"He's over there - do you take our friends to the back room, John, before we're all of us discovered." Harker adjusted his tie and started forward, while Devlin struggled futilely in the apothecary's grip. No darbies in his pocket, and he'd been long since relieved of his warrant card, but by God, he'd lay hands on Whittaker tonight and collar him for good and proper.
"Harker has arranged this meeting - it's necessary to get Whittaker away from here and into some place more...secluded." Donnelly wrestled a breathless Devlin into a chair and loosened his muffler. "If we pounce on him here, the whole thing is finished."
"You're a bloody piece of work!" Devlin spat some woollen threads onto the table, cast the muffler away from him with an expression of distaste. "I suppose you cooked this up between the two of you, eh? Is that it? Cut Devlin out all together, let Harker ponce on in and take the credit."
Freddie bit into a particularly stubborn hangnail with perhaps more force than was necessary. "What does that mean," he asked, "ponce?"
Devlin ignored him. "What's he going to do? Lure Whittaker out onto the lawn and beat him with a rake?"
Donnelly caught Devlin's wrist in a powerful grip. The apothecary's brown eyes were cold and uncompromising. "He is going to lure him back to the house."
The tiny hairs on Devlin's forearms stood to sharp attention. He stared at Donnelly, open-mouthed, while Freddie gnawed his fingernails in contented silence. "The house," he said finally.
"This was his intention all along." Donnelly released him, sat back as a waiter appeared, bearing hot drinks for them on a tray. Devlin sniffed the cup, detected an aroma of rum and spices, and wondered if Donnelly and Harker had planned this aspect of it, as well. It certainly wasn't beyond the realm of possibility, given the means by which Harker had lured both Devlin and Whittaker here. Obviously the solicitor had depths that his bloodless exterior had never even hinted at.
"So what are we supposed to do in the mean time? Perhaps he might need reinforcements." Perhaps he might need his arse kicked for presuming to interfere in official police business.
"It's best if we wait here."
Devlin sniffed, in a manner intended to convey his irritation. "No doubt."
Harker had nearly worn out the carpet in front of the fireplace, and his ceaseless pacing was making Devlin dizzy. He was already quite nauseous, courtesy of his drink at The Checkers, and any moment he felt he might be compelled to hurl the contents of his stomach onto the hearth rug. His fever had reasserted itself, and he felt flushed and peevish; he kept falling into a fitful sleep, only to be awakened by Donnelly's grunts of exclamation. "What are we waiting for?" Devlin asked. His voice sounded thick and choked with mucus, and his skull was pounding rhythmically. "It's obvious he's given you the slip."
Harker whirled around, suddenly furious. "I will not accept that!" he roared. He subsided into silence, assumed a pose before the mantelpiece, one hand upon his hip and the other pressed against his forehead.
The outer door clanged shut, and footsteps sounded in the corridor. Harker lunged, but Devlin was quicker, and yanked the door open.
"I couldn't - I couldn't persuade him." Violet Pearson stood there, elegant and beautiful in her evening clothes. "I did everything you told me." She glanced at Harker, lounging near the fire. "It was like he knew something. I couldn't make him come here. I'm sorry."
Freddie took her arm and drew her near the fire, poured a glass of brandy. "It's not your fault," he said. The firelight played off the dirty smudges on his face.
"This throws difficulty into the whole arrangement," Harker sniffed. "Now I shall have to start all over again."
"No." Devlin felt the time had come to assert himself. "You'll do nothing of the sort. In the morning, I am going back to London, and I am going to demand that Sir Neville Alcock reinstate me, and then I am going to track Whittaker to his lair and I am going to arrest him." He sounded far more confident than he felt, but at least it was a start. Now to get the case back on track, back within the aegis of the Force, and get some work done.
Characteristically, Devlin went charging back to London, with Freddie at his side and a supply of fresh handkerchiefs in his pocket. Donnelly and Harker had elected to stay in the country for a few more days, as it was coming on for the weekend, and Harker felt that, as he put it, 'a respite from our onerous labours' was in order. Devlin had never in his life seen Harker perform anything like onerous labour, but he wisely held his tongue. Donnelly had given him a supply of the same viscous substance which he had previously poured down Devlin's throat, but Devlin tossed it out the window of the train as soon as they pulled away from the station.
"You could have stayed - spent some time in the country, enjoyed yourself." Devlin peered at Freddie. The young constable had been curiously quiet all morning, and Devlin wondered what was bothering him. "I'm sure Harker wouldn't have minded."
"I should be with you, sir - Phillip. And I'm still on duty." Freddie gazed out the window at the passing countryside. "I had to send a telegram saying I was sick - Old Brassie doesn't know I came away with you. He thinks you're at home with your feet up."
