Matthew dodged another pair of wild swings. He steadied himself and struck Rory once more directly on the point of the chin, again not holding anything back. Rory made a gasping sound and fell backward. Matthew charged in with two more punches…one, two in quick succession to the right and left sides of the jaw.
Rory collapsed.
Before the back of Rory’s skull could hit the planks, Matthew caught him and got his hand between fire-colored hair and rain-blackened wood. Rory’s body twisted and struggled involuntarily, but for all intents and purposes he was out.
Matthew eased him down, and then he walked away as Rory curled up on the floor and began to sob. The crying became a wail of torment, and in it was all the agony of a life twisted by hideous circumstances that a young boy could not prevent. Matthew realized that Rory and so many others like him had never had much of a chance to fly, but all of their lives had been the falling.
Matthew waited silently. He rubbed the knuckles of his fists. Rory Keen possessed as much of a hard jaw as a hard head.
In time the tortured noise subsided.
There was just the sounds then of Rory’s harsh breathing, and the pigeons playing above.
Rory blew his nose and snuffled, and then he said, “I’m sorry,” which might have been the only time in his life he’d uttered that statement.
“You have the right idea but the wrong opponent. I suggest we leave now. Mother Deare will be sending more men out to find Frost and Willow, if they haven’t been found already. It’s a matter of time before someone comes here.”
“Yeah. Yeah, we ought to get out.” With an effort, Rory stood up. He staggered on his feet but then righted himself. He wiped his face with his shirt and looked through the gloom at Matthew. “The Soames Inn?”
“Yes.”
“Take us awhile to get to Fleet Street. Any reason for that particular place?”
“A friend of mine is staying there. I think he can help our situation.”
“Okay.” Rory still seemed unsure of which leg to move to get him started. “Albion,” he said. “Did he die?”
“No.”
“That’s good. Been an awful lot of dyin’ today.” He put a hand to his forehead. Matthew could see that it trembled. “Matthew,” Rory said, “will you help me get through?”
Matthew knew what he was meaning. Help him get through the bodies of his family, the blood and carnage that lay between him and the way out.
“I will,” Matthew promised.
Twenty-Eight
THE bewigged and rather priggish clerk at the Soames Inn reported that the errand boy he’d sent upstairs had received no answer to knocks on the doors of either Mr. Hudson Greathouse or Miss Beryl Grigsby. He could not say where they had gone or when they would return.
“May we wait for them?” Matthew asked, in his most gentlemanly tone.
The clerk looked Matthew and Rory over and obviously did not like what he saw. These two ragamuffins would surely befoul the overstuffed blue cushions of the chairs in the parlor, and this one in the horrendous purple suit spoke like a gentleman but his eyes bore the dark gaze of a born ruffian.
Matthew read the man’s thoughts. “I can assure you that Mr. Greathouse will reward you with an extra pound if you allow us to wait, and I can also assure you he’ll tear your little paradise to pieces if you don’t.”
Thus it was that the clerk’s initial startlement at the Great One’s size and brusque manner convinced him to comply, and Matthew and Rory found themselves seated on the blue cushions in an oak-panelled room where a civilized fire burned in the brown stone hearth and an ornate grandfather clock ticked away the minutes. They were glad to be off their feet, for the walk from Whitechapel in the bitter wind that shifted directions like the thrusts of a demonic swordsman had taken them several hours and worn them to the nubs.
Matthew noted a recent copy of the London Gazette atop an ivory-inlaid table. When he picked it up, underneath the newspaper like a little toad beneath an eagle’s wing was the latest issue of the Pin, with that abominable bold headline Monster Of Plymouth Compatriot Of Albion.
He started to fling it into the fire, but the line Coalblack Amazes Audiences snagged his eye and stayed his hand.
He read the article again. African strongman…cannot speak due to loss of tongue…strangely-scarred face…found last June clinging to a bit of wreckage from a ship at sea…
Was it Zed, or some other? If it was indeed Zed, had Captain Falco’s ship been destroyed by vengeful cannonfire from one of Fell’s roving pirates, and Zed cast upon the waves?
