A voice came from the bar. “Back wi’ us, then?”
“Yer reflexes are all wrong,” another wiseacre added. “Yer wife’s less cunny-thumbed than you. Nice piece of clockwork, that ’un, mind.”
“No gud actin’ the gemmen in a scrap.” The first voice again. “No ’arf taps. Yer gotta blacken yer ’art.”
Wyre sat up, and spat blood into the sawdust.
“Ignore them, Mr Wyre,” Miss Crawford put her arms out to help him to his feet, but he pushed her away roughly.
“There’s no mystery here,” he exclaimed angrily, “only your fiancé’s sordid pleasures. Robert Aspinall took up with extortionists and buggerantoes, and this is the result. He can rot.”
“Mr Wyre!” Her perfect mouth acquired the absurd pitch of a tragic mask.
Struggling up alone, pressing one hand to his thudding brow, the lawyer staggered towards the door, Miss Crawford’s tiny heels clicking behind him.
The journey back was a dismal amalgam of pounding hoofs without, hypnotic silence within. The cabman’s wheels, once Hermes-like, now seem weighed down by lead. Gradually, the pain in Wyre’s jaw began to subside into a dull ache. By the time they arrived at Sidmouth Street the sun had gone, but an immensity of light still hung behind the sky. A painter like William would have a field day.
Coming over faintish again, Wyre accepted Miss Crawford’s assistance up to his apartment. He joggled the key in the door, and pushed it open. Inside, someone was sitting in Rose’s lady’s chair. The ring glinted bluntly from his finger.
“Ev’ning, Mr Wyre. How do, Miss Crawford.”
40. Protocols
Miss Crawford stepped forward, her slender fingers clenched into fists.
“Haven’t you beaten him enough already? Leave this instant, or I’ll fetch a constable.”
Death’s Head gave Wyre a broad grin over her shoulder. “Spirited lil imp. Ain’t the type t’ cry o’er a pug dog.”
The Parson’s face appeared, as if levitating, above the concertinaed room-divider.
“Come out of there at once,” Wyre cried. “How the devil did you get in? If you’ve harmed a hair on Mrs Mason’s head . . .”
Death’s Head extended his hand. “No ’ard feelings, mate. The name’s Yardley.”
“The Courthouse doesn’t tolerate bully-boy tactics,” Wyre said, ignoring the hand, “as you’ll find out.”
“Now, now,” Yardley replied, “don’t leap to conclusions.” He took back his hand. “Let’s see if we can’t get off on a better footing. Them three what entered the tavern after you, two of ’em were Bow Street plain clothes, th’ other wuz Palace. Naturally, me and th’ Parson concluded you’d brought ’em along for the ride.”
“Well, we hadn’t,” Wyre answered hotly. “Why did you have us traipsing halfway across the city? Was there ever any information, or just a ploy?”
“Depends, dun’ it?” Yardley said. “We hear Cooky’s bin squealin’, the salt-swollen quim – ” he stopped, grinning at Miss Crawford “ – beggin’ yer pardon, miss. Who’d ’av thought, me ol’ business partner squeezing me out?”
“Selling you out, more like,” put in the Parson. “Both of us.”
“What do you know about James Cooke?” Wyre demanded.
“Oh, he wuz in deep, Mr Wyre. Right up the ’ole of the arse. Beggin’ yer pardon again . . .” Yardley bowed at Miss Crawford. “The cull’s game wuz extortion. Yer can ’ardly blame the Palace fer smiting back.”
Wyre gave him an incredulous look. “Are you suggesting the Palace was involved in the attempt on James Cooke’s life?”
Yardley leered. “Who’d yer fink’s behind all them Swan men droppin’ like flies? Yer friend among ’em . . .”
“Mr Leighton had nothing to do with that den of foxes.”
“As yer like it, Mr Wyre. Fact o’ the matter is, on account of Cooky bleeding the high-ups, anyone who so much as farted in Vere Street is a marked man now.” He pointed at the Parson. “We’re obliged t’ skulk about the city. What ain’t our style at all.”
“Any innocent man has nothing to fear. That’s how the law works.”
“Guilty . . . innocent. Baby terms!” the Parson said contemptuously.
“You take good care tomorrow,” Yardley continued slyly. “When a man gets invited to table at th’ Palace, he’d better hope he’s there as a guest, not part o’ the menu.”
