Titus did so and the suffocating grip on his mouth and nose was released.
‘Stitch,’ Titus cried, spinning round. ‘What the hell—?’
He stopped when he saw Stitcher’s face.
The boy looked half dead. He’d lost a great deal of weight, his skin was black with grime and there were sores around his mouth. But his eyes burned with ferocity. One of the fingers curled around the knife had slipped off the end of the handle and was clutching the blade. Drops of blood were dripping off it to splash onto the cobbles, but Stitcher did not seem to notice.
‘Where you been?’ he hissed again, and Titus saw there was no vestige of friendship left in him.
‘Nowhere. Delivering a parcel for Pilbury.’
The punch sent him reeling on his back into the stinking puddles.
In a moment Stitcher was on him, gripping the knife with both hands, a few inches above Titus’s face.
‘Lie to me one more time and I’ll kill you. And then I’ll go back for Hannah.’
Titus stared at him. A grey string of saliva drooled from Stitcher’s mouth and down his own cheek. The boy had gone mad. But it sounded like he hadn’t followed him to Lilly’s. He had to protect her, and Pilbury.
‘You want the truth? OK. You were right. The murders have started up again.’
Stitcher took a great gasp of air.
‘I knew it!’
‘I’ve been trying to help Pilbury . . .’
‘Pilbury!’ Stitcher snarled. ‘I should just cut his head off now. That lying scum. He said Rancer killed Charly when he was already hanged.’
‘He should’ve listened to you . . .’
‘Too right he should’ve.’
The knife dropped to Stitcher’s side as he wilted. There was a chance Titus might be able to snatch it from him but if he did he might have to kill his friend: the state he was in, Stitcher would try and tear him to pieces with his bare hands.
‘He’s looking for Rancer’s accomplice now.’
Stitcher’s head snapped up.
‘Who is it? I wanna get to him before the police can send him off with a painless little hanging.’
‘I . . . I don’t know. I think he’s got some leads.’
‘Leads? Effing leads? What good is leads?’
Taking a deep breath Titus sat up sharply enough to roll Stitcher off him. He balanced on his haunches, ready to bolt. Stitcher sprang into a crouch, snarling like a dog.
‘Leads is what the police use, all right? Now, I know you’re out for blood but there’s no sense killing the wrong person, is there?’
Titus slowly stood up, his eyes never leaving Stitcher.
‘Now listen. I’m just the stable boy. They don’t tell me anything. But if I do find something out I’ll tell you straightaway, all right?’
Stitcher stood up too. The ferocity had gone out of his eyes, leaving only exhaustion and grief.
‘I loved him so much,’ he said.
‘I know.’
For a moment Stitcher just looked at Titus, his whole body hanging loose, as if the bones could barely hold themselves together.
‘If you keep anything from me,’ he began with a sigh, ‘I’ll . . .’
‘I know. You’ll kill me. Or cut my head off.’
‘That usually does it,’ Stitcher said, with a wan smile, then he turned and dragged himself away down the alley.
16
The whole of the next day was spent running errands: Titus had to deliver a letter to the coroner, round up some men to take part in an identity parade, collect uniforms from the laundry, before finally heading to Covent Garden for more supplies of hay and nuts.
Beatrice and Leopold were not in the stable when he got back, which was odd, because the cart was there. But when he entered he saw them, huddled in the far corner, the whites of their eyes visible around the brown irises.
‘What’s the matter with you two?’ he cried, rather pleased to have been so missed. ‘I was only gone a while. Come on. I’ve got a couple of apples in my—’
He stopped suddenly when he saw Inspector Pilbury standing by his bed. In the policeman’s hand was the hank of Hannah’s hair from the hole in the wall. His blood ran cold as he realised how such a discovery must look to the Inspector.
‘It’s my sister’s,’ he said quickly. ‘Hannah cut it off and wanted me to sell it but I couldn’t bring myself to.’
But as Pilbury raised his head Titus knew he had made a terrible mistake.
