by KJ Charles
“No. Do you think he’ll talk to you?”
Gil nodded. “He’ll know of me, for certain: I’m the only bookseller of colour on Holywell Street. I reckon he’s more likely to talk to me on my own.”
“You’re probably right.”
“Anything particular you want me to ask? What are you hoping he’ll tell you?”
Vikram shrugged. “Anything at all. Presumably he must have made conversation with his subjects, ah, in between. He might know the name of Sunil’s gentleman friend, or have some clue in that direction, or know if Sunil had any intention to go anywhere. He could confirm if your half-brother or someone else ordered the pictures. I don’t know, Gil, I’m clutching at straws. I just want something I can tell Sunil’s parents.”
“I can’t promise that,” Gil said drily. “But you never know. I’ll do what I can.”
He’d wondered if they’d have trouble finding this Thomas Oswald on Great Wild Street. In fact the man had a sign advertising photographic services on the door of a nondescript and dusty insurance office.
“I suppose he works out the back,” Gil said, as they stood in front of the door. The shop was shuttered; upstairs the curtains were closed. “Tell you what, you get a couple of mugs of tea from the stall we passed while I see if anyone’s in. If he is, you’ll need them both to warm up while you wait, and if he isn’t, I’m dying for a cuppa.”
“You could have one first,” Vikram suggested. “You’ve taken a great deal of time to help me with this. You needn’t deny yourself tea.”
“It hasn’t been a hardship.”
“Maybe not. But you dropped everything to help me, and trudged around in this vile weather, and I felt you should know I don’t take it for granted. I appreciate that you did that for me.”
There was just the slightest hesitation before the last two words, and he wore what Gil knew to be a slight frown, though anyone else would have seen an intimidating scowl. Christ, Gil loved his eyebrows. Christ, he wanted Vik around.
For me. Was that a question, and how the hell was he supposed to answer it?
“Anything for you, sweetheart,” he said, and instantly regretted the sarcastic tone, but had no idea how to remedy it. “You get your tea. I’ll knock this Oswald up.”
Vikram nodded, turned and trudged off through the crusty street sludge. Gil looked after him for a moment, increasingly sure he’d buggered that up. But what could he say? Of course I’d do this for you. I’d do pretty much anything that kept you around for a while. Except I wouldn’t, because I know you shouldn’t stay.
Vikram deserved better. Someone as upstanding as himself, without an ugly past and gnarly scars, a partner who’d aid in his work and not be an embarrassment to a decent lawyer. And as such, it was stupid for Gil to feel he’d done wrong by not saying anything. He wouldn’t have done either of them any good.
Whereas he could do this now so he ought to get on with it. He rapped on the door, then stepped back and looked up, catching just a twitch of movement at the curtain. He waited a few minutes, then knocked again. On the third round, the door opened.
“Yes?”
“I’m looking for Thomas Oswald.”
The man at the door was thin-faced, sallow-white, his last shave a few days ago. He stretched his lips out in a perfunctory extension that sufficed for a smile. “You have him. Can I help you?”
“Could you spare me a quarter hour?” Gil asked. “My name’s Gil Lawless—”
“Sittings by appointment only and not on a Sunday.”
“It’s not a sitting. I’ve a few questions.”
“I don’t work on Sunday. You’ll need to come back tomorrow.”
“Professional query, mate,” Gil said. “I’m in your line of work. Gilbert Lawless, bookseller, on Holywell Street.”
Oswald’s face went blank. Gil knew the expression well; he used it himself. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“I’m not here to make trouble.”
“You can come back on Monday.”
“I’m here now,” Gil said. “Fifteen minutes and I’ll be out of your hair.”
“Well, maybe you can—”
Oswald shut the door on those words, and looked quite startled when it failed to close because Gil’s foot was in the way.
“Seeing as I’m here, professional query,” Gil said, smiling nicely. “Fifteen minutes of your time, plus as long as you want to stand here letting the cold in.”
Oswald had a sort of blank, heavy look to his face. “You might as well come in and explain.”
