By Gaslight

by Steven Price

Farquhar reluctantly passed the satchel across. It is all there, sir. I assure you.

  He looked up and regarded the gallerist and then opened it. Stacks of bills, untraceable bonds. He proceeded to count them. When he was satisfied that the entire ten thousand pounds was present he looked at Blackwell and he looked at the gallerist and he sighed and said, Have you ever been in a situation like this before?

  Why? Is there a problem with the amount?

  William passed the satchel back. The amount’s fine, he said. The difficult thing is keeping your head and understanding what this morning’s about. It’s about not having control. You don’t get to ask the questions.

  Mr. Farquhar, sir. Shore folded his red hands on the table before him. What Mr. Pinkerton means is that he’s done these sorts of transactions dozens of times. You will have to trust him. Now there’s no need to be anxious. You’ll have Mr. Blackwell in plainclothes nearby at all times, to ensure your safety. But exchanges like this are always tense. One doesn’t want to give anyone cause to cut out early.

  Forgive me, said Farquhar gravely. But I should not want them to see a police inspector and believe I had betrayed them.

  It’s standard procedure, sir. They’ll be expecting it.

  And they won’t see me, sir, Blackwell added. Unless they give cause to.

  Farquhar glanced at William. Is it all right, sir, in your opinion?

  William frowned. Everyone wants the same thing here. Including the thieves.

  You mean the safe return of The Emma, sir.

  Yes.

  And not the apprehension of the criminals.

  William paused. That’s right.

  Shore gave him a look. I trust that’s the truth, William.

  A cold February light was filtering in through the window, dust adrift in its slant. William folded his fists on the table before him. The low daylight was reflecting in the blacks of Shore’s eyes, giving him a sinister look. The truth, he said quietly, yes.

  Blackwell cleared his throat. Then shall we begin, gentlemen?

  FORTY-FIVE

  He was still fixing his collar when Molly came to him in his study, working an unpeeled orange in her hand. She sat with a frown.

  Gabriel sent a runner, she said. Says he’ll be in place at eleven o’clock.

  Foole withdrew an oblong oak box from the bottom drawer of his writing desk and began to sift through various delicate disguises. At last he found a matted grey moustache and some thorny eyebrows and he unstoppered a bottle of paste.

  The liner don’t depart Liverpool for six more days, she said. I were thinkin maybe Devon be a fine quiet spot to lie low in.

  No. Liverpool. Then we won’t have to travel by rail and risk being sighted.

  She unscrewed a tube of paste, sniffed at it, wrinkled her nose.

  Foole had removed a wrinkled plaster mask and was softening its surface with a horsehair brush dipped in castor oil. I sent Japheth to make arrangements and return with the cart. We’ll watch until you go down. You know which pier?

  Aye. Billingsgate Stairs. Peeling back the orange with her thumbnail in a long single corkscrew peel, holding it under her nose. You’re certain old Farquhar don’t mean to caulk it up.

  I’m certain.

  And if he don’t come alone?

  He’d be a fool if he did. And George Farquhar is no fool. Expect the pier to be crawling with peelers. He curled the edges of the mask, the empty eye sockets, the mouth drooping in horror. Then he laid the empty mask down on the oilcloth and kneaded it as if it were dough. The exchange will take place downriver, he went on. Wait thirty minutes after the payment and then return. Be sure Gabriel counts the money twice. He should know to take his time, he’s done this before. I expect there shouldn’t be any complications, but—

  I know. Don’t trust Utterson.

  Trust, Foole said, and made a face. It’s not Gabriel I’m worried about. He’s been paid well enough. How well can you swim?

  No better now than last you asked. Unless floating counts.

  Foole smiled. At the first sign of trouble I want you over the railing and floating as fast as you can for shore.

  Molly split the orange, slid a quadrant into her mouth. What about you? she said, chewing.

  Japheth and I will use the time to our advantage.

  She grinned. Fine advantage.

  Remember your real purpose in this, Molly.

  O I’ll keep the old bugger occupied. I heard his wife were so distraught she up an run off to the countryside.

