“Sympathetic ink,” Wyre murmured. He looked up. “Leighton wasn’t a self-destroyer.”
Solomon opened his mouth to speak, but Cline got in first.
“Unpalatable though it may be, there’s little doubt this gentleman took his own life.” The surgeon pointed to signs of what he clearly enjoyed calling external lividity and contraction of the fingers. “The stomach was bloated and deeply shadowed, both symptoms in keeping with arsenic poisoning.”
Footsteps echoed in the hallway. Solomon ushered in two stretcher bearers. Unshaven and slovenly, they linked arms under the Runner’s thighs and lifted him from the desk chair. They had to press on his knees to get the legs to lie flat.
“Did he have a wife?” Solomon asked.
Wyre shook his head, with a sense of spreading unreality.
On the count of three, the stretcher bearers hoisted the body, and carried it through the cramped apartment.
“My friend was investigating an armed cult of sodomites. It was all connected to Vere Street. He confided to me he was under surveillance. He wouldn’t have . . .” He trailed off, seeing the men’s faces.
Mr Cline nodded sympathetically. “This has come as a shock to you.”
With less feeling, Solomon added: “Fantasies of persecution are a common indicator precursory to suicide.”
“But those marks on his neck . . .”
“We saw them,” Solomon said. “Your friend probably clutched at his own throat, thus – ” He acted out the movements, making choking noises, stopping only when he saw Wyre’s incredulity. “It’s an instinctive response,” he added, now in the far corner of the room. “I’ve seen such bruising before in cases of this kind.”
The two blue jackets were still rifling through Leighton’s books. Wyre glared at them. “If it’s a simple case of suicide, why go through his belongings?”
The Coroner gave him a thin smile. “Just in case.”
The Bow Street officers swept Leighton’s chemicals into a large leather clasp bag, and made their way out. Bowing, Solomon and Cline followed them, the surgeon pausing briefly at the door to offer his sympathies again.
Then Wyre was left with what had suddenly become Leighton’s personal effects. He gazed around at the detritus. It didn’t seem right, everything left strewn on the floor. Not that Leighton had ever placed a premium on tidiness. The lawyer dropped to his knees and began sorting through. Among the papers and files were volumes on topics as diverse as atoms, birds’ eggs and French architecture, as well as a triple-decker by Mrs Radcliffe. Rose used to devour such trashy novels, books that set up a mystery only to rationalize it with ridiculous artifice in the worst sort of literary coitus interruptus, where haughty little pusses always somehow married into fortunes, and moustachioed Italian aristocrats preyed on fatherless wards. What was the one she’d tried to get him to read? The Orphan of Montefalco. The title said it all.
Leighton’s novel was The Italian. He recognized the closely printed type, the very same 8-shilling edition his wife had spent last winter reading, eking out the pages towards the end. Leighton had teased her once, dismissing novel readers as dupes of the imagination – but he’d been a secret enjoyer all along.
Wyre lifted the volume by its spine. As he reached up to replace it on the shelf, something fluttered from the fanning pages . . . a folded sheet of paper, quarto-sized, tear marks down one side. He inspected it, brow knitted. The sheet contained cramped notes in a sinuous hand, with many foreign marks and interlineations. Evidently, it had been written at speed. There was a date, the beginning of that year, 7 January 1810. In the top corner, something was inscribed in different handwriting, which Wyre recognized as Leighton’s scrappy own. Despite the scrawl, there could be no doubt of the spelling: underlined twice, followed by a question mark, ‘Mr Parlez-Vous’. He turned wonderingly to the notes themselves, disgust rapidly turning to alarm:
May do anything that pleases
Exists in a state of permanent mental orgasm
Relishes the nightmare, prays for it to descend.
*
Maintains evil is anchored in the body.
Manichean?
Excited by blood.
Exhibits self-hatred.
Relates in detail the effect of a bullet passing through a human head
*
Claims to have been an unwelcome child.
