by Ian Garbutt
‘Anna,’ he mutters through bloodied lips, ‘what have you done?’
‘Where is Kingfisher?’
Leonardo puts down his clay pipe and regards the Fixer over the top of the flickering lantern.
‘He hath taken his little African bird and flown. I suspect thou knowest that already.’
‘But all those trinkets he’s garnered over the years are still in his quarters. They were precious to him.’
Leonardo shrugs. ‘He hath found a trinket that breathes.’
‘Why would he leave without telling me? Damn it, I freed him from a cage.’
‘In here,’ Leonardo taps his chest, ‘he doth not believe thou canst save him. Through this girl he will find his soul again.’
The Fixer imagines Kingfisher standing in front of him. That look on his face. That voice. ‘You pulled me out of slavery. Would you not expect me to do the same? Do you really see me as a man, John Cannon, or something you saved to salve your conscience? Or suit your purposes? That is what my countrymen and women do, is it not? Suit the white man’s purpose?’
The girl was the only thing he was ever secretive about. I should have foreseen this.
He’d tried to be sympathetic. Was Kingfisher not simply doing what the Fixer himself had done with Anna? So, a blind eye had been turned, again and again, as she was tucked away in Kingfisher’s quarters. He fed her with food from his own plate, took out her pot, bribed the washerwoman for some fresh clothes. He’d never have managed it if the Abbess hadn’t fallen sick, and the nature of that illness was a mystery in itself. The Fixer had gently probed but been waved away at every turn. It was Hummingbird’s doing. She seemed to have set herself up as the old woman’s keeper and now everything was falling apart. Stumbling into Kingfisher’s quarters had left the Fixer in no doubt. The bed, the dresser, the fireside table with a cup of the fruit juice Kingfisher preferred. Orange. Another expensive whim the Abbess indulged. All were untouched. But there, sitting amidst everything, the bracelet made of hair. His wife’s hair. In that instant the Fixer realised things had irrevocably changed.
Leonardo picks up his pipe. ‘He is a clever man, that darkie. Can squeeze coin out of a kerbstone if need be. He’ll not go hungry or be in want of a roof.’
‘So that’s it? He left no message?’
‘Only that you must give her back the child.’
‘I see. It seems he was a better friend than I imagined.’
The coachman gestures at the Fixer’s injuries. ‘From the look of thee, doctor man, thou hast more troublesome things to consider.’
He nods. ‘My past is catching up right enough.’
‘Not just thy past, I think.’
‘No, not just mine. At least this time they didn’t have swords.’
Leonardo shakes his head. ‘No refuge is to be found here, doctor man. Trouble is brewing inside the House as well as out. I drive these girls in their coaches. I work the yard while they take the air. I serve and pamper them, and overhear every word they utter. Thou art best gone before the wolves descend on us all.’
‘If I leave a note will you pass it to Nightingale?’
‘I shall.’
Unexpected Choices
‘Sir? Mister Cole?’
The merchant isn’t going to answer, now or ever. He’s fetched up against the bottom leg of the bed, his dead eyes staring at the ceiling. His left arm is curled tight, the fingers clenched; his right has fallen across his chest. The rug is half wrapped around him, concealing most of his lower body. Two seconds ago he’d been thrashing around on the floor like a landed trout.
‘I was told to—’ Those were his last words. Nothing profound. Not even a proper sentence. She thought someone might come running to investigate the racket but five minutes have passed without so much as a footstep in the lane. The room has no other door.
She slides the key out of Cole’s coat pocket and checks outside. The sky is a massive bruise. The wind has fallen to irregular gusts but the sheeting rain is far from spent. Wasp peers up the lane. If lucky she might catch a chair. Some diehards work the roads whatever the weather.
Nothing moves in the visible oblong of street. No, there, tucked into a doorway near the corner, a shivering linkboy, torch sputtering in his hand. Early for him to be out, but the weather has brought a premature dusk. Wasp runs up the alley, raindrops stinging her face. She grabs the boy by the shoulder. He gawps like a frightened rabbit, the torch nearly slipping from his fingers.
