by Craig Spence
Some elements of his case were already in place. Professor Wizer would make an excellent expert witness. He’d informed Puddifant that there was possibly only one copy of The Book in existence. “I believe Sirus Blackstone has laid his hands on it and mastered the sacred lore. If this is true, he is a formidable opponent indeed!” he’d warned.
Cornelius had made inquiries. He’d tacked together an outline of Blackstone’s life, beginning with a sojourn in India as a young man. The last references to The Book of Syde placed it in the vicinity of Calcutta, and that is where Blackstone resided while he was in India. Blackstone came from a well-to-do family, and inherited a substantial fortune when his parents passed away unexpectedly while he was abroad. “Nothing’s ever been proved,” Professor Wizer had said signif- icantly, “but Blackstone senior and his wife suddenly took ill, and died. The progression of their illness coincided perfectly with the waning of the old moon and the waxing of the new. The Blackstone Foundry and Machine Works were sold off almost immediately and the substantial fortune that resulted from that sale must have been depleted, judging by Sirus Blackstone’s present state of affairs. The Book of Syde is a volume of immense value, Inspector,” Professor Wizer had said. “It would have cost a fortune to acquire. I believe Blackstone returned to London with The Book, and just enough of his inheritance to buy his premises in Wellclose Square . . . ”
“And with a poison unheard of in Europe well suited to his evil plans,” Puddifant surmised, turning off Millbank into the narrower street that led to his flat.
Nothing Professor Wizer had said ruled out Puddifant’s own theory. Even if Blackstone believed in the power of occult, he might still resort to trickery. “He would have to,” Puddifant concluded, “because the mummery in the vaunted Book of Syde would never work.” He imagined the villain having spent his fortune on The Book, only to discover that none of its spells had any effect. “What would a fellow like Blackstone do?” Puddifant wondered. “Why, he’d find a way to make the spells work, wouldn’t he? He’d find some practical poison that would serve his purpose and bring that home with all his sacred paraphernalia.” As far as Puddifant was concerned, that’s what had happened, and that’s what he was going to prove.
Away from the lights ofMillbank the city became even more ghostly. Puddifant quickened his pace — not out of superstition, he told himself, but because the very real possibility of muggers lurked on nights such as this. Besides, he was damp and cold, and wanted to get out of the oppressive gloom. He imagined himself sitting by a glowing fire, the lights of his flat blazing brightly, a good book in his hands.
These pleasant thoughts were interrupted by a sound only a trained ear would have heard. On this deserted street, away from the masking sounds of Millbank Road, Puddifant was sure he heard footsteps other than his own. They were carefully timed to his pace, but not perfectly so, and now that he’d identified them, there was no mistaking the echoing pattern. A shadow trailed him by perhaps a hundred feet.
“Steady, old man!” he muttered, ducking into the courtyard of an apartment block. Scanning the brick canyon, he scuttled into a pool of darkness, his back flat against the wall.
A few seconds later his pursuer hurried into the square. Puddifant recognized the tall, skeletal creature he had followed from Charlie Underwood’s funeral. The cadaverous fellow gawked about the empty square desperately. “He’ll do me!” he stuttered. “Do me like a roast pig!”
“Come, come,” Puddifant challenged from the shadows.
“Yaaa!” the stalker shrieked.
“Stand!” the inspector shouted, his voice echoing from every direction in the brick canyon, so that it seemed as if all London were accusing the quaking fellow. “In the name of the law, stand right where you are, or I shall run you down like a hare.”
Enver Skogs froze.
“So we meet again,” Puddifant mused, circling the shivering statue of rags, flesh and bone. “I don’t believe I’ve had the . . . uhm . . . pleasure of an introduction, sir. Your name?”
“S-skogs, sir. Enver Skogs.”
“Well, Mr. Skogs, I must inquire about your hobbies.”
“Hobbies, sir?”
“Yes, your inordinate interest in funerals and the movements of police officers.”
“Funerals? Police officers?”
“Come, Mr. Skogs. You know I saw you at Charlie Underwood’s funeral. And tonight you’ve been following me . . . ”
“Following you?” Skogs yelped.