“Thinkin’,” Rory suddenly said, as he stared into the crackling fire.
This required a response. Matthew pulled his attention away from Coalblack. “Yes?”
“You say whoever killed my people and took the Velvet was declarin’ war on Professor Fell?”
If there had been anyone else in the parlor overhearing this, they likely would now have gotten up and retired to their Bible closet, but Matthew and Rory were the only ones and Rory’s query had been cast low.
“The same individual who murdered Judge Fallonsby,” said Matthew. “He—or God forbid, she—has decided the time has come to make a move. I suspect that Fallonsby was one of the justices in Fell’s employ, so that was a blatant strike against the professor. And I wouldn’t doubt that this person has a chemist available to examine the Velvet’s ingredients in hopes of copying the recipe.”
“Tangled bag a’ snakes, huh?”
“All knotted up,” Matthew said.
“All right, so this new sonofabitch wants war with Fell. But—sayin’ it’s a he—how’d he know we had Velvet in that cellar? I mean, sure we ain’t the only ones been holdin’ cellars full of Velvet, but how’d he know?”
“Someone’s talk slipped out here or there. Some slip of the tongue made in a tavern, and a careful ear listening. Could be someone associated with the Sisters. Then one or more of the Broodies was identified and followed, the warehouse staked out over a period of days—or weeks—and notes taken as to the unloading of barrels and crates from a wagon in front of that warehouse late at night.”
“The last shipment we got was over a month ago,” said Rory. “Came in ’bout four in the mornin’.”
“It was likely being watched. I suspect this new individual wasn’t ready, for whatever reason, to undertake a raid at that point. Maybe he didn’t have enough men. Who knows?”
“Damn,” Rory said, frowning into the fire. “I just…I just can’t think about it, Matthew. It hurts my head and my heart at the same time. God bless ’em all, but I failed ’em.”
“Don’t go down that road. I don’t think what happened could have been avoided. Of course you very well could have perished with them, and therefore have no current pain of head and heart, but you’re not the cause of it. It’s Fell…Mother Deare…the White Velvet…and now this new…creature,” Matthew said. The hideous images of the Devil’s Cross and the gouged-out eyes came to him, and he had to brush them away by reading once more about the famous Coalblack.
The grandfather clock ticked away but could work no magic on the movement of time. It crawled. From where he was sitting Matthew had a direct view to the clerk’s desk and the red-carpeted staircase leading up to the rooms. He watched several people come and go, but none of them were Hudson or Berry. An hour passed, and then another.
“You sure they’re gonna come back here?” Rory asked.
“They’re on the register, so why wouldn’t they?” Matthew figured they were out looking for him. He hoped they stayed far away from Whitechapel.
“How much longer you gonna give ’em? Light’s fadin’ out there.”
From what Matthew could see through a slice of window, late afternoon’s light was the same gloomy gray as midday’s. The grandfather clock chose that moment to chime five times.
“Another hour,” Matthew said.
“And if they don’t come, then what?”
Then what, indeed, Ma
tthew thought. Surely they wouldn’t be allowed to remain in here all night, no matter the promise of reward or threat of breakage. “We’ll figure something out,” Matthew answered, but he was presenting a lame horse.
In precisely thirty minutes the bewigged clerk came into the parlor. He squared his thin shoulders and took on an expression of severity. He said, “Sirs, I shall inform you that at six o’clock the management of the Soames Inn closes the parlor to all persons who are not guests or not accompanied by guests. I regret your friends have not returned, but at six o’clock you shall have to leave.”
“What if we don’t choose t’ leave?” Rory thrust his chin out in haughty defiance.
“In that case, sir, we have the benefit of common ownership of the gymnasium across the street, which includes a very popular prize-fighting club. At all hours of the day what they call the ‘ring’ is in constant use, and a group of men who appreciate the sport are always seeking new targets of practice.”
