The Cunning House

by Richard Marggraf Turley

  He begged paper from the secretary and scribbled a quick reply, handing it to Paulet.

  Squaring his absence with Read turned out to be easier than he anticipated: the magistrate was quite capable of dealing with a few pot-washers and daisy-trimmers.

  “Go where you please. We resume at seven.”

  Wyre left as quickly as he could without sprinting through St James’s echoing chambers.

  The sky over the park was a sweeping blue scrow. Squadrons of soft-billed birds swooped into thick clouds of insects, which hung like living ornaments over the lake.

  “May I see the note?” he asked.

  She reached into the frilly covering over a pocket hole, producing a scrap of paper.

  “News from the dead. Signed – no one.” Wyre looked up. It didn’t bode well.

  “Do you think Robert is meant?”

  “It might not be him,” he replied, disingenuously. “I’ve heard of The Cranes. All lawyers have. It isn’t . . . seemly.”

  She caught his sleeve; the intimacy caught him off-guard. “I’m aware of the risks, Mr Wyre.”

  The horses at the St James’s hackney rank were in bad harness, beset by swarms of flies. The waterman waved them over to a two-nag chariot. The buck cabby wasn’t cheap, though – one shilling per mile, sixpence extra for every half-mile on top. Daylight robbery. Wyre climbed in after Miss Crawford. A used copy of The Gazette lay on the seat.

  They set off along lanes edged by dark brick buildings, crumbling barracks, dye-houses, fulling mills and old limestone villas. Landmarks began to appear at unexpected points on the horizon. The cabby, who was apparently in a hurry to be in two places at once, had obviously been inducted into a differently connected city to the one Wyre was accustomed.

  Miss Crawford sat in silence. Wyre unfolded the abandoned newspaper – a report of a tiger terrorizing an Indian village caught his eye. Suddenly, he was aware of Miss Crawford leaning forward. Her hair, so thick it could have been an intricate wig, flexed and swayed with the motion of the carriage. Walnut oil . . . He took the scent deep into his lungs.

  “There, Mr Wyre – ” she said, pointing, a look of strange intensity on her face.

  He followed her finger.

  murdered in his bedroom. Thomas, Covent Garden waiter, 37 years, died from a single penetrating wound to his liver. His landlord discovered him lying in thick blood. Thomas has been three times convicted of detestable crimes, including two unnatural assaults on other men. It is supposed death occurred during one of these habitual encounters.

  So the story had finally appeared, neatly framed by a familiar narrative . . . No mention of the private chemical factory, though. Why didn’t that surprise him? But what was any of it to Miss Crawford?

  “A nasty business,” he said. “As a matter of fact,” he said, feeling a swell of pride, “I was with the investigator who found him.”

  Her cheeks were ashen. “Robert complained of a waiter he met in Vere Street, the night of the arrests. A man who deceived him in the most repellent manner possible. His name was Thomas.”

  One of their carriage wheels found a disturbance in the road, throwing them sideways.

  “It’s possible,” he began slowly, “that this Thomas fellow – ” he lowered his voice, though it was impossible the jarvis could hear them over the great noise of the wheels “ – had a hand in the business with Sellis, the assassin everyone’s talking about.”

  “What does your Mr Read say?”

  “He’s determined to see Sellis as an isolated event. You might as well argue the earth is flat than question that view.”

  Little by little the formal city was becoming a sprawling port town of wood-and-brick pilings, muddy banks, wharfs and warehouses. Shopping squares ceded to fenced yards, to high brick walls, dark with sun.

  They were moving parallel with the river now. Wyre squinted through the dusty glass sliders at ketch-rigged cargo boats straining at slimy mooring posts. There was a smell of fish on the turn. The whole district was one enormous wooden hull.

  “When I was a little girl in Spanish Town,” she began suddenly, “I saw a strange bird crouching. Its call was high and rousing. Some of the birds in the islands have calls like Sweet-John!–Sweet-John! This one sang Whip-Tom-Peter! Whip-Tom-Peter! – over and over. I ran home to tell my father. He didn’t believe me. It might seem trivial now, but I saw it, Mr Wyre.” The intensity startled him. She looked away. “I saw many things in the islands.”

