Lady Helen and the Dark Days Pact

by Alison Goodman

  ‘His lodging house is at Number 12, just past Brooks Chapel,’ Helen said, peering into the gloom. She saw a cross silhouetted against the sky and pointed. ‘There.’

  The Duke drew the grey to a stop. ‘Do you wish me to come with you?’

  ‘It is not necessary, thank you.’

  Helen fitted the toe of her boot onto the round brass foothold and swung down to the ground. She did not quite know what she was going to say to Stokes, but whatever it was, she did not want the Duke privy to it.

  Number 12 was a plain-faced red-brick dwelling with two shuttered windows on the ground floor, two above, and a door that led directly onto the road. She looked for a knocker of some kind, but the door was as plain as the building. She balled her fist and hammered on the wood. The door rattled against its hinges and lock, the thuds booming in the slumbering silence.

  There was no answer to her summons. She listened, finally finding a wheezing breath and a murmured, ‘What the devil?’

  She hammered again.

  Footsteps on the first floor, crossing a creaking wooden floor. The sound of a metal shaft sliding back. Helen pushed back her hat brim and looked up. One of the first-floor shutters opened, the window pushed out with a grating judder.

  ‘What?’ a congested voice demanded. A woman in a white cap, mid-aged, with the squinting frown of someone woken from a deep sleep, looked down, her nightgown covered by a red shawl bunched at her throat in a suspicious grip.

  ‘I am looking for Mr Stokes,’ Helen called.

  ‘You got a nerve at this hour, young man,’ the woman said. ‘Thumping on decent folks’ doors in the middle of the night.’

  ‘I do apologise. Is he there by chance?’

  ‘He paid up his reckoning and left a few hours ago. Got me out of bed to do it too.’

  Stokes had left his lodging?

  ‘Did he say where he was going?’

  ‘If it’ll make you go away, I’m to send his box to a place in Edward Street.’ She gave a wet, phlegmy laugh. ‘Moving up in the world, ain’t he?’

  ‘Edward Street?’ Helen repeated. Pike had a house in Edward Street.

  ‘Didn’t I just say that? Saints preserve me from foxed fools.’ She withdrew her head and closed the window, the glass shivering from the force.

  Helen stood at the door, marooned for a moment in the unexpectedness of Stokes’s departure. Why would he go to Pike’s house after midnight? Had the warrant come already? It did not seem likely — the timing was physically impossible.

  Another thought lifted her head. Had Pike decided to take matters into his own hands without a warrant? Now that was far too likely. But surely he would not know that Carlston had gone to London?

  She ran to the gig, found the brass foothold and climbed into the seat. ‘Edward Street,’ she said. ‘Pike’s house, quick.’ She gripped the handhold, realising the flaw in her plan. ‘Lud, I do not know the number.’

  ‘I do,’ the Duke said. He clicked his tongue, urging the grey into a wide turn. ‘If you recall, I paid him a visit after Union Street. After I saw you fight that creature so valiantly.’

  Helen sent him a sidelong glance. He smiled, although he did not take his eyes from the road. He knew he was being very useful. And very charming.

  Apart from a dog-leg curve around Parade Green and the Pavilion, it was almost a straight line from Stokes’s former lodgings to Pike’s house. The Duke barely slowed the grey from its canter across the town, drawing up to the small, neat house near the end of Edward Street in less than ten minutes. The dark windows were shuttered, only a night lamp lit above the stout front door.

  Helen swung herself to the ground and regarded the ordinary scene with a growing sense of bafflement. But what had she expected? Candles ablaze as Pike and Stokes plotted Carlston’s demise?

  ‘Allow me to accompany you,’ the Duke said. ‘Pike is a difficult man, but he has already discovered he cannot disregard my rank.’

  Helen inclined her head, although she was not sure she was in charge of the choice.

  This time there was a knocker on the front door: a well-buffed brass piece in the shape of a fish. Helen rapped its tail against the back-plate, the sharp rat-a-tat-tat loud enough to wake those on the Steine.

  She focused her hearing. Movement down in the basement and up on the first floor. Footsteps climbing steps and a sigh — young and very tired.

  ‘Someone is coming,’ she told the Duke. ‘A maid.’