“Oh,” said Rory.
“It’s our management’s policy,” the clerk said, thawing a little. “For the safety and security of the guests, really.”
“I see,” said Matthew. “All right then, we’ll leave at six.”
“My appreciation,” the clerk replied, with a stiff-backed bow. He was starting to retreat when Matthew, already trying to figure out where he and Rory might go, had a sudden idea.
“Pardon,” Matthew said before the clerk could withdraw. He checked the article about Coalblack in the Pin once more. “How far a walk would it be to Dove’s Wing Alley at Bishopsgate?”
“That distance would be in the approximation of three miles. May I ask if you’re interested in the Almsworth Circus?”
“Yes, exactly so.”
“I’ve attended it myself. Very entertaining, but quite a walk from here. May I send an errand boy to hire a coach for the gentlemen?” This was said with only a hint of sarcasm.
“No, thank you, but I’d appreciate walking directions.”
“I shall write them down for you.” The clerk bowed again and went on his way.
Matthew stood up. “Rory, exactly how much money do you have?”
He checked his pockets and came up with three shillings and six pence.
“That ought to be enough to get us into the Almsworth Circus.”
“What?” Rory got out of his chair and winced at the pain in his feet from their earlier walk here, which had been nearly double that distance. “You want to go to the flippin’ circus?”
“I do. The show begins at eight. If we leave now, we can make the opening.”
“You say. My dogs are barkin’!”
“Well, we won’t walk as fast as we did coming here.”
“Why the bloody hell are you wantin’ to go to the circus, pray tell?”
“I might know someone who’s involved there,” said Matthew. “I have to see him to make sure.”
“Do you know the flippin’ man in the moon, as well? Jesus, I ain’t never met a gent with so many acquaintances in high and low places!”
“I must see this one,” Matthew replied, and added, “If nothing more than to ease my curiosity.” Ease his fears was more correct, for he dreaded the thought that the brave Captain Falco had been destroyed in retribution for the destruction of Pendulum Island.
“Hell’s bells,” said Rory. His voice was strong, but his eyes were still dark-hollowed and every so often his body gave an involuntary tremble or outright jerk. Matthew had caught him staring into space with a half-open mouth and a frozen countenance as if he’d just stepped into the warehouse again and found the first of the dead upon the floor. “Ain’t quite the day for a circus show,” Rory went on.
“It’s just the day for it. I have to see this man and we have to go somewhere.”
“Uh huh. And with these marks on our hands, if any of the dozen or so gangs between here and there find us poachin’ at night, we’re dead men. If we get there in one piece, we still got to get back!”
“If this man is who I think it might be, then I believe my story to the owners of the circus might improve his value, and from them it’s possible to earn a coach ride back here.” Matthew was sure the owners would appreciate learning that Zed was a member of the fighting Ga tribe and something of his history…but then what? Leave Zed in the circus, when he knew the man so ardently wished to get home to his tribal land? Just turn a back on him, and leave him here in this seething cesspool? But that bridge had to be crossed later, and first things first: was this African strongman Zed, or not?
“Lord have mercy,” said Rory, and then he was silent.
Matthew got the written directions from the clerk. He left instructions with the man to inform Hudson Greathouse that he had gone to the Almsworth Circus and it would be good to be met there with a coach if Hudson could manage it; if not, he would return to the inn later that night. They left the Soames Inn, setting off to the east. They were heading back toward Whitechapel, as the Bishopsgate area lay just to the northwest of it. Chill winds gusted through the streets, plucking at hats and cloaks and tugging the hems of ladies’ gowns. Matthew kept one hand on his tricorn and the other grasping the collar of his cloak as the garment billowed around him. Streetside torches flared in the wintry currents, and lanterns appeared in the hands of passersby. The central section of the city was jammed with traffic, pedestrians rushing about and carriages, coaches and wagons clogging the ways. Rory kept pace with Matthew but Matthew was aware of his friend’s discomfort and so eased his stride. The larger buildings loomed on all sides, lanternlight yellowing many of the windows. In the hurry and crush of the well-to-do, beggars of all ages and descriptions hobbled back and forth, some of them children, some of them young and bedraggled women holding infants. Some people walked upon the streetsides as if the devil snapped at their bottoms and whole groups of others meandered as if measuring the length of cow pastures on a hazy midsummer morn, and therefore the collisions were numerous and constant. Matthew hoped New York never became as this, for he was sure the pastoral beauty of the town would be destroyed.
