A Scandal in Battersea

by Mercedes Lackey

  “If I had known this was the Christmas Panto version of Hamlet, I wouldn’t have come,” he said aloud, but in a voice just loud enough to carry to her seat and no further. “They should be paying us to sit through this atrocity.”

  She glanced over at him, and smiled. “He really is dreadful, isn’t he?” she said. “But the others are rather good and the Ophelia is quite fine, so I am determined to suffer through this Hamlet.”

  “Even though my ticket was a gift, I would flee this place, but it is warmer here than in my garret, and in the face of your bravery, I shall keep you company.” He made a little half bow. “Alexandre Harcourt, at your service, milady. We shall whisper rude things to one another under his howls.”

  “Katherine Dalton,” said his victim, with a wry smile. “Are you a poet, an artist—no you cannot be an artist, there is no paint under your fingernails—”

  A clever one, this. I won’t cozen her with words. It will have to be the entity. “A poet, with a single slim volume to my name. You won’t have heard of it,” he said.

  And he didn’t expect that she would answer otherwise, but it still stung when she replied, frankly, “No, I’m afraid I don’t recognize your name. But I shall order it at the bookseller, on the strength of our mutual detestation of bad acting.”

  She could have pretended she knew it. That would have been polite and ladylike. Just out of pure spite, he was about to prod the entity to exert its power over her and get her under his control right then and there—

  —but just as he thought of that, he heard the thing’s cold voice in his head. There is danger. Convince her to go outside.

  And at that point it was too late to go outside. The bell rang for the second act, and people began filing back in to take their places. So he was reduced to trading whispered quips with her every time Hamlet spoke a line. He almost had second thoughts when she said at one point, “I do believe Ophelia drowns herself to get rid of his voice in her ears,” but reminded himself that he had no more business getting fond of his chosen target than a wolf had in getting friendly with a lamb. She’s just a girl with pretensions of intellect.

  When the lights came up after the second act and she showed no signs of moving, he said, “I really cannot bear this any longer. I must flee, before I begin hurling my boots at the stage. Would you consent to join me for tea? My pockets may not be deep, but they will extend to tea and cakes for two.”

  And when he rose, so did she. “I’m really just here because my mother and her bridesmaids are having their fittings, and I was told I was in the way,” she said frankly. “Tea sounds lovely.”

  He offered her his arm, and she took it, and they made their way down to the lobby, weaving a path through the people who had gathered at the refreshment counter for lemon squash for the children, and for the adults, something much stronger. They claimed their cloaks at the cloakroom and left through the nearest exit. “Why were you in the way?” he asked holding the door open for her. “Aren’t you in the bridal party?”

  She made a face. Now that she was in daylight he saw she had brown hair, brown eyes, and a face that resembled a very eager rabbit. He fancied she was trifle shortsighted, as there was a line between her brows that made him think she squinted a lot. But there was nothing timid or rabbit-like about her answer. “My mother would rather people not be reminded that she is old enough to have a daughter who came out last year,” Katherine said frankly, and with more than a touch of acid in her tone. “I have been told to sit in the back of the church and not draw attention to myself. For this, I am being rewarded with the liberty to do anything I care to between waking and sundown, every day until the wedding. And, possibly after. If women were allowed to attend University, I’d be perfectly contented.” The implication was that she considered attending theater matinees and browsing bookshops to be very thin fare compared to a University education. Oh, one of those. She probably wants women to have the vote as well.

  It was snowing again, and the fat, white flakes starred her beaver cloak and his woolen one. “Hence, Hamlet?” he responded.

  “I should have chosen Iolanthe,” she admitted. “I—”

  They were about half a block from the theater, and that was when he felt the entity moving through him. His hands and his insides went as cold as the street pavement. He felt the thing brush up against his mind, and felt his gorge rise in response. Katherine’s face lost all animation, and she stopped speaking in mid-sentence. He smiled to himself, even though the entity’s touch chilled him worse than the winter wind. “Put your head down, Katherine,” he said. “Walk normally with me.”

