A Coldblooded Scoundrel

by JoAnne Soper-Cook

  "At the desk?"

  Freddie glanced behind him at Devlin's sticky desk, with its surfeit of papers and its empty, bewildered tea cup, and wondered what he was supposed to be looking for. "Sorry?"

  "Christ!" The expletive exploded out of Foster with the same force required, in another man, to expel a particularly recalcitrant bowel movement. "Morris is the sergeant at the desk! Were you dropped on your head, or what?"

  "Well, I have had a bit of a knocking about," Freddie conceded cheerfully.

  "Look ' Old Brassie told me to tell you that Devlin is gone after Whittaker. I don't know who Whittaker is, or where he come from, or if his mother's givin' a bit of a knees-up at the Pig and Spout. All I know is that Devlin is gone looking for Whittaker." Foster exhaled, letting all the air out of himself, and disappeared down a stairwell, still muttering.

  Freddie Lewis crossed to Devlin's tiny window and gazed out of it for a moment, enraptured with the view: a brick wall, and a pair of nesting pigeons whose effluent had painted the scenery in multicoloured strands of slimy matter. Freddie was the sort of man in whom the intellectual dawn is very slow to break, but whose light is staggering to behold. When the light broke, Freddie jolted away from the window as though he'd been shot at, turned, and sailed down the same stairs as the deflated Foster.

  Outside, on the pavements, he paused to reflect while adjusting his gloves. Devlin had obviously got it into his head that Whittaker could be found and neatly captured by merely his own efforts ' a dangerous assumption, Freddie knew, especially given what Whittaker's bludgers had done to him. Of course this plan of Devlin's ' if indeed he had a plan ' was completely mad, for how could Devlin know where Whittaker was? Perhaps he'd had communication from Whittaker ' perhaps that's what the dead cat was all about. Freddie could just imagine how cheerfully that parcel had been received. So now Devlin had another reason to want his vengeance, and, given the inspector's penchant for impetuous single- mindedness, he could have scoured the length and breadth of London by now.

  The idea didn't cheer Freddie one little bit.

  The dead cat had not been received in anything resembling good cheer. Devlin remarked on it to himself now, as he sat screened behind the black sides of a maria, waiting outside a gentlemen's club in Piccadilly. The October chill had seeped into his bones until he felt deadened, cold and stiff, and still there was no movement in or out of the door. He cursed gently, and without any real feeling, as yet another dubious-looking specimen loitered on the pavement, blocking his view of the doorway, but he could have no real hope that Whittaker would even be here. He was going on gut instinct alone, and a sixth sense that told him

  Whittaker had been here, might be here again soon. It wasn't so much that Whittaker was a dangerous killer who must be caught ' no, it went far beyond that now ' it was that Whittaker had dared to strike at someone close to Devlin, and for that offence if no other, he would swing.

  Devlin had, for all intents and purposes, cast aside the trappings of a Yard man. He could not consider doing this while dressed in his habitual dark suit and woollen overcoat, and so he was wearing a selection of ragged clothes that had been handed off to him by Reginald Harker. 'I keep these things for... situations," Harker had told him, although Devlin had no idea what that meant, and decided not to ask. He figured it probably had something to do with Harker's passion for grave robbing, and, come to think of it, the clothing did retain a rather fusty odour. It would have to do, because Devlin had no time for niceties. He'd been haunting molly houses and gentlemen's clubs (as well as the dangerous places near the docks) for days now, hoping that Whittaker would come looking for another victim. So far, the killer had been irritatingly cautious about his movements.

  Devlin slipped out of the maria and moved into the shadows, eminently grateful that darkness came early at this time of year. He stuck his gloveless hands into his pockets and adopted a rolling sort of stroll, such as a drunken seaman might display, and ambled his way along the pavement to the club. He braced his back against the wall and slowly slid down it, to sit with his ragged coat puddled around his knees; the gin bottle was in his pocket, at the ready, and he pulled it out, took what passed for a long drink, the liquor barely touching his lips. He would need all his senses for this. No sense in being on the point of collaring Whittaker and then mucking it up. Devlin smiled grimly to himself, wondered where Freddie Lewis was, and hoped that the young constable was safely resting at the home of Violet Pearson in Kensington. No need to bring Freddie into this ' best leave him and everyone out of it ' and Devlin was acting on his own recognizance now, no longer affiliated with any law except himself.

