By Gaslight

by Steven Price

  Frith Street felt desolate in its brightness, the pale shapes swirling past, the cold mournful cries of costermongers in the mists. He could hear the lurch and creak of an omnibus over the cobblestones, the shout of a patterer trotting along behind it with his broadsides clutched in both arms, the soft tack-tack-tack of an undertaker’s hammer several shops down. He pinched his eyes shut, lifted the brim of his silk hat, ran two fingers along his hot scalp. He could see the vague grey trees in Soho Square to the north. His shadowy self moving like water in the shop windows as he passed. At the entrance to an arcade he slipped among a crowd and made his way between the wooden pillars and mud-stained carts, past rickety tables with bolts of fabric laid out, past rows of folded spectacles, steaming pies, ball-peen hammers, inks, sheaves of paper, gloves and bonnets and stoles. He felt incandescent, and thin, as if not quite there. Men in stained cravats were calling out to him in the crush. Liverspotted hands in fingerless catch-alls clawed at his sleeves, grasped his wrists. He shook them off.

  And then all at once he spun and jerked his right hand swiftly to his watch pocket and seized the small grubby wrist descending there.

  She was a young pickpocket in a green bustle and a green bonnet and a strand of long brown hair had come unpinned at her throat. She looked tired and malnourished to his eye, her skin glassy, the blue veins visible in her forehead. He glanced out over the crowds but if any accomplice lurked there he did not see one. She clutched in her free hand a tiny kid glove of fine grey leather and her sunken eyes were frightened. He watched her writhe at the end of his grip like the eels he had seen hooked from buckets in the fish markets of New Orleans during the war and he glowered but did not have the heart to do more.

  He let her go.

  She stepped back without a word and rubbed her reddening wrist where his strong fingers had marked her and then she tugged back on the tight kidskin glove in a fury. When she looked at him her mouth was twisted to an ugly shape. Then she was gone in the crowd.

  He stared at the space where she had stood and he thought of Charlotte Reckitt, startled by the sadness blooming inside him.

  It was time he got out of London. He had come to this city trusting the Agency could run itself for two weeks but those two weeks had stretched to six and still he had come no closer to finding Shade. Sally Porter was right. Whatever Edward Shade had been to his father, he did not have to become that again.

  But he made his way to the curb despite all of this and hailed a passing brougham through the fog and called ahead to the driver: Hampstead, man.

  Knowing if Charlotte Reckitt had left any clue to the ghost of Edward Shade it would be there, in that tall gloomy terraced house where she had lived.

  It was an ancient brougham with the box and bench uncovered and its strange outsized wheels hulking up on each corner. William huddled on the damp seat, staring at the driver’s broad back, cursing his luck. The springs on the back wheels had known better days and on the uneven streets he ground his teeth and gripped the rail and felt his bones jar with the violence of it. The driver’s hair was long and lay plastered in greasy strands over his collar. William looked away.

  He changed his mind at New Oxford Street and had the brougham turn down past the Strand. At the Union Telegram Office near the Embankment he climbed out and paid the driver and went in rubbing the back of his neck stiffly. A warm dank fug of cigar smoke came over him. The Office resembled a small bank with its pillared entrance and its tall carved doors and the long counter along one wall just under the windows. William went to the standing desk and withdrew a slip of paper and a pencil from the mesh cubby and wrote out a message to his wife in Chicago. It said, simply: punched out. off the clock. home soon.

  He licked the tip of the pencil and counted off the letters in their small boxes and then set the pencil down and stood in line at the counter. There were silk ropes marking out the waiting area and the marble floor gleamed underfoot and the counter and railings and window trims were a deep polished oak as if reclaimed from a wrecked schooner. The telegraph clerk was a young man with a green eyeshade set high on his forehead and he reminded William of the dealers in the card dens he had haunted in the Panhandle some years ago though the man’s fingernails were too clean and his skin too soft.