  “I’ll make sure the right questions are asked,” he said, simply.

  “I’ve been reading a great deal about the assault on the Duke of Cumberland. Do you think Sellis really cut his own throat?”

  Wyre looked out again at the barren quayside. The smell was getting worse. “It’s easier to tell you what I don’t think,” he said. “That Sellis was capable of carrying out a frenzied attack on the Duke, then making it all the way back to his bedchamber – through five locked doors – unaided.”

  “Is the Duke still in danger? Is the King?”

  Wyre made a wry face. “With any luck, Sellis’s accomplice will turn out to be a servant. Some unthinking miss who had her head turned by Sellis. Bit of a flashy devil, our Joseph.” He rubbed his eyes, suddenly weary. “The only thing dividing the Valet’s Room from the Duke’s sleeping quarters is a thin wall. Practically just paper, like a Chinese lantern. Sellis must have known that; he’d slept on the other side often enough. So why would such a slightly built man imagine he could slaughter a soldiering Duke, six feet in his stockings, without rousing the on-duty valet? It doesn’t make sense. Not that such inconsequential details seem to bother anyone.”

  “Oh, wasn’t Sellis on duty that evening? It’s what the newspapers imply.”

  Sugar Island inflections, more noticeable now.

  “As a matter of fact, the attending valet that night was a man called Neale. He and Sellis were at each other’s throats. We have witnesses to corroborate that bit, at least.”

  “Women aren’t the only ones who know how to deceive,” she said. “I’ve seen men play-act almost as well.” She looked away again, the ghost of a smile on her lips. When she turned back, her face had regained its bleakness. “Robert’s alive, Mr Wyre.” She clasped both hands to her midriff, a shocking gesture. “I feel it . . . here.”

  The chaise trembled to a halt at an unkempt verge, parking up above baked river banks. Wyre gazed down. Had Aspinall met his end here, covered in lime, buried in the river sand?

  Seabirds floated above on hot currents, folding the air. Their shrill cries – flat, static, hypnotic – competed with the rawk-rawk of gulls clipping water. A pair of boots flashed in front of the window as the driver vaulted down from his box. Wyre climbed out with rather less agility, and waited for Miss Crawford, feeling like a prisoner who had just managed to excavate his way out of one prison cell, only to come up in another.

  Miss Crawford stepped out. Her foot slipped off the highest tread. Wyre grabbed for her, taking the dark woman by the waist. No hips; light as a feather. Cabby watched with a grin. Wyre reluctantly tipped him sixpence to wait.

  The Cranes was a squat, bare brick building at the end of a fenced-off patch of stony ground, a row of river hoists rising next to it. Wyre stared down at the murky body of water. If there were any salmon or skegger-trout swimming among the weeds, they never broke the surface.

  Tavern harlots milled about the entrance, taunting Miss Crawford as if she were part of the competition.

  “Cum to dip yer tail in the Thames?” one of the punks called.

  Colouring, Wyre shepherded her inside. Remote, pallid faces suggested hashish, confirmed by drifting coils of pungent smoke. On one of the wooden benches, a trull – her back mercifully to them – was bouncing in the lap of some leathery tar; the motion sent ripples of shock up her bare midriff. With each rhythmic rise, a pair of pendulous stones appeared beneath her, as if they were part of her own body. Wyre was pulling Miss Crawford to him in an effort to shield
her, when a heavy arm fell across his shoulders. He spun round in alarm.

  “He who seeks out trouble never misses it – ain’t that the saying, Mr Wyre?” (His accoster was a man of fifty, who wore a hat fashionable a decade ago. He had a paunch, and his eyes were the colour of quince.) “Oh, don’t mind them – ” he nodded at the clinching couple. “The Cranes’s a right temple of jollity. Yer soon get used to it.”

  “How do you know my name?” Wyre demanded.

  Quince Eyes said nothing as he piloted them to a table near the back of the tavern. “How to get the most out of life,” he began, when they were seated, his head moving from side to side like an owl’s as he squinted into the shadows. “That’s the question yer oughta be asking yerself.”

  Three heavily tattooed men, all with sailors’ salt-cracked faces, were cutting cards a few tables away. Two juvenile females, their rudimentary nipples visible above their low-cut blouses, sat between the men. They looked bored by the game.

