by Anne Perry
It took Squeaky the rest of the afternoon, a conversational supper of pork pie at The Goat and Compasses, and then more walking and questioning, to find Crow in a tenement house just short of the Shadwell Docks. Since he wanted a favor, Squeaky waited until Crow had seen his patient and collected his fee of sixpence—which was insisted upon by the patient’s father—and the two of them were free to walk out onto the road beside the river.
Crow turned up the collar of his long, black coat and pulled it more tightly around himself against the icy wind coming up off the water. He was tall—several inches taller than Squeaky—and at least twenty-five years younger. Today he had a hat jammed over his long straight black hair, but in the lamplight Squeaky saw the same wide smile on his face as usual. He seemed to have too many teeth, fine and strong.
“You must want something very badly,” he remarked, looking sideways at Squeaky. “And it isn’t a doctor. You’ve got plenty of those much nearer Portpool Lane. You look agitated.”
“I am agitated,” Squeaky snapped. He told Crow about Henry Rathbone’s visit to the clinic and his request for help in finding Lucien Wentworth. As they strode in the dark along the narrow street in the ice-flecked bitter wind, the cobbles slick under their feet, he also told him about the sort of indulgence that Lucien Wentworth had apparently sunk into.
Crow shook his head. “You can’t let Hester go looking into that!” he said anxiously. “Don’t even imagine it.”
“I’m not!” Squeaky was disgusted, and hurt. Crow should have known him better than to even have thought such a thing. “Why do you think I’m looking for you, you fool?”
Crow stopped in his tracks. “Me? I don’t know places like that. I’ve treated a few opium addicts, but for other things—slashes, broken bones, not the opium. As far as I know, there isn’t anything you can do for it.”
Squeaky felt a wash of panic rise inside him. He couldn’t do this alone. He knew enough about the underworld of self-indulgence to be aware of its labyrinthine depths and dangers. What on earth had possessed him to begin this? He should have told Henry Rathbone that the whole thing was impossible. For that matter, Rathbone should have told Lucien’s father that in the first place. Squeaky was really losing his grip. Respectability was an idiot’s calling.
“Right!” he said tartly. “I’ll go back and tell Hester I can’t do it.”
“You didn’t tell her anything about it in the first place,” Crow pointed out, but there was no smile in his eyes.
“And how do I tell Mr. Rathbone that I can’t do it?” Squeaky said sarcastically. “Without her knowing, eh? She’s clever, that one. She can read a lie like it was writ on your face. She’ll know, whatever I say.”
Crow thrust his hands into his pockets. His hands always seemed to be bare, whatever the weather. Squeaky looked at him. “Why don’t you get someone to pay you with a pair o’ gloves?” he said pointedly.
Crow ignored the remark. “Are you saying obliquely that you will tell Hester I refused to help?”
“Obliquely? Obliquely? You mean sideways?” Squeaky said crossly. “Why can’t you say it straight out? And no, I’m not saying it sideways, I’m telling you plain that she’ll know, ’cause if she were in my place, you’d be the person she’d ask. Which comes to my point. You want me to tell her you won’t help, or you want to tell her yourself?”
Crow shook his head. “You haven’t lost your touch, Squeaky. You’re a hard man.”
“Thank you,” Squeaky said with unexpected appreciation.
Crow glared at him. “It wasn’t a compliment! What do we know about this Lucien Wentworth, apart from the fact that his father is wealthy and seems to have let him have a lot more money than is good for him?”
Squeaky shrugged and started to walk again, talking half over his shoulder as Crow caught up with him. He repeated what Henry Rathbone had told him about Lucien’s weakness for physical pleasure, his need to feel a sense of power, to feel admired, to feel—as it might appear to his deluded and immature mind—loved.
Behind them a string of barges went downriver with the ebbing tide, their riding lights bright sparks in the wind and darkness. To the south a foghorn sounded mournfully.