  He wrote out his home address in Chicago and the clerk glanced at him and back at the name Pinkerton printed there and then back at him but said nothing. His business was his alone. He opened his billfold and withdrew a five-pound note.

  When he came out the brougham stood at the curb yet and he paused and looked up the street in either direction but could see neither hansom nor carriage for the fog and he sighed and rubbed his neck and climbed creaking back onto the footboard.

  Once again, guv? the driver grinned back at him. We was waitin for you. Just in case, like.

  Wonderful, William muttered.

  Hampstead?

  William nodded and looked down at the cobblestones, at the brougham’s big old iron-shod wheels standing at the ready. Driver, he called up.

  The man half turned on his bench, blinking.

  I’m in no rush, he said.

  When they reached New Street in Hampstead he set one hand on his aching knee and got out of the brougham more stiffly than before. His shoe squelched into some deep pocket of muck and he shook it free. His topcoat and hat were cold with the damp from the fog and he paid the driver and went up the short steps and knocked on the door.

  Charlotte Reckitt’s terraced house was a steep dark residence of red brick and green railings with a patch of garden in the front withered and sad in the winter cold. He could see nothing behind the wrought iron in the upper windows but the sheerness of muslin, a ripple of sky over the uneven pane. The house felt desolate, empty. She had employed no help and had kept back from the windows during the day and William had from the very first found the place grim and cold, like a house whose owners had died. The steps now were smeared where the shoes of John Shore’s constables had come and gone all morning.

  He had expected no answer to his knocking and felt no guilt at having to break in. Whatever else this was, it was not an official investigation and his methods would not be scrutinized. He turned at the iron railing and glanced over the street and saw through the fog an old gentleman in top hat and grizzled whiskers clutching an umbrella and calling out for the brougham as it slowed. When it started again with a lurch the man’s hand went to his top hat and William smiled.

  The door swung open. A plainclothes police inspector in a grey frock coat peered out at him, his silver watch chain shining in the gloom. It took William a moment to recall the man’s name.

  Blackwell, he said.

  The inspector nodded. Mr. Shore thought you might appreciate a hand, sir.

  William removed his hat in irritation, held it roughly at the brim. Ran a hand through his hair and his hand came away black from the London smut. He had said nothing to Shore about his coming here. Is John here then? he said.

  Begging your pardon, sir. The chief’s occupied with the Fenians, sir.

  The Fenians.

  With the bomb, sir. In the Underground. Blackwell blinked. The one went off last Friday morning at Gower Street. You didn’t hear, sir?

  William ran a forefinger under the pouch of his eye, tiredly. He had heard nothing of it and did not know what to say. Was anyone hurt? he asked.

  I believe so, sir.

  He frowned and stepped inside and Blackwell shut the door. There were gold and silver garlands from the holiday just past still strung from the candle sconces on the walls and a scuffed brass trumpet standing on end in a window alcove amid fir needles. Then it’s just you here? he asked.

  Myself and the ghost, sir.

  I don’t suppose you found a bloodstained cleaver anywhere.

  No sir.

  An axe maybe.

  Blackwell’s eyes were heavy-lidded and bulged mildly and William regarded them. They gave the man an astonished expression as if he had just been swindl
ed at cards. But then any swindler worth his weight must look just so, he knew. There’s nothing here, sir, Blackwell repeated quietly. I’m just sort of watching the place. If you get my meaning.

  William stood taking this in. He knew this meant Blackwell had been instructed to wait in case William showed up. Shore was a good man in his way but a jealous one and uneasy with the son of Allan Pinkerton in his city.

  Anything of interest upstairs? he said.

  There’s just the one room that looks to have been lived in, sir. The chief supposed it belonged to Miss Reckitt. The parlour—

  John’s been here?

  This morning, sir.

  Appearing embarrassed as he said it.