‘Put it down, now,’ he said softly. ‘Before I call one of the men.’
The policeman chuckled.
‘And tell them what their precious Inspector has been up to?’
Titus opened his mouth and closed it again. Behind him the horses skittered.
Rancer’s hand lifted the hair to his lips and inhaled deeply, then he tucked it into his pocket.
‘You took a child from me. You’ll pay me back.’
Titus reached for the truncheon but it was out of arm’s length behind the door.
‘Hannah. A pretty name.’
‘Get out.’
‘When I’m ready,’ Rancer smiled.
Their eyes locked and Titus grew dizzy gazing into their bottomless blackness. Suddenly there were heavy footsteps in the yard.
‘What are you doing in there, boy!’ Samson roared.
Titus looked to Rancer, expecting to see the murderer’s presence recede to be replaced by the Inspector’s. But it did not. Rancer’s eyes were round. His lips worked quickly, he began to tremble.
He seemed transfixed with fright as the stable door banged open and Samson’s huge shadow filled the opening.
‘Oh, I’m sorry, sir,’ Samson said, ‘I didn’t know you were talking to the boy. Titus, when you’re done the cart needs preparing for Newgate.’
‘Yes, Sergeant.’
As soon as Samson left Titus turned his attention back to Pilbury, but the spirit had vanished, leaving only the Inspector gazing about him in utter bewilderment.
After he’d prepared the cart, Titus went to Pilbury’s office and asked if any of his boots needed cleaning. The boots were produced, but when Titus said he would work outside the door, Pilbury insisted he remain inside by the fire.
He began as slowly and carefully as he could, first removing the laces and laying them down on the floor, then spreading out an old newspaper he’d pulled from the kindling pile.
Pilbury sat at his desk for a few minutes then sighed, got up and said he was going to make some tea. A moment later Titus heard his voice in the kitchen. Quickly he checked behind the brick in the fireplace. The crevice contained only Charly’s hair, not Hannah’s.
Pilbury returned with a pot of tea, two cups and some cake. Titus immediately devoured his cake but Pilbury only sipped at the tea. When he put the cup down it clattered against the saucer.
For some time the only sound was the soft shush of horsehair on leather as Titus brushed imaginary dirt off the boots.
Pilbury got up and went over to the wall where the faces stared back at him. He took a picture down and scrutinised it, then replaced it and went back to the desk and rested his head on his hand.
‘Put another log on the fire, would you?’ he said.
Titus did so.
‘It is getting colder, isn’t it?’
‘I’m not cold, sir.’
‘Cold weather makes the smogs worse.’
He looked at Titus. His lips were tight and bluish.
‘He only strikes in the smog,’ he continued softly.
‘Who, sir?’
‘Rancer . . . Wait, no, Rancer is dead. Whoever is imitating Rancer. On Bonfire Night it was so thick they could barely see the fireworks.’
‘There is a good wind tonight. It wou’t.’
Pilbury nodded and looked away, then he shivered.
‘Put another log on the fire, it’s freezing.’
Though the fire blazed just inches from his back a chill crept through Titus. He had seen t
he Inspector angry, frustrated, morose, but never like this. Never afraid.
‘It’ll soon warm up, sir,’ he said, but the Inspector was staring at the file on his desk.
Titus opened the tin of polish and used a rag to scoop out the gunge, black as river sludge, and slap it onto the boots. He covered each one with polish, working it into the seams and the furrow where the upper joined the sole. Then he sat back and waited for the leather to be absorb it.
The Inspector was still staring at his desk, a moment later he unlocked one of the drawers and drew out a whisky bottle.
Titus looked away. An old headline in the now smeared newspaper on the floor caught his eye.
Pilbury went over to the window.
‘The sky is full of stars,’ he said in a lighter tone. ‘Come and see.’
Titus went and stood beside him. Pilbury had complained of being cold, but the heat poured off him in damp waves.
‘The moon is so bright,’ Titus exclaimed.