‘Do you know Crown Square?’ Rain streams down Wasp’s hair and into her eyes. Everything is a watery blur.
‘’Course I do,’ he says, pulling free of her grasp.
‘Go to the house with the polished black door. Knock and ask for Hummingbird. Bring her here. Tell her Wasp sent you.’
He shook his head. ‘That’s the whores’ palace. I’ll get a beating if I go there.’
‘You’ll fetch worse from me if you don’t.’
The boy squirms. ‘My da won’t like it.’
‘He won’t have to know, will he? Go now and you’ll get a shilling when you return.’
‘I’ll have the shilling now.’
‘No, you won’t, you little tinker. I’m not having you disappearing into the murk. A shilling in your hand when you get back — that’s a promise.’
The boy leaves at a fast trot, torch fading into the murk. Wasp returns to the room. She fetches a chair from the corner, sets it beside the hearth and sits down to wait in the mottled firelight.
‘So you killed him?’ Hummingbird nudges the rug off Cole’s corpse with her foot.
‘He kept asking me things. I’m hired out to entertain, not to be interrogated. All I did was slap him. He had some sort of seizure and there wasn’t anything I could do.’
‘We’ll have to dump his carcass.’
‘Dump him?’
‘We can’t afford to get caught up in this. Now, help me. Empty his purse to make it look like a robbery.’
‘What?’
‘Come on. This is no time to turn sweet.’
‘How are we going to move him? Didn’t you bring Leonardo?’
‘That little Bible spouter? I’m not getting him involved. I have a chaise outside and before you ask I drove it here myself. You were lucky I got your message, though why promise that brat a shilling? It cost a good pair of earrings to entice him to talk, and those were a gift from one of my best clients.’
‘Where is the boy?’
‘Scampered back into the same gutter he came from, I expect. Now, grab the cully’s legs.’
‘Hummingbird, what if someone sees us?’
‘Then we say he passed out over too much wine and we’re helping him back to his coach. Stop fussing.’
Hummingbird slides back into her voluminous cloak and draws up the hood. She hooks both hands under Cole’s armpits while Wasp takes his ankles.
‘He’s too heavy.’
‘Then we’ll drag him.’ She nudges the door open and together the girls bundle the corpse outside. The carriage is backed into the lane. Hummingbird climbs inside and they manoeuvre Cole up the steps. It seems to take forever. Wasp’s muscles ache and she can see her companion struggling. By the time they have him inside both are gasping.
‘Right,’ Hummingbird says, catching her breath. ‘Empty his pockets like I told you. I’ll drive us to a place where we can safely ditch him.’
‘He’ll be missed, won’t he?’
‘Cullies disappear in this city every day.’
‘I can’t believe this has happened. If we’re caught everyone will think I murdered him.’
‘Well, you did, more or less.’
‘That’s not fair.’
‘No time to argue. We’ll have time to talk when we return to the House.’
‘It’s just—’ Wasp shakes her head.
‘Another problem, Sister? Bigger than the one you already have on your hands?’
‘Perhaps.’
‘All right, but let�
�s ditch the cully first.’
‘Where did you get the chaise?’
‘A favour from a client. Every so often we clop around in it. He taught me to drive as a novelty, I suspect. Unlike your friend here, he’s not one for asking questions.’ Hummingbird draws up her hood, climbs back onto the driver’s perch and clicks the horse forward.
Wasp rifles Steven Cole’s corpse. His eyes are cracked open, his cooling face frosted with raindrops. There’s nothing much to take. A purse with sixpence in it and a fob watch with the hands missing. She drops them into her reticule and straightens. Her hair is sticking to her cheeks and her gown smells of stale rainwater but there’s more to worry about than the House’s precious chattels.
Ten minutes later Hummingbird stops the carriage. ‘Let’s get this business done.’
The chaise is sitting at the mouth of an alley crammed between two rows of terraced houses. The rain has eased but the streets remain blessedly quiet. Between them they drag Cole’s body down the carriage steps and into the gutter. One of his shoes flips off.
‘Are you going to leave him like that?’ Wasp asks.