For the first time Devlin realised the depth of the sacrifice that Freddie had made - the depth of all the sacrifices that the constable had been making, ever since this sordid business began. He felt acutely ashamed of himself, that he had never thought to offer one word of gratitude - surely the constable deserved better. "Thank you." It felt awkward, and Devlin wasn't sure he could get the words out his mouth, or perhaps it was Donnelly's vile muffler. "You've been - " He sighed, huffed his breath out between his teeth. "See here, Freddie, I mean, you've been absolutely top hole about this, right from the start." He stole a glance at Freddie: the constable's cheeks were flushed with pleasure. "I feel badly that I've put you in such danger." It was true: ever since Freddie had been set upon by Whittaker's bludgers, Devlin had impressed upon himself how vital it was that Freddie stay out of the line of fire, that Freddie was his subordinate while he, Devlin, was the man in charge - or at least, had been the man in charge. Until Old Brassie gave him the heave-ho.
"I'd go anywhere with you." Freddie raised his head, tears glistening on his lashes. "You know that. I'd cut off my right arm if you had want of it."
"You're left-handed," Devlin observed. "It would hardly be such an entire handicap." He smiled. "You're a good 'un, Freddie." The effect of all this affection was making him slightly nauseous; it wasn't like Devlin to say the things that he was feeling, even if the situation seemed to demand it. He had always believed that actions spoke much more forcefully than words - but he thought that perhaps others might like to hear him cast about a few platitudes now and then.
"What do you think he's going to say?" Freddie fished out a handkerchief and dabbed at his eyes.
"Old Brassie?" Devlin permitted himself a humourless chuckle. "He'll probably clap me in irons - or he would do, if he could."
Sir Neville Alcock didn't necessarily need to clap Devlin in irons: as soon as the train pulled in to Waterloo, Devlin understood the true length and breadth of his difficulties. "See this?" Freddie came towards him, bearing a newspaper. "Your picture's on here!"
"Bugger." Devlin caught Freddie's arm and pulled them both back against the wall. "Let me see that."
Oh yes, there it all was, in plain black for all to see: Inspector Phillip Devlin, lately of Her Majesty's Metropolitan Police Force, wanted on the charge of attempted murder, two young gentlemen (Devlin snorted) found gravely injured in a laneway during a fracas.... Devlin tossed the newspaper away from him and tried to think. The morning sunlight was streaming past the rising mist, casting long shadows on the platform, lighting up the window glass and the brass door fittings, and glistening in Freddie's blond hair. Devlin envisioned his future as a series of doors, all shut upon him, leaving him in blackness and privation.
"What are you going to do?"
Freddie's voice snapped him back to reality. "You go to work, Freddie."
"W
hat are you going to do?"
Bloody good question, Devlin thought, considering the pickle he was in at the moment. "Stay away until you hear from me," he said at last. "Don't come to my rooms unless you know absolutely that you've not been followed."
"But - "
"Freddie, I'm a wanted man. If this gets processed through the courts, I'll swing for it." Devlin had witnessed many a hanging in his time; he wondered grimly if he would now witness his own. He turned to go, before Freddie could protest.
His arm was caught and held. "I'm going with you. Wherever you're going, I'm going too."
Devlin sighed. "I appreciate your loyalty, Freddie, but right now isn't the time."
"It's got nothing to do with loyalty!" Freddie hissed. "Dammit, Phillip, I love you. And I know you and Mr. Harker and the rest all think I'm as thick as pudding - "
"No one said anything about pudding!" This was getting him nowhere – it was all fine and good to argue with Freddie, but to argue with him in the broad light of day in Waterloo station was quite another, especially as things stood now. "Alright," he said wearily. "Alright. But you do exactly as I say."
Devlin kept an alternate set of lodgings for those times when his work required anonymity. He would have never thought that he'd be now using those rooms as a hiding place. Still, the situation seemed to demand that he divest himself of anything that might reveal his identity - the time would come for him to reappear, but it was not now, not yet.
He dispatched his instructions quickly, waited till Freddie had vanished...
...and then he bought a ticket and boarded the train, back to Surrey and Mr. Reginald Harker.
So...Inspector Devlin wasn't staying in London, as he'd led his pretty young beloved to believe...well, that was certainly interesting, because it created all sorts of other possibilities, many of which were too delicious to contemplate. The very idea made him tremble. He would have to tell Violet - he had only Violet to confide in, now that Sarah was gone, poor Sarah. Of course he'd only meant to frighten her, but she would struggle and tighten the rope around her own neck, the silly blower. She was better off out of it, truth be told, because now there were no distractions...now he could concentrate on doing away with Devlin, as had always been his intention, and then him and Violet could go away somewhere, and live together quietly, and be happy. He knew how to make his dear sister happy.
John Whittaker got on the train.
Fifteen
Devlin was just unlucky enough to catch Harker and Donnelly in medias res or ad hoc or whatever that Latin phrase was.... Devlin hadn't got much Latin at school, despite the best efforts of his praeceptors...in flagrante delicto - that was it! At any rate, they were both in bed, in a singular state of undress, and as far as Devlin could tell, Donnelly had got quite busy on top of Harker.