  William walked into the hall and set one hand on the balustrade and strained to see up the stairwell in the gloom. He half expected Charlotte Reckitt’s shadowy figure there, glaring accusingly down. The chandelier in the entrance behind him had not been converted to gas and its arms loomed articulated and strange like some terrible spider. The wicks of the candles in the wall sconces had not been trimmed. His eyes followed the mouldings, the wainscoting carved in ancient Georgian fashion, all of it thickened under a layer of new dust. Plush white carpet had been tacked to the stairs and he could see the filth from the constables’ boots where they had walked. He shook his head.

  He started up the stairs, his bruised hand on the cool elm of the railing. The third step from the bottom groaned under his weight and he noted this in silence. On the second-floor landing a new clock built to look old had stopped at 11:37 and on either side a door opened into the back of the house. One stood open and his gaze took in the heavy furnishings of a study. He could see a lady’s sewing room overlooking the street when he turned. Drawers upended, dresses and crinolines and hat boxes tangled in heaps, papers strewn across the carpets.

  Did you find it like this? he called over his shoulder.

  No sir. The detectives were rather thorough, sir.

  He grunted. The floorboards creaked as he walked to the sewing room and stood with his hat in his hand and the damp settling in his topcoat and he regarded the clutter. The door to the bedroom at the front of the house stood half closed and this he opened dully upon the gloom within and he frowned and went to the far window and drew back the curtains. A cloud of dust lifted and spun fractals in the cold light. It was a lady’s bedchamber and immaculate in its tidiness.

  Blackwell had come up behind him and said, softly, Sir?

  What’s upstairs?

  Two more bedchambers, sir. They’re furnished but we don’t believe anyone is occupying them.

  They’re furnished.

  Yes sir. The house must have been leased like that.

  He went back downstairs and made his methodical way through the scullery and larder and then through the kitchen, opening drawers, unscrewing jars, tapping two fingers along the walls for hidden compartments. The sink in the pantry was made of wood and lined with lead and he ran a palm over its joinings but felt nothing. He went outside, searched the water closet. He did not know what he was looking for but could not shake the suspicion that the woman must have left something of interest behind. He poked his fingers through the cushions and upholstery in the parlour and pushed aside the Christmas ornaments and the painted eggs and wound the strands of garland from the bookcases in order to riffle the pages of each book. He made very little mess as he went and the inspector followed behind him.

  Why would a woman who lives alone go to such trouble with the decorations? he asked.

  I couldn’t say, sir.

  He made his way back upstairs to the study but turned up no clue there either and at last he worked his way back to the lady’s bedchamber.

  I guess John thinks it’s ungentlemanly to search a lady’s room, he muttered.

  Blackwell frowned. I believe he searched this room himself, sir.

  William was hot now and he removed his topcoat and laid it on the bedclothes. Two candles stood in ornate silver sticks on the mantel. Under a chaise longue in the corner he could see shallow trays of clothes, untouched. At the dressing table he ran his finger and thumb along the antimacassar draped over the chair back but it felt clean and soft and told him little. He pulled the chair out, sat down. His reflection in the pier glass looked to his eye huge, pale, sinister. He pushed aside a silver hairbrush smudged with soot, a glove stretcher, a stack of unused envelopes. What would she need these for? he said.

  To post her letters, sir.

  He grunted. Who would she be writing to?

  Blackwell made a noise and when William looked over the inspector was plucking something from the chiffonier and frowning.

  What is it?

  Your card, sir.

  William frowned. He had left it on her doorstep on New Year’s Eve to force her hand. He took it from Blackwell and pocketed it and the inspector watched him but said nothing and then he turned back and opened and shut the drawers of the dressing table without result. He went to the wall and got onto all fours and traced his hand along the perimeter of the baseboards and when he reached the ware table he shoved it rattling aside with one shoulder and a brass toilet can fell with a clang and he kept on. There’s nothing here, he said. Nothing cut away at least.

  No sir.

  He sat back on his knees, pulled at his collar. This is ridiculous. Let me ask you something, Inspector. Did you find any signs of a struggle?