  Snatches of conversation drifted over.

  “Got nabbed by a big bastard of a hound . . .” said one, close-cropped with strong, flat features, a spreading symbol tattooed on his neck. In place of a nose, he wore a gutta-percha imitation, coloured to resemble flesh.

  “Bite yer, did yer dog?” asked a squint-eyed albino with fleecy hair.

  “Aye,” Gutta-Percha replied. “Legs, arms, arse. The vicious cunt wouldn’t let go.”

  “What d’yer do?” said the third man, a sheen of sweat imparting an aquatic quality to his skin.

  “Caught hold of its front legs, like you’re supposed to. Held on, one in each fist. Can’t let go once you start that, mind, or they’ll tear your throat out. Then – ” from the corner of his eye, Wyre watched him perform a violent pulling-apart action. “Split the bastard’s heart.”

  “What de owner say?”

  “Fuck the owner, I weren’t hangin’ round.”

  A barmaid arrived with three mugs of dark beer. She set them down roughly, slops of creamy froth wallowing over the sides. Quince Eyes raised his mug. His other hand jiggled at his side, causing his cuffs to flap.

  A piece of stacked-up enigma slotted into place.

  “Your name’s Wardle,” Wyre said in a low voice. “I could have you arrested for failing to appear at the Vere Street trial.”

  “But yer won’t.”

  Wyre regarded him. The intelligence better be good. “Tell us where Robert Aspinall is.”

  The man tapped his nose. “Plenty of time fer that.”

  “Tell us now and Bow Street might overlook your earlier behaviour.”

  Wardle’s odd eyes flicked across to Miss Crawford. “Fine piece of porcelain you got there. Put her in a bell jar, set her on the mantlepiece – watch her beat against the glass.”

  “How dare you – ” Wyre began.

  “Funny thing,” the man went on, turning to Miss Crawford, “way I ’eard it, your Miss Molly was slated to hang – come what may, if yer catch my drift. An’ now, Mr Wyre, dread agent of the State, travels all the way to a dockside shitpot for a parley, hoping for a scrap that might lead him to the rum dog.”

  Miss Crawford looked at him coldly. “Mr Wyre’s agreed to help me. He’s being paid for his trouble.”

  Wardle peered into the gloom again. “Don’t matter now. The time of princes an’ kings is comin’ to an end.”

  “You talk like a revolutionary,” Wyre said in disgust. Flickering movement at the neighbouring table.

  “Believe what you like, Mr Wyre. It won’t change nothing. A new unity’s coming. As fer the Palace, now – touch with kid gloves, an’ you’ll hear nothing, move nothing. Rain down violent blows – well, yer might just hear things resound.”

  “Are you capable of talking only in riddles?” (Across the tables, Gutta-Percha was still shuffling cards but the females had vanished.) “A life may depend on what you know. Where’s Robert Aspinall, and why didn’t you appear at his trial?”

  Wardle gave him an inscrutable smile. “Ever hear of Joanna Southcott?”

  “Of course. Napoleon’s brother.” So the man was a disciple, one of those convinced the nation’s present ills would usher in a bright new age – after, that was, the conflagration had destroyed all but the sealed 144,000 elect. It seemed Wardle and his sort weren’t averse to adding to those ills, if it meant speeding the arrival of the valley of sweet waters.

  Wardle gave him a pitying look. “The Spirit communicates with her directly.” He closed his lids, an ecstatic expression building on his face. “Before I was acquainted wi’ Joanna’s writings, what little faith I had was built on sand.”

  “Wasn’t she tried for blasphemy?” said Miss Crawford.

  The eyes sprang open. “They claimed she was the devil’s dupe, but he is hers.”

  “We’re in no mood for a sermon,” said Wyre. “Is Robert Aspinall alive?”

  “Please, Mr Wardle,” said Miss Crawford, her lashes wet. “I can tell you’re not a bad man.”

  He grinned. “To what purpose did the Lord’s disciples warn men t’ flee the temptation of the devil?”

  “Hell’s tee – ” Wyre bit back the oath. “I thought you’d seen the light, or whatever you call it. I suppose it was in one of Southcott’s ranting seminaries.”