‘What do you expect me to do? Say a prayer? Dig a grave and erect a headstone? I’ll wager in half an hour his jacket is gone. A half hour after that, his shirt and breeches too. Nobody will know or care who he is. You ought to be thankful.’
‘Suppose someone enquires at the House? Finds out who he was with?’
‘People don’t make those sorts of enquiries, not if they have a shred of sense. Now get back inside.’
As they drive off, Wasp leans out and peers back into the murk. Cole resembles a pile of rags. She draws her head back and rubs the rain out of her eyes. There it was again. Death. Everywhere. Even skulking through the sunniest summer lanes of her village, when Tommy Button, the washerwoman’s toddler, chased a butterfly down a well and drowned for it. It had been Wasp’s own father who pulled him, dripping and soulless, from the dark water, while everyone except his hysterical mother shook their heads and declared ‘The Lord gives and the Lord takes’. And in the Comfort Home the Lord cut his harvest there too: Jenny Brewster, barely more than sixteen years old and disowned because she threw fits, screamed and uttered the foulest language for no good reason so that her parents believed her possessed. She’d taken to her mattress with a fever and was found the next day staring dead-eyed at the floor with blood around her nose. No eulogy-spouting cleric for her, but corn sacks for her shroud and two hefty labourers bearing shovels and a barrel of quicklime. Wasp had watched her carted out of the front door like so many potatoes.
Death. Can it ever be cheated?
Wasp reaches over and tugs Hummingbird’s arm. ‘I need to talk to you. Now. Before we get back to the House.’
‘Can’t it wait?’
‘No.’
‘Oh, very well, but it’s hardly the best time.’ Hummingbird pulls into the lee of a bridge spanning a sluggish, muddy river. ‘Horse is getting skittish. He wants feeding. I hope this won’t take long.’
The chaise is wretchedly small and their legs press together. The stink of the river invades the confined space. Hummingbird’s cloak is slick with water. Drops run down her nose and chin.
‘What was I doing with that man?’ Wasp begins.
Hummingbird raises her eyebrows.
‘Yes, I was on Assignment, at least that’s what I was supposed to think. But then he started asking questions about Nightingale.’
‘Nightingale?’
‘Yes, and someone called John Cannon. I think he meant the Fixer. Some business ties them both together and this fellow, Cole, talked about getting a fee. Where do you suppose he came from?’
‘There are all kinds of men whose services may be hired. In a sense they are harlots too. They breed in the same gutters as the cheapest whores.’
‘No way home.’
‘What?’
‘I had no way home. The sedan bearers who delivered me to Cole had no instructions to pick me up again. Nothing was said about a carriage either. Someone must be fixing the Assignments.’
‘This is all very fanciful.’
‘Don’t tell me it’s not possible. The Abbess has seemingly vanished with this supposed illness. You must know what’s going on?’
‘Don’t be so harsh. I’m no Harlequin. The Abbess doesn’t confide in me. I wouldn’t set someone like Cole on you. I’m your friend. Besides, Nightingale is the one giving out Assignments these days. Perhaps you should take your questions to her.’
‘You must help me.’
‘Wasp, I’m sure I’d love to, but if this goes too far we’ll both fetch a lot more than a hot arm. Your obsession with Moth isn’t helping.’
‘You’re my friend. You just said so.’
‘Who are you, Moth’s mother? Are you seeking atonement for your sins? You won’t save your soul by saving her neck. If a path to redemption is what you want then you should pursue a more useful cause and a better means of achieving it than this.’
‘You don’t know what I’ve done or need to do. Perhaps I am Moth’s “mother”. Perhaps I feel I do owe her something, yet for a time I was ready to turn my back. I thought myself such a failure that any attempt on my part to interfere would only lead to more trouble.’
Hummingbird sighs — a long, low sound like wind gusting through an alley. ‘But you’ve interfered too much already.’
‘That’s a horrid thing to say.’
‘Bawdy houses lie in every port and back street. You can’t wish them away.’
