Lifeblood

by Tom Becker

  “Granville,” he said, in a voice several degrees below freezing.

  Humphrey’s broad face broke into a smile. “Nicholas! You made it!”

  “No thanks to your directions. Why on Darkside did you make us meet in this pigsty?”

  His voice echoed around the deserted café. Humphrey winced.

  “I do wish you’d keep your voice down when you say things like that, Nicholas. It tends to get people’s backs up. Try the food.” He waved at his fast-emptying plate. “It’s the finest fry-up in all of London, and they serve an uncommonly good portion.”

  “I’m not hungry,” came the icy reply. “Can’t you keep your mind off your belly for one minute, you stupid man?”

  Glancing around, de Quincy caught sight of the waitress hovering uncertainly nearby.

  “Coffee,” he ordered curtly, and then turned back towards Granville, who was glumly mopping up the final streaks of yolk and ketchup with a piece of toast. De Quincy pointed at the newspaper. “Taking a sudden interest in world events, are we?”

  Humphrey shook his head. “It’s an old Informer. I kept this one for . . . obvious reasons.”

  He pushed the ageing newspaper towards de Quincy, who cast an eye over the front page. Immediately he recognized it. All Darksiders remembered this story.

  DARKSIDE WAS IN a state of shock today following the announcement that James Arkel, murdered president of the Cain Club, was in fact the son of Thomas Ripper, grand ruler of the borough. Arkel’s savaged body was discovered by a young kitchen hand on the roof of the private member’s establishment two nights ago. He had been a prominent and popular figure in Darkside society, and news of his death was initially greeted with incredulity by the wealthiest men in the borough. And now, with the revelation of his true identity, the shockwaves have spread to the ordinary men and women in the street. For the first time in Darkside history, a Ripper heir has been murdered before the Blood Succession.

  Speculation is rife as to the motive for the killing. Was it simply a random attack, or had Arkel’s reputation and standing made him a target for jealous rivals? Another, darker rumour flying around the drinking dens of Darkside is that Arkel was murdered because someone had uncovered his true identity.

  What is certain is that the Ripper’s private force of Bow Street Runners are running an investigation that is unprecedented in its scale and violence. In just forty-eight hours over a hundred Darksiders have been brought in for questioning: as yet, none have been released. One officer said that, “Thomas will do whatever it takes to catch his son’s killer. He’ll tear apart the foundations of Darkside if necessary. No one is safe.”

  Sources close to the Ripper have confirmed that there are now only two heirs left to contest the Blood Succession. Their identities and whereabouts remain the most closely guarded of secrets.

  “Sensational stuff,” de Quincy remarked mildly, tossing the newspaper back to Granville. “I hardly need reminding of the details, though. After all, we were the ones who did it.”

  Humphrey waved his arms in a shushing gesture. “Keep your voice down, man!”

  “I think we’re probably safe. Even a Bow Street Runner wouldn’t be mad enough to eat here.”

  “This is no joke, Nicholas!” Humphrey paused as the waitress returned, placing a cup before de Quincy. When she had gone, he resumed speaking in a hushed whisper. “I’ll admit that we were the ones who lured him up on to the roof. But we didn’t know he was going to be torn to pieces up there! We didn’t know he was a Ripper!”

  “Well, we knew that Arkel wasn’t going to come back down from the roof, and it was unlikely he was going to be tickled to death. If you are going to be so squeamish about this, Granville, you should never have got involved in the first place.”

  Humphrey drew himself up in his seat proudly. “Brother Fleet asked for our assistance in disposing of Arkel. We were all Gentlemen – the elite of the Cain Club. We were obliged to help!”

  “I suppose there was that,” de Quincy mused. “I simply thought it would be fun. And it gave me a hold over Brother Fleet that I thought might come in handy later on. Of course, it turned out to be an even bigger hold than I could have dreamed of. When we found out that he was a Ripper too, and that he had killed his own brother. . .” His thin lips twisted into a smile. “Well, it was like all my birthdays rolled into one. Which brings us neatly back to the present, and our current business.”