“Yes,” Puddifant threatened. “By Jove, I know who’s put you up to it and we shall go see him this instant.”
“I don’t know what you mean!” Skogs quavered.
“Well, then, perhaps Mr. Blackstone will be better able to explain your actions than you can yourself. Come along.”
Skogs trembled, and held out his hand imploringly. “I beg of you sir, do not report this to Mr. Blackstone. You don’t know his temper, sir, or the danger you’d be putting me in. Please.”
“Then come with me, man, and be prepared to answer my questions,” Puddifant ordered the miserable servant. “I’m running out of patience with you and your employer.”
26
They took a booth at the back of the Marble Arches. The only recommendation for the place was it happened to be nearby. Puddifant found the establishment noisy, smoky and dirty. Skogs skulked in the opposite bench, looking very much like a prisoner in the dock.
“Now, sir, let’s begin at the beginning. What is your relationship to Mr. Sirus Blackstone?”
Skogs squirmed.
“If it is of any comfort to you, Mr. Skogs, I shall try to protect you from him. I shall also let the court know of your cooperation, if it comes to that. I cannot promise anything more and I won’t lie to you on either count. I believe you are in great danger and that you are getting in deeper every day. Am I right?”
Skogs fidgeted. Puddifant had come to several conclusions about the man during their walk to the public house. First, Skogs feared for his very life; second, he worked for Blackstone under duress; third, he was a gentle creature really, perverted by circumstance, not nature.
“I do odd jobs for Mr. Blackstone,” Skogs said at last.
“Do you enjoy the work?”
“No, sir, I do not,” he answered vehemently.
“How did you come to be in Mr. Blackstone’s employ, then?”
“Through my wife, sir. Elvira has known this Blackstone for many a year, and since I was unemployed, and he was looking for a helper . . . well, the missus brought me and Blackstone together.”
“Regrettably, you think now?”
“Regrettably, indeed, sir.”
“How long have you been married, Mr. Skogs.”
“Lord it almost seems we’ve been hitched since before clocks were invented, but it’s only been five years. They say time passes slowly in hell, sir, and I can attest to that.”
“Does Mrs. Skogs work for Blackstone?”
“No, sir. Least ways not directly.” Skogs licked his lips then took a deep draught of ale.
“What do you mean by that?”
“She’s devoted to Blackstone, sir, as are many others I could name — influential people, men you wouldn’t want to cross, if you know what I mean.”
“We’ll get to that,” Puddifant said nonchalantly. “Can you tell me exactly what your wife does for Mr. Blackstone?”
Skogs frowned. “No sir, because I don’t exactly know,” he replied bitterly. “When they want something done, they tell me to do it; as for their scheming, I’m not in on it, and thank heaven for small mercies.”
“You say your wife does not work for the man. What is her line of work, then?”
“She’s a nurse, sir.”
A jolt of fear shot through Puddifant, but he maintained his composure. “Where?” he asked casually.
“The Great Ormsby Street Hospital. She’s worked there nigh on fifteen years, and I imagine she’ll be working there for the next fifteen years, too.”
&n
bsp; “Perhaps,” Puddifant muttered. But he thought otherwise. Puddifant did not believe in coincidence, and this information about Elvira Skogs alarmed him.
“You said you do odd jobs for Mr. Blackstone. Can you describe the work, Mr. Skogs?”
The other shrugged uncomfortably.
“I know this may be difficult for you,” Puddifant commiserated, “ but do try to answer. It’s obvious you’ve been pressured by Blackstone and your wife. Perhaps he’s forced you to do things you regret. You have to tell me about them nevertheless, for your own sake, man, and for the sake of innocent children like Charlie Underwood. You must tell me, Mr. Skogs.”
“I’ve never done anything to no children!” Skogs cried in anguish. “Never!”
“Why were you at Charlie’s funeral?”
The question landed like a punch. Skogs convulsed, a look of disgust transforming him into something not quite human. He shrank into the farthest corner of the booth. “He ordered me to go,” he spat.
“Why?” Puddifant pressed, praying the bond he’d established with Skogs would not snap.
