A suite of rooms lay behind the door and I was asked, again, to sit and await the master of the house. My heart was racing as I attempted to occupy myself by casting my eyes around the room, but I had barely completed a single visual circuit when the door opened, and McBride was there.
He had started to speak before he came into view. “What is the meaning of this, Pitt? I can only hope...”
He had the look of a man who knows that he recognises someone but can't place them. It was an affliction of the wealthy and powerful—one I was familiar enough with. He was wearing a green silk smoking jacket and held a lit cigar in his left hand. The colour in his cheeks suggested that his smoke had been accompanied by alcohol and I felt a sudden yearning for the stuff as all my efforts of the past 24 hours came to their final resolution.
“You are not Pitt. I saw him only yesterday,” he said, pointing at me. “You are...”
“My name is John Makepeace and what I have to say to you is a private matter.” I shot a glance at Prestwich who was hovering beside his master.
For a moment, McBride wavered. He was presumably weighing up the risk of being alone in my company with the possibility that I would say something he would not wish his servant to hear.
“You may go,” he said without turning his head.
“But sir —”
“I said, you may go.”
The valet directed a perfect scowl at me and exited through the main door.
“Come with me,” McBride said and led me through into his inner sanctum. Bookshelves filled with leather-bound volumes lined two walls, while an ancient-looking desk sat in front of curtained windows facing us as we entered.
Regaining some measure of self-assurance, McBride moved around to sit in the green padded swivel chair and reached for the half-drunk tumbler of whiskey. Without a word, he motioned at the decanter on the far corner of the desk.
I desperately wanted to fortify myself with a few mouthfuls of that fiery elixir, but I knew the risk. Those few mouthfuls would be merely the beginning and my mission would fail. I could not allow Valentina's words to be proven true.
I shook my head and he pointed at the small chair on the opposite side of the desk.
“I remember you,” he said, taking a drag on his cigar. He gave every impression of being entirely in control, but the slight tremor in his hands did not escape my attention. “You were in Grimes' room in that hovel on Bow Road.”
I choked back my anger—I had to control my rage if I wanted answers before I despatched this traitor. So, I simply nodded.
“I hear that he has fallen. A pity,” he continued, though his expression certainly didn't match his words.
I took my revolver from my pocket, pulled back the hammer and rested my finger on the trigger. I did it clumsily as my right hand was of little use, and yet it had the desired effect.
“What is this?” he said, his eyes widening in shock. With a thump, he dropped the tumbler on the desk and pushed himself back in his chair until he was almost within the window itself.
“Stop,” I said and watched with satisfaction as he froze in place.
“You are a traitor. To Grimes and to the people you are sworn to serve. By your actions, you have handed London to the vampires and turned it into a charnel house. What words do you have to justify yourself? What words do you have to say before I deliver justice on you?” My voice had risen and I now stood and leaned over the table, wincing as I instinctively tried to steady myself on my maimed limb. I must have looked like an avenging demon in a torn coat and he did not doubt that his life was in grave peril.
Unmasked
“I know what you did,” I said, as he sat with his gaze fixed upon the barrel of my pistol. “I do not know why you did it. Why did you send Grimes into that trap? What possible reason could you have had for turning him over to our enemies?”
“I will speak,” he said, “but I beg you to put down your weapon and hear me out.”
I shook my head. “You are in no position to negotiate. But I will grant you time to make your excuses.”
He relaxed a little at this and pulled his chair forward. His cigar had burned almost down to the end and he pressed it out in the ashtray of his desk. “Please sit down,” he said with a sigh.
I retook the seat, relieved to be able to take the weight off my tired legs and support my shoulder on the arm of the chair. But I kept my pistol aimed at him.
“What do you think I have done?” he asked.
“No, that is not how it shall be,” I responded. “I'm not playing games, Sir Charles.” I spat his honorific back at him. “You tell me what you have done, and I will judge the truth of it.”
He seemed to deflate as he sat there, his hawk-like face becoming even more angular as he prepared what he was about to say, knowing that his life depended on it. And then he appeared to relax, as if he knew that the time for concealment had passed.
“You are accusing me of collaborating to ensure that Grimes was in a certain location at a certain time. To that, I plead guilty. I did not know what fate he would meet there, but it was necessary for him to be delivered.”
“For God's sake, why?” I said, astonished to hear him speak so plainly.
McBride made a slight shrug. “In the main because he was a thorn in the side of those with whom I have cooperated.”
“Collaborated, I think you mean,” I spat.
“Semantics. Plans that have been in the making ever since the truce was first signed are now coming to fruition and Grimes was getting dangerously close to spoiling them.”
I felt as though a map were being unfolded before my eyes to reveal the true extent of a landscape that I had skirted the merest edge of. “What plans?”
“To explain it all would take hours, so I will summarise. Elements on both sides see the truce as a mistake. Chaos and war, you see, are good for business and innovation. Nothing motivates the best minds more than ensuring their own survival at the expense of their enemies. This truce succeeded too well, and we have had an unprecedented period of peace and a corresponding lack of profit for those who benefit from conflict.”