‘A smuggler’s moon,’ Pilbury said. ‘You can get up to mischief in the country on a night like this, but not in the city. A million eyes will find you out. So, be warned . . .’ He smiled at Titus and the dark circles around his eyes crinkled.
‘It’d be a bit daft to get up to mischief in a police station, sir, don’t you think?’
The Inspector laughed loudly, and Titus could hear the relief in it.
‘It’s an early night for me,’ he said, patting Titus’s back. ‘A good night’s sleep is probably just what the doctor would order.’
Titus hoped this meant he had not contacted Hadsley about the blackouts.
He finished off the boots as Pilbury pulled on his coat and they walked out into the yard together.
‘Get some sleep yourself,’ Pilbury said. ‘You look nearly as bad as me. Is it warm enough for you in the stables?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, you can’t stay there all winter. Lodgings will have to be found for you nearby. Although,’ his face became pensive, ‘I shall miss your company in the evenings.’
‘I’ll still stay as late as you wish.’
Pilbury’s smile returned.
‘I’m surrounded by good-hearted souls who seem to think I need looking after.’
‘Not at all, sir.’
‘Well, goodnight, boy. Sleep well.’
The cloudless night quickly grew cold and Titus shivered beneath the thin blanket. The image of Rancer’s face leering at him through his friend’s familiar features would not leave his mind. It had been a pleasure to see them twisted with terror at the sound of Samson’s voice. Perhaps Rancer had thought his father had returned from the grave.
Titus sat bolt upright.
Throwing off the blanket, he hurried outside. His breath made white billows in the clear air as he hastened across the yard and let himself out of the gate.
17
The wall was high. Almost up to the first-storey window.
After a few frustrating minutes scrabbling at its sheer side, he finally managed to swing his leg over then promptly overbalanced and plunged into the flower bed below.
He counted the houses carefully as he scaled each fence and finally stood in the back garden of number nine. Mostly it was wasteland, but there was a small flower bed in the far corner and from it drifted the intoxicating scent of roses.
Beside the kitchen door was a sturdy-looking black drainpipe. Using it for support he jumped onto the kitchen windowsill, then climbed onto the top of the frame and finally the sill of the room on the first floor. It was a precarious position: one foot on the sill, the other toe balanced on a metal seam in the drainpipe that protruded less than an inch. But he was in luck. The sash was open a fraction at the top. He managed to lever it down an inch or so, but it needed a harder push. He took a moment to steady himself, breathing in the cool night air. The curtains were open and, though he couldn’t see into the room, he was betting on the fact that Frobisher would have appropriated the front master bedroom for himself.
He was about to give it another go when a hand closed over his. Titus cried out and almost snatched it away.
‘Hush! You’ll wake my uncle!’
Lilly stood at the window. Lowering the sash she helped him climb into what was evidently her bedroom.
‘What’s happened?’ she whispered. ‘Mr Pilbury . . .?’
‘He’s home safe.’
She lit a candle and pulled the curtains shut. A bed, a stool and a battered trunk were all the furniture in the room. The fire was not lit and the bed had a single thin blanket. The only ornament was a glass jar hanging by wire from a hook on the wall, which contained a single white rose. Lilly sat down on the bed and pulled the fraying hem of her nightdress down over her legs.
‘Then what are you doing here?’
She was not angry, just curious.
‘I know how to save him,’ he said.
Her shadow on the wall behind fluttered in the candlelight.
‘But I’ll need your help.’
She gazed at him steadily.
‘It was Mr Pilbury that made me think of it,’ he began. ‘He knows there’s something up with him. I’ve never seen him scared of anything or anyone before but he’s scared of this. Of going mad. It made me think . . . It made me wonder if there was a way of scaring Rancer. So badly that he leaves Inspector Pilbury for good.’
‘Threatening him?’
‘No, not that. I did think of it, but he doesn’t seem to fear pain. Did you ever read in the papers about what happened to his father?’
She shook her head, so Titus recounted everything that Stitcher had told him: the tormenting of the boy, the jealousy, the sudden death that might have been murder. Her expression did not alter until he reached the part about the confrontation in the stables.