Crow’s expression grew grimmer as he tramped beside Squeaky. Finally they turned inland and slightly up the slope, leaving the sounds of the water behind them. The thickening gloom of the winter night lay ahead. Lamps shone one after another along the narrow street, angular beacons toward the busier High Street.
“It’s going to be a long night,” Crow said as they reached the crossroad. They waited for the traffic to clear, and then hurried over, their boots splashing in the gutter and then crunching on the cobbles already slicked with ice. “And we may not find anything.”
Squeaky wanted to tell him to stop complaining, but he knew that Crow was right, so he said nothing for several minutes.
“Let’s have a drink first,” he suggested finally. He thought of offering to pay for both of them, but that was a bad habit to start.
It was, as Crow had said, a very long night. They began with extremely discreet inquiries in the Haymarket. The area was notorious for the prostitutes who patrolled its pavements so openly that no decent woman went there, even if accompanied by her husband. However well-dressed she was, she would be likely to be taken for a lady of the night. In this area such women might be indistinguishable from ladies of society, especially those whose taste was a little daring.
“I don’t know what we’ll learn here,” Crow said, watching a couple of young women quite openly sidle up to a group of theatergoers.
“Do you know which theaters are fashionable right now for tastes a bit sharper than usual?” Squeaky asked challengingly.
“My patients don’t come up this way,” Crow admitted. “East End music halls are more their line, if they’ve a few pence to spare.”
“Then shut up, and watch,” Squeaky retorted. “And follow me.”
They tried to find places selling more than alcohol, entertainment, and the chance to pick up a prostitute.
Their first three attempts were abortive, but the fourth led them to a very small theater off Piccadilly where the drama on stage was overshadowed by the exchanges in the many private boxes and on the narrow stairs. The lighting was yellow and very dim, making most of the people look sallow and a little sinister. Heaven only knew what they looked like in daylight.
Squeaky watched and waited. He did not know the names of the current young dandies who indulged themselves. Their dull eyes were half-focused, lids drooping. Opium, he thought to himself.
He studied one young man closely, and, brushing past him, felt the quality of the cloth in his jacket sleeve. Yes, definitely money there. He hoped he had not lost his childhood art of picking pockets. There was often very good information to be had from the contents of a gentleman’s pocket—his name and address from his card, if nothing else.
Squeaky knew that moving unnoticed in places such as these would require a little money, and he had no intention whatsoever of financing it himself. His money was earned with proper work these days, and deserved to be spent respectably. Better to pick pockets without Crow’s noticing, though. You never knew what his peculiar aversions might be. There was no accounting for taste, or superstition.
From that theater they learned of others, more daring. The first cost them even to gain entrance. From the outside it looked like a perfectly ordinary public house.
“Don’t look worth the trouble,” Squeaky said disparagingly, regarding the chipped pillars and peeling plaster with distaste.
“An affectation, perhaps?” Crow suggested. Then he hurried over to explain. “A suggestion to the eye of the more sordid appetites catered to within?”
Squeaky was amused, not so much by the idea as by the wording Crow chose. He shrugged and paid for their entry.
“Ye’re right,” he said generously as soon as they were through the archway and down the steps into the main room. It was crowded wit
h people, all of them with glasses or goblets in their hands, except the two almost-naked women who were practicing the most extraordinary and vulgar contortions on a makeshift stage, to the hoots and jeers of the onlookers.
“They’ll be needing me professionally,” Crow observed, wincing at a particularly unnatural-looking move.
Squeaky made no comment. He began to methodically talk to one person after another, asking questions, learning little.
It took them over an hour to learn that Lucien was known here, but had not been seen in more than a month.
They moved on to another place where they learned nothing, and then a farther tavern that at first seemed very helpful. However, in the end the man they found there turned out not to be Lucien, merely some other lost youth bent on finding oblivion.