He led the way to the back room, which had a skylight for all the good it did in this miserable weather, and was full of photographic clutter, tables, boxes of props and the like. Several sets of drapes hung on a free-standing screen, including a shabby blue length with a familiar fleur-de-lys pattern. It was cold, and Gil couldn’t see a stove.
“Do you have a fire when you’re taking your pictures?” he asked. “I’d have thought it gets chilly with no clothes on.”
“Who are you?” Oswald demanded. “What do you want?”
“Gil Lawless, Holywell Street, like I said.” He was starting to wonder if the bloke had been drinking, and if so what. He wouldn’t rule out laudanum. “I need to ask you about some lads you photographed.”
“Are you with the police?”
Fuck’s sake. “I’m a bookseller. Books and prints. You make the stuff, I sell it. We’re in the same line, savvy?”
“Who are you working with? Why are you here?”
“For crying out loud.” Gil was rapidly running out of patience. “Listen, will you? You”—he pointed at Oswald’s face to aid understanding—“took some pictures of a boy I know, all right? Pictures with him and another lad together. I’m trying to find out what happened to him after you took those pictures. Where he went, who he went to see, anything like that.”
“Why are you asking me?”
“Because this is the last place he was seen,” Gil said, overstating the matter somewhat in the effort to get through the fog in Oswald’s mind. “We’ve followed his trail, it’s got us here. I want you to tell me where to look next. Understand?”
“Who says I know anything?” Oswald asked. “What do you mean, trail?”
Gil fished out the photograph of Sunil and Errol, and handed it to Oswald. “That was taken in this room, wasn’t it? That’s the curtain over there.”
Oswald didn’t bother to look round. He was staring at the picture.
“When did you take it?” Gil pressed.
“I don’t know. A few weeks ago.”
“Was it done to commission?”
The colour went from Oswald’s cheeks. “Why, wh-why are you asking? Why does it matter?”
“Because there’s people want to know what happened to him. Shall we stop messing about? The quicker you tell me everything you know, the quicker we can sort it out.”
Oswald looked up from the picture at last. “Yes. Of course. I, uh—I can tell you something. It was a commission, yes, but I can’t reveal the name of the client, you understand, that would be—” His eyes flickered, as though he was looking for policemen in the shadows.
“Matthew Lawes of Wealdstone House,” Gil said, not making it a question.
Oswald’s eyes widened sharply, and he swallowed before speaking. “You— How— Yes. Yes, that’s right. I suppose you want to know about that.”
By God he did. “Yes.”
“Here. Sit down.” Oswald shoved a wooden chair in his direction. Its legs scraped on the floor. “I have a letter, from Mr. Lawes, let me find it. It will explain everything. You’ll see.”
Gil’s skin prickled. Explain. If his shitbag brother had played a part in Sunil’s disappearance—he didn’t know what he’d do but he’d tear the family apart rather than let that be covered up. He took the seat, thinking hard.
Oswald was still ferreting in a pile of papers. He said, “Sorry, I must have put it...” in a feeble sort of way and went to searc
h on a shelf behind Gil.
Suppose Sunil had gone to Wealdstone House, Gil thought. Suppose the pictures weren’t enough, and Matthew had wanted him in person. Suppose he’d arrived to find Matthew lying unconscious, drifting out of life, and Matthew’s lackey Vilney—or even Horace?—had decided to shut the boy up. The thought brought up goosebumps, the thrill of discovery along with a growing, angry urge to avenge whatever had been done to the boy, and he twisted impatiently to ask Oswald where this damned letter was.
That meant he saw the photographer in the act of swinging a mallet down at his skull.
Gil hurled himself sideways off the chair. The savage blow landed on his shoulder as he went down, and rebounded to connect with the side of his head, and he found himself sprawled on the hard, dusty floor, unable to understand anything but blinding pain. He heard a vague sound, as though Oswald was speaking through water, and tried to force himself up but his left arm didn’t seem to be working. He shoved as hard as he could with his right, pushing himself feebly along, and the mallet came down again with floorboard-splintering force about four inches from his face.
