by Tom Becker
“Oh. You’re back. Close the curtains, boy.”
Jonathan did as he was told, consigning the office to darkness. He went over to the wall and turned on a couple of gas lamps. As Carnegie gave up his struggle with his package and dropped it on the floor, Jonathan noted the flecks of blood dripping from his mouth, and the unfocused, bestial look in his eyes. There was a movement amid the streams of white cloth – a flailing black boot and a familiar shock of flaming red hair.
“Raquella! Are you OK?”
Jonathan glanced at Carnegie – was he eating his acquaintances now? The wereman noted his wide-eyed stare and snorted.
“Don’t worry, boy. I’m full.”
“I wasn’t . . . it was just. . .” Jonathan guiltily scrabbled around for something to say.
“Don’t help me up, then!”
Raquella fought her way out of the cloth and got to her feet, smoothing down her clothes in an attempt to regain her composure. She cast a baleful look at Carnegie, before turning her attention to Jonathan.
“You’re a real gentleman,” she said tartly. “I thought you Lightsiders were meant to have manners?”
“I’m just surprised to see you, that’s all. What are you doing here? Won’t Vendetta kill you if he finds out?”
“He’s still recovering. And, as you can see, we took precautions.” She glanced sideways at Carnegie. “Though I find it hard to believe that was the best way.”
The wereman shrugged. “You’re here, aren’t you? Now, why don’t you tell us what’s going on?”
Raquella sighed, and sat down. She bowed her head for a few seconds, and when she looked up, Jonathan was shocked to see tears running down her cheek.
“It’s my father,” she said desperately. “He’s gone missing. Or worse. I don’t know. You’ve got to help me find him!”
14
Humphrey Granville sat back in his chair and licked his lips with anticipation. Tonight promised to be an unforgettable occasion. He had gone to great lengths in preparation, squeezing himself into an immaculately cut dinner jacket that bore the scars of battle with a thousand fine meals. He had dragged a comb through his hair and slicked it down with handfuls of grease. He had donned his finest bone cufflinks – the left one in the shape of a knife, the right a fork. Only the crumbs in his moustache betrayed Humphrey’s more dishevelled day-to-day appearance.
The main dining room of The Last Supper, Darkside’s most exclusive restaurant, hummed with contentment. Because there were only five tables in the restaurant – arranged in a pentagram – it was notoriously difficult to get a booking. Those diners fortunate enough to make a reservation kept silent about the fact for fear of having their identity stolen. Humphrey had been on the waiting list for five long years. He had been taking tea at the Savoy Hotel when word came through that he had finally got a table. It was all he could do to stop himself doing a jig with glee. Immediately, Humphrey had set about organizing the trip back to Darkside.
He looked at the menu again. Choosing had not been easy, and it was impossible not to have second thoughts. Perhaps the seared raven might have been a better choice, or the renowned weasel risotto. Gaston La Guerre, the head chef of The Last Supper, was a foul-tempered ogre of a man, whose short fuse was matched only by his culinary perfectionism. There were many tales of unfortunate kitchen hands whose mistakes had led to their fingernails garnishing the soup of the day. Humphrey hoped that Gaston was on particularly fine form that evening.
Although everything should have been perfect, Humphrey had to admit that he was feeling troubled. The whole business with Nicholas was getting under his skin. He should never have listened to him. The problem was, ever since the Gentlemen had first come together in the Cain Club, Humphrey had desperately sought Nicholas de Quincy’s approval. Though they moved in the same refined circles, the Granvilles were gatecrashers who had stumbled into money through the deeply unglamorous business of pawnbroking. The aristocratic de Quincy – heir to a long-established blackmail fortune – never managed to disguise his contempt for Humphrey. He sneered constantly about his weight, his low connections and his rudimentary manners. Humphrey was a jovial man, but in his darker moments even he had considered trying to bump Nicholas off.