“Especially if it’s a French dish,” added the Parson.
“Who told you my business?”
“Wouldn’t you rather know who Cooky wuz squeezing?”
Wyre gave him a dry look. “I imagine Sellis was among them.”
Yardley looked at the Parson. “Sellis, he says.” He turned back. “An’ if I told yer Vere Street wuzn’t the secret at the heart of the Palace, but th’ other way round?”
“I don’t care for riddles,” Wyre said primly. “If you have a story, tell it to the magistrate.”
“Really? How long d’yer think we’d outlive that tale?” He shut one eye meaningfully. “There’s a secret ministry of men at St James’s, what acts as it fancies.”
“Who told you about my secondment to the inquest? I suppose it was Brockton.” The toad had gone too far this time.
“Nah, not ’im . . .” Yardley laughed wheezingly. “Their chain of command is wonderful subtle, Mr Wyre. Half of ’em dun’t even realize they’re in it.” He sniffed noisily. “But we’ll give yer one identity for nuffink – a slimikin, name of Neale. That’s why we invited yer to The Obelisk. Now, yer wouldn’t think to look at ’im, but trust us, he’s up t’ his waterproof beaver-hat’s nostrils in it.” Yardley ran a grubby sleeve across his nose. “Sellis is nafink in this business, forget what the papers are saying. Nah, if yer really mean all that guff about the law, talk to Neale. Start with that cunt, an’ work yer way up.” This time, there was no bow to Miss Crawford.
“Playhouse fantasies.” Wyre said dismissively. “It was Neale who saved the Duke of Cumberland from his assassin. If you have any serious information, make a clean breast of it. None of the rest is real.”
“Not real, he says? Then perhaps he’ll tell us where Mr Aspinall may be found.”
Miss Crawford froze. “What do you know about Robert?”
Yardley looked amused. “They say two cunning knaves require no broker, don’t they, Parson?”
“Get to the point,” Wyre said.
“Already told yer. The point’s the Palace. Oh, it’s a fing of infinite modalities.” The powerful-looking man crossed to the latticed windows, and gazed out over the courtyard.
“Where’s Aspinall?” Wyre demanded. He repeated it, his voice rising.
Yardley was perfectly calm. “Neale first. Soon as that quim’s hanging in chains, missy gets her molly back. Fer all the good it’ll do her.”
“There’s a coup against the Duke,” Wyre said. “How do we know you’re not part of it?”
“The Duke’s a devil,” the Parson spat.
Wyre rounded on him. “So you’d add sedition to your crimes?”
“Steady on,” said Yardley. “No use blamin’ Parson. Got locked in a coal ’ole as a boy, didn’t he?” He smiled indulgently. “No, Parson ’ere just wants his White back.”
“White?” Wyre frowned. “What’s the drummer-boy in this? They’re going to hang him, anyway,” he added.
The words were pistol slugs to the Parson, who groaned and clutched at his chest.
“That was cruel, Mr Wyre,” said Yardley. “Needless cruel.”
The Parson rolled his eyes spitefully at Miss Crawford. “Poor Robert Aspinall,” he said in sing-song fashion, “caught between the gallows and Bedlam.”
Without saying more, the intruders left. The sound of marrow bones clicking on the polished door handle stayed with Wyre long after.
They sat in silence. Twice now, without any thought for her own safety, this delicate-looking woman had tried to protect him. Was he really going to discard her? She turned to him,
exquisitely vulnerable, open to the city. Was this a taste of Leighton’s world?
“I should go, Mr Wyre. I’m sorry for what happened.”
“Wait,” he said. A pause. “I don’t trust those thugs. I’ll get my coat, accompany you home.”
She bowed her head in a manner he thought grateful. But he had less idea than ever what to make of her.
The air above the pavements was hot and sweet. They walked along marble crescents and shining terraces as street lamps were being lit. Miss Crawford’s pelisse brushed his sleeve. What Rose would call walking snug.
It wasn’t far, the dark woman assured him; but not far had to be reached via dubious districts where commodious new limestone residences ceded to older brick-and-timber buildings, to dark taverns and torch-lit theatres, and from there to zones of lickspit frippers, where punks and harridans yowled from alleyways, banshee lines of communication that always seemed to outpace them.