Gil’s ears were clearing slightly, although the pain was building in proportion. He heard Oswald gave an angry sob.
“Just stay still! Just stop it! I don’t want to do this!”
“Fucking don’t, then!” Gil’s tongue felt thick. He scrabbled backwards, shoulder and head throbbing in a very bad way, a nasty wet feeling on his face. Oswald’s face was a mask of horror and misery even as he raised the mallet again. “Stop it!”
“I didn’t ask you to come!” Oswald shouted. “I don’t want to do it! This is your fault! It was his fault, and now it’s your fault!”
Gil had his back to the wall now, shoulders propped up, but he couldn’t seem to stand and he needed to. If he stayed on the floor, even this lunatic couldn’t keep on missing his shots, and that mallet wouldn’t have to land twice to crush his skull.
Just as Errol’s skull had been crushed, and his body dumped in Clare Court, only a few streets from here.
Shit.
“You killed Errol,” he said, staring up at the man and the mallet.
“It wasn’t my fault!” Oswald sounded actually defensive, standing over Gil on the floor. “He made me do it, it wasn’t my fault, and why do you care anyway? Why would anyone care? But now you’re here and I’m going to have to— Oh God! Why couldn’t you just leave me alone?”
“But I’m not here about Errol,” Gil said blankly. “I was looking for Sunil.”
“Who?”
“The other one!”
Oswald’s mouth dropped open. He stared at the mallet in his hand as though he wasn’t sure what to do with it. Gil had a wild second’s hope they might be able to chalk this up to a misunderstanding, no harm done, and then Oswald looked at him again, his face hardening.
“I’m very sorry about that,” he said. “But it’s too late. It’s all too late. I don’t have a choice any more.”
He raised the mallet, and took a step closer, and in the passage a deep voice called, “Is anyone there?”
“Vik!” Gil screamed at the top of his lungs. “Help!”
Oswald turned fast, and Gil yelled, “Watch out!” as Vikram came slamming into the room, because if he’d brought Vikram into danger— He tried and failed to push himself up as Oswald charged forward, bringing the mallet in a wild sideways sweep that missed by a foot. Vikram recoiled, cast one wide-eyed glance at Gil, and tossed the contents of the steaming mug he held into Oswald’s face.
The photographer screamed. He didn’t drop the mallet, but he swiped at his eyes with his free hand, and Vikram barrelled in before he could gather his wits, pushing close to stop Oswald getting another swing in. It was done with some power, because Vikram was big, but what the fuck was a lawyer going to do against a lunatic—
Vikram brought his knee up. There was an audible impact of flesh and bone, and Oswald bent in two, folding to the floor with a strangled, high-pitched noise.
Vikram stooped and grabbed the mallet. He looked at it, looked at Gil over the other side of the room, and returned his gaze to Oswald with an expression so purely murderous Gil thought for a moment he might lift the thing and bring it down.
“Oi,” he rasped.
Vikram swung round, tossing the mallet to one side. “Gil. What happened?”
“He killed Errol. Hit me on the head.”
Vikram hurried over to kneel by him. “You’re bleeding. Where are you injured? Can you see me? Are you all right? How many fingers am I holding up? Gil!”
“Jesus, calm down,” Gil muttered unfairly, because what he actually wanted was for Vikram to hold him and not let go. “Fine. ’S just a knock.”
Vikram’s hand hovered over the side of his head. “This looks bad. Don’t move. I’ll get a doctor.”
“No!” The idea of Vikram going off and leaving him with Oswald was very, very bad. “Stay. Please.”
Vikram cupped his face. His hand felt rather hot, unless Gil felt excessively cold, and his eyes were intent. “I won’t leave you, I promise. And you may not leave me. All this blood—ah, the devil.” He shut his eyes.
I thought I was dead till you turned up. He could have killed me, and I’d have left you standing in the street with some stupid put-off remark as the last thing I said to you.
Gil couldn’t get that out, but he managed to lift his good hand to cover Vikram’s, needing the touch. “I’m fine. Nothing broken.” He hoped not, at least. His shoulder hurt, and he really didn’t want to be sick on Vikram.
