The Cunning House

by Richard Marggraf Turley

  The lawyer hurled himself sideways just a fraction too late. The behemoth’s knuckles scraped the edge of his ribcage, and sensation drained from one side of his torso. The deflected fist continued on its unstoppable trajectory, smashing through the lathes of the wall. Wyre had an absurd image of the hand sticking out on the Duke’s side, debris dropping onto those silk sheets. He fell to his knees, groaning pitifully.

  The colossus yanked out his hand, knuckles sticky with blood. Plaster exploded into the valet’s bedchamber in a great puff. Squeezed now into the far right-hand corner of the room, preternaturally aware of the infinite segments into which the ninety-degree angle he was occupying could be parcelled, Wyre knew he had no chance of making the door.

  The monster stooped, like a boy tickling for trout. He found one. The tentacle-like fingers closed over Wyre’s ears, clamping, hauling him up, lifting him clean off his feet. Wyre hung there, kicking, staring helplessly into the enormous face –

  – which suddenly creased into a thousand folds, all leading to the cavernous mouth, which let out a high bellow.

  Then Wyre was falling, landing in a heap, clutching at his burning neck, waiting for the enormous boot to snap his spine. When he dared to open his eyes, he saw, absurdly, a wizened man, limbs arranged in a fighting pose, facing the giant. The lithe old buffer who’d accosted him on the Mall! In spite of his years, the man moved with mercurial ease, sending a crunching fib into the giant’s midriff. Goliath roared like a goaded bear. He swung his fists wildly, unable to land a punch. With strange speed his opponent slid under the great scything arm, uncoiling a counter-coup straight from the shoulder, catching the outlandish figure a clean blow on the sternum. For perhaps the first time in what Wyre imagined must be an atrocious career of violence, the giant took a step backwards, his face registering uncertainty.

  From nowhere, a blade appeared in the old man’s hand, which he jabbed up, aiming for somewhere deep. More by accident, it seemed, than design, a palm the size of a spade intersected with its deadly path, and was speared through. Wyre’s rescuer attempted to retract his weapon, but it was pinned between bones. Howling, Goliath swiped with the back of his good hand, this time catching his opponent across the face, sweeping him away to the ground. The titan stared at his palm, contemplating a puzzle of steel and flesh from both sides, then wrenched out the blade, blood whipping. He tossed it aside; it skittered across the floor, coming to rest a few feet in front of Wyre, who inched stealthily towards it.

  With another high bellow, Goliath stamped over to where the old man sat, dazed from the blow. To Wyre’s horror, an enormous boot to the midriff sent the old man up in the air like a flipped coin. He came down hard, but somehow managed to struggle to his feet, the bone of one cheek paste. In a blur of movement, he whirled round a fist, striking the giant again on the chest, the height where any normal man’s head would have been. What in any other situation would have been an ender, merely provoked a wild charge. The old man sidestepped neatly, sending his knuckles after the giant; they crunched into the small of his back, drawing another enraged squeal.

  Wyre snatched the knife from the floor, waving it triumphantly. His saviour, distracted by the sudden movement, turned, and was caught by a cudgelling blindsider that dashed him to the ground. This time he did not get up.

  The giant stepped over his foe, and raised his vast foot. The old man’s eyes flickered . . . Sweeping a thin leg round in a last-ditch effort, he succeeded in clipping one of the mighty ankles. Losing balance, the giant windmilled with his long arms, but did not fall. Recovering, he bent at the knees like a spider, and gathered up his prey in an absurd paternal embrace before hurling it against the wall, dislodging the portrait of the woman in the broad-brimmed hat. The painting fell at Wyre’s feet.

  Blood drained from the old man’s ears and nose; yet even now he made a feeble effort to raise his guard, some martial protocol, lodged deeply in the muscle.

  The great foot came down, pressing onto the slender ribcage with a sound like that of a carriage wheel moving over gravel. Wyre groaned.