  A pensive look crossed Humphrey’s face, and he took a nervous quaff of his coffee. “Look, you may be happy, Nicholas, but I’m worried. When I agreed to help you with this scheme, you promised me that there was no way we could get hurt.”

  De Quincy’s eyes narrowed. “You look well enough to me.”

  “But after what happened to poor Edwin. . .”

  “After what?”

  “Haven’t you heard, Nicholas? They found his body in an alleyway yesterday.”

  “Oh.”

  “Is that all you have to say? Don’t you understand? Edwin’s dead! Word is he was murdered!”

  De Quincy took a sip of his coffee, winced, and pushed it to one side. “Look, if no one else had killed Edwin Rafferty, I would have done it myself.”

  “Nicholas!” Humphrey cried, shocked.

  “Face facts, Granville. The man was a walking liability. Who knows how much he’s drunkenly blabbed in the Midnight? We should never have included him in the first place.”

  “But he was one of us! He was a Gentleman!”

  De Quincy grimaced. “I would have thought that recent events would have proved to you that the Gentlemen don’t exist any more. It’s just me and you, Granville.”

  “But if they can kill Edwin, who’s to say they can’t kill us?”

  The blackmailer snorted. “I wouldn’t worry just yet. We don’t know what happened to Rafferty. Maybe he tripped over his own shoelaces and banged his head. And if it was one of the Rippers, so what? It’s a warning shot, nothing more. Rafferty was little more than a bargaining chip.”

  Humphrey looked down at his plate. “I suppose you’d have said the same thing if I’d been the one who was murdered.”

  “Come, come, Granville,” de Quincy said, patting him with a bone-cold hand. “I told you. It’s just me and you now. We have to stick together. Look, the plan is progressing exactly as it should do. We have contacted both of the Ripper’s remaining children – our old friend Brother Fleet, and Marianne. They are now keenly aware that we know their assumed identities, and will happily divulge this information to whoever pays us the most money. Now let’s see how high we can drive the auction.”

  “Do you think they’ll pay?”

  De Quincy bit back an oath. “Granville, we’re offering them a passport to the Ripper’s throne. No Blood Succession, no risk of a painful death. All they have to do is bump off the other in some dingy corner of Darkside, and wait until dear old Thomas dies. They’ll pay, all right. For pity’s sake, hold your nerve. Within a week this will all be over, and you’ll be one of the richest men in Darkside.” He rose, fitting his top hat over his paintbrush hair. “Time to leave this wretched hovel. Are you coming?”

  Humphrey shook his head vigorously. “After what happened to Edwin? No fear. Darkside’s too dangerous right now. I’m not going back until this deal is done and dusted.”

  “As you wish.” De Quincy looked around pointedly. “Though for the life of me I can’t understand how you can spend time in Lightside.”

  “Oh, if you only tried it,” Humphrey replied, his eyes suddenly shining, “you’d see that there’s so much to do. Everywhere I go, every street I walk down, I see these beautiful restaurants, menus crammed with dishes we’ve never even heard of. Do you know what a curry is, Nicholas? Or chicken chow mein?”

  De Quincy shook his head.

  “Every mouthful is an experience here. And even if I dined out every d
ay, it would take me years to eat in all the restaurants here.”

  Humphrey sat back in his chair with a dreamy smile. Not trusting himself to say something pleasant, de Quincy nodded stiffly and hurried out of the door. Seeing that the coast was clear, the waitress returned to the table and began clearing up the plates.

  “Anything else?” she inquired.

  Humphrey checked his pocket watch and glanced up at the menu board. It wasn’t as if there was anything important he had to do today.

  “I’ll have the same meal again, please. With mushrooms this time, I think.”

  As the waitress bustled back towards the counter he unfolded the ancient copy of the Informer, and began to read the front page again.