  Two men staggered out, leaning on each other for support, and began to laugh hilariously at some private joke. Devlin rolled onto one hip and regarded them blearily, rubbed a dirty hand across his unshaven face. Strangers, no one he knew, and certainly not Whittaker, who'd be gorgeous even if he rolled himself through the sewers of London. Whittaker had always been like a set of silver buttons: shining and perfect, immune to threat of tarnish. "Spare us a drink?" The taller of the two wandered over to Devlin and stood swaying over him for a moment; in the cold October damp, his breath steamed out of his mouth and nose and seemed to condense into the air.

  "Piss off," Devlin growled, clutching his bottle to him. He didn't want trouble ' if they insisted, he'd give them the bloody bottle and be done of it. To make a scene now would invariably expose his position, and then any hope of subterfuge would have flown out the metaphorical window.

  "Only wanted a tipple, guv'nor!" The man rejoined his companion, and Devlin sighed with relief, sagged back against the wall. Long moments passed, and in the lengthening shadows, a man brushed past him: elegant, well dressed in evening clothes with hat and stick. The hem of his overcoat brushed one of Devlin's shabby knees, and as he went by, the man said, "Good evening, Phillip."

  Devlin sat bolt upright, his gaze burning into the man's retreating back. He couldn't be certain that he had heard aright; perhaps the man had merely said 'good evening, fellow' or something of that like. There was no real proof that he had called Devlin by name, addressed him familiarly, as though they were friends or something more....

  By the time Devlin had rounded the corner, the man had disappeared. Devlin thought this was uncommonly like the stories in the pulpy magazines, with their tales of near misses and ships passing in the night and whatnot. He searched the faces of the crowds anxiously, scanning their eyes and their expressions for any hint or recognition, but found nothing. He retired to the maria and made his reluctant way back to his lodgings.

  Devlin had bathed and shaved himself, and was just sitting down to one of Mrs. Taylor's astonishing meals when the downstairs bell rang. He cursed quietly, and cut into the Yorkshire pudding with more than his usual alacrity. He was chewing when Mrs. Taylor ushered Freddie Lewis in, both of them deferential. On Lewis it seemed natural, but on Mrs. Taylor it had an unfortunate effect, like a tugboat struggling to seem dainty. Lewis stood with his hat brim clenched between his fingers, but Devlin was in no mood for niceties. He pointed the handle of his knife at the constable: "Sit."

  Freddie pulled out a chair hastily and slid into it, hands clasped in his lap. His hat had rolled under the table, but he dared not dive down to rescue it ' Devlin would probably murder him while he was down there.

  "Sir, I can explain ' "

  "You're out of bed." Devlin glanced up as Mrs. Taylor appeared with a second supper, which she placed in front of Freddie Lewis; her smile hovered somewhere between matronly and salacious, a combination which made Devlin acutely uncomfortable.

  "Sir, I felt that ' "

  "Out of bed, barely healed, and I bet you've been trailing all over London after me, haven't you?"

  "Foster said you'd gone after Whittaker yourself ' "

  Devlin snorted as well as he was able through a mouthful of beef. "Foster is a drunken sot who couldn't find his arse with two hands and gaslight."

  "I followed yo
u to Piccadilly." This was true: Freddie had secreted himself around the corner and kept Devlin in his view the whole time. "You'd do the same for me, sir, I know you would. I couldn't let you just walk in there, in to God knows what, without anyone to back you up, see." This tumbled out in a rush, followed by a moment of acute silence, during which Freddie delved into his plate with gusto.