  Goliath turned at the sound, and stepped towards the lawyer, an ogre a child might meet on some clammy, nightmarish bridge of the imagination. Light-headed, Wyre held up the portrait as a pointless shield, bracing for the blow that would cut all ties

  It was Read who appeared around the cracked gilt frame, entering the Valet’s Room at double pace, a Bow Street issue pistol held at full stretch. A fizzing spark, then a clock’s tick of balanced nothing and an explosion almost too distant from the flash to be part of it. Finally, an appalling belch of smoke.

  The giant’s features contorted. “Mr Read?” he said mournfully, staring over his shoulder, clutching the saddle of his back. Then he dropped to one knee, emitting a drawn-out keening sound, like that of a baby.

  Read dropped the pistol into his left hand, cocking it again with the thumb of his right.

  “Still breathing, Wyre?” he said from the corner of his mouth. He spat a second slug into the muzzle.

  Seeing Read’s methodical work, the monstrous man scrabbled for the window, tipping his bulk head-first through the sash bars, his broad shoulders breaking them as though they were tinder wood.

  Weapon reloaded, Read dashed to the window ledge, feet crunching on splinters of glass, pistol levelled over his left forearm. He crouched, rose, feinted left and right, looking for the shot. Wyre pictured the ornamental trees, which must be forming an occluding screen.

  Cursing under his breath, the Chief Magistrate lowered his pistol. He turned, moving towards Wyre, the standard-issue ‘dag’ hanging at his side. The lawyer stared, eyes widening.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Read muttered, and with his other strong hand helped him up.

  “You came back.”

  “Let’s leave it at that, Wyre.”

  Together they went over to the old man, lifting him carefully into a sitting position. Each shallow breath made a sound like a cracked piston.

  “I’m afraid he got away, Shadworth,” the magistrate said, dandling him like an infant. “I’ll have officers sent after him. He won’t be hard to track.”

  This was Shadworth?

  The man’s voice was wind through reeds. “No need. Liver shot . . . Can’t be staunched.”

  Wyre knelt by the elderly man. “You saved me from Cumberland’s monster.”

  “Not Cumberland’s – ” something pink bubbled at Shadworth’s lips. “York’s man.” He took another rasping breath. “Like me.”

  A pause as Wyre attempted to bring it within the scope of his senses. “I don’t understand.” In truth, he didn’t.

  “Cumberland . . . was in . . . Vere Street that night.”

  The gasping was horrible. “I thought he spent the evening at the opera.”

  The thinnest of smiles. “Some of the men . . . liked to call it that.” Shadworth’s eyes begin to cloud over like two pools stirred up with sticks. “Cumberland misused a drummer-boy in The Swan . . .” He broke off in coughs the lawyer felt as explosions in his own chest. “York’s had us tidying up . . . after his brother for years. He shuns scandal like a Covent Garden ague . . .” The ghost of a lewd smile. “But he hates Cumberland . . . suspects him of giving Princess Amelia something nasty.” The crumpled face seemed almost empty of blood. “That sweet girl . . .” the tiniest spark returned to Shadworth’s eyes. “She was destined to join us after the fires. It was foretold she would live at Joanna’s right hand as her sister.”

  Wyre stared. Disciple talk!

  Shadworth’s breathing was now even more unprofitable. He gestured for Wyre to lean in and, in quick pants, said: “There’s one man . . . can place Cumberland in Vere Street – ” He stopped, found a little air. “Someone who . . . saw him disgrace himself.”

  “Aspinall,” Wyre said quietly.

  The dying man nodded, pronouncing as two hasping syllables an address Wyre had heard several times in the last few days. “You’ll find him there . . . What’s left
of him.” More coughing, more pink. When the convulsions finally ceased, Shadworth was looking through Wyre, looking backwards. “The splendid gloves . . .” The eyes sagged. Sealed.

  Wyre turned to Read. “Did you hear that? We should go immediately to Wood’s – ”

  “Fuck – ”

  65. Loose Threads

  “ – off. None of it can be proved.” The Chief Magistrate glanced down at Shadworth’s body. “Accept it.”

  “If you dispatched officers to the asylum this evening, fetched Aspinall . . .”

  “Aspinall in court, testifying against an heir to the throne?” Read smiled. He cast his eyes about a room that looked as if it had been struck by one of the prophesied earthquakes. “Someone will be here soon to tidy up. You’d better be gone when they arrive.”