  To her estate there, yes.

  She furrowed her brow. Chewed and chewed.

  What is it.

  She grunted. Pinkerton won’t give us no grief?

  Foole tilted his chin back and pressed the plaster to his skin with his eyelids crushed shut and he worked his fingers around his hairline and under his jaw and smoothed it into place. It felt cool, like a damp towel. He said, muffled, William Pinkerton will be eager to hear how the morning pans out, I’m certain. He never played the short game in his life. He’ll want this exchange to proceed. If it doesn’t he’ll believe his chances of tracking us will be much slimmer.

  Them peelers goin to get a good long look at Gabriel.

  With his eyes still shut, his face still tilted back: And at you.

  Pinkerton’s already done that.

  Foole cracked an eyelid. Gabriel’s doing nothing illegal. There’s no law against private transactions. It matters not at all if he’s seen to be party to this. And you’re just some poor miserable creature hired off the street to facilitate the rendezvous. He began to apply the moustache and eyebrows, the plaster crackling but not splitting. He ran a hand lightly along the sags and wrinkles around his eyes. How do I look?

  Molly looked at him, all at once serious. You be careful, Adam.

  I always am. Foole studied his reflection in the mirror for a moment feeling the old thrill he always felt to see a stranger’s face staring back. As for Mr. Farquhar—

  We leave him on the river. I know.

  You leave him on the river. Yes. It wouldn’t do to be followed. Foole unscrewed a jar of powder and dipped a moist finger into the makeup and rubbed it into the new skin.

  Adam, she said.

  He held her gaze in the mirror.

  I were real sorry about your Charlotte. It not workin out, an all.

  My Charlotte. He looked down at his hands. He did not know how much the child suspected but he knew she was no fool. As it turns out, he said, she was never mine after all.

  FORTY-SIX

  William gripped Farquhar’s satchel to his chest. The streets were raucous, street sellers pouring north from London Bridge, touts running along behind the omnibuses hollering their fares hoarse. Farquhar carried kidskin gloves crumpled in one fist and the sharpened bones of his wrists stuck out from his coat sleeves. They had climbed down from the police brougham at the bottom of Threadneedle Street as instructed and William led Farquhar by the shoulder across the crowded thoroughfare in the light fog breathing in the yellow sulphur and the putrid smell of the garbage and watching the tired horses stumble past. He stood under the statue of Cornwallis, glaring.

  He saw no sign of Shade.

  A small urchin in an outsized red cap and a grimy face appeared before them biting at its nails. Spare a copper, mister?

  Off with you, Farquhar barked.

  William paused. The creature was looking him up and down with interest. You wasn’t supposed to come, it said. Then it turned to the gallerist. You’d be Mr. Farter, I expect?

  I beg your pardon?

  The creature gave an exasperated look. Well, come on. You don’t get nothin for lollin about. Leave the ape here.

  When the gallerist did not move William said, I expect this is Mr. Shade’s accomplice. We’ll need to go with her.

  Farquhar studied the creature in disgust. This?

  What was you expectin, the bloody Queen?

  All right, said William, stepping forward. Lead on.

&nb
sp; But the urchin only scowled. My instructions was to bring this one alone.

  Nobody moved. For a long moment the creature stared at William as if considering and then shrugged and started off. They were led down towards the river through a maze of mews and stables and back alleys until they came to a roiling mass of passengers and clerks all pressed in a crush towards a high stone wharf. William saw over the heads of the crowd a sign for the London Bridge Steam Wharf and he kept close to Farquhar and turned his shoulder and began to muscle his way forward. The crowd parted like the sea. Then they were squeezing into a covered passage plastered with advertisements for Collins’ Wonder Soap and McMullen’s Hair Tonic and the Starr Brothers’ Magic Portraits off Coomb’s Court. The density of the crowd and the noise would all work to Shade’s advantage, William knew.

  Where’s your master? he demanded. Is he meeting us here?

  But the urchin ignored him.