After the murder of James Arkel, and the discovery that he was a Ripper, Darkside descended into anarchy. The Bow Street Runners, Thomas Ripper’s feared henchmen, stalked the streets, arresting anyone who crossed their path. Panicking, the Gentlemen had fled their separate ways. While Humphrey raced over to Lightside, Edwin descended down the steps of the Midnight. Brother Steel – the one Gentleman Humphrey could genuinely say he liked, and the one Gentleman who had refused to take part in the plot – was ostracized by the rest of the group. Humphrey had neither seen nor heard from him again.
Only Nicholas – Brother Heart – had kept calm, and kept the counsel of Brother Fleet. It was he who found out that Fleet was James’s brother, a Ripper also. And it was Nicholas who reappeared in Humphrey’s life ten years later, with a typically underhand blackmail plot. A de Quincy asking a Granville for assistance! Humphrey’s chest swelled with pride as he accepted. However, as things turned out, it was a decision he had begun to regret even before Edwin was murdered.
Not that the same could happen to him – Humphrey had taken precautions. He checked over his shoulder, and was reassured to see the gigantic form of Jol standing impassively in the shadows. Jol was the most expensive bodyguard in Darkside, and was renowned for never letting one of his clients come to harm. Humphrey snorted. These were dangerous times, but Humphrey Granville knew what he was doing. There was no way that he was going to let anyone ruin his life, or stop him from enjoying his meal.
When the first course arrived, he knew that he wasn’t going to be disappointed. The shark pâté smelled divine, and tasted even better. As he let it settle on his tongue, Humphrey detected a sharp flavouring that even he – the greatest gourmand in Darkside – couldn’t identify. Gaston was indeed a master of his craft. He took a sip of wine and lingered over each mouthful.
The next two hours drifted languidly by in a glorious procession of tastes and sensations. Humphrey almost felt he was dreaming. He forgot all about Edwin and Jol, his attention consumed by the dishes that passed in front of him. The waiters were shadows that flitted in and out of the lights, clearing away dishes before the diners had even noticed them. With the arrival of each course came titters of excitement and gasps of surprise from the four tables around Humphrey. They chattered ceaselessly. Humphrey could never understand why anyone would want to disturb the enjoyment of their food by having company: he preferred to dine alone.
The sixth course was delivered with the lights turned low, to highlight the spectacle of the flambéed jellyfish. As he stared into the flickering flames, Humphrey reluctantly admitted that all this rich food was taking its toll. He was beginning to feel woozy. Beads of sweat were forming on his brow. Perhaps eating a second hyena steak had been a bad idea. Humphrey steeled himself and took a large gulp of water. This was ridiculous! The meal of a lifetime, and he was flagging by the sixth course! He picked up his knife, and attacked the jellyfish with renewed gusto.
His reverie was interrupted by a chilling scream from the kitchen. Humphrey looked up fearfully at Jol. The hulking bodyguard lumbered forward to investigate, crashing through the swing doors that led into the kitchen. Humphrey’s earlier mood of defiance was ebbing away, unease growing like his feeling of indigestion. For all his bullishness, the fact remained that Edwin had been brutally murdered in an alleyway, and there was no way of knowing whether that would be the end of the matter. Though they had known Brother Fleet for years, he was still a Ripper, and therefore capable of anything. Humphrey dabbed at his face with a napkin. The floor felt like it was tilting, as the tables revolved around him like some sort of carnival ride.
Jol returned from the kitchen with a blank expression on his face.<
br />
“What’s going on in there?” asked Humphrey nervously.
“Turned out one of the golden eagles they’re going to fry wasn’t as dead as everyone thought it was. It attacked one of the sous chefs.”
“Is everything all right now?”
“I guess so. They’re both dead.” Jol passed a critical eye over his client. “You OK? You don’t look so good.”
“Yes, yes. I’ll be fine. Just make sure there’s no one watching me.”
“How’s the food?”
Humphrey glared at him irritably. “You’ll never know. Now go away and leave me in peace.”
As Jol retreated Humphrey placed his head in his hands. The bodyguard was right – he was feeling unwell, and increasingly rattled. There was no need to snap at his only protection. The room was beginning to spin faster and faster, making him feel disorientated. His stomach was bubbling furiously, and the sharp flavour he had detected in the shark pâté had reclaimed his mouth.