  “Shouldn’t the inquest jury at least be informed?”

  “I said you’d get nowhere alluding to Greek vices, Wyre. Long live the frigging King. Oh, and before you get any ideas about petitioning Best, if there was any justice in the world, that shitbird would be in the dock himself for aiding and abetting mollies. But don’t worry, his time will come.”

  Wyre looked at him in bewilderment.

  “He throws two or three lesser men to the dogs each year, and shields dozens.” He looked at Wyre dubiously. “I assumed you were part of the scam.”

  Wyre looked numbly at the Chief Magistrate. Had Best sought him out – turning his and Rose’s lives upside down in the process – not because of his prosecuting skill, but lack of it? “How much did you know about the Duke, sir. From the beginning, I mean?”

  “Too much,” Read answered, “and enough. England’s at War. Now piss off.”

  Wyre made his way along the corridors, one side a dull ache, his neck and head feeling like another man’s. Shadworth, at least, had still believed Cumberland could be stung. He’d spent his dying breath giving Wyre a shot at it. Pointless looking to Bow Street for help, though. Read had made that clear. Wyre had a stark choice: return to Wood’s Close as a private citizen, or do nothing at all.

  A maid startled him, arms laden with more of those damned wreathes, as she emerged from a panelled door hidden between tapestried hunting scenes. The whole Palace was wrong! Doors that looked like walls, walls made of paper. There was one thing, though, he was going to settle before he left. What did chess players call it? The natural move? He was about to make it. He stepped in front of the maid, barring her way.

  “Where’s Mr Neale?”

  She looked at him with alarm. “In his private rooms, sir. If he’s not on.”

  “Not on,” Wyre mimicked. “This house is a disgrace.”

  He strode off in the direction of the householders’ grace-and-favour apartments.

  The valet was perched morosely in front of a large mirror, one slipper half-on. Neale spun as Wyre entered, and began to protest the intrusion. Without saying a word, the lawyer marched forward and planted a fist squarely on the man’s chin, knocking him from his chair.

  Neale stared up from the polished floor. “Are you mad?” He climbed warily to his feet, nursing his jaw.

  Wyre braced for a counter attack, but Neale merely turned and took a seat at his desk. “Fine, you’ll have your truth.”

  “I know it already,” Wyre said. “You murdered Sellis on the Duke’s orders. You stole a key to his room.”

  “That’s not what happened.” A quarto volume lay face-down on the desk. Neale turned the book over, resting his hand on the spread pages as if about to recite a few choice lines. “Since one version of events seems to be as good as another, you might as well hear mine.” He let out a long sigh. “I had no key to Joseph’s room. I never needed one.”

  “Joseph, now?” Wyre taunted. “What did you get up to in his room? Spot of thread the needle?”

  Neale’s eyes drifted to the window. “We were friends. Close friends. It would scarcely have been possible to be any closer. If you wish to hang me for that,” he said, looking back at the lawyer, “you’re welcome to try.” Neale rubbed his jaw. “The knot would be a release.” Wetting the pad of his third finger, he idly turned the pages. “Cumberland smoked us out. I suppose one of the maids traded a secret that hurt no one in return for some fleeting capital. He summoned us to the Valet’s Room. I was prepared for dismissal, arrest even, but what took place there that evening was unthinkably worse.” Little pearls of perspiration had collected along his upper lip, hanging there.

  Wyre gave him a sceptical look.

  “The Duke began by threatening to expose us to our wives.” Neale’s lips twitched. “I assure you, my wife would not have understood. He offered to lift his threat – but on one condition only.” He paused. “Perhaps you can imagine what it was. Palace valets, the Duke told us, had always accommodated their masters in that way, when it was asked of them.” His voice became impassioned. “I wish he would melt like wax!” He blinked back tears. “Poor Joseph bore the brunt. You were quite right, Mr Wyre, my angel did wish to leave the Duke’s service. But he was a loving father, and in his own way a loyal husband. It was more important to him than anything to provide for his family. A few weeks before his death, he told me he’d found some sympathetic friends. They promised to find him a new position in a big house in the city. I would follow, in due course.”