  She obeyed, and he led her down the street, taking care to keep out of the way of others to avoid attracting their attention. But the snow was in his favor; people hurried along, eager to get into shelter, and not paying any attention at all to what was at first glance a perfectly ordinary, well-dressed, if a trifle bohemian, couple.

  Alf had parked the coach down an alley, precisely where he said he would be. Together they lifted Katherine inside, and Alexandre followed. He closed the doors and pulled the shades—then, taking no chances, administered the chloroform and bound and gagged her. Alf had done some work on the coach seats, adding stout straps under the cushions and bolted to the floor so that their prizes could be strapped in for added security. When Katherine was nicely trussed up to his liking, he laid her on the seat opposite his and buckled her in, around her chest, waist and legs. Then he tucked a rug around her, to make her look like a bundle of goods he had just bought. Just in case, for some unknown reason, someone got a glance inside the coach.

  Alf stopped once, and after an interval, tapped on the door and opened it, handing him a paper of hot chestnuts, a meat pie that was also still warm, and a bottle of beer. “If you’ve got the same, and we’re parked out of the way, you might as well join me,” he told his man, and moved over on the seat to give him room. Alf was nothing loath.

  “Snow moight make it ’ard t’catch our second coney t’night, guv,” he said, taking a huge bite of his pie and following it with half the beer. “Oi ’ad me a ideer. Could go out alone an’ snatch a beggar-brat.”

  Alexandre followed his example. He had to hand it to Alf; the man knew the best places to get ready-made food in all of London. This was a good meaty pie, with just enough gravy to keep it from being dry. “Let’s give West Ham a try anyway,” Alexandre advised. “If we haven’t got one by full dark, we can take this one back to the house and I’ll guard her while you look for another option.”

  But Alf was right. The snow kept everyone inside. By the time they got to West Ham in the dusk, there was no sign of anyone on the street—and Alexandre soon realized that if they drove the coach through the borough for much longer, it was going to be conspicuous. With not a single other vehicle out, the coach stood out like a fish in a flowerbed. After they’d traversed up one street and down another, and he’d given Katherine another dose of chloroform, he tapped on the roof. Alf opened the roof hatch to peer down. In the last light, he was little more than a black silhouette against the charcoal sky.

  “We oughter—” Alf began.

  “Go home, or people will start to notice us, I know,” Alexandre completed for him. “You were right. We’ll try something else. Maybe something will turn up on the way home.”

  With a grunt of agreement, Alf closed the hatch and clucked to the horse, who resumed his plodding pace. Alexandre sat back in his seat and pondered several things.

  First . . . how many of these “witnesses” did the thing need? He hoped it was three; three was the first number generally associated with magic. Three wishes, misfortune comes in threes, Death knocks three times . . . somehow, though, he doubted it. Five would be more likely. Or seven. He hoped fervently it wasn’t nine; five would be hard, seven harder still, and nine? The police would be frantic, the papers would have got hold of it somewhere between five and seven, and the
re would be guards and police everywhere that one of the girls had disappeared from. He’d have to leave London entirely in order to find victims.

  And most important of all, no female of any age of a good family would be out alone. If a girl couldn’t get a male escort, she’d go with a gaggle of friends. Could he handle more than one, even with the entity’s help? He didn’t think so.

  Suddenly the coach stopped, and he heard Alf fling himself off the box. He made sure Katherine was still sleeping, then flung open the door of the coach just in time to see Alf pull down a fleeing street urchin into a snowbank. He rushed to Alf’s assistance; Alf had the brat by the ankles, and the little wretch was flinging chunks of snow at Alf’s face. Alexandre flung himself bodily over the boy’s torso and was rewarded by several vicious elbow-blows to his ribs. He gritted his teeth on the pain, and awkwardly beat one-handed at the boy’s head; Alf let go of the brat’s ankles, scrambled to his feet, slipping in the snow, and administered a scientific blow to the boy’s head with his favorite cosh. The brat went limp.

