Malinferno blushed and was about to apologize when the door was opened and a liveried manservant stood before them.
‘Yes, sir?’
‘Is Mr Dale at home? He is not expecting us, but he will see us. My name is Malinferno.’
The servant sneered, though whether it was because of his name or Doll’s presence on his master’s pristine doorstep, Malinferno was not quite sure. But he did offer some information.
‘Master is not at home.’ He sniffed haughtily. ‘He is still at his place of business.’
‘And where might this place of . . . business . . . be?’
The servant named a street in a run-down area on the other side of the Euston Road and abruptly closed the door.
‘Gawd, I didn’t need my posh accent after all,’ muttered Doll.
The place where Dale carried out his business was the very opposite of his residence. At first they couldn’t find the address the snooty manservant had given them. But finally they located it down a narrow alley whence came a strange metallic stench. Three sets of sliding doors gave on to the alley, and one of them was open. Doll peered into the darkness, while Malinferno walked on to the last door behind which there was the sound of activity. She could only just make out the shape of strange cabinets piled high one on the other. Or that is what she thought they were at first, based on knowing Dale had introduced himself to Joe as a cabinetmaker. It was an easy mistake to make, until her eyes adjusted to the dark.
‘Arrrgh, Joe!’
‘What is it?’
Malinferno came scurrying back up the alley, worried by Doll’s cry of alarm. She pointed into the warehouse.
‘Look! It’s coffins. Hundreds of them.’
Malinferno smiled knowingly.
‘So it is. No wonder Dale stumbled on the word “cabinet” when he introduced himself. He was just about to say coffin-maker. A very lucrative business too, judging by the house in Bloomsbury Square.’
Just then, the end door in the alley slid open, revealing an unearthly red glow. A tall, lanky figure emerged from the smoke that billowed out of the open door. Doll clutched Joe’s arm in fear. She hated anything to do with death, and this looked like the very devil himself come to fetch her to his lair. The voice of the apparition, however, was mild and well modulated.
‘Who’s that? Oh, Mr Malinferno, it’s you. Have you any news for me?’
Thomas Dale came over to where Joe and Doll stood, and he took Malinferno by the hand. His face looked a little flushed, but that could be explained by the heat emanating from the end door of the narrow lane. He leaned across and slid the door closed next to where they stood, hiding the wooden coffins from view. He coughed nervously.
‘I like to keep my business private, as it is not to everyone’s taste in good society. However, that is all to change soon.’ He rubbed his hands together with evident pleasure. ‘I have just finished drafting an advertisement that will soon appear in all the best newspapers.’
He pulled a sheet of paper from his pocket with a flourish and gave it to Malinferno. ‘Go on, read it.’
Malinferno did so. ‘The violation of the grave is said to be needful for the instruction of medical pupils, but ask that of one who has interred a mother, husband, child or friend. Shall he devote this object of his affection to such a foul purpose? If not, THE ONLY SAFE COFFIN IS A DALE’S PATENT WROUGHT-IRON ONE. Thomas Dale performs funerals in any part of the kingdom, and those undertakers who have IRON COFFINS must divide the profits with THOMAS DALE.’
Dale positively beamed as Malinferno’s inflection naturally highlighted those words written in bold uppercase letters by Dale’s own hand. He indicated the red, glowing factory behind him.
‘That is what we are embarked on now. And God help the bodysnatcher who encounters a Dale Patent Coffin.’
From behind Malinferno, Doll was heard to gasp. ‘Gawd help us. What is the world come to, when we must lock our nearest and dearest away in a safe when they die?’
Dale nodded sagely. ‘True, miss. But it is a business opportunity not to be passed up. Now, Malinferno, have you found the bones?’
Malinferno put on the most convincing tones he could muster, the sort of confident manner he used when unrolling a mummy for the edification and amusement of some duke or countess. ‘We are getting very close, Mr Dale. What I wanted to ask you was if you knew of anyone beside yourself and Augustus who has shown interest in the bones?’
‘What, recently? Or down through the ages?’
Silently Malinferno groaned, imagining from what Dale was saying that the coffin-maker proposed to expostulate on the whole history of Arthur and his errant bones. But in fact, what he did say proved very interesting.
