping him and, as he crashed to the ground, piling on top of him. He struggled and yelled but with five heavyset thugs applying their full weight, he was helpless.
Meanwhile, Burton found himself surrounded by three hard-eyed men—two in front of him and one behind—each sneering, each waving a dagger threateningly.
He stood still, maintaining his guise as an elderly seaman, his back a little crooked, his eyes peering short-sightedly at the gang.
“W-what do yer want?” he stuttered, weakly.
“What ‘ave you got?” replied one of the men, the apparent leader. He was tall, rat-faced, with a tangled black beard and lank hair.
“Nuffink.”
“Is that so? Funny, ‘cos I see a nice pair o’ strong boots on yer feet, an’ word ‘as reached me that there’s a pistol under that there warm-lookin’ coat o’ yours. Don’t go for it if yer wanna live.”
Burton heard the man behind taking a step forward.
Just one more, my friend, he thought.
“An’ that bowler you’re a-wearing on your ‘ead will look just fine an’ dandy on mine, I reckons.”
“Ummph!” came Penniforth’s voice from inside the blanket.
The step was taken.
Burton whirled and straightened, his right arm shot up, and his fist connected with the man’s chin with such force that the jawbone broke with an audible snap and the crook’s feet left the ground.
Before the man had landed on his back, Burton was facing front and springing at the leader. Taken aback, Rat-face stabbed at him reflexively, the dagger aimed at his throat, but Burton swivelled, brought his own arm up under his opponent’s, hooked his elbow and wrist around it, and jerked upward. With a nauseating crunch, Rat-face’s arm splintered. His scream was cut short by a ferocious uppercut. He flopped backward, out cold.
As the third man closed in, others left the blanket to come to his assistance. It was a stupid mistake. Penniforth erupted out of it with a bellow of rage, ripping the material asunder.
While the cabbie laid into the gang, Burton took off his bowler and tossed it at the remaining knifeman’s face. Momentarily distracted, the crook ducked and his beady eyes wavered, missing Burton’s next lightning-fast movement. Before he realised what had happened, the East Ender felt his wrist clutched in a grip of such strength that his fingers opened involuntarily and the dagger fell from them. He was yanked forward and his erstwhile victim’s forehead smashed into the bridge of his nose. The thief collapsed to his knees, blood spurting from his face, his wrist still held, as if in a vise. He looked up, half dazed, and the eyes that met his blazed with sullen rage.
“N-no,” he stammered.
“Yes,” said Burton.
He twisted the man’s arm out of its socket and put an end to the highpitched shriek with a chop to the neck. The limp crook crumpled into a yellowish puddle.
Burton turned to see how Penniforth was getting on and laughed.
The giant cabbie was grinning, with three unconscious men at his feet. He was holding the other two upside down, a hand around an ankle of each.
“What shall I do with the rubbish, guv’nor?” he asked.
Burton recovered his slime-stained bowler. “Just drop it in the street like everyone else does around here.”
He turned and caught sight of four squat figures passing the far end of the alley. They were gone in an instant, leaving him with a vague impression of floor-length scarlet cloaks with big hoods, totally enveloping the wearers. A new order of nuns, perhaps, come to aid the poor? Yet there had been something disturbing about those four shapes; something—what was it?—yes, something about their gait.
“Monty!” he snapped, and started running.
The cabbie dropped the crooks and followed. They reached the end of the passage and Burton looked to the right just in time to see a glimpse of red cloth sliding past the edge of a wall.
“Come on!”
He raced to the corner and peered down a dank alleyway no wider than the span of his arms. Far ahead, the four red cloaks were consumed by billowing fog.
Burton sped on, occasionally slipping in the slime, almost falling, with Monty on his heels.
An arched entrance opened onto yet another backstreet; almost pitch black, with just a glimmer of candlelight bleeding into the gloom from the gaps in a boarded-up window.
A flash of red passed through the light.
Along one dark passageway after another they pursued the short, cowled figures, only ever catching fleeting glimpses, never seeming to close with their quarry.
“By heck!” panted Penniforth. “They’re fast! Who are they? Why are we chasin’ them?”
“I don’t know! There’s just something odd about them! There!” Burton pointed ahead to where the four flowing shapes passed through an aura of light cast by a solitary gas lamp.
They pounded along until they reached the patch of brightness and there Burton skidded to a halt. He bent and quickly examined the mud. There were four sets of footprints in it.
“They’re running barefoot on the balls of their feet and—look at this!triangular pads and four toes, and, if I’m not mistaken, these indentations indicate claws! They’re the loups-garous, Monty!”
