by Karen Odden
“I came earlier, but you weren’t here,” I said.
“Oui. I thought of some places I might find him.” A sideways look. “Nowhere I would send you.”
“And who is Rosemary?”
“Drummond’s mistress. She lives near Seven Dials.”
I stiffened. Seven Dials was one of the most notorious slums in London.
“He lives with her?”
“Sometimes.”
Mr. Bertault’s hand on my elbow steered me north. The lantern he carried cast a ring of light beyond which lurked the London darkness, kept at bay like a pack of wolves. I half wanted to hurry toward Seven Dials and half wanted to run in the other direction, but Mr. Bertault walked steadily on, jiggering us across streets, always heading north and east, and soon we were on Monmouth Street. Above us loomed tall rookeries, as shadowy and moldering as I could have imagined. He didn’t hesitate, but directed me into a narrow nameless alley. I heard the scurrying of rats, and a moan.
I spun toward it. “What’s that?”
Mr. Bertault swung the lantern. At first I thought it was a heap of rags, but there was a matted clump of gray hair, and the figure shifted. Mr. Bertault clucked his tongue, the pity clear on his face. Turning away, he led me to a rickety wooden structure that ran up the side of a building. It began as a wooden stair, but parts of it were a ladder, and pieces of it were missing. “Only step where I step,” he said, and I followed him precisely, keeping my hands on the banister until it ended in splinters.
He reached a third-story landing and hit the door twice with the handle of his gun.
From my chest rose an unbidden hope that we would never find Drummond. I knew the fury I’d see in his face when he spotted me. I wanted him gone, dead, anything—
“Who’s ’ere?” came a woman’s voice.
“It’s Bertault. I’m looking for Nick.”
Silence.
“Open the door, woman,” he growled. “We have a message for him. Is he here?”
Silence again, and then the sound of a bolt sliding back. Drummond appeared in the crack between the door and the jamb. “What—?” His eyes darted from his brother-in-law to me, and then came the rage I expected. “You bloody fool! What have you done, bringing her here?”
“The girl has something to say to you.”
“Ha!” His mouth opened wide, showing his teeth in a macabre smile. “First you talk to the police, now you want to talk to me?”
I spat back: “I didn’t talk to the police!”
“Don’t play the innocent, you little—”
“I didn’t tell anyone anything!” My voice rose to be heard over his.
“Shhh,” he and Mr. Bertault hissed together.
Mr. Bertault drew his gun and pointed it at Drummond’s jaw. “Listen to what she has to say, and I’ll take her straight out of here.” His voice dropped to a whisper that was, strangely, almost tender: “And if I have to kill you to get her away, I’ll do it. You know I will.”
With something like a growl, Drummond jerked away from the gun, opened the door, and stood aside for us to enter. I could smell the whiskey on his breath as I passed him. I’d have rather stayed on the ramshackle landing.
The room stank of burned meat and cheap candles. A woman sat by the hearth fire, her gaze unfocused, her hand lying limply on a bottle of something.
Mr. Bertault turned to me. “It’s all right. He’s listening.”
A look of impatience crossed Drummond’s face. “You can put the gun away.”
“Non.” Mr. Bertault stood between us, his gun hand motionless at his side.
“Speak up,” Drummond said to me, his eyes narrowed.
I swallowed. “A group of police and inspectors are making a raid on some of the ships tonight. The Octavian is one of them.”
His eyes blazed, and hard lines formed around his mouth. “Why are you here? Where’s Jack?”
“Somewhere safe,” I said.
Disgust appeared on his face, and he reached for a brown bottle on the table, raising it to his mouth. “Yes, that sounds like him. Staying out of the way. Lily-livered coward.”
“Coward!” I stared, disbelieving, and my hand clenched around the gun in my pocket. “He’s not afraid. He’s half dead—because Stephen Gagnon sent two thugs out to kill him. They slashed his leg open, and he would’ve died in the streets except—except someone found him.”
Finally, I’d gotten through to him. He pulled the bottle away from his mouth. “What?”
“I tried to tell you! Why would you trust Stephen—of all people?”
His brain may have been slow with drink, but I could tell he was thinking. “Stephen told me that Jack talked to the police—because you told him you’d leave him if he didn’t.”
I barked a laugh. “And you believed him?”
“Why wouldn’t I? It’s clear you meant something to Jack.”
“Jack didn’t talk to the police. He was the one who made me promise not to.” Suddenly, I knew how to break through whatever cloud Stephen’s lies and the whiskey had put around him. My voice sharpened: “Does the name ‘Kendrick’ mean anything to you?”
Drummond went still.
“He was a counterfeiter for one of the silver ships in Whitechapel,” I said.
His eyes narrowed, and his voice was alarmingly soft. “How do you know so much?”
“He’s dead now, but he’s the one who talked to the police. Not me. And not Jack, either.”