  Alexandre got to his feet, looking warily up and down the street to see if the ruckus had attracted any attention. They were still inside the bounds of Battersea, in one of the areas of waterfront warehouses. There wasn’t a sign of anyone coming to the boy’s assistance, much less any police.

  “Liddle barstard wuz tryin’ t’rob the boot,” Alf explained as Alexandre dusted himself off and rolled the boy over with his toe. “Snuck outer th’ lane, ’e did. ’Opped up there quiet’s a mouse, I waited till ’e wuz thinkin’ ’bout wut wuz i’ the boot an’ not me.” He kicked the boy vengefully in the ribs. “Reckon ’e’ll do?”

  Alexandre huffed in surprise at the thought. True, the entity had not specified females. True, the entity had specified “pure,” but the brat couldn’t be more than twelve, and it wasn’t all that likely he’d had any sexual experience yet. Although with these street Arabs, you never knew . . .

  Still. “Never turn down a gift horse,” Alexandre stated, to Alf’s approval. “Let’s get him sorted out and secured. I’ve half a mind to stick him in the boot, once he’s secured.”

  Alf laughed. “I don’ want ’im crushin’ nothin’, guv.” Together they heaved him onto the floor of the coach; Alf got back up on the box and Alexandre trussed the brat up and gagged him, taking revenge for his bruised ribs by tying the wrists and ankles extra-tight, and not only tying the boy’s hands behind his back, but tying him at the elbows as well, wrenching his shoulders back in what would be a very painful position once he woke up.

  Then he strapped the boy down on the floor and took his place on the seat, putting his feet up on the bench as well. This was going to be interesting.

  Sooner than he would have thought, he heard changes in the boy’s breathing that indicated he was conscious again. A moment after that, he heard sounds indicating the brat was testing his bonds. Of course, it was pitch dark inside the coach, so the little bastard didn’t know he was there. He listened to the muffled grunts and futile kicks for a while, before speaking out into the darkness.

  “I wouldn’t bother,” he said, as the sounds immediately ceased. “I’m very, very good at tying people up.”

  After he spoke, there was nothing in the coach but the boy’s labored breathing, Katherine’s drugged breathing, and the creaks and rattles of the coach itself.

  “You probably think I’m taking you to the police,” he continued, after what he considered to be a suitable length of silence. “I’m not.”

  He let the silence lengthen again. When he judged enough tension had built, he continued. “Your next guess would be that I am taking you to a ship, to be used as labor. Or straight to one of the penal ships, to be taken to Australia. I’m not doing that, either.”

  He was enjoying this . . . this was almost as much fun as tormenting that ugly, ugly girl had been. He sensed he probably wouldn’t be able to break this brat’s spirit, not in the short period of time he had before he left the little bastard in the basement. But he could certainly terrify him.

  “Now, I want you to bestir what few wits you have, and try to think of every terrible thing that could befall a boy like you at the hands of a man like me,” he said softly, allowing menace to creep into his tone. “A man with no morals, no Christian virtues. A man who enjoys inflicting pain. A man who thinks creatures like you should be exterminated like cockroaches. A man who does not know mercy or pity. Just think about everything I could do to you. I have a house with a deep basement. No one will hear your screams. And I have a drop straight into the sewers. No one will find your body until it washes up somewhere downstream. Why, it might even get as far as the Channel.”

  A moan of terror escaped from behind the gag. The boy began to pant with terror. Alexandre let the silence linger one last time.

  Then he leaned over where he knew the boy’s head was, and whispered, “Whatever you are imagining . . . it’s going to be a hundred times worse.”

  Then he laughed.

  About that time, the coach came to a halt, and he knew they must be in the lane behind the house. The coach rocked as Alf climbed down off the box. The door opened, and Alexandre leaned down to unbuckle the straps holding the boy down. It was nearly as black outside as it was inside the coach, but Alf had put out the coach lamps. They didn’t dare chance one of the neighbors looking out at the wrong time. “Yew got ’im trussed up good, guv?” Alf asked.