A terrified shout suddenly echoed from
somewhere close.
Without another word, Burton plunged ahead. Monty followed, pulling the pistol from inside his greatcoat.
They emerged into a cobbled square with the vague mist-shrouded mouths of alleyways opening into each of its sides.
A man and a boy stood in its centre. The four robed figures were circling them with a predatory lope. Liquid snarling reached Burton’s ears.
“For God’s sake, ‘elp us!” pleaded the man. “They’re going to—”
One of the things swooped forward and leaped onto his chest, momentarily obscuring him with its red robe. Then it dropped back and stalked away, leaving him standing there, his throat missing.
A fountain of blood arced out and splashed onto the cobbles.
The boy let loose a wailing cry.
The man dropped to his knees then keeled over onto his face, blood pooling around him.
Penniforth raised his pistol and fired.
The detonation sounded terrific as it echoed from the walls.
The shot missed its target—Burton clearly saw the edge of a red brick explode as the bullet hit it—but, unexpectedly, as if set off by the noise, one of the creatures suddenly burst into flames which raged with such intensity that, within seconds, the figure was reduced to ashes before their eyes.
The remaining three creatures, in unison, sprang upon the boy. He screeched and struggled.
Penniforth fired again, hitting one of the creatures in the arm.
It howled and released its grip on the youngster, whirled, and bounded toward the big cabbie. As it did so, its hood fell back.
Burton jumped forward to intercept it and saw a diabolical face with a furrowed brow, deeply set bloodshot eyes gleaming above a wrinkled snout, a huge drooling mouth filled with long sharp canines, and a shaggy head of tangled hair out of which pointed ears projected.
The pistol banged again, its flash reflected in the thing’s eyes as it ducked down, jumped up, and swiped at Burton. He felt an impact on the side of his head. The square somersaulted. Bells rang in his ears. He thudded into the ground and, through a shrinking tunnel of darkness, saw the writhing, screaming boy carried out of sight; saw a pistol fall and clatter onto the cobbles; saw a shower of red; saw—nothing.
“Hold on to this,” whispered a heavily accented voice in his ear. A scrap of paper was pushed into his hand. His fingers closed around it automatically. For a moment he thought it had been handed to him by Arthur Findlay, and he knew the words written upon it.
John Speke had shot himself in the head.
Footsteps milling around.
Voices.
“Where you going, Gus?”
“Anywhere that I don’t have to look at that mess!”
Hands lifting him, holding him upright; fingers wandering from pocket to pocket.
“Steady, old-timer,” said a hoarse voice.
Something moving in his belt.
“Bugger me, lookit this—anuvver pistol!” Deep voice.
“Let’s see that!” Hoarse voice.
“Check if it’s loaded.” Whiny voice.
The sound of running footsteps as someone departed in a hurry.
“Oy! Come back wiv that, you thievin’ git!” Whiny voice.
“Ah, let the silly sod scarper; we’ll catch up wiv ‘im later.” Deep voice.
“Hey, Dad, you wiv us?” Whiny voice.
Burton opened his eyes.
A fat, greasy individual was supporting him by the left arm; a small pockmarked man, with legs distorted by rickets, held his right. People were standing around, holding candles or oil lamps, some looking at him, others staring at the mess on the cobbles where a butcher’s cart had dropped its load of offal.
Except—
Burton doubled over and vomited for the fourth time that night.
The two men, Hoarse Voice and Whiny Voice, backed away, cursing.
The king’s agent, remembering his disguise, straightened but kept his back hunched. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve and looked again at the ripped and shredded intestines and organs that were spread messily across the cobbles. His eyes followed their long, bloody trail, past the outspread legs, across the torn thigh with its bone glinting wetly in the lamplight, and into the hollowed-out rib cage.
Above tattered scraps of coat and shirt and skin, the glazed eyes of Montague Penniforth stared up through the fog at whatever lay beyond.
“It were the dog things,” hissed Whiny Voice.
A gaunt, elderly man limped forward. He had a peg leg and three fingers missing from his right hand.
“Where are you from, Mister?” he said, in a surprisingly gentle voice.
“Mile End,” mumbled Burton.
“You’ve been lucky—the dogs didn’t kill you.”
“They weren’t dogs. And they took a little kid,” said the king’s agent, noticing the corpse of the child’s companion.
“They always do. Why don’t you get off ‘ome? We’ll sort this lot out.”
“Sort it out? What do yer mean?”
“I mean we’ll get rid o’ the stiffs; beggin yer pardin if that fella was yer boy.”
“What’ll yer do with them?”