  ‘You can hear her?’ Half of his face was lit by the lamp, the quizzical furrow of his brow giving him a rather saturnine expression.

  She nodded, resisting the urge to list what the girl was wearing — flannel nightgown and felt slippers. That would be coming very close to vulgar display.

  The door opened. A little face, slightly sleep-swollen, with thick plaits of brown hair, peered out, candle in hand. Blue flannel nightgown, Helen noted, with an ugly peach shawl hastily crossed over a thin bosom and tied at the waist.

  ‘Yes, sir?’ she whispered, bobbing into a curtsey.

  ‘Is Mr Stokes here?’ Helen asked.

  ‘No, sir.’ The girl’s eyes flicked up to the Duke, recognition coming with a blush. ‘Oh, Your Grace.’ She curtseyed again.

  ‘Is your master at home?’ the Duke asked.

  ‘No, Your Grace. Only my mistress. She’s abed. She’s not well.’ ‘Wake her,’ Helen said.

  Both the Duke and the maid stared at her, taken aback by the abrupt and unseemly demand.

  The Duke recovered first. ‘Well, girl, do as you are told.’

  The maid curtseyed. An order seconded by a Duke was an order to be obeyed. She ushered them inside a small foyer, her candle stub lighting a thin staircase leading up into darkness and a long hall, the walls of which held no adornment except a narrow table with a white porcelain tray upon it for visiting cards. Helen drew in a lingering scent of decay: Mrs Pike’s disease, ingrained upon wood and stone.

  Closing the door, the maid led the way into a small parlour room, the air still warm from the banked fire in the iron grate. Two heavy armchairs were positioned before the glowing embers, and a small worktable held a folded bedsheet that was in the process of being hemmed. The maid deftly lit three half-used candles on a sideboard with her own stub, their light bringing the rest of the room into gloomy definition: a small glass-fronted bookshelf, a larger table with four chairs, and a handsome workbox set upon turned wooden legs.

  ‘May I take your hat, Your Grace,’ she asked, bobbing again. ‘And yours, sir?’

  They handed over their headwear. The girl curtseyed once more and, with hats and candle in hand, left to inform her mistress of her visitors.

  The Duke walked across to the bookshelf and squinted at the spines. ‘The Pikes have a penchant for Scott.’

  Does not everyone, Helen thought. She studied the workbox, wrinkling her nose at the stronger smell of putrefaction. A folded piece of embroidery showed Mrs Pike to be a fine needlewoman. A familiar colour of cardboard caught her eye. She leaned closer and smiled. Mrs Pike was also fond of Gunter’s jellies. Did Pike buy them for her? It was strange to think of him buying gifts for his wife and living in this sparse, homely space. Somehow it made him seem less vile.

  She glanced across at the Duke. He had his hand over his mouth.

  ‘Can you smell it too?’ she asked.

  He looked up from his scrutiny of the books. ‘Smell what?’

  The creak of a stair turned both of them towards the door. Mrs Pike had rallied well under the circumstances. She wore a sweeping white house gown tied loosely over her yellow nightgown, both covered by a large green Norwich silk shawl. Her hair had been hastily bundled beneath a white pleated cap, and she held up a night candle in a tin holder, the soft light dragging at the corners of her mouth and deepening the lines upon her brow. She was clearly bemused by the lateness of their call, but still had the air of quiet dignity that Helen had seen in the Dunwicks’ supper room.

  ‘Your Grace,’ she
said, walking sedately into the room and curtseying. She turned a polite face towards Helen.

  ‘Allow me to introduce Mr Amberley,’ the Duke said.

  Helen bowed, her breath held. Would Mrs Pike recognise her as the lady she had met at the rout?

  Apparently not. She curtseyed and turned back to the Duke. ‘How may I help you, Your Grace?’

  Helen cleared her throat, forcing herself not to show revulsion at the smell of rancid meat. ‘I apologise for the intrusion, Mrs Pike. It is a matter of utmost urgency.’ She coughed again, trying to draw breath past the dank, overwhelming smell. The poor woman’s disease was clearly progressing if the stink was anything to go by. It was almost as strong as the foul odour in Lester’s cell. ‘We wish to know whether Mr Stokes has been —’

  Helen stopped, the unexpected connection between Lester and Mrs Pike exploding into a sudden violent understanding that rocked her upon her feet. The rancid smell was not disease. It was the smell of an Unreclaimable. Sweet heaven above, Mrs Pike was an Unreclaimable Deceiver offspring.