  “Vere Street friends?” Wyre said contemptuously. “The Tyrant’s agents, more like.”

  It hardly matters. We were betrayed. I have my suspicions. That same night, Cumberland summoned us and claimed his droit in the most despicable manner.”

  A mental picture formed of the valet lying on his belly on Cline’s gurney, that obscene cross-hatch. The pieces dropped into place like billiard balls in their pockets: the Duke with the valet, one thrusting, eyes rolling, the other barely able to breathe; the razor unclasped, those livid slice-marks, the blood welling up like tiny beads strung along the finest wire.

  “Joseph bore it for my sake. Afterwards, the Duke went to join his generals, leaving me to comfort my darling. By the time I returned to the Valet’s Room, Joseph was gone. I suppose he was already hiding in the closets. It didn’t occur to me to look. If only I had . . .” He screwed his eyes shut. “I remained in the Valet’s Room. What else could I do? It was still my turn.” His expression was suddenly desolate and remote. “At about midnight, the Duke stumbled back. I heard the door to his chamber slam. The rest of the night’s events occurred just as I deposed. The only thing I omitted to say was I immediately knew the assassin to be Joseph. You asked why I didn’t fear for my wife’s safety when the Duke sent her along the corridors. Now you have your answer.” He wiped away more tears. No longer needing to wet his finger, he turned another page of poetry, then closed the book.

  “What about Tranter?”

  “The pistol was the Duke’s, not mine.” His lips formed a cruel smile. “He couldn’t raise the flag without it. Whether the footman’s death was an accident or happened by design, I couldn’t say.” He cast his eyes down. “I helped move the body to the stables. I am so very ashamed of that.” He buried his head.

  Wyre studied him. Could Neale be induced to testify? He doubted it. But there’d be time to deal with the valet later. Now the clock was ticking for Aspinall. He’d head for Great Windmill Street, and Miss Crawford. Just as soon as he’d stopped off in South Molton Street. There was something there he needed to fetch.

  He left to the sound of the valet’s sobs.

  66. Ketland & Co.

  “I’m afraid it’s the only way,” Wyre said, after he’d laid the day’s events bare for the printer.

  William regarded him sadly. “I wondered if one day you’d call for it. But as for it being the only way, Big Tom Aquinas teaches there’s nothing in the intellect that wasn’t first in our senses.”

  The meaning evaded him. Wyre held out his hand.

  “Very well.” William took a deep breath and held it. He crossed to the tall mahogany drinks cabinet. Opening a tiny drawer, he retrieved a key, wh
ich he joggled in the brass lock of a larger compartment. From this box, he took a second key, offering it in turn to the locking mechanism of a still more substantial drawer. Nestling inside that, Wyre knew, was the pistol.

  William passed the firearm to the lawyer. Only then did he breathe out. “If you’re certain.”

  The dull weight in Wyre’s palm felt oddly familiar, though he’d hardly handled the weapon since buying it, and only once let it off in a field. The kick had made his arm hurt. He stared down at the dark stock, its fine touch-hole, the ornate stamp of Ketland & Co. on the lock’s plate. The gun was beautiful. Mr Egg the gunsmith had explained how this particular model not only boasted what was called a Damascus twist, but also an improved pan and gooseneck hammer with a double arch for expelling damp.

  “I’d like to have the Duke standing before me now,” Wyre said, holding out the gun with a display of impotent bravado. He made a clicking noise in his mouth. “Point blank.”

  William lifted his bushy eyebrows. “Not so long since, physicians thought flowers shaped like testicles could cure sexual diseases.” He reached back into the drawer, pulling out a powder sack then a handful of slugs. They clacked together in the printer’s palm like glass marbles. “Has it ever occurred to you,” he continued, “that our opinions on love between men might be similarly circumscribed by the times, that in this regard we’re merely dupes of the Spectre?” He stared so furiously, Wyre could almost believe he was looking into the future itself.

  A man of complex genius – and wrong on many things.

  They exchanged a handshake. Wyre was about to slip the pistol into its purple velvet shoulder-bag when William put his hand over the muzzle. The lawyer felt him through it.

  “Look at us, Wyre, two men, with death in between!”