“The usual.”
Burton knew what that meant: what was left of Monty would be thrown into the Thames.
He put a hand to his forehead. How many deaths must he have on his conscience? First Lieutenant Stroyan in Berbera; then Speke, who must surely have died by now; and, tonight, Montague Penniforth.
He felt sick; he hadn’t bargained for this, but what could he do? He couldn’t call the police—or even an undertaker to come and collect Monty’s remains. No matter how much he wanted the big cabbie to receive a decent burial—and Lord knows he’d willingly pay for it himself—there was no way to get the cadaver out of the East End without arousing suspicion; and if his disguise failed him, he himself would probably end up in the river.
His head throbbed. He felt wet blood in his hair.
He dropped his hand and clenched it, fingernails digging into his palm. In the other hand, something got in their way. The note from Findlay!
No, wait, not from Findlay—so, from whom?
He waited until Throaty Voice, Whiny Voice, and Peg-Leg were distracted, then surreptitiously unscrewed the paper and glanced at the words on it:
Mes yeux discernent mieux les choses que la puplart ici. Je vois a travers votre masque. Rencontrez moi vers la Thames, an bout de Mews Street dans moins dune heure.
My eyes are more discerning than most here, Burton translated rapidly. I see through your mask. Meet me at the Thames end of Mews Street within the hour.
He put the note in his pocket and moved over to Peg-Leg’s side.
“‘Ere, mate, I gotta get to Mews Street,” he grumbled in a low voice. “Which way is it?”
“What’s yer business there?” asked Peg-Leg, his rheumy eyes looking Burton up and down.
“My business, that’s what!” responded Burton.
“All right, fella, no need to get shirty. That alley over there—take it down to the river then turn right ‘n’ follow the bank-side road ‘til you come to a pawn shop what’s closed an’ boarded up. That’s the corner of Mews Street. You gonna be all right on yer own? You know yer shooter got pinched?”
“Yus, the thievin’ bastards. I’ll manage, matey. Me bruvver is expectin’ me an’ I’m already a good five hours late!”
“Stopped off at a boozer, hey?”
“Yus.”
“Sorry abaht yet boy, Dad. Fucking bad way to go.”
Burton forced himself to give a heartless East End shrug and moved away, shuffling into the clouded mouth of the alley that the one-legged man had indicated. The increasing distance between himself and Penniforth strained behind him; stretched to its snapping point—but didn’t snap. It, like Stroyan’s death and Speke’s suicide, would pull at his heart for the rest of his life; he knew that, and he realised the commission he’d received from Palmerston—to be “king’s a
gent”—carried with it a terribly heavy price.
The alley was cramped, almost entirely devoid of light, and ran crookedly down a slight slope toward the river. Burton kept his fingers on the right-hand wall and allowed it to guide him. He repeatedly stumbled over prone bodies. Some cursed when his foot struck them; others moaned; most remained silent.
His mouth felt sour with vomit and alcohol. The toxic fog burned his eyes and nostrils. He wanted to go home and forget this disastrous expedition. He wanted to forget all his disastrous expeditions.
Dammit, Burton! Settle down! Become consul in Fernando Po, Brazil, Damascus, and wherever the fuck else they send you! Write your damned books!
He walked on, and when a man stepped into his path and said, “‘Oo do we ‘ave ‘ere, then?” Burton didn’t reply or miss a step but simply rammed a fist as hard as he could into the man’s stomach. He kept going, leaving the wretch lying in the fetal position behind him.
Every few yards, his hand fell away from the wall as he encountered junctions with other passages. Each time, he walked ahead keeping his arm outstretched until he came to the opposite corner. Eventually, instead of a corner, he found railings spanning his path, and by the intensity of the stench realised that he’d crossed the Thames-side road and was beside the river. He returned to the other side of the street, found the wall, and staggered on in a westward direction.
As he pushed on through the bilious fog, the fumes seeped into his bloodstream, starving his brain of oxygen. He began to feel a familiar sensation, a feeling which had haunted his malarial deliriums in Africa. It was the notion that he was a divided identity; that two persons existed within him, ever fighting to thwart and oppose each other.
The death of Penniforth became their battlefield. Pervading guilt struggled with a savage desire for revenge; the impulse to flee from this king’s agent role wrestled with the determination to find out where the loups-garous came from and why they were, apparently, abducting children.
“Monsieur!”
The word was hissed from a doorway.
Burton stopped and fought a sudden wave of dizziness. He could just about make out a figure crouched in a rectangle of denser shadow.
“Monsieur!” came the whisper again.
“Doré?” he said, softly.