  ‘Is something wrong, Mr Amberley?’ she asked.

  Helen turned away, another realisation buffeting her like a physical blow. All she could see in her mind was that pale rusty name in Benchley’s journal: I Pike. Not Ignatious Pike, as she had assumed, but Isabella Pike. The woman standing before her had killed Sir Dennis Calloway, the Reclaimer that her husband had served. It all made terrible sense: why Pike hated Carlston and was so desperate to find the journal. Sir Dennis had asked Carlston for help to reclaim a madwoman and he had refused. In fact, Carlston had told Sir Dennis to put the woman out of her misery.

  Helen pressed her hand against her forehead, as if she could slow the rush of cause and effect. In Pike’s eyes, Carlston had refused to save his beloved wife and by doing so had caused the death of Sir Dennis and the loss of his Terrene power. He had been forced to seek Benchley’s help and been placed in a madman’s debt. A madman who had recorded the affair in his journal.

  Did Mrs Pike know?

  She whirled around to the woman again. ‘Tell me, do you remember a gentleman by the name of Sir Dennis Calloway?’

  Isabella Pike frowned in bewilderment. ‘Of course. He was an acquaintance of my husband. A government man as well. He died tragically, I believe.’

  ‘Yes, he did,’ Helen said. There was no sign of dissembling in the woman’s exhausted face. ‘Mrs Pike, forgive the personal nature of this next question, but do you suffer from times when you have no recollection of events?’

  Mrs Pike ran her tongue over her cracked lips. ‘I do. In fact, I have for many years. They cause my dear husband much anxiety. He is always searching for a cure. But how would you know that, sir? Are you a physician?’

  Poor woman. She did not know that in those missing hours she was a violent, murderous creature. Helen could almost pity Pike too: caught between his love for his offspring wife and his duty to the Dark Days Club. For years, living in a perpetual state of agony; knowing that discovery would mean the destruction of Isabella and his own ruin.

  Even so, his actions had brought them all to this sorry state.

  ‘I am also with the government, Mrs Pike. Can you tell me the whereabouts of your husband?’

  ‘He is gone to London, Mr Amberley.’

  ‘When did he leave? Is he with Mr Stokes? What prompted his departure?’

  She drew back a little at the barrage of questions. ‘I am not sure I wish to be interrogated in such a manner.’

  The Duke smiled. ‘Be easy, madam. We are friends of your husband. I can assure you the information is of the utmost importance.’

  She pressed her lips together, the quandary decided with a small sigh. ‘He received a note just after midnight and was gone almost immediately. I am not certain, but I think he intended to collect Mr Stokes on his way.’

  Perhaps it was a coincidence that Pike had left hurriedly for London, but Helen doubted it. She would wager that someone had informed him of Carlston’s departure, and he and Stokes were following with violent intent. But who could have sent the information?

  ‘Do you have the note?’ Helen asked as the Duke crossed the room to stand by her side.

  ‘No, I am afraid not. My husband burned it, as he does all such correspondence.’

  ‘Unfortunate,’ the Duke said. He glanced at Helen: Time to go? She nodded.

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Pike,’ he said. ‘We will show ourselves out.’

  ‘My husband is not in any danger, is he, Your Grace?’ she asked.

  The Duke smiled. ‘Of course not. You have my word upon it.’

  Mrs Pike nodded; the word of a Duke must be the truth. Even Helen had to admit that, for a second, she almost believed it too.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Helen braced her booted foot against the front dash of the Duke’s racing curricle and leaned into its shift as they rounded a curve in the moonlit road to London. She tightened her left hand on the edge of the curricle’s folded-back hood, her right hand clamping down harder upon the top of her hat. It was in constant danger of being snatched off her head by the wind created by the speed the Duke was coaxing from his team. He’d had the foresight to remove his own hat and jam it in the footwell between them. He had obviously driven in such a breakneck manner before.