“He likes me to tell him what’s happened at the funerals,” Skogs bristled. “It’s always children, sir — kids like Charlie Underwood. If I had the courage, I would tell him to go himself.‘You go, you slimy blackguard, ’ I would say.‘You watch those poor innocents lowered into the grave, along with the hopes and dreams of their weeping parents.’But I’m a coward, sir, and cowards must do the bidding of evil men.”
Puddifant felt sorry for Skogs. If the man had been born anywhere but East London, he might have been a farmer, or a bank clerk, or a merchant. But here he was, a villain with a conscience. That would sink him one day. Skogs did not know it, but his life was already a ruin. Solace was all the inspector could offer, and solace was just what Skogs needed most in this cruel world.
“Attending funerals isn’t your sole occupation, I assume.” .
“No sir.”
“Well?” Puddifant prompted after a long pause.
“I do a little recruiting, too,” Skogs confessed. “Blackstone is always on the lookout for young thugs, sir, boys who will do anything for a couple of shillings.”
“What kind of things does he get these ruffians to do?”
“Don’t rightly know, sir. That’s between him, the boys, and my missus.”
“You don’t have any idea!” Puddifant exploded. “Think man! Surely you must have some information. If I’m not mistaken, lives depend upon it.”
Skogs blanched. For a second it appeared as if he might faint. Then, with a look of determination, he straightened himself and leaned forward over the table. “I do hear rumors, Inspector,” he began. “I’ve heard tell of how there are gangs in the streets of East London that set upon young men and women for no apparent reason.”
“Set upon whom?” Puddifant demanded.
Skogs shuddered. He’d gone farther than he intended, but couldn’t back out now. The weight of his own testimony pressed in on him, demanding he speak.
“Courage,” Puddifant consoled. “Have courage, man, and see this through.”
Skogs sighed deeply, as if all the breath were coming out of him. “Charlie Underwood was a name I heard, sir.”
Although he’d suspected as much, Puddifant was puzzled by this information. He frowned. “But I questioned his parents, and they never said anything about an assault,” he muttered.
“That’s not so surprising, sir,” Skogs put in. “They would hardly have connected an assault that happened six months ago with their present sorrow.”
“This attack took place that long ago?” Puddifant snapped. He felt himself go crimson. “Stupid!” he spat. “I’ve been blind. Time is one of the fundamental dimensions of an investigation. Time makes magicians of master criminals. They can make things disappear into one rabbit hole then appear out of another. Good God! How could I have been so easily fooled?”
This information complicated things and — Puddifant had to admit — weakened his theory. If the attack on Charlie Underwood had taken place six months earlier, then Blackstone must have discovered a peculiar poison indeed — one that did not take effect for half a year. Puddifant had never heard of such a drug. How, after such a long delay, could the warlock have predicted accurately when the poison would become active and his victims begin showing symptoms? How could he time it so they would die on the night of the new moon? Unlikely as that scenario seemed, it made more sense than Professor Wizer’s preposterous explanation, and Puddifant refused to change his line of inquiry. “It’s poison,” he thought doggedly. “I know it and I will prove it.”
For a moment he let the raucous celebrations of the Marble Arches wash over them, a tide that carried in laughter, yelling, the thump and clink of glasses. They were immersed in the careless patter of the pub, yet it all seemed foreign to Puddifant, as if he had somehow landed in a new and dangerous world.
“Are there any other names?”
Skogs shook his head.
“What about these thugs you’ve hired. Can you connect me with any of them? Can you identify those who roughed up Charlie Underwood?”
“I know one of ’em for sure,” Skogs said. “A yob by the name of Jeremy Hansen, sir — as tough as they come. Bound for the gallows, that one, I’d say.”
Puddifant entered Hansen’s name into his notebook, then closed the dog-eared pad and stuffed it into his jacket pocket. “We need to end our interview, Mr. Skogs,” he said. “But we need to keep in touch.”
“Keep in touch?” Skogs croaked, recovering partially with a swallow of ale.
“Are you familiar with the term ‘police informant’ Mr. Skogs?” Puddifant asked.
“You’re not asking me to be one of those, are you, sir? Not against the likes of Sirus Blackstone!”
“Yes, I am asking, and yes, it will be dangerous.”