Rivett claimed Parlez-Vous was merely the grubby alias of a Palace servant snitch, but Leighton clearly thought the man was something more. Permanent mental orgasm . . . Could such a lunatic really be dressing a duke each morning? Leighton hadn’t been sure – the question mark showed that. But he was dead for a reason. The lawyer’s blood ran cold. He was in over his boots. Solomon and the other medical man, Surgeon Cline, had clearly been looking for something specific. Was he holding it in his hand? Might he expect to be relieved of the note downstairs, and of more? The case had done for Leighton, so what chance was there for him? Why the devil hadn’t Leighton turned the note over to the authorities? Thomas’s letter to Sellis, too, for that matter. Leighton had asked him to keep quiet about the correspondence, and he’d blindly agreed. Some might construe that as neglect, he thought uncomfortably, as an attempt to pervert the course of justice. When did silence become treason?
He opened a page of The Italian haphazardly, his eyes landing on something typically overblown: Oh! when shall I dare to call you mine? How could his wife bear such prose. How could Leighton?
No one was waiting for him in the stairwell. Feeling the weight of the torn-out page in his pocket, Wyre stepped out into bleaching sun.
Halted on the top step. Leighton’s yellow hobby horse . . . It didn’t seem right to leave it to the cockatrices and their pimps. Moments later, Wyre re-emerged, wheeling out the dandy-charger. Mounting it unsteadily, he rode the outlandish machine back to the Courthouse, grief for his friend blinding him to the startled looks of pedestrians.
39. Notes
Best pushed aside the torn-out page of notebook. He looked up. “Once again, Wyre. From the beginning.”
Struggling to keep his breath steady, Wyre went over the salient details: the bludgeoned fly, the cool voice at his ear, Thomas’s obscenely crooked leg, those slow sympathetic letters, Sellis’s slippers, the slug fired at Cooke . . . bringing it all within the orbit of Leighton’s death. His murder. The only element he left out was Aspinall’s disappearance; the bendyman’s name still lay on his tongue like dust. Then he felt better. He’d been an idiot for not confiding in his superior earlier.
The old barrister studied him. “I take it you think there’s a bigger picture.”
“Leighton thought a seditious conspiracy was being gestated in Vere Street. There’s reason to suppose the plot is still ongoing.”
“Reason to suppose. Is that conjecture merely, or do you have evidence? This is no trifling matter, Wyre.”
“Key witnesses, and now a principal investigator, are dead, sir . . .” He’d expected Best’s legal instincts to see the connections, but it seemed he was expected to spell them out. “The valet, Sellis, was corresponding with Thomas, a card-carrying Vere Street gang member, who was discovered murdered in Crispin Street. Sellis’s suicide might be more than it seems. We should inform St James’s Palace about Thomas.”
Best raised a laconic eyebrow. “I’m looking for the intellectual thread.”
“The crux is Vere Street, sir,” Wyre said with an insistence of tone that surprised him. “Each of the victims frequented that living sewer, and each possessed information that threatened the conspiracy.”
“Your conspiracy . . .” Best frowned. “You still haven’t said what its purpose is.”
He hadn’t thought that far ahead, but heard himself say: “The target’s the Duke of Cumberland.”
“Read the newspapers, Wyre. The assassination attempt has already been thwarted. The Duke’s man, Neale, was the hero of the hour.”
“The plot’s still active, sir. Leighton must have been ge
tting close.”
“Your Mr Leighton – ” Best showed the tip of a surprisingly pink tongue “ – how confident are you of his own loyalties?”
“I trust him.” Was that even true? “As a matter of fact, Leighton was concerned about Bow Street’s own allegiances. He claimed he was being surveilled.”
A faint smile flickered across the Chief Barrister’s lips. “Did he, now?”
“And then there’s the attack on the landlord. The shooter knew exactly where to wait, exactly when Cooke would be arriving.” (Best pursed his lips.) “Before he died, sir, Leighton spoke of an armed cult of sodomites.”
Best snorted. “You’re beginning to sound like a street-corner fanatic.”
“But what if The White Swan was more than just a convenient meeting place for mollies? What if the Vere Street Club was hiding a political conspiracy within a sexual one?” William’s words sprung to mind. “A cup within a cup.”
“That’s a pretty phrase.” Best’s eyes were perfectly still.