“So, money is at the heart of it?”
He looked surprised. “Of course. Money is at the heart of everything that matters. Do not look so shocked, Mr Makepeace. I detect the unmistakable aroma of class about you.”
“Do not presume to change the subject. Whatever my background, I have not betrayed my species.”
“Neither have I. I have merely made it possible for the old ways to be restored. There will be a brief period of disorder, but the status quo will return to the benefit of both sides.”
My hand gripped the revolver. “You disgust me. You talk of disorder, of status quo, but behind those words lie the lives of thousands, perhaps millions, of human beings. But they meant nothing to you as long as you survived and it shall give me some little pleasure to dispense the justice you so richly deserve.” I raised the pistol, but dropped it again as footsteps could be heard approaching the door and the butler entered without knocking and stood, wheezing.
“It is the little mistress, sir,” he said as he fought to catch his breath.
McBride leapt to his feet, ignoring any threat from my revolver. “Call Prestwich from his lurking place and tell him to attend.”
He strode towards the door as the butler scuttled away and I followed him as he entered the sitting room I had met him in. He opened a door on the left-hand wall and went inside.
It was a girl's room; I could see that immediately. Though only lit by a single candle that lay on a table beside the little bed that stood beneath the window, I could plainly see the dolls and children's books lined up on a nearby shelf.
The bed was of a four-post design with a canopy and drapes, and in it lay the slightest, most delicate child I ever saw outside of the gutters of the London slums. McBride had knelt beside her and was stroking her hand. It didn't appear that he'd noticed me at all.
“What is it, my dear?
” he asked.
The girl's eyes opened slowly, as if the very act of looking through them was impossibly wearisome. “Father, dear father. I am so very weak.”
“Are you not merely tired? You are not due another treatment for some days.”
She shook her head slowly. I guessed her to be, perhaps, eight or nine years old, although her wasted condition might have hidden her actual age. “Bless you, father, but no. I can barely...”
Her eyes closed and McBride turned his head and bellowed, “Prestwich!” Then he looked at me. “Where is he?”
I cannot say why, but I put my revolver back in my pocket and ran out of the room just in time to see the valet come in through the other door. He pushed past me, and I followed him back in.
“She must have another treatment,” McBride said, the panic in his voice obvious.
To my surprise, the valet shook his head. “It is too soon, sir. They are losing their effectiveness. We did warn that it might be so.”
“But I did what you said! You told me it would be alright, that you would save her!”
“I said we would try. We have tried. I fear we have failed.”
McBride leapt to his feet and grabbed Prestwich by the lapel. “You will administer the treatment immediately or, so help me God, I will bring the full might of the army down upon you and your kind.”
Prestwich pushed McBride away and smoothed down his lapel. “Very well, if you insist.” His malevolent gaze fell upon me and I knew, in that instant, what he was. “But first...”
In a blur he flew at me, his mouth open wide, eyes flashing red. I was entirely unprepared and cried out as my injured shoulder hit the wall. He grabbed me around the neck and the revolver flew from my hand as I attempted desperately to bring it to bear.
I fell to the floor beneath his weight and cried out for help as he pushed me down and then, astride me, he raised a knife grasped between both hands high above his head in readiness to strike. I was to be eliminated; the last of the watchers despatched like a slaughtered pig to herald the greater bloodbath that was the come.
With my uninjured arm, I flailed on the floor in the vain hope of finding the revolver and caught a glance of McBride sitting on the bed and paying no heed to my struggle. “Help!” I cried again, but he didn't stir; remaining, instead, looking down at his daughter with her hand in his.
As the dagger flashed down, I brought my arm up to shield myself and succeeded in deflecting the blow, but he simply raised it again and with a howl, thrust down.
Something smashed and I was showered in liquid. Prestwich fell sideways with a grunt and I looked up to see the butler standing there holding the neck of a bottle of champagne. “A pity,” he said with unreal calm, “it was a good vintage.”
“Thank you,” I said as he helped me up.
He nodded and then pointed at the crumpled form on the floor. “I must deal with that. Nothing good has happened in this house since he arrived. Please see to my master until I return.”
What could I do? Bloodied, bruised and covered with wine and fragments of glass, I went to comfort the man I had intended to execute.
I put my hand on his shoulder. The little girl lay still, as if peacefully slumbering, as he turned to look at me. “She has gone,” he said. “I have betrayed my kind and it was all for nothing.” Tears ran down his face and I turned away.
I waited downstairs as the butler, whose name was Cartwright, attempted to console his master. There was no Mrs McBride and, it seemed, the child—his daughter—was his last remaining living relative.
“I never trusted that Prestwich,” Mrs Cartwright said as I sat at the table in the parlour sipping a strong cup of coffee. She was McBride's cook and housekeeper and had travelled south with him from Edinburgh when he had been appointed to the government after a long career in the navy. Her future husband had joined the establishment as McBride's career had flourished and the two had become close before falling in love. It was a tender story that was quite lost on me that evening as I drank my coffee and nursed my wounds.