  They descended a set of rickety wooden stairs so steep William felt his heels almost give out on him and he had to turn his feet sideways to keep upright. At the small wooden floating dock in the shadow of the bridge the Thames looked black and foamy and cold. There were wooden booths with great signs stating PAY HERE and men shouting for customers but the urchin ducked aside and started walking fast under the bridge on a narrow wooden boardwalk.

  The span arched high overhead, birds arcing and vanishing in the cathedral-like gloom. Empty steamer ferries were shooting the high waters between the pillars near enough for a man to jump aboard and the weak daylight filtered down through the stone arches like drifting smoke and it seemed all at once a different city, a different time.

  The urchin led them on to a ramshackle dock filled with barkers shouting out destinations and lines of clerks waiting for the passenger ferries. It was Billingsgate Stairs. Shade was nowhere in sight. In the foam and frenzy of steamers pulling into their slips and casting off there was a solitary hired steamer with a red hull and a squat captain in a frock coat standing at its cabled railing watching them. The deck lifted, fell in the swells. William could very clearly read the vessel’s name, Goliath, whited out at the waterline. And then he understood. The exchange would take place on the river.

  The river? Farquhar said, slowing. We are to travel the river?

  What’s wrong with the river?

  Farquhar met William’s gaze. I was on the Cricket when it exploded at the Adelphi, sir. I have not taken passage on a steamer since.

  The Cricket what blowed up? the urchin said. It gave the gallerist a queer grin, ran a knuckle under its nose. You ain’t going to like today then.

  William caught the creature’s arm. I know you, he said. How do I know you?

  It shook itself free. But all at once he recognized her. It was the girl he had accosted outside Foole’s Emporium in Piccadilly.

  He must have betrayed something in his face for the girl met his eye boldly, she bared her teeth.

  I know you too, Mr. Pinkerton, she said, unsmiling.

  They cast off and moved swiftly out into the current and downriver. There were many other ships on the river, dark barges drifting cautiously through the fog. They steered clear of most and the captain did not speak other than to grunt some greeting to the urchin but neither did the captain take his eyes off William as they went. He was a bullish man with peat-brown whiskers and an enormous black silk hat perched crazily on his head and he seemed to William a man for hire and not a part of Shade’s retinue. William had his Colt in his pocket and the heavy satchel under his left arm and he wondered that he had not been searched for weapons. At last the steamer slowed and the captain hove to and held his wheel fast and the strong pull of the Thames turned their bow slowly and then William saw through the mist the second boat approaching.

  It was a steam-powered launch not unlike their hired steamer but with a tapered bow and a green hull. The figure standing at its railing with his hands crossed behind his back was dressed in a long furlined greatcoat open to the wind and underneath he wore a white suit and a white hat like some madman out of the tropics and not at all fit for the cold London weather. No one spoke. William glanced across at the child but she was peering across the deep waters, the fog tendrilling there low and thin and fast.

  Farquhar stiffened at his elbow. Is that him? Is that the man I am to meet?

  William watched but said nothing.

  You two, the urchin barked. You stand there and wait.

  William could see a second silhouette farther back on the launch. Appearing and then vanishing in the fog. He slipped one hand into the pocket of his chesterfield and felt for his revolver. Then the launch was in the clear and slowing and turning lengthwise to come up alongside them and William could see the deck clearly. Two men, one in the wheelhouse. And the man in white was not Shade. Stout, his whiskers wild and leonine and crowning his red face like a banker’s, one hand held up in greeting. It was Gabriel Utterson.

  Mr. Pinkerton, Farquhar murmured. That is the man’s proxy, yes?

  He glowered.

  Mr. Pinkerton.

  He shook himself, glanced away. That’s his solicitor. Yes.

  Farquhar studied William’s face with an anxious expression. You were expecting some other? Is anything the matter?

  William watched the urchin swipe her red cap from her head, stuff it inside her coat. She scrambled over the railing and perched above the freezing waters as the launch neared. He took his hand off the revolver in his pocket. He had been naive, thinking Shade would appear.

  It’s fine, he muttered. Let’s get this over with.