  7

  They fought the blaze through the night and into the dawn, ranks of Darksiders passing buckets of water in human chains. As the fire spread outwards from the Midnight and dragged the rest of the building into its furious embrace, it seemed like a hopeless task. Men had to bellow at one another to make themselves heard above the roar. Flames danced in the sky above the Grand.

  Gradually, however, the Darksiders began to get the upper hand. They attached hosepipes to fire hydrants in the street, and sent streams of water into the heart of the blaze. Wounded, the fire pawed at the woodwork and lashed out at anyone foolish enough to get too close. But by the time the bleary sun had risen into the sky, the last flames were being extinguished.

  It was far too late for the Midnight, though. The pub was a blackened shell belching smoke rings from its interior. No longer would anyone be able to descend the steps and hide away from the world in the pitch-black. A group of regulars milled around outside, in the dazed hope that somehow it would reopen in a few minutes.

  On the pavement on the other side of the street, Jonathan winced as another bolt of pain jarred his skull. He felt dreadful. Being knocked out twice in a matter of hours was clearly not good for him. He rubbed the bump on his head, and looked around as the Grand returned to something like normality.

  “I’m surprised anyone bothered to put the fire out,” he said.

  “Self preservation, boy.”

  Carnegie’s clothes were singed, and his face blackened with soot. He was down on his haunches next to Jonathan, the prone bulk of Arthur Blake between them. He paused as a thick cough burst up from his lungs, and then carried on.

  “If the Midnight goes up, maybe another building follows – next thing you know, the Grand’s burnt down, and so has your house. Fire’s everybody’s enemy.”

  “Even so, I’m surprised.”

  “Darksiders might be a bad bunch, but we’re not stupid.”

  There was a protracted groan, and then Arthur heaved himself up. An ugly bruise was swelling on his temple. “What happened?” he asked groggily.

  “We got jumped by a man called Correlli,” replied Carnegie. “He’s a hired hand. I’ve had enough run-ins with him in the past to know that he’s one of the toughest characters in the borough. You really don’t want to mess with him. Anyway, he torched the place and scarpered. I managed to drag you and the boy out before the place burned down. Nearly got barbecued in the process, mind you.”

  “What did he want?”

  “Just your standard threat – ‘stay away or else’. I’ve had hundreds of them. Correlli doesn’t come cheap, though. Someone really doesn’t want us investigating this case.”

  Jonathan frowned, remembering something. “Who’s Edwin Rafferty?”

  “Eh?”

  “You mentioned him back in the Midnight.”

  Carnegie scratched vigorously behind his ear. “Oh, right. I asked one of the barmen if he’d noticed anything unusual in the past day or so. The only thing he could think of was that he hadn’t seen Rafferty – and apparently it was very rare he wasn’t in the Midnight. So I thought I’d bring it up with our friend back there, see if it got a reaction. I think we struck lucky.”

  “It didn’t feel very lucky at the time.” Jonathan rubbed his head.

  Carnegie chuckled. “Being a private detective isn’t all fun and games, you know.” He turned to Arthur. “Does Rafferty mean what I think it does?”

  The reporter nodded.

  “Money. And lots of it.”

  Several hours later, his head still pounding, Jonathan found himself standing in a cramped terraced street in the Lower Fleet, where residents listened through paper-thin walls to their neighbours’ bickering and quarrelling. Dirty puddles swamped the cobblestones. The sky was stained with acrid smoke. Edwin Rafferty resided in a particularly grim dwelling underneath a railway bridge, and every few minutes his house winced as a train rattled overhead. The windows were coated in a thick film of grime, while the front door was hanging off its hinges. Even in the depths of the Lower Fleet, the building emanated squalor.

  “I don’t get it. I thought you said this guy was rich?” Jonathan said.

  “His family are,” Arthur replied. “One of the oldest and most disreputable families in Darkside, the Raffertys. Made an absolute fortune from smuggling.”

  “What went wrong?”

  “Edwin went wrong. He spent more time in pubs than on boats. His family got so sick of him drinking away their fortune that they disinherited him. Shall we go inside?”