  Blackwell cleared his throat. I understood she was tied up, sir.

  Maybe.

  Blackwell’s eyes were fixed on him. You’re not convinced, sir?

  Convinced? he said. Why would she come back here? Who cut her into pieces? Who disposed of her? Why cut her hair, for god’s sake?

  Perhaps she thought she could get away. And was surprised at the last minute, sir.

  They were both silent for a moment.

  Perhaps not everything is connected, sir. Perhaps one of the details is confusing the matter.

  Like what?

  I couldn’t say, sir. If she got out of the river alive she’d have need of a change of clothes. Perhaps she took the opportunity to change her appearance also. Cut her hair, for instance. Perhaps she was killed later in an ordinary manner. In a street robbery, for instance.

  For god’s sake. What rampsman cuts his marks up like that?

  Blackwell frowned. Or what if it were a personal matter? A spurned lover? That would be consistent with the violence to her body.

  But not her hair. I’m trying to put it together somehow. Charlotte Reckitt cut up and her hair cut off and her body left in sacks in two locations. The legs still unaccounted for. Someone was hunting her, someone I never caught sight of. She jumped from the bridge because she wanted it to look like she was dead.

  So it was a deceit, sir.

  But not for my benefit.

  How can you be certain, sir?

  It wouldn’t make sense, he said, feeling his way towards it. He thought of his confrontation with her outside the theatre. Her small wrists crushed in his grip, the sliced whites of her eyes as she stared at him in alarm. I had nothing I could haul her in on and she knew that. She’s an old hand at this, she knew the law, she knew I was out of my jurisdiction. She was trying to escape something else. Someone else.

  Her killers.

  Why run to Blackfriars? It’s a long way and she ran directly for it. What was on the bridge? What was on the other side of it?

  Perhaps it wasn’t a thing, sir. Perhaps it was a person. An associate.

  What if she was using herself as bait? What if she wasn’t leading me towards the bridge, but away from something?

  There’s another possibility, sir.

  William looked at the man.

  That is, if it wasn’t accidental, of course. We pull dozens of bodies from the river in any given week, sir. But assuming the lady was murdered—

  You’re thinking she was killed in error.

  Yes sir. Perhaps the killer or killers did not mean for her to die. Something migh
t have gone wrong. The disposal might have been an attempt to prolong the investigation.

  I’d have thought if she was in that kind of trouble she’d have wanted to be arrested.

  Blackwell nodded. Nothing is safer than a jail, sir.

  My father used to say a wall is a wall from either side and who is to say which side is which.

  Yes sir. Are we being kept in or kept out.

  Exactly.

  We were all sorry to hear about his passing, sir.

  He looked at Blackwell a long moment and then left the room and made his way upstairs. Each of the two smaller bedchambers was spare, immaculate, bedclothes tucked tightly in, porcelain bowls gleaming white under the beds. There was dust on the floor, wet boot prints traced in the dust. When he opened the armoire in the second room he found an array of expensive gentlemen’s suits and jackets folded upon the shelves. A reek of mothballs from an open box. The clothing was crisp and had not been worn in some time and looked to William’s eye ten years out of fashion.

  Those will belong to her uncle, sir, Blackwell called from the doorway.

  Martin Reckitt’s in the Tench, William said. I expect he’ll die in there.

  In Millbank, sir, yes. But it’s mostly a military prison now, sir. I understand there’s talk of his being transferred south to the prison hulks when it closes next year.

  William frowned in distraction. I didn’t know it was closing.

  A lack of funds, sir.

  William crossed to the window and pressed a hand against the glass and the glass was cold. I’ll want to talk to him, he said. He was a priest once, wasn’t he?

  So I’m told, sir.

  But William’s eyes were drifting now around the room and he did not say anything more and after a moment he walked slowly to one corner. A large birdcage was suspended there, covered by a white sheet, and he pulled the sheet gently back. The cage was empty. What happened to the larks? he asked.