“What’s that?”
“Just thinking of a poem,” I told him, remembering Shelley’s immortal lines. “Shattered visage” indeed, I mused.
He pulled thoughtfully at his cigarillo. “There might be a way forward,” he said slowly. “A line of inquiry we might pursue tonight—and a bit of adventure for your restless soul,” he added with a lopsided little smile.
“Might there?” I leaned forward eagerly.
He twisted the glass in his long fingers, studying the golden sparks in the heart of the brandy. “Mr. Pettifer.”
I thought of the diffident little fellow who hadn’t said two words that afternoon and laughed. “Why on earth do you think he would be of use to us?”
He gave a sigh of purely animal satisfaction. “Because I know his dirtiest secret, one that his partner does not.” He turned his head and fixed me with a sapphirine stare. “Do you remember the bit of licorice from his desk that I sampled?”
“And spat into your handkerchief? Yes.”
“It was not licorice. It was opium.”
“Opium! How do you— Never mind,” I said hastily, holding up a hand. “I forget sometimes that your sins are as numerous as mine.”
“And possibly more varied,” he added with a twist of his lips. “It was quite obviously opium and furthermore, it was opium of a very decided preparation—the sort found in only one opium den in the city, to my knowledge.”
“Stoker, you astonish me. You told me when we first met that you smoked opium one time, and yet you can identify a particular preparation found in a solitary location in the largest metropolis in the world.”
He shrugged. “I have a gift for debauchery. It is why I have largely given it up. There is no real thrill in sinning when one has a talent for it.”
I raised my glass. “I shall drink to that. Now, whereabouts is this den? The docks of the southlands? The East End?”
“In point of fact, no. It is located in Bloomsbury and it is run by a very nice elderly schoolmaster from Manchester.”
“Manchester? Not exactly the exotic East, then,” I complained. The latest adventures of Arcadia Brown, Lady Detective, had featured an opium den of the meanest sort in the stews of Southwark, a place of degradation and decay where the vilest examples of humanity consorted together in poverty and depravity. I longed to see such a place for myself, but a Bloomsbury location with a Mancunian schoolmaster did little to raise my hopes of pleasurable degeneracy. Still, it was something of an adventure, and I rose, stubbing out my cigarillo.
“Where are you going?” Stoker asked.
I gestured towards my gown of sober black silk. “I cannot go in this,” I told him. “I am going to adopt a disguise.”
“God help me,” he returned, but I noticed he was smiling.
• • •
It was the work of half an hour to prepare. Having already decided that Stoker had exaggerated the mundanity of the opium den, I attired myself in what I hoped would be a suitably discreet costume for a house of corruption. Lord Rosemorran’s collection afforded a gentleman’s robe from China, and my own wardrobe provided slim trousers. I usually wore them under my expedition skirt, but they would serve just as well worn beneath the Chinese robe. A pair of Oriental slippers—only slightly too large—were stuffed with newspaper, and my hair was loosened from its pins, then brushed until it gleamed straight and black. I plaited it into a single thick hank down the center of my back and topped it with a small silk cap of indeterminate origin. A little judicious application of soot in the hollows of my cheeks and temples suggested bones that were more masculine than my own, and I smiled as I applied the coup de grâce. Stoker was not nearly so impressed.
“Where in the name of Christ did you get those bloody mustaches? Take them off.”
“But they lend an air of verisimilitude,” I protested. I had come across them in a dressing-up box that had been stored in the Belvedere and had been eagerly awaiting a chance to try them out.
Without another word, he reached out and twitched them from my face, dropping the long strands of wiry black horsehair into his pocket.
“Philistine,” I muttered. “Those were works of art.”
“They were damned silly,” he retorted, “and likely to get us killed.”
“Aha!” I cried. “So the opium den is a place of danger and mystery.”
He rolled his eyes heavenwards and heaved a sigh. “Come on then.”