“Great Windmill Street,” said the lawyer, stopping with a frown. “It’s along there, isn’t it?” He glanced into a tight side street.
Miss Crawford clutched his sleeve. “The night Robert was arrested, he was forced to leave something in that awful house. I promised I’d recover it. It won’t take long.”
What? Tamper with evidence?
“It won’t take long,” she repeated. She turned and, going up on tip-toe, brushed her lips against his cheek.
He stared back mutely. Is this what Best meant by pretty eyes?
Vere Street was a narrowish lane running above Clare Market. Wide enough to admit a coach, but the overhanging galleries made it feel more constrained than it was. They stopped at a dark, three-storey façade. The first two levels were brick, the upper one half-timbered. Three different-sized bays protruded from the roof, rising to uneven peaks. The tavern’s sign arm was empty, but Wyre didn’t doubt they were standing outside London’s most notorious address. The White Swan’s lower windows were all broken, stopped with sheets of newspaper. Two slops of white paint above the lintel revoked the inn-keeper’s license. Crude slogans had been daubed across the tavern’s frontage – scrawled beneath a grotesquely distended yard that was half-buried in a coarse approximation of a rump was the name Ass-pinall. He winced. No woman should have to think of such things.
He looked at her. “Are you quite sure?”
“I promised I would.”
Wyre rapped on the oak door. He was about to knock again when they heard shootbolts being coaxed back. A freckled face appeared in the gap.
“Both of you together?” The tavern madam opened the door wider, revealing unlit depths; a waft of gin fumes escaped. “Or has one of you come to watch?”
“We’re not here for that,” Miss Crawford answered with surprising gentleness. “One of your guests left something here.”
“They all do, love.” The beginnings of a ribald smile, which must have come easily once, ghosted her lips. She tugged at her shift, which was sheer enough to leave nothing to the imagination (Wyre tried to ignore the dark shadow below her waist). “The Charlies took everything that wasn’t nailed down, but if it’s still here, you’re welcome to it.”
They stepped into a clammy passage. Damp and smelly, like the service tunnel. The tap-room was a slovenly mess. On the unswept floor, between two overturned tables, lay a dirty grey mattress, slit open like a gullet.
“He can do me in the arse, if he likes,” the landlady said plaintively, touching Miss Crawford’s sleeve. “It wouldn’t cost extra.”
The dark woman didn’t say anything, but proceeded through the tap-room, seemingly knowing where to go. Wyre followed her, dried bluebells crumbling to powder under his feet, to a back staircase. It rose, dog-legging, to a narrow corridor, along one side of which sepulchral recesses gaped, all – obscenely – without doors. More of the grey, stained mattresses within. Miss Crawford, however, was studying the glass lanterns set at intervals into the wall. She counted off three, then, looking across at Wyre, lifted her foot for what children would call a bunk-up. He laced his fingers obligingly. Stepping on, she pressed herself against the dusty bricks, and hooked her arm over an empty muntin, reaching into the cavity. (Wyre felt intimate shifts of weight through his palms.) With a little cry of triumph, she stepped down, clutching a black quarto notebook.
When she spoke, her voice was so quiet it seemed to come from one of the shameful lofts themselves. “The inmates at Wood’s Close entertain strange fantasies. Some imagine themselves made of clockwork. These poor souls threaten no one but themselves.” Her fingers tightened around the notebook’s leather covers. “But there was one patient who was different in every respect.” Her breath seemed to catch in her throat. “Robert told me there wasn’t a man in England he’d consider safe in that lunatic’s presence.”
Wyre frowned. “Was this patient in your fiancé’s care?”
“At first, yes. During that period, I hardly saw Robert. He was convinced he’d stumbled on an undiscovered ailment of the brain, and laboured every hour at its explication. He coined a term, ‘double character’, and said publication of his notes would cause an upheaval in the medical world. But the case took a terrible toll. It emptied him out.” She pulled her top lip under her teeth in a desolate fashion. “When, after a month of treatment, a senior physician assumed all responsibility for the case, I confess it was to my relief.”
“That ‘senior physician’ would be Ellesmere, I suppose.”
She nodded.
Wyre frowned. “I assume this patient is still locked up at Wood’s Close. We could request an interview. He might know something. About your fiancé’s whereabouts, I mean. It’s worth a try.” There were no other leads, he didn’t say.