  “Ankles, knees, hands, elbows,” Alexandre replied. “I think he’s probably a kicker, so be careful when you take him up. Or no, wait—” He felt for the sponge and the chloroform, and gave the brat a good dose. When he went limp, he grunted with satisfaction. “He won’t give you any trouble now.”

  “Proper,” Alf said with satisfaction, and heaved the boy up and over his shoulder.

  Alexandre gave a more measured dose to the girl; when Alf came back they took her up between them and carried her down to the basement. The boy was already lying beside the pool of darkness; they put the girl down beside him. Alf went out and came back with the bag with the sponge and chloroform, materials for gags, and the extra rope. For one thing, it was just a good idea not to leave anything in the coach that could be stolen. For another, it was a good idea not to leave anything in the coach that could be connected with abductions. When they had begun this, Alf had laid out a set of what he called “sensible rules,” and they had been just that, eminently sensible, and Alexandre had not a single quibble with any of them.

  Alf clearly had done this before.

  Lastly, Alf came and went with the things that had been in the boot, purchases they had made earlier in the day, and the excuse they would use if anyone noticed activity out in the lane. Finally he heard Alf shout from the kitchen, “I’m orf, guv!” and the kitchen door closed for the last time. When Alf returned, he would use the front door.

  The entity had not yet made a move. Nor had it spoken in Alexandre’s head. Now he was planning what he would do if the entity rejected the boy. Try to bargain, of course. Promise to come back with something more suitable tomorrow. If the victims simply had to be presented in pairs, he could hide the girl in the empty flat upstairs and—

  The girl was waking up; he could see her eyelids fluttering. A moment later, her eyes opened, and she looked about herself in confusion and terror.

  She couldn’t see Alexandre; he sat with the light behind him so she wouldn’t be able to see his face. The gag kept her from talking. He didn’t say a word.

  Her eyes went from the unconscious boy beside her to the apparently bottomless pool of blackness to him and back again. None of this made any sense, of course . . . unless she was the kind given to reading sensational novels, like The Monk or Varney the Vampire. He didn’t think she was; she had sounded like a proper bluestocking.

  The boy’s face was black and blue, one eye swollen. Alexandre smiled a little to see that; it made up for the condition
of his ribs.

  The girl did look like a terrified rabbit now. See, now, if you’d just stayed at home where you belong, you wouldn’t be in my basement about to be devoured by an eldritch horror, he thought spitefully at her. It’s your own fault you’re here.

  He kept silent, however. He was waiting for the entity to “speak,” or at least put in its appear—

  —the void in the center of the basement suddenly thrust up into a pillar of darkness. The temperature dropped so quickly that between one breath and the next, frost rimed on all the exposed surfaces. The girl tried to scream, but through the gag, it came out like the pathetic squeal of the rabbit she so resembled. The boy woke up in that same instant, and stared, petrified, at the thing looming over him.

  It pondered them both, for so long that Alexandre went from anxious, to uncomfortable, to terrified. Surely the entity wouldn’t take him instead? He was anything but “pure!”

  The offerings are . . . unusual, but acceptable, the entity said finally. And the pillar swelled preparing to engulf its victims.

  “Wait a moment,” Alexandre croaked. “How many more are you going to need?”

  Four pairs, it said shortly, and enveloped its prey.

  “And what do you do with them?” he bleated, although he was trying very hard to sound forceful.

  One I make into my witness. The other I hunt on my own ground. I feed on their terror and despair. And when they are too weak to despair, I feed. You have seven days.

  Alexandre waited for the inevitable. And within ten minutes the pillar disgorged the rabbit-girl, her face an utter blank.

  He untied her bonds and removed her gag and ordered her upstairs, out into the street and on her way. Then he went back into the house and stood in front of the stove in the kitchen, trying to warm up.