Subtle Blood

by KJ Charles

  “It’s pretty tough not to be in love with you, so the whole thing was probably inevitable. Happy?”

  “As anyone has ever been, ever.” Maisie gave a little wriggle. “I sometimes don’t think it’s real. And then I stab myself with a needle five minutes later and realise it is, and feel wonderful all over again. Anyway, I said it for a reason. What was it? Oh, yes: Phoebe’s going to be Lady Waring. A viscountess, Will, and in her own right, which if you ask me counts for a lot more than an empty courtesy title like Kim’s got.”

  “Are you pulling rank on me?”

  “No,” Maisie said defensively, and then, “Maybe.”

  “If he becomes a marquess, we’ll have this talk again.”

  She stuck out her tongue. “Anyway, she’s a viscountess, and rich, and I’m just Maisie Jones from Tiger Bay.”

  “You aren’t, though. You were never ‘just’ Maisie Jones, and now you’re Marguerite Zie.”

  “And people want Marguerite Zie. I’m going to be a couturier. Sought after. I’m going to be a success because I’ve earned it. She may have a title, but I don’t need to feel inferior, because I’m not. Right?”

  “Blasted right.”

  “Phoebe could have anyone she wanted,” Maisie went on, with absolute conviction. “Anyone in the world, but she wants me, so I’d be pretty stupid to feel I’m not good enough. I’m the most special person there is, if you think about it. Because Phoebe chose me, and if someone wonderful wants to be with me, I must be pretty wonderful too. Yes?”

  “No argument here.”

  “And?” she said like a patient schoolteacher.

  “And it’s not the same at all. You’re a flaming marvel, Maisie. I’ve got a bookshop, and only because I inherited it.”

  “You’ve got the Military Cross, Will Darling!” Maisie snapped. “You’re an actual hero! You may not like the marquess part, but what must Kim think about your medals? Because I happen to think the medals you earned mean a lot more than having a lot of dead relatives, which is all a title is, and I bet he does too!”

  “It’s not just the title, though. It’s everything. He’s got an education, and nice hands, and manners, and he talks properly, and I don’t belong in his world, Maise. He took me to that bloody club, the Symposium, and I thumped a Sir Whatsit in the face.”

  “You did what? For pity’s sake!”

  “It was Johnnie Cheveley’s brother. He was a berk.”

  “Even so.”

  Will sighed. “I don’t think about this stuff all the time. Day to day, we rub along pretty well. Day to day, it works. Today is good and tomorrow’s probably fine too. But then he asked me for the rest of our lives, and with everything that might happen—I don’t know how to do it, that’s all. It’s too big to work out.”

  Maisie gave him a long, assessing look. “You aren’t normally afraid of things.”

  “I’m not afraid. I just don’t see how I can promise something like that. How do I know what might happen? Or what it’ll be like for us if Chingford hangs?”

  “You don’t. He’s not asking you to predict where you’ll be in ten years, you idiot. He’s just telling you he wants you to be with him—you, with your grammar school manners and working hands and punching people when you oughtn’t—and asking if you want it too. That’s all a future is.”

  “It’s not, though. There’s all the things that could happen—”

  “That’s called being alive, Will! Honestly, maybe you oughtn’t think about things. You aren’t very good at it.”

  “Ouch.” Will took another biscuit. “You’re right. I know you’re right. It’s a lot easier with you to talk to.”

  “That’s because I’ve got common sense,” Maisie said. “Only I’m taking it back to Paris next week, so you’d better hurry up and sort yourself out.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Maisie’s visit was a tonic, as well as a valuable distraction from wondering how things were going for Kim with DS and the Private Bureau. That became harder after she left. Will did some unnecessary sweeping, made himself an early lunch for something to do, and snatched up the phone as soon as it rang. “Kim?”

  “Is that Darling’s?”

  “Yes. Sorry. Darling’s Used and Antiquarian, can I help you?”

  “Ah, Mr. Darling. I’m calling—behalf—” It was a dreadful line, crackly and faint. Will caught ‘Aveston’, and managed to decipher that there was some sort of issue with the library sale, and could he come to see Lord Aveston at the Beresford Hotel as quickly as possible, because his lordship had to catch a train.