During our first foray into mysterious adventure, Stoker and I had formed the habit of walking London after darkness settled. It was a thoroughly different place to the bustling and businesslike capital of the daylight hours. After night spread her inky skirts over the city, the denizens of the shadows came into their own and the business of moonlight was serious. The society types kept to streets well illuminated by gaslights and even electric bulbs. Their theaters and ballrooms shimmered and gleamed while they basked like moths in the reflected glow. But the rest of the city was where life was truly lived. The lovers who dared not be seen by daylight crept out to share embraces beneath the rustling leafy canopies in the parks. Prostitutes and thieves plied their trades in shadowy alleyways, while the organ-grinders spun melodies for stray coins and drunks stumbled loudly from the public houses on every street corner. Couples quarreled and children wept while duchesses swept past in velvet-tufted carriages. It was a glorious tumult, human life teeming under a microscope, and I had learnt from these nocturnal excursions to appreciate the city I now called my home.
This night we made our way peacefully enough through the streets of Marylebone to Bloomsbury. We were—to all appearances—a curiously imposing gentleman and his Chinese servant. I had not altered my face beyond the attempts to make it seem more masculine; I could only hope that the usual predilection to treat servants as furniture would hold.
The house was just off a quiet square, a street of respectable-looking dwellings in a respectable-looking quarter. A less likely establishment for genteel debauchery I could not imagine.
“Are you certain,” I began as Stoker lifted the brass knocker upon the door. He held it out for my inspection, and I saw it was a heavy piece wrought into the shape of a dragon.
“Quite,” he said with a grim smile. Before he could even drop the knocker, the door swung back and a distinctly incurious servant waved us towards a small parlor. The house was like any other in London, I reflected in heavy disappointment. There were no exotic touches to indicate this was a den of illicit doings; there was little besides horsehair furniture draped in antimacassars and a shelf of improving books. A plate bearing the legend A SOUVENIR OF MARGATE was particularly loathsome.
We waited only a moment or two before another door opened and a sober gentleman with lavish white whiskers appeared. My spirits lifted a little at the sight of him, for he wore carpet slippers in an outlandish design upon his feet, and a tiny smoking cap of orange silk perched upon a head that was bald as an egg.
“My dear friends!” he said coming forward with outstretched hands. “Welcome.” He peered closely at Stoker. “Ordinarily I require a letter of introduction from a friend, but you I remember well, sir. You are welcome.” He sketched a little bow and fluttered his hands. “As is your companion.”
He leaned towards Stoker and pitched his voice a little lower. “I am loath to pass judgment on any gentleman’s taste, but you will understand, sir, I am able to supply imperfect privacy for your . . . activities?” he asked with a suggestive wriggle of his magnificent brows.
If his assumptions surprised Stoker, he gave no sign of it. He merely offered the fellow a bland smile. “I seek only a pipe and an acquaintance I believe may be passing time here.”
What happened next seemed like a sort of conjuring trick. Stoker put out his hand to the schoolmaster and the old fellow took it, shaking a moment. I saw the barest edge of a bank note as he slipped his hand into his po
cket and realized Stoker had just paid him handsomely but with perfect discretion.
“The name of the one you seek?” the schoolmaster asked.
“Pettifer,” was the prompt reply.
“Ah yes! He has just arrived. Your appearance is most timely, sir. I will conduct you myself.”
He guided us to the door through which he had appeared, then led us into another sort of parlor, this one with several low tables where a collection of people had gathered to talk and drink tea and smoke short pipes. We did not tarry. The schoolmaster led us to the staircase at the far end of the room, and as we mounted, I realized the entire upper floor had been given over to the enjoyment of opium. What must have at one time been a series of spacious rooms had been knocked together to form an open area with little curtained alcoves for a semblance of privacy. Here the richly fruited scent of opium hung in the air, the smoke redolent of neglected orchards and barnyards after a heavy rain. The schoolmaster counted off the alcoves as he went, then paused before one shrouded in green silk, the fabric heavily figured with more dragons.