  "Constable ' Freddie." Devlin laid his fork down and gazed at his subordinate. His stomach knotted itself into a curious, gruff tenderness, which he could not deny. The bruises on Freddie's face had faded to dappled yellow and purple, and the swelling had gone down, so that Freddie looked like someone had decided to paint his features in with watercolour and hadn't finished the job. "You're still not recovered. You should be in bed! And besides, I can't have you running after me ' it's not your task to take care of me. I'm supposed to do that for myself. "He bit down hard on his lip. "How are you feeling?"

  Freddie smiled. "Another day in that house with those women and I'd have lost my mind."

  Devlin chuckled. "Bit much, aren't they?"

  Freddie tilted his head, regarded Devlin quietly. "Is it true that you're going to marry Phoebe Alcock?"

  Devlin laid down his fork. "No, Freddie...no, I'm not. "How to phrase it so it made sense? But Devlin saw that he didn't have to, for Freddie was nodding as if he understood. Devlin couldn't discern the precise level of Freddie's understanding - it might be that Freddie was as much in the dark as ever, given the convoluted path his thought processes usually took. Devlin wisely left matters where they were, for he wasn't sure when or if he'd come to the decision to nullify his not-quite engagement with Phoebe. Perhaps, he reasoned, he'd begun to understand himself and his own nature, and no longer had any desire to hide from himself. Or maybe last night's supper had made him apoplectic - either way, he was content to let his digestion lie as it was at present, seeing as how Freddie himself was satisfied with his response. Freddie was tucking into Mrs. Taylor's supper with a great deal more relish than was strictly necessary, but Devlin supposed that the poor lad had been subjected to barley water and great lashings of oatmeal during his convalescence, and little else.

  Devlin was early at his desk the next morning, a cold and foul morning with a heavy, drenching mist and a chill in the air that went straight to the bone. He'd barely hung his coat before Barnicott appeared, his red hair somehow managing to stand nearly straight up on his head, giving the impression of mind-shattering fear - Devlin supposed it was the humidity. "Sir Neville wants to see you, sir - said it was urgent. He's in his office waiting for you."

  Devlin waited till Barnicott had vanished, before folding gracefully forward and slamming his forehead into the hard wooden surface of his desk. Damn, damn and double damn again - what was it this time? Perhaps Old Brassie had heard about Phoebe's overtures, and decided to put his oar in. Devlin had visions of being frog-marched down the aisle of the church, with Old Brassie's hand at his collar and a phalanx of constables making sure he didn't try a runner. Or perhaps Old Brassie desired Devlin's attendance at another of his wife's infernal tea dances. Whatever it was, it could not possibly be pleasant.

  It wasn't. Sir Neville Alcock had a terrible cold, and that, combined with his effusively running nose, gave him the look of a frustrated Brahma bull in heat. His eyes were red about their rims, deceptively weepy-looking, and his lips were similarly wet. He was in a bad temper, too, barging around his desk, swinging his stomach in front of him, and pausing now and then to cough resoundingly and spit a slimy organic substance into his handkerchief. It made Devlin queasy.

  "I've been looking for you, Devlin." Sir Neville sank his fleshy bottom into the chair cushions and regarded Devlin as he might a mound of horse turds. "I've been hearing things."

  "Things?"

  "What's this I hear about you taking a constable and a maria and going after Whittaker yourself - in disguise and plainclothes, no less."

  Devlin allowed that, as a detective, he always worked in plainclothes - but as soon as the statement was out of his mouth, he wondered whether this was precisely what Sir Neville meant.

  "Skulking about the streets like a common thief! Lying in wait for him, although I'm certain you got nothing for your troubles."

  "I need - we need - to bring Whittaker in before he kills again." Devlin considered the bald fact, wondered if Whittaker had killed today, or if he would kill tomorrow. There was a certain sordid inevitability about it that left him chilled throughout. Or maybe that was the weather.

  "I know that!" Sir Neville barked - a noise that degenerated into a coughing fit that lasted several long minutes, and whose end product was the unfortunate spitting of still more mucus into Sir Neville's already burgeoning handkerchief. "But I can't have my detectives going off on their own, it's not right. You might get yourself into a pack of trouble, and then the Force is all over the newspapers, being laughed at."