  “Of course. With you as soon as possible.”

  At least it was something to do. Will headed to the Beresford on foot, since it was just up on Southampton Row, wondering what the problem was. Probably Deansbrook hadn’t paid up yet: it was like getting blood out of a stone with book dealers.

  He asked at the desk for Lord Aveston, and was greeted with a blank look. “I’m afraid his lordship isn’t staying here.”

  “His man just called me. Told me to come here.”

  “There must be a mistake. We have no gentleman of that name here, sir. Might you mean the Belgravia Hotel? Or the Berkeley? Or the Perivale, perhaps? We get that sometimes. I suppose it sounds a bit like over the telephone, doesn’t it? Beresford, Perivale—”

  Will put a polite end to what was shaping up into a lengthy meditation on consonants, and went back to the bookshop with frustration buzzing through his nerves. He could have sworn he’d heard Beresford, and hadn’t checked further. A stupid and needless error, considering the value of the Aveston business. Now he’d have to call a lot of hotels to find the viscount and explain himself, if he wasn’t already leaving to catch his train.

  He’d just hung up his coat and sat down with a directory when the telephone rang. With luck, it would be Aveston’s man wondering where he was. “Darling here.”

  “Mr. William Darling?” A quavery male voice he didn’t recognise.

  “Yes?”

  “Mr. Darling, it’s Quiller. John Quiller, from the Symposium Club. I’m the Chief Steward.”

  Will sat up straight. “Mr. Quiller? What can I do for you?”

  “I need to talk to someone about what I know. About the murder.”

  Will was barely breathing, as if that would prevent the man on the other end from being frightened off. “You know something?”

  “I can’t go to the police or the Club. He’ll find out if I do.” The words were low and hurried, and fearful. “You aren’t one of them. You weren’t afraid of them, and you wanted to know what happened. Will you help me? Please!”

  “Of course,” Will said. There was terror in the old man’s voice, and every hair he had was standing on end. “Where are you?”

  “My rooms. Goodge Street.” He gave the address. “Please come quickly. I’m afraid he knows.”

  “Who—?”

  Quiller rang off. Will gave a second’s thought to trying to contact Kim as he grabbed his coat and hat, but decided against it: he didn’t want to miss a second opportunity this afternoon. Aveston would have to wait.

  It was only a little way to the Leicester Square Underground station, and a train arrived within a couple of minutes. Will didn’t like the Tube—the smoky atmosphere made his lungs itch—but it brought him to Goodge Street in just a few minutes, sparing him the crowded Tottenham Court Road.

  The address Quiller had given him was a lodging house of the usual kind. The brickwork was blackened with soot and the windows dusty, but a skinny maid was labouring over the front step. Will said, “Good afternoon. Mr. Quiller, please?”

  She pushed a damp fringe out of her eyes without looking up. “First floor back.”

  Will headed up the stairs, and along the corridor to what looked like the right door. He knocked. No reply. He knocked again. “Mr. Quiller?

  Silence. Which was odd. What was the fellow playing at, calling him here and not answering the door?

  He hadn’t sounde
d like a man who’d been planning to nip to the shops for a packet of fags. Will felt a prickle of unease, and at the same moment thought he caught a whiff of something.

  Imagination? He got phantom smells occasionally, when he felt tense—mostly mud, sometimes the garlic-mustard that meant gas, occasionally the iron tang of blood. That last was what he thought he’d smelled now. He tried the doorhandle, and the door opened.

  “Mr. Quiller?”

  The room was a decent size, not too dark. There were several engravings on the wall, all depicting aspects of the Symposium Club. Peacock would spit. It was well kept and tidy, with a telephone neatly placed on a lace doily. A door stood open leading to a bedroom, and the smell definitely wasn’t Will’s imagination.

  He moved forward quietly, purely out of habit because if someone was still in there, they’d heard him come in. In fact— He sidestepped to the dresser, and found a kitchen knife in a block. It wasn’t the Messer, which he now wished he’d brought, but it was respectably sharp. He moved softly to the bedroom door, and pushed it wide enough to be sure nobody was behind it.