Wyre knew the hackney was driverless and careering towards a hairpin, but it was too late to stop now. “Sellis was desperate to quit St James’s Palace. That hardly fits the bill of an assassin-in-waiting. The newspapers are painting the valet as the plot itself, but what if he was its victim?”
Best sniffed, seemingly a signal to continue.
“Leighton was on the heels of a shadow man, Mr Parlez-Vous.” Wyre pointed at the torn-out page of notebook. “As far as I can gather, he’s still employed by the Palace. Parlez-Vous was the one who blew the gab on the drummer-boy.”
Best’s eyes were tiny points now. “A made-up name, a ridiculous moniker scribbled on a page of gibberish that’s scarcely more than an innominated tip-off. The result of some Palace rivalry or other.”
“Parlez-Vous exists, sir. Leighton thought so. This man may still be going after the Duke.”
Best placed his head on one side as if guessing the lawyer’s weight at a fairground stall.
“What do you suggest is to be done, Wyre? Replace the entire staff of St James’s Palace? Think of the consequences for morale. The war is at a tipping point.”
Wyre was silent for a moment. “Our best chance is the inquest, sir. Someone with cross-examining experience, capable of breaking through the penetralium, should be present.”
Best’s lips twitched at the corners. “Penetralium? You speak as if St James’s contains the secret of a god.” He shuffled a pile of loose legal vellums. “Besides, I think Bow Street’s Mr Read can be relied on to smell out any misdeeds. He is overseeing the inquest, and personally collecting the witness statements.”
“But, Leighton – ”
“Asked for specifically,” Best cut him off, before adding, “which I concede is never a good sign.”
Wyre looked at him, trying to contain his surprise.
“The inquest began this morning,” Best said, business-like. “In three days, the jury will deliver its verdict.” He paused. “The inquest is a quasi-internal affair, conducted under the auspices of the Court of the Royal Verge. A cynical man might conclude Mr Read’s presence is intended to head off objections about secret courts from the usual quarters. Now, it would be a great shame if the Chief Magistrate at Bow Street were to be caricatured by reformers as a mere sop to impartiality. I think even Mr Read would agree on that.” He fixed Wyre with steely eyes. “The imprimatur of the Courthouse will go some way towards dampening popular theories. Perhaps it’s time to offer to do our bit for King and country, eh? Mr Read will certainly take it amiss if a senior man were sent. But a man such as yourself, Wyre . . . I take it you have no objections?” The surprisingly yellow tips of the old barrister’s teeth were showing. “Present yourself at the Palace gates, half past nine tomorrow morning,” he said briskly. “I’ll see you’re expected. Oh, and Wyre,” he added, “mind your Latin.”
Wyre pulled the ribbons of Rose’s twilled muslin dressing gown tighter. First Rose, now Leighton; both gone. He sipped at his claret – French, if honestly labelled – and raised the glass to his friend, picturing him perched on his preposterous running machine. The yellow dandy-charger, he thought with a pang, was currently leaned up in Mrs Mason’s foyer. He’d meant to return it to Bow Street, but couldn’t bear parting with this last vestige of his companion. Also – Leighton was right – it was a remarkably handy way of getting about.
He took another sip of wine, tears pricking. If Parlez-Vous had been involved in the Runner’s death, he’d personally pay Jack Ketch to botch his drop. With an uncharacteristic flick of his wrist, he drained his wine. A success should be celebrated, he thought bitterly. After all, he was the Courthouse’s man at the Palace. He’d stolen a march on Brockton. Perhaps it wasn’t absurd to think a promotion lay in the offing. He’d be able to remain quartered at Mrs Mason’s, pay the rent in a timely fashion.
The word tolled him back to himself. Sixty-five pounds in debt and counting . . . His one-off windfall of ten guineas from Miss Crawford for the Wood’s Close debacle wouldn’t keep a roof over his head beyond a fortnight. Should he have accepted her retainer? Money in these times wasn’t to be trifled with. But the moral absurdity was glaring. If he hadn’t fallen sick, he’d have hanged her molly fiancé. If only he could ask Rose. He pictured her here now, imagined showing her around Mrs Masons’s apartment, leading her to the big bed, smothering her in fine linen, telling her what a brave girl she was.