"Inspector!" Harker started up with a force of strength that Devlin would have hardly credited; his intensive search for various items of his clothing was also impressively energetic. "We had no idea - "
Devlin felt an odd satisfaction at the blush on Harker's thin cheeks, but he suspected that Donnelly was rather less than thrilled at his sudden reappearance. "I'll just wait in the sitting room, shall I? Until you both have...er...composed yourselves." He followed the winding series of passageways back to the front of the house, and was helping himself liberally to the brandy when it occurred to him that Freddie had probably already gone to Devlin's usual lodgings in London and was waiting for him there. Damn...it would take a lot of explaining to make Freddie understand, not least because of Freddie's particular mental deficit. Devlin stroked his unshaven face and wondered if he oughtn't send a telegram, but immediately dismissed it: too risky, and there was always the possibility that Freddie was being not only watched but followed. It was impossible to tell, now, who was in the clear in this matter - even someone as naive and gormless as Freddie could easily be perverted into alternative loyalties, and Devlin's long experience told him that anyone, regardless of piety or station, had his price and could be bought.
"Mr. Harker didn't say you'd come back."
Devlin started violently, cursed himself for being so sunk in his own thoughts. "Miss Pearson - or should I say, Miss Whittaker?" He laughed bitterly, recognised the entire premise for the savage end-game that it was, and resigned himself to whatever might follow after. "Johnny never told me that he had a sister - I suppose it never came up. Not like other things came up. But I guess you know that, and all...my history with your brother, the whole sordid bit."
"I'm not intending on blackmail, Inspector, if that's what you think." She moved to the decanter and poured herself a hefty portion of the brandy, drank it off without even blinking. "I want an end to all this, just like you."
Devlin reached for the decanter and lit a cigarette, John Donnelly be damned. "I've figured out most of it," he said, "but one thing still isn't clear to me...even after all this time."
"Yes?"
"What part are you playing in it? I mean, what's your role?" Devlin offered her a cigarette, which she accepted and lit for herself. "I can understand the posture of the doting sister, keeping a hand in with the poor, misunderstood and wayward brother - next you'll tell me it was your mother's deathbed wish or your dead old Papa's bequest - but how much did he have to pay you?" Devlin waited. "To do poor Sarah, I mean."
Perhaps it was his awful, chesty cold, but her hand had smacked into his face and rebounded to her side before Devlin could even think of uttering 'Jack Robinson.' A warm, stinging flush spread along his cheek, darting pain into the socket of his eye. "Slapping a man when he's not looking," he muttered, rather shamefaced, "not exactly cricket, is it?"
But Violet was weeping. "Sarah was my friend!" She scrubbed at her tears angrily, ashamed that Devlin had seen her momentary weakness. "We were at school together...we'd made plans with each other, you see. Only Johnny had to put his oar in - "
Devlin made no effort to hide his confusion. "What d'you mean?"
"Oh...coming round her house of an evening, bringing flowers or chocolate, all the sorts of things that men do. She could hardly refuse him - and I resigned myself to it, because I thought that she'd be well cared- for." She cast a defiant look at Devlin. "It's not like you might think - you and Mr. Harker and the rest. Sarah and I were like sisters! There was a bond between us."
"She wasn't pregnant when...." Devlin let it drop: no sense in digging up old bones. He'd leave grave robbing to the likes of Harker and Donnelly who were now both clothed, after a fashion, and both bearing glasses of brandy. Harker was smiling, but Devlin thought he could detect an undercurrent of hostility in Donnelly's smile. Well, it couldn't be helped - and he'd no time to consider the social niceties when Whittaker was stalking around Surrey with the bit between his teeth.
"Forgive our inattention, Inspector." Harker inserted himself into a chair and stretched out with every evidence of both leisure and enjoyment, and treated both Devlin and Violet Pearson to a particularly bloodless smile. "We were...engaged."
"I just want this to be over with." Devlin felt suddenly old and tired, and leaned against the mantelpiece. His reflection gazed back at him implacably: a man of middle age with circles underneath his eyes and two bright spots of fever burning in his cheeks. "As soon as possible. So I can get back to London and clear my name and get on with things. I've no taste for buggering around - " Perhaps the wrong choice of words, he reflected, but he'd worry about his social gaffes later on.
The front door clanged, the bell perhaps manipulated unduly by the shivering October wind. Harker's head swivelled, as though mounted on gimbals, and Devlin saw him exchange a look with Donnelly: secretive, furtive, altogether culpable. "Ah," he said, "I see."
The footsteps entered the front hall, and paused just there, in the foyer...a sudden, unexpected foray into the kitchen and the butler's pantry, then a shift, a forward impetus, moving irresistibly now, drawn towards them as though fastened by a length of thread. There were footsteps overhead, as well, m
ore rapid now, and the sound of someone descending the stairs.
He had not changed, Devlin thought, in all the years...the passage of time had left no mark on him, no spoor that he could recognise. Except – and here he paused - the eyes were wrong, not keen and sharp with intellect, but dulled by pain and opiates and something else, something akin to madness. He was, of course, impeccably attired, in shades of grey and deepest black, a silk muffler about his throat and fine gloves upon his hands - camouflage, to hide the devastation that the disease must have surely wrought by now....
"John." The utterance caught Devlin by surprise and rasped itself against the insides of his throat, hurting him. The room was floating oddly about him, textures of things all wrong, the light was bending, quick and agile, and the beating of his heart was out of rhythm. "John Whittaker."
A Coldblooded Scoundrel Page 14