  She had to admire his skill. He had both feet braced and the reins wrapped around his gloved hands, the jut of his long jaw showing the immense control it took to handle the four chestnuts in their headlong gallop. The heavy drum of hooves, grind of wheels, jangle of the harness, and the constant jolt and jar of the curricle on the poorly dressed road made conversation almost impossible. Not that Helen sought conversation; she did not want to disturb the Duke’s fierce concentration. Besides, she had more than enough to think about over the remaining miles to London.

  They had already passed Lady Margaret’s coach near Albourne Green. Mr Hammond had been on the box with the driver, leaning forward as if the angle of his body could somehow quicken their pace. He had raised his hand as they passed, urging the driver to whip up the horses, but the Duke’s team had quickly left them behind.

  Two small flickering wide-set glows appeared in the gloom ahead, the cold moonlight sliding across polished silver fittings. Another carriage. They had already passed three other vehicles since the turnpike at Hickstead. The last had been an elegant town coach on a blind corner, their two equipages almost scraping sides. The Duke had barely acknowledged the close call, merely uttering a low curse, then returning to their thundering progress. Helen, however, had peered back through the billowing rise of dust behind them. The heavier coach had pulled over and the driver was standing up on the box, his outraged shouts lost in the road noise.

  ‘Warninglid turnpike coming up!’ the Duke yelled, although he did not take his eyes from the road. ‘This team will last till Crawley. We’ll change there.’

  The oncoming carriage must have seen their carriage lamps for it was slowly veering to the right. By the silver fittings and large silhouette it was another town coach — there were quite an unusual number on the road. Helen pressed herself back into the seat as they careered towards it. This part of the road, at least, was straight and wide.

  A milestone flashed by: thirty-six miles to London. Still so far to go.

  The tollkeeper at Hickstead had reported that, yes, Lord Carlston had passed and in a mighty hurry, but he had not seen anyone who resembled her description of Pike or Stokes. Presumably they had taken the Cuckfield road.

  The driver of the oncoming coach had slowed his team to a walk, taking no chances. A feathered head poked out of the window to see what had happened. Helen saw an instant of a woman’s astonished face and then they were past.

  The keeper of the Warninglid turnpike told the same story as his counterpart at Hickstead. ‘Aye, Lord Carlston’s been through, sir,’ he said, squinting up at Helen’s question. ‘Bit less than an hour back. Couldna missed ’im. His man — huge blackamoor with some kind of heathen
drawings on his face — kept sayin’ his name.’

  Quinn, making sure anyone coming after would know they had been through.

  ‘How much less than an hour?’ Helen demanded.

  He sniffed, considering the march of time. ‘Not much less.’

  ‘What about two other men?’ Helen asked as she handed down the toll fee. ‘Both tall and thin. One with blond curly hair.’

  ‘Nah, I ain’t seen anyone like that.’ He flicked through the coins, then handed up the ticket. ‘This’ll take you through Crawley too, sir. Are you on some kind of race?’

  ‘Yes,’ the Duke said. ‘Open the gate, man!’

  By the time they reached Crawley, the sky had brightened into shades of dawn pink, and the horses were showing the strain of the sustained speed, their chestnut coats dulled to brown by sweat and road dirt. The Duke slowed them into a tired trot as they approached the Rising Sun Inn, its long, many-windowed frontage sporting a huge black and white sign across the top that proclaimed ‘Posting House and Livery Stables’. A neat fence made of white posts linked by chains demarcated the front of the inn from the road. A town coach, empty of its passengers, stood waiting opposite the entrance of the inn, the driver and an old ostler inspecting the hoof of one of its team. They looked up at the clatter of the curricle’s arrival, watching as the Duke manoeuvred his team in behind the larger vehicle.

  ‘Robbie,’ the ostler called over his shoulder, ‘His Grace, the Duke of Selburn. Four-in-hand!’

  A younger ostler appeared from the archway that led to the stables. He jogged over to them, touching his hat. ‘Your Grace.’

  ‘The greys ready for a stretch, Robbie?’ the Duke asked.

  The boy grinned. ‘Champing, Your Grace.’

  The Duke glanced at Helen. ‘Order some refreshment for us if you will. We shall be here but a few minutes.’