  Carnegie eyed the open doorway. “Sure. Do you want to knock, or shall I?”

  He loped forward and pushed the door, which promptly broke open and landed with a crash on the hallway floor. Carnegie shook his head, and went in.

  Entering Edwin Rafferty’s house was like stepping inside a giant coffin. There was a musty odour of decay and neglect that hinted at years of joyless solitude. The interior was eerily empty. In the front room, a rocking chair lay still, a glass of murky liquid on the table next to it. There were no other pieces of furniture in the room. The whitewashed walls were coated in grime, but there were no pictures or paintings hanging from them. Carnegie’s footsteps echoed on the wooden floorboards.

  The story was the same throughout the house. In the kitchen, a rusty tap dribbled water into the sink. The cupboards were bare, and there was no evidence that food had ever been prepared there. Up the stairs there was a bedroom containing just a bed, mirror and washstand. Down the hall, a breeze whipped through the broken window into a completely empty room.

  “No wonder he spent all his time in the Midnight,” said Jonathan. “There’s not much to do here, is there?”

  “Not many leads, either,” Arthur replied.

  Carnegie stopped in his tracks and frowned. “There’s something that doesn’t add up.”

  “What?”

  “Remember what Rafferty had in his pockets? The front door’s hanging off the hinges, and there’s nothing in the house. What did he need a key for?”

  Arthur’s eyes lit up. “He kept something locked up. I bet there’s a safe hidden round here somewhere!”

  They set to work immediately, exploring every inch of the house, rifling cupboards and turning over furniture. They disturbed flies and spiders and earned a series of high-pitched rebukes from nesting rats, but couldn’t find any safe. After an hour of fruitless searching in the kitchen, Jonathan went upstairs and found Carnegie slumped on the broken bed, staring at his reflection in Rafferty’s grubby mirror.

  “I don’t get it,” the wereman said. “There’s nothing in this wretched house. Where could he have hidden anything?”

  A dispirited figure appeared in the doorway, covered in black powder.

  “Anything up the chimney, Arthur?”

  The reporter shook his head, and sneezed violently. “Only soot.”

  “You’ve got to hand it to Rafferty. He may not have been much to look at, but he wasn’t completely stupid.”

  “That’s it!” Jonathan cried out.

  “What’s it?”

  “You said Rafferty was a drunk and a slo
b, right? So he didn’t really care about his appearance?”

  Carnegie smiled thinly. “You could say that, yes.”

  Jonathan turned and looked pointedly at the mirror. “So he wouldn’t have been arranging his hair in that?”

  “Good thinking, boy.”

  The wereman sprang up and went over to the washstand, tracing a finger around the edge of the mirror. Apparently deep in thought, he tore off a long strip of bed linen and wrapped it around a club-like fist.

  “You’re not going to smash it, are you?” Jonathan inquired. “That’s seven years’ bad luck, you know.”

  Carnegie chuckled. “It can’t be any worse than hanging around you, boy. You’re a walking bad omen. And anyway, if there’s some sort of trigger mechanism, it’s cleverer than I am. Now stand back, and cover your eyes.”

  His fist flew through the air and crashed into the mirror, which exploded into a thousand shards of glass. Satisfied, the wereman brushed away the final remaining pieces, revealing a plain metal safe behind. He removed the linen from his hand, and gingerly rubbed his knuckles.

  “That’s going to hurt for a while.” Carnegie turned to Jonathan. “Good work there, boy. You get to unwrap the present. Arthur – you still got the key on you?”

  Arthur nodded, and eagerly handed it to Jonathan. The key slipped into the lock and turned with surprising ease. A large bound book was inside. Opening it up, Jonathan was surprised to see each page was filled with rough sketches and drawings of people and famous buildings in Darkside.

  “Seems Edwin fancied himself as an artist,” he said.

  Laying the sketchbook down on the bed, he gingerly fished around for what was left in the safe. His hand settled on an envelope at the back. Long since opened, it contained a letter written on faded notepaper:

  21.1.DY106

  Brother Spine,