  “Oh, I’ve seen it. I’ve read that woman’s shining words.” Wardle switched to a sing-song intonation: “The seven stars are seven angels, and the seven candlesticks are seven.” He stopped abruptly. “You want to know what really happened at the Vere Street trial? I made a wicked bargain, that’s what – ” his eyes began to shine again “ – but I couldn’t keep it. Not when Joanna’s own trial was prosecuted so unjustly.”

  “A bargain?”

  “For immunity from the law. But they wanted it all, Mr Wyre. Prisoners in indecent postures, shirts turned up on their backs, men stooping so low I couldn’t see their heads, bare arses everywhere.” His breath rasped in his throat. “Tokens of seed, Mr Wyre.” He turned to Miss Crawford and leered.

  “Who suborned your evidence?” Wyre said, his jaw tightening. “Who paid you to lie?” If this was Brockton’s work, God help him there would be a reckoning.

  Wardle leaned back in his chair. “Wouldn’t know his name.” He took a draught from his mug. “Grey hair. Proud.”

  “Is that all you can say?” The man could be describing anybody. Even Read fit that description.

  Wardle lifted his shoulders. “I’m not concerned with minions. I wish to bruise the head of Satan himself, to ’elp bring about Joanna’s prophecies.”

  “And who would Satan be?” Wyre smiled. “I suppose that’s not his real name, either.”

  “The man I mean’s a devil by nature, and a devil by practice.” He drained his mug.

  “Does this man have my fiancé?” Reaching across the table, Miss Crawford touched Wardle’s sleeve.

  His look became sly. “Some people seem t’ think yer can dance in a net an’ nobody sees.”

  “Enough enigmas. You’re talking about Mr Parlez-Vous, aren’t you?”

  If the name meant anything, Wardle made a good job of concealing it. Wyre was about to push him, when the man leapt to his feet, eyes wide and staring.

  “What?” he exclaimed. “You’ve led his monster right to me!”

  Wyre followed his gaze into the shadows, but saw nothing. Wardle, however, staggered from their table like a man who’d seen his own ghost.

  “After him . . .” Wyre pulled Miss Crawford to her feet. “He knows where Robert is.”

  He still had her by the hand when they debouched into the bleached scrubland outside The Cranes. When he saw the leather strop, it had already begun its transit. He jerked his head back, almost pulling off Leighton’s trick. The intersection was glancing, but enough to send him to his knees. He swayed there for a moment before a shod foot flipped him over. Then an awful weight pressing down on his ribcage. The strop rose again, dividing for a glorious moment the sun itself. A dim awareness of sharp cries be
hind him; a gutta-percha nose floating above; a sudden blaze.

  When the day’s fragments reassembled, a dark, handsome face was staring down. Dark lips repeated his name till it sounded like a charm in some pagan ceremony. He swiped feebly at the air.

  “Mr Wyre! I thought they’d – ” Miss Crawford was crouching over him. Rolling over onto all fours, he retched noisily like a cat that had eaten coriander seed.

  “Feckin’ mollies,” a punk screeched inexplicably from the tavern entrance. “Oughta be ashamed of yerselves!”

  “Least the liddle ’un put up a decent foight.”

  Wyre struggled to his feet. Miss Crawford’s pretty dress was stained with clay dust. Groggy, he tried to make sense of the dirt, of the insults. “Did they hurt you?” Another wave of nausea arrived.

  “Dem jus’ duppies, bwai,” she replied softly – or something like that, her voice jumping with odd inflections.

  Wyre gasped, spitting something greenish. He looked blankly across at the trulls.

  “I’m perfectly well, Mr Wyre,” she said in her usual voice. “You were right. I should have listened. It was a mistake to come.”

  The jarvis was leaning against his coach, watching with apparent amusement.

  They travelled back in silence. Wyre’s head felt like somebody had rung triple bob majors in it. As they trundled onto the bridge out of Southwark, Miss Crawford’s fingers brushed his hand, closed and tightened. He let them.

  “That gang was expecting us,” she said at last.

  He nodded.

  “They might have killed you, Mr Wyre, and it would have been my fault.”

  The truth of her words arrived like an icy blast.