“Keep still,” Vikram told him. “Listen. I do need to find someone, get them to send for a doctor and the police. I swear I won’t be long.”
“Oswald,” Gil managed. “If he gets up...”
“I know. Just a minute.” Vikram looked around the room in a vague sort of way as he rose, then gave a little nod to himself. He walked over to Oswald, who was still on the floor, screwed up his face, and, to Gil’s pure astonishment, kicked the man in the balls with the kind of force that suggested he’d been winning pub fights all his life.
Oswald made a noise like deflating india-rubber and curled up. Gil couldn’t blame him. “Jesus, Vik!”
“Well, it’ll keep him occupied,” Vikram said apologetically. He grabbed the mallet. “And I’ll take this with me. Hold on.”
He darted out, leaving Gil alone with Oswald’s airless whimpers, and a new respect for Vikram’s problem-solving powers.
It only took a few minutes for him to return, at a run. “Help’s on its way. All right?”
Gil tried a smile he didn’t feel. “Fine.”
“Good. I raised the alarm and sent a boy to find a policeman. They’ll be here soon. Meanwhile...” Vikram strode over to the whimpering photographer, reached down and hauled him up by his shirt front. Oswald made no effort at resistance. “Right. You will give me some answers. I would advise you not to try my patience.”
Oswald started bleating. Gil couldn’t listen. He rested his throbbing head against the wall and thought dizzily about Sunil, and Errol, and Vikram’s mission, and Oswald’s words. Why would anyone care?
“Hello? What’s going on here?”
It was a deep unfamiliar voice. Gil looked up and saw the blue serge of a police uniform, and his heart stopped.
Police. Fuck. With Vik here in this studio, the photographic evidence to hand—he knew how this went, they’d arrest everyone around and the magistrates had no mercy. He and Vik might even end up in Pentonville, like that other poor bastard, and there was no way Vikram would survive not talking for two months, it would kill him. Gil sat, frozen in an icy sea of panic, as Vikram spoke to the constable. He wanted to scream at the stupid sod to run, and had to bite his lips on the inside to keep silent.
The big policeman clomped over, heavy boots thudding on the floorboards. “Are you Mr. Lawless, sir?”
“He is,” Vikram said. “And as you can see, he is injured, and in no condition to answer ques
tions that will inevitably be repeated by your superiors. Now, may I suggest—”
Gil let the flow of words wash over him, until, to his vague surprise, the constable disappeared. He had no idea how Vik had swung that, but he couldn’t miss the opportunity it gave. “Mate?” he rasped.
Vikram came over, brows drawing together, and knelt by him. “What is it?”
“We’ll have to tell them about the pictures, to see this bastard hang.” Gil’s head was none too clear but he was sure of that much. “You don’t want to be involved. Get out before they get here, the rest of the peelers, I mean. Clear off. I’ll do it.”
Vikram blinked. “Are you all right?”
“Go.” Gil wasn’t even entirely sure if that would be possible, now Vikram had talked to the coppers like a fool, but they’d just have to try. He could take a stretch better than Vik could. “I can handle this.”
“What do you mean, handle it? You can’t even focus.”
Gil gripped his hand. “They’ll arrest you. Not having that. Get out.”
“For heaven’s sake,” Vikram said, sounding half way between exasperated and choked. “I am searching for Sunil at the request of his parents.”
“No real names,” Gil insisted. “I’ll make something up. George Smith, I dunno. Just go, will you?”
“Gil.” Vikram’s hold on his hand was so tight, so warm. “You’ve had a bang on the head. I am not in your trade, remember? I’m a lawyer. I promise you I won’t suffer for my involvement in the slightest, and I’m damned if you will either. I won’t let you go to gaol for anything and certainly not for me, you ridiculous— Do you understand? I’m in charge here. It’s all right.”
Gil blinked muzzily, but Vikram sounded so certain that it was hard to argue. Maybe he knew something Gil didn’t. “Is it?”