“Jol?” he groaned.
The bodyguard was by his side in a flash. “What’s up?”
“I don’t feel well.” He groaned again, clutching his stomach. “I think someone might have put something in the food.”
“Right. Let’s get out of here.”
Jol wrapped an arm around the portly man, hauled him to his feet, and led him towards the swing doors at the back of the restaurant.
“Where are we going?” asked Humphrey weakly.
“Too many people out front. We’re leaving through the service exit.”
The bodyguard manoeuvred the pair of them through the doors and into the kitchen of The Last Supper. The room was in a state of bedlam. Chefs in long, greasy aprons ran up and down the narrow gangways, shouting and threatening each other with kitchen knives. Rows of ovens churned out heat like a blacksmith’s forge. Clouds of steam billowed from pots rattling on the oven tops, while jets of flame shot from blackened frying pans. In the chaos, no one seemed to notice the interlopers.
Jol pushed Humphrey on through the kitchen, and into the cavernous pantry at the back of the building. The size of a small barn, the gloomy pantry was home to stockpiles of raw ingredients and tethered wild animals. The floor was splattered with grain and rotten vegetables. Glancing around to make sure the area was safe, Jol sat Humphrey down on a sack of potatoes.
“Sit tight. Going back in to check something.”
“Don’t leave me!” Humphrey quivered, but it was too late. Jol had slipped away, closing the door behind him. Humphrey shivered violently. The draughty pantry was worse than the boiling kitchen. He was definitely coming down with some sort of fever. Sweat was running down his face in rivulets.
There was a rustling sound from behind a grain mountain.
“Hello?” Humphrey called out. “Who’s there?”
There was a cawing sound in reply. He relaxed a little. Just one of the birds. It must have been one of the exotic items on the menu, for he didn’t recognize the sound of its call.
The bird cawed again, more insistently this time. The thought occurred to Humphrey that, if someone was after him, the noise might attract their attention.
“Ssh!” he hissed. “Nice birdie! Sssh!”
The bird cawed again, as if it were playing some sort of game.
“If you don’t shut up I’ll eat you raw!”
A piercing shriek filled the pantry, battering Humphrey’s eardrums. There was the sound of flapping wings, and then to his horror he saw a wave of darkness rolling through the air towards him. Frozen with fear, Humphrey barely had time to shield himself before the cloud enveloped him. The smell of rotting meat filled his nostrils, and he felt a slicing pain down the side of his face. Humphrey fell to his knees, blood streaming down his cheek. From somewhere within the cloud, the creature shrieked again, in triumph this time.
Overcome with panic, Humphrey looked up to see the black shape swooping up into the rafters, banking round to come at him again. He staggered to the pantry door and turned the handle. It was locked. He rattled the door violently, screaming at the top of his lungs, but no one came running to help him, and he was too weak to break it down. Humphrey slumped sobbing on to the floor, defenceless in the face of whatever nightmare was hidden in the darkness. The last thing that ran through his mind before the creature descended on him was: where had his bodyguard gone?
Jol turned the key in the lock, and walked away from the pantry door. He had no intention of listening to the carnage. It was enough to put a man off his dinner. He returned to Granville’s table and settled back in the chair, which creaked as it struggled to deal with the bodyguard’s vast weight. In an unlikely display of refinement, he unfolded a napkin and tucked it into his collar.
A waiter emerged from out of the kitchen and swept up to the table.
“Has sir’s companion left?” he asked politely.
“I’m afraid so,” Jol replied. “And he won’t be returning. How many courses are left?”
“Still seven to go.”
“Good. How’s the food?”
The waiter smiled. “Haven’t you heard, sir? They say it’s good enough to die for.”
15
The carriage was silent. Watching Raquella as she anxiously chewed on a fingernail, Jonathan wanted to say something to reassure her and comfort her, but he couldn’t think of anything. In a strange way he had been lucky – his mum had disappeared so long ago that it didn’t feel like he had lost her, because he couldn’t remember Theresa being there in the first place. How much worse must it be to lose someone you had known and loved for years?