‘You see, there is a murky tale that very few know or have chosen to record of a family whose duty it has been to protect the legend and the bones of King Arthur. Augustus had passed it off as another of the unsubstantiated myths surrounding the bones. But only a few days before he . . . disappeared, he asked me if I had heard tell of a family called Merrick in connection with the guardianship of the bones. When I laughed at the stories, he remained strangely quiet. In fact his face looked terribly pale, which I put down to the poor light of those candles he insisted on using. I have thought no more of it until recently. Do you think he was visited by someone from this family?’
Malinferno looked uneasily around him, aware more than ever of the hellish glow that shone through the factory doors and down the narrow alley. The walls seemed to be closing in on them as the sky above darkened. He was thinking of the Welshman mentioned by Crouch, and the man who had been following him for days. He noticed a shadow moving at the far end of the alley, and the click of a stick on the cobblestones. Could it be this Merrick fellow, hoping to hunt down Arthur’s bones by following him? On an impulse he ran full pelt down the alley, bringing a cry of alarm from Thomas Dale. The shadowy figure made to skulk off into the growing gloom, but Malinferno was young and sound in heart and limb. The other man had taken a fall and could only limp away from his pursuer. Seeing that he was not going to escape, he turned to face Malinferno and waved his stick in the air. He swung it like a Turcopole’s scimitar, slashing the air in front of his assailant’s face, and for a few minutes there was stalemate. Then Malinferno stepped inside one particularly ferocious swing and took a blow on his shoulder. It almost numbed his left arm, but he was inside the man’s defence.
‘Got you, you devil.’
He swung a fist at the man’s face and felt the satisfying crunch of a squashing nose. The man fell to ground, moaning and clutching a face that spurted red gore down the front of his capacious overcoat and down on to the cobbles. Malinferno might have thought he had captured a murderer at last, but he was to have his conviction shaken. The man who now lay at his feet was unrepentant and snarled his defiance.
‘You are the devil, sir. And will find yourself in very great trouble soon enough.’
But Malinferno was in no mind to listen, and he grabbed the man’s arm, dragging him along the cobbles towards the astonished Doll and Thomas Dale.
‘Dale. Is your coffin store secure?’
‘Why, yes it is.’ He tapped the heavy, wooden sliding door, and slid it back a little. ‘This is the only way in and out, save for a high window in the back that has bars over it.’
‘Then it will serve as a prison cell for our captive until such time as we can call the Bow Street Runners.’ He pushed the protesting man into the gloomy warehouse and slid the door closed. ‘Besides, he will have plenty of choice for accommodation, provided he is not fearful of sleeping in a coffin.’
Dale produced a bunch of keys from his coat pocket and locked the bulky padlock that hung from the door hasp.
‘There. It is done. Now let us have a little celebratory drink in my office, while I send one of my men for the magistrate. We may even discover where the bones are from this malefactor.’
Then all three left the ‘malefactor’ hammering in vain on the sturdy warehouse door. Unfort
unately their celebrations were short-lived. Dale’s workman had been sent to Worship Street to fetch the Runners who had attended at Kitten’s death, and it was not long before Raleigh Pauncefoot and Constable Mayes were on the scene. Triumphantly Malinferno undid the padlock and let them into the coffin warehouse. The prisoner had given up his repeated hammering on the door, and for a long while after Pauncefoot and Mayes entered the store silence continued to reign. All three men eventually emerged, the prisoner leading the way. Malinferno was pleased to note that his nose had swollen to a size that meant it occupied most of the centre of his face, and that it was red and pulpy. Perhaps he would think twice about murdering innocent girls in future. Well, not so innocent in Kitten’s case, but the principle was the same. However, Malinferno’s smile was wiped from his face by the grim look on Pauncefoot’s. Even Mayes looked shifty, as he scuffed his heavy boots on the cobbles.
‘What’s wrong? You have before you the man who so foully murdered Kit . . . Kathleen Hoddy. And perhaps did for my friend Augustus Bromhead. Ask him if his name is not Merrick.’
The man’s face had a look that resembled thunder. He turned to the magistrate. ‘Tell him, Pauncefoot.’