Drummond turned away, his boots scuffing as he went to the window. In the silence, we all heard the wind wrapping itself around the wretched place, whistling through openings, banging a shutter to and fro.
I kept my voice calm: “Your son will live, provided there’s no infection. But do you want to know what Jack’s biggest worry was? You. He made me swear I would find you and warn you in time. He still loves you, although God only knows why.”
Drummond turned back toward me, and his eyes were like flat black pools.
Suddenly, I felt tired. Just terribly tired. “That’s why I’m here. To tell you that you need to get out of England. Go to France.” I took a breath. “Tonight. If you’re caught here, in all likelihood, you’ll hang.”
He set his bottle on the table. “You’re telling me the truth?”
“I am.”
“She’d hardly be here for the fun of it,” Mr. Bertault said.
“That’s not what I mean. What if she just wants me gone? She has reason enough to be afraid of me.”
“I do want you gone,” I said. “But I’m doing this for Jack’s sake. Not yours, and not mine.”
A flicker of pain in his eyes, and then it was gone, and his voice was practical: “I’ll go. But I can’t leave without the rest of my money.”
The woman rose unsteadily from her seat on the hearth, came to his side, and seized his arm. “Nick, what are ye sayin’? Ye can’t leave me here! Ye promised!”
He shook her off impatiently.
“Surely you have enough money tucked away here,” Mr. Bertault said. “Don’t be greedy. It could cost you your life.”
Drummond ran his hand through his black hair and paced. “Damn Kendrick.”
“It’ll be light soon,” Mr. Bertault said. “Make your way to Greenwich as fast as you can. That’ll be far enough along the river, and you’ll be able to find ships bound for France. You can lose yourself once you get to Calais.”
“I can have someone bring me the rest of my money—it will only take a few hours,” Drummond said. “The police’ll only go to the Octavian. They’ll never find me here.”
“Is there any chance that Stephen knows this address?” I asked.
Drummond’s expression changed.
“I’m warning you,” I said. “If Stephen sees anything to be gained by revealing it, he will. I wasn’t lying earlier when I told you that he’d turn on anyone. Think about what he could get if you’re in jail.”
“Nick,” Rosemary said, her voice pleading.
&nbs
p; “Shut up.” He turned away and went into a back room. We heard the sound of a drawer scraping open and closed.
Mr. Bertault reached behind me to open the door, and a gust of the damp night air blew in.
“Wait.” It was Drummond’s voice, behind us. Mr. Bertault ignored him, but I stopped and turned.
To this day, I’m not sure why. I think I was hoping for some message to take back to Jack, to tell him that his father understood that Jack had tried to save him, that his father had cared about him after all, that he had at least said goodbye.
Drummond stood in the doorway to the back room, his hands full of notes. “My ledger. You need to get it from the Octavian.”
I stared at him in disgust. “Are you mad? I’m not going to fetch your ledger.”
“Then Jack will hang.”
My blood went cold.
“It’s a record of our nightly takes. It’s all in his handwriting, and he signs it.”
I felt a sinking in my stomach. “Where is it?”
“Top right drawer of my desk. A red book.”
“For God’s sake, Nick,” Mr. Bertault spat then turned to me. “You know where that is?”
I nodded.
I expected Drummond to follow us out onto the landing. But instead he stood behind the threshold, just staring down the alley. Perhaps he had further preparations, but a strange thought came at me, like a shot out of the dark: maybe part of him wanted to be caught, to have it over with. What was left for him now, after all? I thought back to the ugly little room. This wasn’t much. But a life in exile?
“Nell,” Mr. Bertault said warningly. “Come along.”
The moon was between clouds, and by its light, I followed him down those perilous stairs. The noises we made, with our boots scraping the rotting wood and the steps creaking, echoed in the close space. At the bottom, I let out my breath—I’d been holding it, in defense against the smells as much as against my fear of the stairs falling apart under me—and we started down the street. I had my collar up, and Mr. Bertault had his hat drawn low. Ahead of us, on Monmouth Street, a man in a dark coat stepped out of a hansom cab and raised his arm to pay the driver.
Even as I saw him, Mr. Bertault yanked me into a tiny alley and drew his gun back out. Silently we watched him walk by; I caught a glimpse of pale skin and a fringe of hair. No one I knew, but as his footsteps receded, I peered around the corner. He stood at the bottom of Rosemary’s stairs, took out his revolving pistol, and banged it twice on the wooden rail.
Rosemary’s door opened, and she looked out. “Who is it?” she hissed.
“Barrow. Where’s Drummond?”
“I dunno. He left—about half an hour ago.”
“Where was he going?”
“Said he’d be back by morning.” She spoke the lie convincingly.
“Bugger.”
He stood there for a moment, as if undecided what to do next. If my eyes hadn’t been used to near-darkness, I wouldn’t have been able to see his face at all, but in the light from the moon, I could. A man of about five-and-forty, with thinning reddish hair.