  Devlin couldn't imagine anyone in their right mind laughing at Sir Neville - at least not to his face, but he didn't say anything.

  "You seem dead set on getting this Whittaker, as if he'd done you some kind of a personal injury. I know about Elizabeth Hobbs - I remember the case - but I can't for the life of me understand why in the world you're so obsessed - "

  Here Devlin felt it necessary to defend himself. "Sir, with all due respect - "

  "Shut it!"

  Devlin obediently shut it.

  "I've been hearing talk, Devlin - that you and this Whittaker have some kind of a history." Sir Neville peered at him, his blubbery lips quivering. "It's no accident that Freddie Lewis was beaten, to my mind."

  "I had nothing to do with that - sir. Constable Lewis is a very good friend, I would - "

  "What I'm saying to you, Devlin, is this: at all times, a police detective must be above suspicion. He must be circumspect, without a stain on his past. These things come back to haunt a man." Sir Neville grunted, not unlike a pig nosing about for truffles. "I know."

  Devlin stared at the toes of his shoes. Now all the old ghosts were coming home to roost, descending on him like a murder of crows. He still felt incredible guilt over the attack on Freddie, and counted himself at least partly responsible - but he couldn't say anything of this sort to Sir Neville, because he knew that to do so would immediately lay all his proclivities bare. How much easier if a man could be himself, if he were permitted to live as he chose, under the aegis of society.

  "You are hereby suspended, with pay, for an indefinite period."

  This slammed into Devlin like a series of body blows, rendering him effectively speechless, as silent as one of Harker's purloined corpses.

  "I cannot have you going off on your own because you've got some score to settle with this Whittaker." Sir Neville produced another handkerchief, sneezed voraciously and inspected the nasal effluvium that this action had created. Devlin felt as though he were being dismissed, and indeed, he had been.

  He was packing up his meagre belongings when Freddie came in, bearing mugs of tea and his assortment of facial bruises, all of which were fading nicely. This did nothing to assuage Devlin's guilt, but Freddie's surprise momentarily overrode him. "What the devil...?"

  "Suspended indefinitely," Devlin said. He declined to add 'with pay' because Freddie might hit him up for a loan - Freddie was bad for that.

  "Has he gone mad?" Freddie put the mugs down, moved to inspect the contents of the box. "You've took down all your pictures - where's your fern?"

  Devlin laughed humourlessly. "I tossed it out the bloody window." He had, and he had enjoyed watching it plummet to the alleyway below and smash, a devastated green smear.

  "What are you going to do now?"

  "What I've been doing all along - my job." Devlin took his still-wet overcoat from the peg and slipped into it. The damp wool hung heavily from his shoulders like a shroud, nearly dragging him to his knees. He felt suddenly old and tired.

  "Are you sure that's a good idea?" Freddie came round the desk, stood in front of him, bl
ocking Devlin's escape. "It's my fault, isn't it? I got beat up by Whittaker's bludgers and now you got to pay for it."

  "Freddie..." Devlin sighed through a sudden sharp pain in his heart. "None of this is your fault."

  "I'm going with you."

  For once, Devlin made the first move: he cupped Freddie's face between his palms, his thumb brushing the younger man's bottom lip. "You are most certainly not. I won't allow it. You've got a future here, Freddie."

  "What about you? Who are you going to get to help you? I know you won't let this alone - you'll be out there after him."

  Devlin dropped his arms to his sides. "I haven't thought that far ahead. I might enlist Mr. Harker's help, I don't know."

  The younger man's face fell. "Mr. Harker... you'd choose Mr. Harker instead of me?"

  "Oh, for God's sake, Freddie!" Devlin felt all the tension in his body gather itself into a knot, just behind his solar plexus. He lunged forward and kissed the constable - a hard, brutal kiss that communicated nothing but frustration. "Come and see me later on, alright?"