  The bedroom was small, with a narrow wardrobe and a high bedframe he could mostly see under. He checked both, and confirmed there were no villains lurking. There was nobody in the room at all, except for the dead man on the bed.

  Mr. Quiller of the Symposium would not be celebrating his fiftieth anniversary of service. He lay staring upwards, faded eyes wide with dismay, and a knife protruded from what had been a clean white shirt front.

  A knife.

  Will couldn’t mistake it. He’d had it for eight years, and killed at least nine people with it. He could feel its carved handle now, phantom against his palm. It should have been in his desk at the shop, but it was right here, in this room, sticking out of a dead man’s chest.

  What the hell. Killing people with the Messer was his job.

  Incredulity had blotted out everything else for a couple of seconds. Now Will stepped forward, reaching automatically for his knife, and as he did, he heard the aggrieved and piercing tones of an angry woman rising from the hall along with deep male voices.

  “What d’you mean, police? I didn’t call you. This is a respectable house! What do you want with Mr. Quiller?”

  “Shit,” Will said aloud.

  Stay and explain? He could imagine how that would go. Take the Messer, and risk being found clutching a bloodstained murder weapon? He couldn’t decide what was best, and then he heard heavy but rapid feet on the stairs, and that made the decision for him. He dropped the kitchen knife, leapt for the sash window, shoved the bottom half up, and swung himself out.

  He dangled at the side of the house, hanging on to the sill. As with most houses of the type, there was a single-storey scullery out the back, invitingly below his feet. Will dropped to the roof with a thud that would be all too audible to anyone below, took two strides along, and went over the wall to the next yard. Above him he heard a cry. “Hey, you! Stop! Police!”

  He was already evading the law; he might as well carry on. He sprinted to the end of the yard, went over the wall, and ran like hell, hearing the heavy thump of police feet behind him.

  There was a useful tangle of small streets, alleys, and mews behind Goodge Street, which Will knew reasonably well since the area housed a couple of specialist book dealers. He sprinted up Goodge Place, onto Tottenham Mews, forced himself to a walk across Charlotte Street so as not to attract attention, legged it again down the nameless passage off Chitty Street, and came out on Tottenham Street at a casual stroll.

  He was breathing too hard. He forced himself to keep to a shallow, calm, steady rhythm, even if his lungs were demanding air and his face was reddened with heat and exertion. He needed not to be noticeable. They hadn’t got a good look at him; they’d be after a running man. He’d lost the pursuit, so he just needed not to run and he’d be fine. He told himself that with force.

  His coat was the same fawn colour as that of every second man on the street, and his hat was pretty standard too, but he bought a cap from a market stall anyway, taking the time to try it on even if his instincts were shouting at him to snatch one and run. Be ordinary. He made himself round another corner before replacing hat with cap, and stuffing the hat in a rubbish bin. It felt like doing something.

  He strolled on until he found a public telephone, and asked the operator to put him through to the familiar number. After a few seconds he had an answer. “Lord Arthur Secretan’s residence.”

  “Is he in? It’s urgent.”

  “I’m afraid not, Mr. Darling.”

  Hell’s teeth. “Where is he? I’m in trouble, Mr. Peacock.”

  “May I be of assistance?”

  The last thing he should do was drag Peacock into this. He could manage, probably. “Tell him, when you get hold of him, I’ve been set up and it’s bad. I need to stay out of sight, and I’m going to need help, and if I don’t call again he should check with the police because I’ll have been arrested for murder. I didn’t do it,” he added hastily. “Got to go.”

  He ducked out of the phone booth and walked on to nowhere in particular. London was busy with saunterers taking the air on this delightful June afternoon. Will set himself in the direction of Regent’s Park for lack of any better ideas, adjusted his cap to a jaunty angle, and tried to look like he didn’t have a care in the world.