By four in the morning Squeaky was tired and cold. His head ached. And his feet were sore. He realized all the reasons he had been willing to give up the pursuit of temporary pleasure in favor of a warm bed in the Portpool Lane clinic, and only the very occasional night awake chasing around after other people’s needs. Even then, his time was not spent outside in the rain and the freezing wind, with his feet wet and water sliding down his neck from the rain. Being inside a low-ceilinged room and among the confusion of loud voices was not much better. He had forgotten how he disliked stupid laughter and the crush of bodies in narrow spaces, the smell of stale smoke and drink. Even the music had less appeal than it used to.
They entered a cellar deep below a tavern. The yellow gaslight made the stone walls look even more pitted and stained. They did at least serve good brandy. Apart from warming Squeaky’s body a bit, the drink encouraged him to think that this was the kind of place that might attract a man like Lucien Wentworth, who was raised to know the quality of brandy and partook only of the best.
It was actually Crow who began the conversation with a nearby stranger that finally yielded the first scent of Lucien.
“Clever,” Crow observed amiably to the man nearest him. They were both looking at a provocatively dressed young woman who was miming an obscene joke to the delight of onlookers.
“Cost yer,” the young man remarked. “But they all do.”
“I prefer something a bit …” Crow hesitated. “Unusual.”
The young man looked him up and down as if assessing his taste. “You’da liked Sadie.” He sighed wistfully. He was so slight as to be almost emaciated. The bones of his wrists looked fragile when his shirtsleeves slid back. “She was beautiful.”
“Really …” Crow had difficulty pretending interest. Squeaky realized he had no idea what kind of woman Crow liked. The subject had never arisen.
“Face pale as a lily,” the young man went on dreamily. “Hair like black silk. And sea-blue eyes, bright as deep water in the sun.”
Squeaky let his mind wander. This was all a waste of time.
Crow was still pretending to be interested. “She sounds different,” he said, regarding the young man closely. You pursued her? Was she all you imagined?”
The young man lifted one bony shoulder. “No idea. She only had time for Lucien.”
That caught Squeaky’s attention, and he sat upright too quickly. The young man turned to stare at him, breaking the thread of his remembrance.
Crow glared at Squeaky.
Squeaky scratched himself, as if it had been a sudden itch that had disturbed him. “Too bad,” he commiserated. He caught Crow’s eye and decided to say no more.
“Is she still around here?” Crow asked casually.
“What?”
“The girl with the sea-blue eyes.”
“Oh, Sadie? Haven’t seen her.” The young man fished in his pocket, but apparently did not find what he was looking for. He furrowed his brow. “I’m getting out of here. This is becoming tedious. Do you want to come to Potter’s with me?”
“Sounds like a good idea,” Crow agreed, without asking Squeaky. “I’d like to hear more about Sadie. You make her sound special, something new.”
“Won’t do you any good.” The young man rose to his feet, and swayed a little. Crow caught him by the arm, steadying him. “Obliged,” the young man acknowledged the assistance, letting out a belch of alcoholic fumes. Don’t bother with Sadie. I told you, she went with Lucien.”
“Where to?” Crow asked him, still holding his arm.
“God knows.” The young man waved a hand in the air.
“We aren’t on conversational terms with God,” Squeaky put in acidly. “I ask, but he doesn’t bleedin’ answer.”
The young man started to laugh and ended with a hacking cough.
Crow patted him on the back. It was a useless gesture, but one that allowed him to keep a firm hold on his arm and prevent him from collapsing altogether as he guided him toward the way out.
The journey to Potter’s was made erratically along footpaths slick with ice. Holding on to each other was a way to maintain balance as well as to make sure that they did not lose the young man, and that he did not pass out in one of the many doorways. He might well freeze to death if he did.
“Fool,” Squeaky muttered under his breath. Now that he was not making money out of other people’s vices, he had a far less tolerant view of them. “Fool!” he repeated as the young man stumbled. He would have fallen flat on the ice-covered paving stones if Crow and Squeaky had not yanked him to his feet again.
When they finally reached Potter’s they found that the place was dimly lit, mostly by tallow candles in a variety of holders. Despite the lateness of the hour it was still full of people. Some were drinking, while others lounged in corners quietly smoking what Squeaky knew from past experience was tobacco liberally laced with other substances, possibly opium derivatives of some sort. The air was heavy and rancid with the stench of smoke, alcohol, sweat, and various other bodily odors.