Matthew and Rory crossed a multitude of streets and braved a multitude of wild drivers. They witnessed a man and woman run down by an ornate carriage less than twenty feet from them as they went across Lombard Street; the carriage might have continued on had not a wheel broken off and gone rolling past the two circus-bound travellers. Matthew was glad to see the two lucky victims of this near-murder helped to their feet, and all was good except for the fact that they’d unluckily tumbled into a sewage ditch.
At last the directions Matthew had several times stopped to consult indicated that Dove’s Wing Alley was within three blocks, just past the Spittle Yard. For some time Rory had been keeping his head on a swivel, but though they walked along some streetsides that looked like gangs had already done their ravaging and left ruins in their wake the only distress they experienced came from the nasty curses thrown at them from a number of young women and young men who approached them with lascivious offers, all ignored.
Finally, after seeing plastered on several walls broadsheets advertising the Almsworth Circus—Jugglers! Dancers! Acrobats! The Mighty Coalblack! You Shall Be Amazed!—they heard a commotion of drumming, gonging and shouting ahead. At the sign of Dove’s Wing Alley under a guttering, windblown torch, a rotund fellow with green greasepaint on his face had a contraption of drumheads, cymbals and gongs strapped to his body, and he was hammering his sticks at these as if beating his mother-in-law. “Come one, come all!” he shouted every few seconds into the night, and he bowed his head slightly at Matthew and Rory as they passed and gave an extra oomph to a drumhit.
As at Flint Alley, a set of stairs led down into a crevasse, but this one was festooned with ropes upon which were hooked multi-colored lanterns. At the bottom of the steps, there was a small courtyard where a clown with white-painted face and wearing a belled jester’s cap stood before a doorway covered by a red curtain. He was making such foolish, tongue-wagging and
goggle-eyed expressions as a clown might make at the dozen or so patrons who’d gathered, at the same time taking coins into a pewter bowl and giving out tickets. Beside him a petite dark-haired girl in an extremely revealing black outfit with white stripes was walking on her hands, while her twin, identical except for wearing a white outfit with black stripes, was performing perfect flips over and over again, both girls receiving the applause of the gathering.
The clown announced to Rory an entrance fee of one shilling apiece, a sum that made Rory visibly bristle, but the coins came out and went into the bowl. Tickets in hand, Matthew and Rory went through the red curtain into a small lamplit theater with four rows of bench seats that already held another half-dozen patrons.
Matthew wished to sit on the front row. As more of the night’s customers came in, he removed his tricorn, took off his cloak and folded it, and then took his place beside Rory.
“A shillin’ for this?” Rory fumed. “It ain’t nothin’ but rank robbery!”
“We’re out of the wind and we’re sitting,” Matthew reminded him. “Be glad of that.”
“A fool circus! What good are these things?”
Within thirty minutes, after the crimson-costumed master of ceremonies had emerged to welcome the audience and tell a few ribald jokes, the drummerman had taken the stage and played not only the drums at a thunderous rhythm but also the mouth harp at the same time in a stirring show of talent, a fire-eater had swallowed a torch or two and puffed out twenty rings of smoke, a man wearing a huge blue bowtie had engaged three small dogs in jumping through a number of hoops—and one of them aflame—Matthew heard Rory give an excited intake of breath as the two petite twin acrobats jumped back and forth with effortless ease from swings suspended above the audience.
Freedom of the Mask Page 36