The magistrate twirled his fashionable ebony cane with the Egyptian motif on the top, then cut Malinferno down with his words. ‘I have seen this man’s papers, and he is not called Merrick.’
‘Then who is he? And why has he been dogging my footsteps for days?’
The man stepped forward and brandished his fist in Malinferno’s face. ‘Sir, I am a government official, charged with winkling out radicals and French sympathizers in this great state of ours. You have shown yourself through your choice of friends to be a most untrustworthy character.’
Though this outburst brought Doll closer to Malinferno’s side, its effect on Thomas Dale was the very opposite. He gasped and took a step back.
‘Is this true, Malinferno? And with Bonaparte at our doorstep too.’
The government spy laughed harshly. ‘Napoleon is as safe as he ever was on St Helena. In fact the last I heard he has stated that he would rather be there than suffer the discomforts of flight. The rumour of his escape was planted in the newspapers by us to winkle out the likes of Monsieur Casteix, and his contacts such as Malinferno here. We wanted to see who would rush to his cause, so that we could deal with them in the future.’
Dale groaned. ‘Then Arthur is not needed after all.’
‘Arthur? Who is he?’ The spy looked puzzled.
‘Oh, it is nothing. It hardly matters any more.’
Raleigh Pauncefoot stepped forward and tapped Malinferno on the chest with the head of his cane. His question, however, was for the spy.
‘What do you wish me to do with this chap, sir? He has after all assaulted you and accused you of the most heinous of crimes.’
‘Though it displeases me greatly to say it, sir, I suggest we forget the matter of my assault. I do have to keep a low profile in my line of business, and a court case will not be conducive to the prosecution of my trade.’
Malinferno knew that the man, whatever his name was, would also be reluctant to reveal to his fellow spies and his employer that he had been bested by a mere dilettante in the field of investigation. He grinned insolently at the man, who added a chilling rider to his statement, however.
‘I will, on the other hand, pass his name on to my superiors as a dangerous radical and Bonaparte sympathizer. Mayes, here, found a book in his rooms dedicated to Napoleon, so he cannot deny it.’
With his revenge on Malinferno complete, the spy turned to leave, his dramatic exit spoiled somewhat by the limp occasioned by his tumble from the railings at Madam De Trou’s. Raleigh Pauncefoot and Constable Mayes followed on his heels, leaving Malinferno to deal with the now-wary Thomas Dale. He laughed unconvincingly.
‘The book he referred to is probably my copy of the work by Baron Denon on the discoveries made in Egypt during Bonaparte’s campaigns. I am an Egyptologist, you know.’
‘Indeed, sir.’ Dale’s brow was clouded, and it looked like he now viewed his erstwhile employee as someone it was dangerous to be associated with. Especially if he was to be promoting his new wrought-iron coffin with the well-to-do. ‘I am sure you are right. A book by a French nobleman, you say? In French? Hmm. Well, now, as the matter I had paid you for appears to be no longer of any urgency, I think we can terminate our relationship forthwith. Please do not bother to return any balance of accounts to me. Accept any money left as a just reward for your efforts.’
Malinferno breathed a sigh of relief. It was just as well Dale did not want any money back, as most of it had gone anyway in expenses incurred in the company of Doll Pocket. They took their leave of Dale, who disappeared back into his fiery furnace, and began retracing their steps to the beginning of this sorry saga – Malinferno’s rooms, the place where the bones had been first lost. As they walked up Leadenhall Street, Malinferno was so deep in thought he began to drag Doll along at an ever-increasing pace. Outside the door to Mrs Stanhope’s, she stopped him.
‘’ere! Pack it in . . . my slipper’s coming off.’
Holding on to Joe, she bent down to pull on her leather slipper, the back of which had worked off her heel. It was late at night now, and she was glad of the yellowish light cast by the streetlamp to see by. Hopping on one foot, and clutching Joe’s Garrick coat, she suddenly felt him pull away.
‘Look out, or you’ll have me over on my arse.’
‘Doll, look at the upstairs window. What do you see?’
‘What the ’ell you goin’ on about?’
‘Just look.’