Crow wrinkled his nose and shot a grim look at Squeaky. Squeaky tried to smile but knew it looked sickly on his face.
They were offered brandy, and bought some to try to revive the young man. He seemed to be falling asleep, or possibly into a kind of stupor.
The sharp spirit going down his throat stirred him, at least temporarily. “What?” he said abruptly. “What did you say?”
“You were telling us about Sadie,” Crow prompted him. “How beautiful she was, and how much fun.”
“Yes, Sadie.” He repeated the name as if rolling the flavor around his mouth. “What a woman. Skin like … like …” He could not think of anything adequate. “So alive,” he said instead. “Always laughing, dancing, making jokes, kissing someone outrageously, places you wouldn’t believe.”
“Lucien …” Crow put in.
“Oh yes, him especially,” the young man agreed. “He would do anything for her, and did.” A slow, dreamy smile spread across his face. “She dared him to swallow a live fish … eel, I think it was. Revolting.”
“Did he?” Squeaky asked.
The young man looked at him with disgust. “Of course he did. Told you, he’d do anything for her. Admired her.” There was envy in his face. “Said she made him feel like a god—or a fallen angel, maybe. Can you see it?” He smiled a little vacantly. “Spiraling down from the lip of heaven in an everlasting descent to the fires of hell and the dark underlight of those who have tasted all that there is and know everything that the universe can hold.” He began to laugh. It was a strange, shrill sound broken by hiccups.
One of the candles on the cellar wall guttered and went out.
There were several moments of silence before he spoke again. “And of course there was Niccolo,” he added. “Never knew if she actually wanted him, or if she just used him to make Lucien mad with jealousy. Either way, it worked.”
“Niccolo?” Crow repeated the name. “What was he like? Who was he?”
The young man stared blankly.
“Who was he?” Crow repeated with exaggerated patience.
“No idea.” The young man seemed to lose interest. Squeaky fetched more bra
ndy, but it didn’t help. Their informant was beginning to drift off into a stupor.
“Who was Niccolo?” Squeaky said, his voice edged with threat.
The young man stared at him and blinked. “Sadie’s lover,” he replied, giggling in a falsetto voice. “Sadie’s other lover.” He started to laugh again, then slowly slid off the chair and fell in a heap on the floor.
Crow bent down as if to pick him up, or at least to try.
“Leave him,” Squeaky ordered. “He’s probably as well off there as anywhere else. You won’t get anything more out of him. We need to find this Sadie. Can’t be too many as look like her. C’mon.”
It was now past five in the morning, and there was hardly anyone left sober enough to give them any answers. They went out into the early morning darkness and the bleak easterly wind. Crow started to turn down toward the river, and his home.
“No yer don’t!” Squeaky said sharply. “We in’t finished yet.”
Crow snatched his arm away. “There’s nobody else awake at this hour, you fool!” he said impatiently. “It’s pointless looking now. Not that there’s much point at any time. I want some breakfast, then to sleep.”
“So do I. Come to the clinic and we’ll get both.”
“Yes? And how are you going to explain all this to Hester?” Crow asked witheringly.
“I’m not.” Squeaky was disgusted with Crow’s lack of imagination. “I’m not going to tell her anything. We’ll get a good breakfast, then find a couple of rooms there with no one in them, and she won’t know.” Then another thought occurred to him. “It’s warm there, and only a mile away.”
Crow gave in, pretending it was a favor to Squeaky. Then he gave one of his flashing grins, which was a mark of his good nature and slightly eccentric sense of humor. “Come on then. I suppose it’s really not a bad place at all.”
The following evening was much easier. They now knew exactly who they were looking for. Additionally, contacts whom Squeaky had used in the past could be persuaded to yield a little information in return for promises of unquestioning medical help for things, such as unexplained knife wounds or even the odd gunshot.