McBride had also found love by meeting and marrying the daughter of a colleague, but she, as was so tragically common, had died shortly after their daughter was born. Milly had been a sickly child from the beginning and had spent long periods in the country air at a house her father had purchased in Berkshire. In the end, however, even that couldn't prevent her coming down with a debilitating illness and her father had brought her back here to be attended by the best doctors in Harley Street. It was an affliction of the kidneys, they said, and there was no cure.
And then Prestwich had arrived. The master had no need of a valet, but Prestwich took that position anyway. He, it seemed, knew of a way to restore the girl's health and McBride was, by that time, desperate enough to try anything. Strange people visited the house and they brought with them equipment and medicines that, at first, seemed to be working. As time went on, the influence of Prestwich over their master grew until Mr Cartwright became almost entirely excluded from McBride's confidence and even Mrs Cartwright, who had known him since he was a boy, felt the distance grow between them.
“Aye, it was a black day when that horrible little man came over the threshold of this house, and nothing has been right since,” she said before gripping my arm suddenly. “Do you think my poor husband will be punished for what he has done?”
I shook my head. “He saved my life and, if I can speak to your master before it is too late, we might just be able to avert an even greater disaster. In any case, Prestwich isn't dead, and he is hardly going to press charges. But his hold over your master has now been broken, though in the most tragic of circumstances.”
The old woman's eyes moistened. “She was such a dear little thing, and now the master has nothing.”
“He has duty, Mrs Cartwright, and I intend to remind him of that, though you may think me callous.”
“No, I do not, Mr Makepeace. You know more than you say, and I can see that there is more going on here than an evil little man putting the hex on my master. My Cartwright will do his best to talk him round. Hark now, I hear him coming.”
Sure enough, the door swung open and the butler stood there, shaking his head. “Well, I do not know if you will be able to make an impression upon him, Mr Makepeace, but he is at least calm now. But tell me, should I call the police and have them take that criminal away from this house?”
I got up and took his hand. “Let me first thank you for saving my life.”
“To be truthful, I did it for my master. He had fallen far enough that he could not be allowed to permit murder under his roof. But you are welcome.”
“As for the police,” I said as I passed him, “I suggest keeping Prestwich under lock and key—gagged if you'll follow my advice—at least until the morning. Things may be clearer by then. When you do contact them, ask for Inspector Pitt.”
He gave a rueful smile. “The real Inspector Pitt, I presume.”
I found McBride sitting in an armchair beside the fire of his office where, only a brief time ago, I had threatened him. He looked up as I approached, and I could see that his eyes were puffy and red. In his hand he held a half empty tumbler of whiskey.
“Oh, it is you,” he said.
Without waiting for an invitation, I took the seat alongside his. “I am sorry for your loss,” I said with feeling. I too, as Mrs Cartwright had told me the child's story, had felt a deep sympathy for her and her father. “But I must talk to you. If there is to be any hope arising from this dark night, then it lies in acting quickly. Already there is bloodshed on the streets—what can we do to stem the flow?”
“I do not care,” he responded. He slurred his words and his head nodded. My patience expired.
“Now listen to me,” I snapped, wagging my finger under his nose. “You sit here as a wretched traitor to your people. I do not know what they promised you exactly, but I do know what they held over you and, believe me, I understand.” This last was a lie—at that time I had never
been close enough to another person to be able to truly empathise with his situation. The apparent death of Grimes had hit me the hardest and, in truth, I’d barely had time to get to know him at all.
My sympathy, however, had its effect. He emptied his glass, sat back and sighed. “You are correct, of course. I have lived my life according to duty and yet, in these past months, I abandoned all that in pursuit of my own selfishness. What sort of a fool am I?”
“A human fool,” I replied. And this time I meant it. “Now, tell me what you know of Grimes' fate. My heart tells me that much depends on him.”
He looked across at me. “Grimes? Oh yes, you know him. I forgot. Thought you were police. I expect I will have to speak to them.” His head dropped to his chest.
I reached across, grabbed his knee and shook it to rouse him. “There is no time for sleep! Is Grimes alive? Where is he?”
His eyelids closed and I knew I had only seconds before he would slip into unconsciousness. “Answer me, man!”
“Match factory,” he mumbled.
“That was where he was ambushed,” I said, “but I want to know where they took him.”
His head fell onto his chest. “Match...”
I bellowed with rage and shook him until Cartwright burst into the room and pushed my hands away. He was gone into the blessed depths of forgetful sleep and I was left with the fate of London in my hands and with no clue what I should do next.
So, I went home.
Holmes
The streets of London were unnaturally quiet as I ran home. I’d managed to hail a hansom to take me most of the distance, but the driver had insisted I dismount as we got closer to my home. As I ran, I came across, here and there, a pair of policemen stood guard at a crime scene and I was warned more than once to get inside as I passed.
By the time I arrived at the door to my rooms on the top floor of 215 Bow Road, I was too exhausted to notice that it was unlocked and it was only as I struggled to remove my coat while gravitating towards the welcoming warmth of the coal fire that I noticed the man standing there.
The Last Watchman Page 15