She straightened up and looked at where he was pointing. A flickering light shone in one of the upper windows of the house. Malinferno looked scared, their previous encounter with Crouch having drained away all his courage. Doll snorted in disgust, though in truth she was not feeling all that brave herself.
‘There’s someone in your rooms. Well, come on, then. Let’s take a look. It can’t be a ghost – I don’t believe in them.’
What they saw in Malinferno’s rooms challenged her assertion for a while.
But first Malinferno had to sneak Doll past the beady eye and sharp ear of Mrs Stanhope. However, as soon as Malinferno opened the front door, he realized it was to be an easy task. He had not seen that recently his landlady’s days had been full of horror and terrible encounters, what with dead bodies, blood ruining decent rugs, and Bow Street Runners everywhere. She had blanked out these irregular events with a strong dosage of Holland gin. She was deep in the arms of Lethe, and snoring like a pig. The reverberations carried from her quarters to Joe’s and Doll’s ears as they entered cautiously. Malinferno breathed a sigh of relief, and led Doll up the elegant but rather shabby curved staircase towards his rooms. He stopped her at the top of the stairs and peered across the landing. The door to his drawing room was slightly ajar, and a pale light shone through the crack. Someone had lighted one of his oil-lamps. It was a strange thing for a burglar to do. Or a murderer lying in wait.
Doll obviously thought the same. She edged past him and crossed the landing on her slippered feet before Malinferno could stop her. She pushed the door quietly open. Malinferno was at her back, both hands on her shoulders. What he saw made him gasp.
‘It’s Augustus!’
The body of the dwarfish little man lay sprawled in his comfortable armchair by the bow window, his large head lolling unnaturally over the side. Malinferno was wondering how he was going to explain a second body in his rooms when Augustus gave a great sigh and shifted in the chair.
‘Augustus, damn you. You’re alive.’
Malinferno’s loud cry of relief woke the slumbering Bromhead, who started up and flung himself towards the window. Then he saw the person who had awakened him and stopped his headlong flight. He held his hand to his heart.
‘Oh, it’s only you, Giuseppe. Thank God for that.’
‘Augustus, where have you been? We thought you were dead
.’
‘Dead? I would have been, if I had stayed in my house much longer. As to where I have been, I have been walking the streets of London and sleeping under archways with the beggars.’
For the first time Malinferno noticed how shabby Bromhead’s clothes were. His cutaway coat was torn at the lapel, and mud stained its tails. His breeches were wrinkled and grubby, his stockings torn. Malinferno turned to Doll and slipped the remaining money from Dale’s fee into her hand.
‘Go down to Leadenhall Market. There are chophouses there open all night for the meat porters. Get poor Gus some food and a jug of ale if you can manage it. I don’t think he has eaten for a while.’
Doll nodded and wound her cloak around her bosom. It was getting quite cold outside. When she had gone, Malinferno guided the antiquarian to the armchair again. Bromhead fell back into it with a sigh.
‘Why did you think me dead?’
‘Oh, it was Thomas Dale who thought that at first, because of the red stains on your table.’
‘You have spoken to Dale, then. Red stains? Oh, I spilled some ink when I . . . Perhaps I should tell you why I have been in hiding since you last saw me.’
‘Yes, perhaps you should. But let us wait until Doll returns, or I will not hear the end of it. Anyway, you should eat first, and tell us your tale afterwards.’
Bromhead’s hunger was manifest in the way he demolished the potatoes, chop and gravy that Doll brought. Along with most of the jug of ale. Malinferno was itching to know what had happened to cause his friend to run and hide. But he held back his curiosity until the little man’s belly was full. Then they all sat in the circle of light cast by the oil-lamp, and Bromhead told a story concerning strange noises in the night and dark men standing under flickering streetlamps.
‘At first I thought it was the Borough Gang come to murder me and provide my body for some medical student’s autopsy exercise. I am told they look out for men of – shall we say? – unusual stature.’
The antiquarian squared his shoulders in the chair where he sat, as if trying to stretch his body to a normal height. But there was nothing he could do about his large dome of a head which, set on his small frame, had earned him the nickname of Tadpole from the street urchins. Finally he shrugged the selfsame shoulders and continued his tale.
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