‘How could I leave her in the Cellar after what I witnessed? Yet since that night I’ve dithered along in the hope that everything will resolve itself. Now, accident or not, someone else is dead. I have to try and help Moth . . . or lose my wits. Call that selfish if you like, but I intend to get her out of the House.’
‘Really? And afterwards?’
‘There won’t be an afterwards. I’m leaving with her. I’m done with this nest of horrors.’
Hummingbird shifts on the narrow seat. ‘Not a good idea, Sister. Our Emblems mark us out wherever we go. People only need to glance at us to know what we are. Even if you run far enough you’ll still draw attention to yourself. These coloured pictures are our manacles. One day soon they could be our weapons. Think about that.’
‘The Emblems can be removed.’
‘True, if you are determined enough.’ Hummingbird dips into the folds of her cloak and draws out a long-handled hairbrush. She flicks a catch on the base and the handle slips off. Underneath is a steel blade tapering to a vicious point. It glints in the light from the coach lantern. ‘Most girls keep a little something to get them out of trouble.’
‘No. Don’t cut me.’
‘I could heat the blade in the lantern flame. Two seconds pressed against your cheek would be enough to set you free.’
‘I’ll be scarred.’
‘Vanity or liberty, Wasp. I can’t pander to both.’
‘I’ll help Moth, then fret about the picture on my face.’
Hummingbird slides the knife back into its handle. ‘As you wish.’
A Final Choice
Nightingale is screaming inside. Her hands are fat with gloves. Three pairs. Lace, then kid, then winter leather, yet she can still imagine feeling the wooden grain of the box through the material. She listens, eyes screwed closed, as the muslin bag slops open onto the roof, spilling the dream makers into the gutter with a tiny tick-tick rattling. Can she smell them, or is it her imagination? It’s rained all evening. The air beyond the open window is thick and damp. City scents assault her. Smoke, dung, cooking meat.
But still . . .
She lets go of the box. It clatters down the slates and disappears over the lip of the roof. A moment later there’s a splintered crash as it hits the yard below. Nightingale’s legs fold and she slides onto the rug. She has no one left. ‘The darkie hath taken his pot of black gold and fled’ was how Leonardo put it, but no fanciful slant could change the bare fact
that Kingfisher has abandoned them. The Fixer, too, has jumped from the same ship, even though he’s seemingly gone to swim in different waters. Leonardo might use rich language but he lacks the imagination to make up stories. Nightingale accepted the truth of his words even before he’d finished uttering them. He had entered the House to find her, an act almost unheard of, and broken the news in his uniquely Biblical manner. She had tried to protest but he shook his misshapen head.
‘Young bird, he had to go. Thou hast set the dogs on him.’
‘The Fixer would understand why, or he knows nothing of me.’
‘He is prepared to forgive. Thou canst go to him, but thy box of witchery cannot. Thou must settle the storm within these walls first.’
‘Where is he?’
‘The city harbour. He will take a ship bound for the colonies and sign on as surgeon. A new life for him. In time he may send for you. Both of you.’
‘Both of us?’
Astonishingly, Leonardo smiled. His teeth were perfectly white in that ugly face. She had never noticed before. He dropped a jangling purse and sealed letter onto the table. ‘Best make thy mind up,’ he said.
So ‘the witchery’ is gone. Already, if only in her imaginings, she can feel the cravings starting to bite. Week by week the Fixer had given her just enough to keep them at bay. She could almost pretend each dose was medicine. The box was never an easy solution, not even a temporary one. Once the lid was opened it was over, one way or the other. She couldn’t hope to face her daughter with such a Damoclean sword dangling above her head.
You had no right to be a mother. Look at what you did to yourself.
The addiction is not as strong as it once was but weeks of pain lie ahead. Leonardo has delivered the Fixer’s terms. He still has her on a leash, but the pull of the House is equally strong. Something has to break.
Nightingale peels off the top two layers of gloves. Outside, the passageway is empty. She hurtles down the stairs in her slippers, dodging the scraps of party litter that have escaped the Scarlet Parlour. For hours she’d stood in her mask while the revellers had fawned and preened. Most were packed off to the Cellar where special treats were apparently to be had, others slinked back to wives and mistresses.