“That was the strangest thing, Mr Wyre. There was no formal committal. Whoever this man was, he was free to come and go as he pleased.”
Wyre thought for a moment. “Much as I dislike Ellesmere, it sounds as if his intervention was justified.”
“Robert was furious at having his patient taken from him.” Miss Crawford brought her other palm down on the notebook’s dark cover, trapping it like some large, black insect. “But the loss merely strengthened his resolve. He told me he already had enough to guarantee the attention of his peers. These are his notes, Mr Wyre.” She held out the book. “They are his only consolation. He believes when the public sees what he was labouring at, they will understand why he set foot in this awful place, and his reputation will be repaired.”
Wyre doubted that. He took the book from her, feeling a little pull before her fingers released. Limp, well-worn vellum covers, with a name, R. Aspinall, tooled in gilt. He opened it. The sight caused his breath to hiss between his teeth. That flowing hand – identical to the one that had recorded those wicked descriptions in the loose page that fluttered to his feet in Leighton’s apartment. How the devil had Leighton come by a page of Aspinall’s case notes? He felt a second chill flash along his limbs – the man Miss Crawford’s fiancé had been treating was the misrule at the centre of the plot to murder the Duke of Cumberland. Aspinall’s patient had been Mr Parlez-Vous.
Struggling to control his trembling fingers, he turned to the first entry. It was dated 27 November 1809. Even to a psychological amateur, Aspinall’s staccato observations clearly plotted a mind utterly lost to reason. That such a creature might even now be dressing a Duke!
Mechanics of the release of seminal fluid a monomania. No improvement here!!
Nakedness a spur only when coupled with distress.
*
Exists on a continuum????
Tremendous potential to violence over time. Repeated dreams of slicing living flesh.
*
Massa confusa!!
Claims God is a hare or snake.
*
Proclaims diversity is a unity.
Believes Christ is a suspended spider.
*
Claims to have eaten human κόλυθροι.
Wyre could guess what lay beneath the Greek charac
ters. The notes went on like this for pages and pages. Near the back, he found a jagged stub of margin. He was sure it would match up perfectly with Leighton’s torn-out leaf. With staring eyes, he returned the volume to Miss Crawford, who clutched it to her breast as if it contained a set of wedding vows.
“The lunatic described here,” he said, trying to control his breath. “Do you know his name?” It would be better to have Aspinall, but the mad-doctor’s notebook might be enough to give the case what William called its lights.
“Robert wouldn’t divulge it. He was forbidden.”
That hope dashed, new, uncomfortable thoughts began to form in Wyre’s head. Leighton must have known all along that Parlez-Vous had murdered Thomas in Crispin Street, known he’d been the one who’d taken a hammer to the fly. And he’d said nothing. Wyre thought back to that most calm, most collected voice in his ear. Would he recognize it again if he heard it at St James’s? His life might depend on it. With Leighton gone, the only person Wyre knew for certain could identify the assassin was Robert Aspinall, and he was a ghost. Well, there was always Ashcroft and Ellesmere, but he doubted they could be induced to give up their patient. Besides, he didn’t trust either man to give a straight answer to anything. Even Ellesmere’s horticultural practice seemed to be an allegory.
No, time was short and the Palace was the place. It was time to try the strength of his own wings. He’d do it for Leighton’s sake, and for the Duke’s, and – he was honest enough to admit – for his own. God’s mills would grind, but there was no bread yet.
He followed Miss Crawford and the half-dressed landlady down again. If anything was clear, it was the importance of preserving a channel of communication with Miss Crawford. If the inquest failed to turn up a Parlez-Vous, her bendyman fiancé was the Duke’s best chance. Some way would have to be found to combine both lines of investigation.
Theatre-goers, sensation-seekers, punks and their reeling swads formed a ceaseless tide along Vere Street’s uneven pavements. Wyre was about to step into the hum and bustle, when Miss Crawford turned to press a coin into the landlady’s dirty fingers. The woman’s mouth formed a tragic, absurd O, her eyes pits. Wyre almost pitied the sordid collapse – until Miss Crawford leaned forward, and kissed her lightly on the cheek. Those fine, dark lips next to that sensuous maw!
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