“But I haven’t done anything!” Skogs protested.
“You are an accessory to his crimes, Mr. Skogs,” Puddifant corrected. “But I don’t see anything in your actions that you could hang for, that’s true. If you agree to this, it will be because it’s the right thing to do, Enver, not because anyone has forced you. I cannot pay you for the work, and it will be dangerous.”
Skogs closed his eyes and thought. Puddifant watched, aware that the man opposite was in purgatory just then, his mind a chaos of shame and fear.
“What do you say?” he coaxed at last.
“Yes!” Skogs agreed angrily. “I’ll do it. But you are a damned slippery character to deal with, Inspector Puddifant, and I shall never forgive you if you get me killed.”
They smiled grimly, then Puddifant said, “You realize you may be implicating your wife in a serious crime?”
“Her abuse of her husband is a serious enough crime, I suppose,” Skogs growled. “If she’s involved in this, then she shall have to look out for herself.”
“We’re done for now, then,” Puddifant said, extending his hand.
“Done,” Skogs agreed, shaking firmly.
Puddifant gave his new informant a card. “You can contact me at that number and address,” he instructed. “Just leave a message if you want to meet.”
He stood up to leave, pulling on his coat. “By the way,” he said, “destroy that card once you’ve remembered what’s on it. Destroy anything that might link you to me. Understood?”
Skogs nodded, bewildered at the turn of events that had placed him in the position of police informant.
27
Most of the nurses at the Great Ormsby Street Hospital hated graveyard shift; Elvira Skogs preferred it. In the witching hours she could go about her business undisturbed. While the children slept, she watched over them, but not with the tender concern that distinguished her vocation. No, Elvira Skogs watched over them in the same way a hawk might watch over a field, waiting attentively for the right kind of prey, and just the right conditions for her to strike. When she had a victim in mind, and the ward slumbered, and not a sound
creaked down the deserted corridor, then she would make her move.
She glanced around, listened, and then hurried over to the bedside of a girl named Amanda Clark. Briskly, Nurse Skogs scanned Amanda’s chart. “Good. Very good,” she murmured. The patient had made a complete recovery from the severe pneumonia that had brought her dangerously close to the brink. In six months time she would be healthy again — a fit offering for Vortigen. Then Sirus would cast his spell and the girl would take ill. From this second illness there would be no recovery. The prognosis was quite clear. Amanda Clark was doomed.
Sirus would be pleased. Elvira allowed herself a prim little upturning of the lips.
No one would mistake Amanda for a true candidate, of course. The girl had shown only average intelligence, and she was far too shy. In her favour, Amanda Clark was pretty, and strong, and of a friendly disposition. She would make a useful addition to Syde’s growing population and Lord Vortigen would know who had found this particular specimen. He would know and reward his servants Elvira and Sirus.
Elvira chuckled, her wicked laughter insinuating itself into every corner of the dimly lit ward. Who would ever suspect a nurse? That was the brilliance of her scheme. Her white uniform and professional manner concealed everything. She had access to a never-ending stream of perfectly respectable candidates. Not the type of children who were likely to ever sit in Syde’s second throne, but good enough to curry favour with Vortigen. After all, not everyone could rule. A civilization needs people to dig, and build, and cook, and clean, and take care of the ruling classes.
Elvira Skogs intended to be among the elite of Syde. As for Amanda Clark, she would be giving up the drudgery of one world for the drudgery of another. She was ordinary in every way, incapable of imagining anything other than a perfectly ordinary future. Syde would be an improvement on her prospects.
Sirus sought out candidates, too. He was more ambitious, though. He hoped to find the candidate. The One. The Heir. Failing that, he would send strong children to Syde, the kind who might make warriors in the nether realm. How he watched for signs after each of his offerings had been accepted by Vortigen! How he raged when they turned out to be as ordinary as the youngsters Elvira selected from her hospital ward! His impatience frightened her. She feared he would become reckless. Clues about Blackstone’s activities lay scattered about East London. All it would take was a keen mind to put them together and figure out what was going on. Inspector Puddifant had a keen mind. Keen enough to see through the clumsy antics of her useless husband.