“Here you are,” he said with a bow. He vanished then, leaving us to announce ourselves. With surprising delicacy, Stoker gave a low cough first, then slowly twitched the curtain aside. I do not know what he expected to find, but Mr. Pettifer was respectably attired, having removed only his coat, his collar still firmly pinned in place, his cuffs pristine. He was bent over a pipe, muttering to himself as he tried—and failed—to light it.
Mr. Pettifer looked up as the light from the outer room shone into his darkened alcove, then raised a hand to his eyes. “Who is there, please? I cannot see you.”
Stoker stepped forward and I followed, letting the curtain fall behind us. The alcove was furnished with long low couches of green satin arranged around a table of the sort we had seen downstairs, lacquered black and set with the necessary impedimenta as well as a bowl of fruit and a tea service. A pair of muted lamps hung upon the walls, and a few pretty photographs of Chinese landscapes completed the furnishings.
While I took note of our surroundings, Stoker greeted Mr. Pettifer. “Templeton-Vane. We met briefly at your mortuary today in the company of Mr. Padgett. This, in spite of her masculine attire, is Miss Speedwell.”
The poor fellow paled so quickly I thought he would surely faint, but he rallied nicely although he still gaped for air as if he were suffocating.
“Stoker, you mustn’t loom over people. It is unnerving,” I told him. I gestured towards the pillows piled upon the divan. “Do you mind, Mr. Pettifer? I think it would be best if we made ourselves comfortable.”
Without waiting for a reply, I took up two of the largest and placed them on the floor opposite the little table. Stoker and I settled ourselves, sitting in neat cross-legged fashion while Mr. Pettifer still stared at us. For a brief moment his eyes flicked to the curtain, but Stoker shook his head.
“I beg you not to raise an alarm. I am not much in the mood for a fight, but if you force the matter, I can promise you I will rise to the occasion,” he said, and his lazily pleasant tone was more terrifying than any grim threat he might have offered.
Mr. Pettifer swallowed hard and attempted to light his pipe again, but his hands were trembling too badly. He dropped it, spilling the contents. Stoker reached out, but Mr. Pettifer withdrew his hands as swiftly as if he had been burnt.
“Steady, old man,” Stoker said peaceably. “I only mean to light your pipe. I rather think you could do with a puff or two.” He retrieved the necessary accoutrements and set to work. Within a moment he had a nicely glowing pipe ready for Mr. Pettifer, and he offered it with a genial smile. The smaller fellow took it, falling upon it like a starving man and sucking so hard I thought his eyes should pop.
But the effect was remarkable. A few minutes later his entire demeanor had changed; he was relaxed and affable, his nerves calmer, and he even managed to speak.
“You will not tell them? At the mortuary?” he asked, giving Stoker a close look.
Stoker shrugged. “Ought I to tell them? Do you work when you have been at your habit?”
The little man’s expression of outrage was heartfelt. “Never! But I find the business difficult at times. And a pipe is the only thing that soothes me.”
“The effect is no different than the bottle of laudanum a chemist might provide the average tradesman’s wife,” Stoker pointed out.
“Very true,” said Mr. Pettifer, pulling on his pipe with obvious contentment. “Why have you come?”
Stoker took a moment to prepare a pair of pipes, presenting one to me with a flourish. Mr. Pettifer was by then in a froth of impatience again, and I realized that Stoker had used the delay to heighten the other man’s fear rather than out of any real desire to ply me with intoxicants. Still, when in Rome, I told myself as I took a deep inhalation of the pungent smoke. I held it in my lungs as I counted slowly to ten in Mandarin, then exhaled it through my nostrils.
Stoker took a pull upon his own pipe and looked to me. We had plotted our strategy on the walk. Aware that something had been left from the official report, we concluded the only way to unearth the information was to tease it out of the diffident little undertaker, a task that seemed best suited for a woman. Bearing that in mind, I turned to Mr. Pettifer. “As you have no doubt surmised, we want to talk about the death of Maud Eresby, the artist who called herself Artemisia.”