‘. . . And then Sergeant Samson called for me. His voice is deep, very deep, and he was cross with me. I looked over at Rancer and he was terrified.’
The eyes Lilly fixed on him had tiny pinpoints of light deep inside them.
‘I think he thought it was his father.’
The room seemed suddenly quieter than ever. Something scrabbled behind the wainscot but neither paid it any attention.
‘What if . . .’ he continued, his voice barely audible, ‘what if you could find him?’
Her lips parted and she drew in breath. Goosebumps ran like cold fingers up his arm.
‘Rancer’s father?’
Titus nodded. ‘In the spirit world.’
They both cried out in alarm as a gust of wind from the open window made the curtain billow in and snuff out the candle. Embarrassed at his cowardice Titus laughed but Lilly did not.
‘How long has he been dead?’
‘At least fifteen years.’
Lilly swallowed.
‘I have never tried to contact a spirit that long passed. He may have already moved on. But he died violently. Or suddenly, at least. And if there was a hint of witchcraft about the death then he may be easier to find. I must ask Florence. I’ll do it now.’
She closed her eyes and her breathing became deeper.
Though the room was cold, a bead of sweat formed on Titus’s scalp and dribbled down his neck. The curtain billowed, the mouse scrabbled and then she spoke:
‘I am here, my dear.’
He recognised the voice from the show at the theatre.
‘Florence,’ Lilly said, ‘I’m with a boy, Titus, a friend.’
Her eyes opened. The normally brown irises swam with a grey mist. Titus shrank from the steady gaze, but he could not look away.
‘Hello, Titus,’ the old woman said, ‘I’m Florence, Lilly’s spirit guide.’
Titus managed to nod. The mistiness dispersed as the voice became Lilly’s again.
‘I need to contact a spirit, long dead. He was murdered by his wife, possibly using witchcraft. His name is Rancer. Father of the one who was hanged.’
The eyes swirled grey again.
‘I will speak t
o them,’ Florence said. ‘Wait.’
Lilly returned and she and Titus looked at one another in silence. The room now felt very cold and Lilly pulled the blanket out from beneath them and covered their legs.
And then the whispering began. At first it was the merest breath, then it turned into a sigh, then many sighs, until finally it was a susurrating wind that rippled the blanket and ruffled Titus’s hair.
Where was it coming from? Was Lilly doing it? But no, her lips were tight shut. Fear crept up his spine. He wanted to spring out of the window and run. She was now blinking rapidly, her hands twisting the blanket into knots. And then her lips moved and it was Florence again.
‘He has been found.’
Titus gasped.
‘I must advise you, Lilly, do not allow him to speak. There is such malevolence in him, I fear for your safety.’
Lilly swallowed and her voice cracked as she replied.
‘Put a proposition to him, then. Tell him his son is now in the spirit world and has taken possession of a friend of ours. We require his help in expelling his spirit. After so many years alone this is a chance to be reunited with his son.’
Silence fell again but Titus could sense the murmurs on the very edge of his hearing.
‘Lilly,’ it was Florence again, ‘he has been long dead, and there is little humanity left in him. Do not try and bargain with him.’
‘What did he say?’
‘He said nothing.’
‘Let him come.’
‘No!’
‘Let him come through. I’m strong enough.’
For a moment the spirit guide did not respond. Lilly stared straight ahead of her. A vein was pulsing in her neck. Finally Florence spoke again.
‘Do not let him overwhelm you, maintain your own consciousness. I will try to restrain him.’
Lilly let go of the blanket and placed her hands in her lap.
‘I’m ready,’ she said.
Titus glanced out at the clear night sky, and took some deep breaths to calm himself. There was a sudden yowl from the garden below and then the hissing and snarling of a cat fight. It ended quickly, with a scream of pain from one of the animals. As it died away he heard a sound that made every hair on his body rise up. Rasping breaths, like stone grinding against stone.
The Hanged Man Rises Page 15