  He’d been set up. Someone had called pretending to be from Aveston to get him out of the shop, and that would be when they’d gone in and taken the Messer. They’d waited for him to return—God almighty, they’d been watching, hadn’t they? The telephone had rung just after he’d got in, and there was a public telephone near May’s Buildings. Someone had been hanging around, and gone off and telephoned once they’d seen him.

  And then whoever it was had gone on ahead of Will, maybe in a motor—or perhaps there were two of them, one at Quiller’s rooms, the other waiting for Will and telephoning to confirm he was on his way. You’d want to time it tightly: the first man making sure Will had taken the bait before the second killed Quiller and made a call to the police. They’d pulled it off bloody well. Without the outraged landlady, he would have been caught red-handed, and he was very far from getting away clean since the Messer would be covered in his fingerprints.

  Will didn’t have a lot of doubt about who was behind this, or why. Kim had set himself against the new master of Zodiac, and this was the counter-move.

  They’d targeted him and not Kim directly. Doubtless that was because he was the easier target. And an obvious one, since Lord Waring had been aware they were lovers, and hadn’t kept it to himself, not to mention Will had been publicly identified as Kim’s henchman in the Press. He was Kim’s vulnerable spot, and Leo had exploited that to give him a nasty headache, with Will a mere pawn on the board. Again.

  At least he’d got away for now. The maid probably couldn’t describe him, and his fingerprints weren’t on record with the police, which would slow things down a bit. Of course, a single anonymous phone call from Zodiac would give the Met his name. Maybe they’d put a bulletin out for him as a wanted man. That would be nice.

  If he had to think about what he wanted from the future, he was definitely starting with “not being arrested for murder”.

  He needed, urgently, to talk to Kim, and until then he needed to stay out of the Met’s way. The idea of turning himself in and trying to explain didn’t appeal in the slightest. He’d rather let them work out he hadn’t done it from a position of freedom, he really didn’t want to answer questions about Kim, and he’d had his shop raided before by a policeman who was on Zodiac’s payroll. He didn’t want to chance falling into the hands of another crooked copper, especially not if he was locked in a cell.

  Last time, the pretext for harassment had been indecent behaviour. He wondered if the Met would have a record of that, and if they’d raid the shop again, which caused him to make an urgent inventory of what Kim might have left lying around. There had been nothing for them
to find on that first occasion, by luck rather than discretion, whereas now—

  He stopped dead on the pavement.

  White Stains. That bloody book was enough on its own to get him in hot water if it was found in his shop, let alone Kim’s handwritten dedication to him, and it had been in the same drawer as the Messer. He’d even given it a plain paper cover, which in retrospect screamed Something Will Darling wants to keep secret! If whoever had stolen the knife had taken the trouble to look at the book...or if they hadn’t, and the police raided his shop and found it...

  Today was just getting better and better.

  Right. He needed to go and get the damn book, if at all possible; he needed clothes and money; he needed somewhere to hide. Not with Kim, that was far too obvious, and nowhere near Maisie and Phoebe, because dragging them into this would be doing Zodiac’s work for them. He’d have to go somewhere else, and quickly, because there was going to be a manhunt. A brutal murder linked to the Symposium case would be all over the papers. Lodging-house owners and ticket clerks would be keeping a sharp eye out for a shifty character leaving London, or trying to find a bolthole.

  Will considered himself a generally law-abiding man, in the teeth of the evidence, or at least his law-breaking had always been within some fairly specific bounds. He had no idea how to go about being a fugitive from justice.

  He’d doubtless work it out, but first things first. He turned his steps south, back towards St. Martin’s Lane. Leo surely wouldn’t have called in his name yet, that would be too obvious, so there was a decent chance the police wouldn’t yet have identified him. He’d do a recce, and if it looked safe, he could grab clothes and cash. If not, he’d leave, and try Kim again, and...something, whatever. He’d be fine. He hadn’t, after all, murdered Quiller, even if it was oddly easy to feel like he had.

  Will made his way back down along the Tottenham Court Road, sticking to the busiest thoroughfares in the hope of being invisible in a crowd. That meant walking past two policemen, both of them patrolling with leisurely authority. He kept his pace steady, controlling the urge to hide his face.