Though his sympathy for Raquella was heartfelt, it couldn’t quite stem the rising tide of excitement within Jonathan. He was certain that Theresa had discovered something about the Gentlemen that had tied them to James Ripper’s murder. Maybe they had kidnapped her. It wasn’t as if they had to kill her, Jonathan told himself firmly. Maybe she was imprisoned in a building nearby, waiting for someone to come and rescue her. Maybe he passed by her every day. He knew one thing for sure: one of the Gentlemen had to know what had happened to Theresa. If they could solve James Ripper’s murder, would it lead them to his mum? The prospect was almost too enormous to entertain.
Alongside Jonathan, Arthur Blake stared thoughtfully out of the window. The portly reporter had bustled into Carnegie’s office in a state of breathless excitement. Completely ignoring Raquella, he had launched into a speech.
“There’s been another murder!” he panted. “Just like the Rafferty one. I was interviewing a ghoul with the Pierce boy down in Nowhere Street when I got the tip. A guy has been butchered inside The Last Supper. I managed to slip in round the back and see the body before it was taken away. Judging by the state of it, whoever killed James and Edwin killed this guy as well.”
Even Jonathan had heard of The Last Supper, and had walked past the heavily guarded entrance on several occasions. It seemed strange to imagine someone losing their life inside.
“What was his name?” he asked.
“The restaurant were trying to hush it up, but I slipped the maître d’ a couple of shillings and he told me it was a guy called Humphrey Granville.” He looked at the wereman keenly. “Mean anything to you?”
Carnegie shook his head.
“Me neither. But it’s a new lead, and someone’s got to know who he is. Let’s go!”
He made for the door, only to be stopped in his tracks as a hairy hand landed on his shoulder. Carnegie twisted Arthur round so they were facing each other.
“As exciting as this news is, you appear to have left your manners back at the restaurant. The young lady you’ve been ignoring is Raquella Joubert. She is a friend of ours.”
Arthur nodded a bewildered greeting at the maidservant. “Oh . . . h-hello there, miss. I didn’t see you there.”
Carnegie pulled the reporter up to him so thei
r faces were almost touching.
“Raquella’s father has gone missing. Naturally, she’s very upset, and we’re going to see what we can do to help her. Then, maybe, we’ll go and investigate this Granville fellow.”
“O-of course,” Arthur stammered, his feet scrabbling for purchase on the ground. “She is a f-friend, after all.”
The wereman grinned, and let the reporter drop to the floor. “Glad we cleared that up. Shall we go, then?”
And now they were pulling up outside a modest terraced house in the Lower Fleet. Further up the street, children were scampering across the cobblestones and playing on the pavement, but there was no one outside this house. Raquella climbed slowly out of the carriage and led them to the front door.
Jonathan felt more nervous about entering the Joubert house than he had done in almost any other place in Darkside. He felt like an intruder, especially with Carnegie and Arthur clumping alongside him. There was a mournful atmosphere in the hallway, echoes of private grief. A low murmur of voices was coming from the downstairs front room. Jonathan followed Raquella through the door, and gasped.
It was dark in the small room, and the faint sound of children’s laughter drifted in from the street through the drawn curtains. Georgina Joubert was sitting on the sofa, cradling a small baby in her arms. Her drawn face spoke of a tearful, sleepless night. And next to her, calmly pouring out a cup of tea from the pot, was Marianne.
Instinctively, Jonathan tensed. The bounty hunter was dressed sympathetically in black, and her hair was an identical shade of burnished raven. The last time Jonathan had seen her was when she had dived into The Beastilia Exotica’s Pool of Pain to rescue her henchman, Humble. He still remembered her white hair flashing in the lights. Though he should have hated Marianne – she was dangerous, and she had put both his and Alain’s life in mortal danger – Jonathan had to admit on seeing her that his feelings were slightly more complex than that.