He jumped at a knock on the door, and got to his feet. Someone had slid a note under the bottom rail. Frowning, he stepped out into the corridor in time to see a pair of child’s kicking heels vanish round the corner.
Wyre bent down for the note; it was succinct and unpunctuated:
Obelisk Tavern 8 o’clock Information awaits pertinent to a recent case of poisoning No polis
The reference to poison sent a chill through him. Was he or Leighton meant? The rest was clearly a bear-trap. The Obelisk. As if he’d venture to that south-of-the-water bagnio alone.
His thoughts were interrupted by another knock, quieter this time. “Who is it?” he called. Miss Crawford’s muffled voice came through the door.
She wore a high-cut russet jacket and matching reticule Rose would think too . . . In her left hand she clutched a note, the sibling of his own.
“It was delivered an hour ago, Mr Wyre. It alludes to a missing person. I assume Robert is meant.”
“I got something similarly cryptic,” he said, leading her to a chair. He hesitated. “The Obelisk is little more than a lazaretto. I take it you’ve no intention of going?”
Her colour rose. “If there’s the slightest chance of information, I have to know.”
Such misplaced loyalty. Could he really let her go alone? It seemed the great wave had arrived. Either he swam, or was pressed to the bottom.
Sidmouth Street hackney-coach stand was a stone’s throw away. Miss Crawford agreed to cover the expense. The evening’s roads were a pell-mell of clattering vehicles, ranging from aristocratic drags and fancy gigs to sturdy dray carts, the former champagne to the latter’s bottled stout. The journey in sultry air took them along the improved Lambeth avenues; soon they were traversing the old marshes on a hard mile of new boulevard. In what seemed almost no time, the first of the district’s two obelisks loomed ahead, then the notorious tavern itself appeared.
The jarvis pulled up hard. Wyre tipped him to wait, and helped Miss Crawford down. Drops of moisture had collected in the notch of her throat, beginning their own little journeys down her breastbone.
Inside the public house, low table lamps did little to lift the shadows. Wherever he looked in the gloaming, punks and their customers were fondling and mussing. In one lightless nook, a jade in unhooked stays was using a conical nipple to tickle the nose of a thickset swad. The soldier’s fingers were lost between her legs.
“Warm hand fer yer jock, fella?” the degraded female said as Wyre drew level. “Yer missus won’t mind. Will’ya luv?”
With a shudder
, he shepherded Miss Crawford past.
The dark woman brushed his sleeve. “How will we know the man we’re here to meet?”
“I think we’re supposed to wait till he declares himself,” he answered, one eye on a burly trio who had just entered from the street, dressed in smart town clothes. The men seemed to be heading straight for them, but turned at the last moment, moving deeper into the taproom. The lawyer’s attention turned to two men standing at the chimney.
He nudged Miss Crawford. “Let’s try over there.” Taking her arm, Wyre made a beeline for the fireplace. The taller of the two, a solid type in regimental trousers, whispered something to his neighbour, a man with thick black hair, oiled-back. Surely not! The man possessed nothing that conjured the apartness of sanctity, but there was no mistaking the Parson. What role was that piece of human refuse playing here?
“Parson Church,” Wyre said bluntly.
It was the taller man who stepped forward. A death’s head ring glinted from his little finger. “You’re mistaken,” he said, quietly but perfectly distinctly.
Ignoring him, Wyre fixed the Parson with a level gaze. “We got your little notes.”
A flash of silver marrow bones, and Wyre was gazing up at a circle of jeering faces, the room swaying about him. Through a fog, he saw Miss Crawford fly at Death’s Head, fists flailing. A flat hand sent her tumbling over a table like a loosely jointed doll. She came to rest on the floorboards, dark hair unpinned, one tawny leg exposed above the knee. Wyre struggled to rise and, with an angry cry, aimed a jab at their assailant. Death’s Head picked the fist out of the air, responding with a blow to the temples that sent Wyre back to the sawdust.
For a second, he was vaguely aware of the three burly figures from earlier crashing through the circle of spectators, arms outstretched . . . Then the sensation of a great, dark wave descending.
When he opened his eyes, Miss Crawford was crouching above him, her hair loose on one side, shining in the sun.
The Cunning House Page 17