  Gabriel Utterson hailed them from the railing of the launch. His captain had tamped the boiler and the vessel had slowed and drifted sideways and then come in close.

  I trust you have not come empty-handed, gentlemen, Utterson shouted across.

  William held the satchel high.

  Utterson nodded. I’ll examine the contents, please, he called.

  William gave the satchel to the urchin on the outside of the railing and she turned swinging it in one hand and took two swift steps and leaped across the gap. The boats rocked and shifted and drew apart and drew close.

  William casually withdrew his revolver.

  Where is the painting? Farquhar hissed at him. I do not see it, sir.

  Patience, Mr. Farquhar.

  What if it is a trick?

  William gave the gallerist a grim look. In my experience, he said, crooks are usually the least dishonest of the bunch. It’s not in their interest to deceive you, sir. This is how they make their living. Be patient.

  Farquhar gave an uneasy glance at the fog creeping in and blowing past. A collier slid wraithlike through the mist.

  Utterson kneeled in the folds of his heavy coat and he took off his gloves and unbuckled the satchel. No one spoke. The decks rolled gently in the current. At last the man rose one knee at a time with a stiffness and he grimaced to Molly and buckled the satchel tight. The launch powered up and a cloud of white steam belched from its stack and Farquhar sucked in his breath.

  Easy, William said.

  And then the launch drew in close and Utterson clambered over the railing and leaned one tentative foot out and hooked himself onto the steamer’s deck. William stepped forward, clasped his hand, hauled the stout solicitor across the gap.

  Dear god, he gasped. A damned foolish location for a business meeting. He smoothed his collar, the thick sleeves of his greatcoat. Mr. Pinkerton, sir. I was not informed you would be present. And this must be Mr. Farquhar. A pleasure, sir, even under such circumstances.

  Such circumstances, sir, Farquhar said coldly, are of your own devising.

  Utterson held a hand to his heart. Please do not imagine I condone this sort of behaviour. I act to ensure everyone’s honest compliance, sir. I take no side in the matter, I assure you. And I have no vested interest in its outcome.

  Except if we get crossed, said William.

  Sir?

  If that girl disappears with the money, you
’ll be held responsible.

  Ah. Utterson smiled tightly. By whom, I wonder?

  By me.

  Farquhar ran a gloved finger under his chin. Mr. Utterson, I am not accustomed to waiting. My painting?

  Shortly, sir, shortly. Utterson turned and gave a stiff wave and the urchin cried some word to the captain and the launch began to pull away into the mist.

  She is leaving with the bonds, Mr. Pinkerton, Farquhar barked sharply. He strode to the railing, gripped it fiercely.

  William set his hand on the gallerist’s elbow. Patience, he said. She’ll be back. They won’t have come to the meeting with the painting. They’re not so trusting as that.

  But we are expected to be?

  William shrugged.

  Ten minutes passed, twenty. At thirty minutes Farquhar started to pace the deck in a temper, at the turning of the first hour he ceased pacing and settled himself under the stacks where the heat of the engine could be felt. The river grew colder. They waited in silence and William began to fear he had been misled but when he studied Utterson’s expression it seemed bored, unconcerned.

  At last through the mist they heard the launch approaching and then it came into view. The urchin was standing at the bow clutching a long painter’s tube in one elbow, the strap looped at her wrist.

  Your painting, sir, Utterson said wearily.

  They were all three cold. As the launch drew up alongside the urchin leaned back and pitched the tube overhand across the water and Utterson caught at it and dropped it and it clattered rolling on the deck and banged up against the wheelhouse.

  Farquhar seized it up in a panic.

  My god, he swore. What is wrong with that creature?

  Utterson glared across at the urchin. I couldn’t say, sir. A most foolish display.

  The steamer was drifting lazily to port. Their captain stood at his wheelhouse, arms folded, silk hat rakishly atilt, smoking quietly. William could hear the low distant thrum of river traffic in the fog. Farquhar had already unstoppered the tube and drawn the oilcloth bundle carefully clear and cracked open the roll. He unrolled only as much as the top edge of the painting and he ran a soft finger along the cracks.