His hand stilled, and for an instant even the smoke itself seemed hesitant to move. Then it stirred, rising lazily overhead, and Mr. Pettifer gave a short nod, the tip of his nose pinched and white. “I see. And if I don’t tell you, you will take news of my doings this night back to the mortuary, is that the game?”
“There is no game, Mr. Pettifer. Only fair dealing. We would like some information you possess. If you are kind enough to share it with us, we will go on our way.”
“And if I don’t?” he challenged. He gave a quick glance to Stoker’s advantage in inches and shook his head. “Never mind. I don’t want to know.” He pulled at his pipe, held the smoke in his mouth a long moment, then exhaled a cloud of it, perfuming the little alcove with the scent of rotting sweetness. Stoker’s own technique was more relaxed, a slow, rhythmic suck and release that kept the smoke swirling indolently above his head while I sent ribbons of grey smoke straight towards Mr. Pettifer, entwining him.
He began to speak. “I assisted Mr. Padgett when Miss Eresby arrived in our mortuary rooms. He sent me on an errand while he spoke with a fellow from Scotland Yard, but I overheard a little of what was said.”
“What did this man from the Yard look like?” I put in. My tongue suddenly felt thick, and I was seized by the certainty, the unbowed conviction, that we would learn something tremendously important.
He closed his eyes and made a verbal sketch of the fellow down to his bright brown eyes and nonchalant manner. “Mornaday,” I murmured to Stoker. He nodded but said nothing.
Mr. Pettifer opened his eyes again. “What did he and Mr. Padgett discuss?” I asked.
“That there was more to the death than had been written in the post-mortem,” he replied promptly. He began to speak again but trailed off and sucked hard at his pipe. It seemed to be doing him little good. Stoker was growing progressively more relaxed and I was feeling no effects whatsoever, but Mr. Pettifer was taut as a drum. He took out a handkerchief and mopped at his brow.
“We know there was something curious about how she died,” Stoker told him. Mr. Pettifer relaxed a little then, obviously pleased that we did not mean to force the details from him. For an undertaker, he was decidedly ill at ease with death.
“Will you tell us what that curious thing was?” I asked gently. Mr. Pettifer continued to smoke, nodding slowly as he did.
I glanced at Stoker who pursed his lips and exhaled great ribbons of smoke from his nose rather like a dragon. I narrowed my gaze at him for showing off, and his mouth twi
tched as if he were suppressing a smile. I puffed my own pipe heavily for several drafts, wondering if there was something faulty with my opium as I detected no change within myself except a certain lassitude that might well have been a result of the lateness of the hour.
Mr. Pettifer spoke, his voice dreamy. “She was drugged,” he said finally.
“Drugged?” I fairly quivered with anticipation.
“Yes, some sort of opiate,” he said, weaving slightly as he sat, his eyes slowly crossing. “A preparation of laudanum, most likely.”
“But why?” I demanded. He flinched a little, and I forced myself to sit back, gentling my tone. “What purpose would there be in drugging her if a murderer meant to slit her throat?”
“Much easier,” he said, his eyes going glassy. “Would take a strong man, large man to cut the throat of a fine, strapping girl like that. But if she were uncon—uncon . . .” His voice trailed off again and he pursed his lips as if in a soundless whistle.
I darted another look at Stoker. “A woman?” I mouthed. I thought instantly of Ottilie Ramsforth and the motivations that might lie beneath her cool, milky composure. But she had been dressed entirely in white—white that was unstained with Artemisia’s blood. Who then? Emma Talbot? Little Cherry?
I turned to Mr. Pettifer. “Why would Scotland Yard not want this known?”
He gave me a vague stare. “Eh?”
“Scotland Yard, Mr. Pettifer,” I replied tartly. “They suppressed this information. Can you explain that?”
“Things are being hushed up from on high,” he said with a slow blinking of the eyes.
“Mr. Pettifer, are you meaning to wink at me?”
“I am,” he said complacently.
A Perilous Undertaking Page 24