He strode back toward us, and I stepped backward into Mr. Bertault’s protective arm. Barrow went past us hurriedly, and his footsteps faded away.
“Who’s that?” Mr. Bertault hissed.
I put my mouth close to his ear. “Chief Inspector Barrow. Head of Scotland Yard. But he’s in with Tierney. He’s probably trying to figure out what’s happening tonight. Matthew left him out of it.”
We waited another minute and then made our way toward Regent Street, where we found a hansom cab. Mr. Bertault helped me in.
“Where to, guv’nor?” asked the driver.
“The Octavian.”
Chapter 31
What if the police are there when we arrive?” Mr. Bertault asked as the cab’s wheels rolled over a joint in the macadam, jarring us.
“We’ll try to find a way around them, I suppose.”
He rested his two large hands on his knees, rubbing them as if they pained him. “Are you all right?” I asked.
He turned to me and smiled wryly. “I’m an old man. I belong in bed.”
I bit my lip. “Thank you for coming. I don’t know what I’d have done without you.”
He shrugged, and after a moment said, “I’ve half a mind to send you home.” I opened my mouth to protest, and he raised a hand. “As Drummond’s brother-in-law, I have some reason to be at the music hall he owns. But you? At this hour, and dressed like that?”
I shifted in the seat. “Even if you have a right to be there, the police aren’t going to let you walk out with the ledger. Matthew will have told them to gather any papers, for proof.”
“I know.” He touched my hand. “Well, let’s not go looking for trouble. The policemen may not have come yet.”
I looked out the window. There was a faint graying above the rooftops. It would be dark for only another hour or so.
Mr. Bertault said, “What if Drummond was lying, sending us on some wild-goose chase, looking for a ledger that doesn’t exist?”
I recalled the look on Drummond’s face when he’d told us. “I don’t think so. I’m not saying he loves Jack enough to sacrifice for him, but I don’t think he’d want his son to hang, if he could save Jack without any trouble to himself.”
A snort. “You mean if he could have you save Jack with no trouble to himself.”
The cab drew up to the Octavian, and all was quiet. Did this mean the police had come and gone? We jumped out, and Mr. Bertault paid the driver as I went to the back door.
It was locked, of course.
“What about the window?” Mr. Bertault pointed over our heads. “Can you get in that way?”
“How?”
“I can put you up there, and here’s a knife that might pry it open.” I took the thin blade in its sheath and tucked it into the back of my trousers.
“Take off your shoes,” he said. He offered me a step in his hands. My feet, in stockings, were cold against his warm skin, and he grunted as he boosted me up. “Now on my shoulder.” With one hand braced against the rough brick wall, I stepped onto his broad shoulder, his hands still steadying me. I was right at the level with the window, and I peered into it, trying to see the hinges. Carefully, I reached for the knife and slid the thin blade along the crack. It wouldn’t budge. I tried the other side and felt unyielding metal. I pushed up on it, then down, but it was stuck as hard as if it had been welded. I swore under my breath.
“Got it?”
“Not yet. I can’t tell which side the hinges are on, and which the lock.”
“Take your time.”
In that moment, the thought flashed into my head that time was precisely what we didn’t have—but his words calmed me, and I put the knife back on the left side. This time I slid it into the middle of the crack, and I felt something catch. I tried again, and then one more time—
The metal piece scraped and resisted the blade, but I wiggled the handle as carefully as I could—and the lock released.
Gently, I eased the windowpane in. One boost and I was through, slithering ungracefully over the sill and onto the floor with a quiet thunk.
I almost expected to hear shouts and people running toward me. But there was only silence.
I leaned back through the window and waved; he nodded back.
In my stocking feet, I ran silently down the corridor toward the stairs that led to the back passageway and the ramp that went to the door. Mr. Bertault stepped inside as soon as I pushed the door open, handing me my boots and taking back his knife.
“Any signs of the police?” he asked. I shook my head, slid into my boots, and led Mr. Bertault down the back hallway to Drummond’s office. Naturally, the door was locked.
“Do you have a hairpin?” he asked.
I plucked one out of my hair.
“And another?”
I withdrew a second and felt a lock of my hair loosen. He bent down at the door and inserted both, careful
ly, into the keyhole. I was keeping watch, turning my head to the left and right, but there was no sign of anyone, only silence and the smell of moldering plaster. Then came a soft click, the door cracked open, and we slid into Drummond’s office. I thought nothing would ever induce me to return, but there I was. I found myself averting my eyes from the chair.
Mr. Bertault went to the desk and began to rummage through the top drawer, then the next. “Merde. It’s not here,” he whispered.
“What?” I hurried over and began hunting through the papers, rags, and other rubble on the desk while he eased open the other drawers—top right, bottom left, bottom right—and even got down onto the floor to peer underneath the desk. “Nothing.”
His head came up over the desk, and he pushed himself up with his broad hands. “I’ll check the shelves.”
I nodded. “I’m going to search the room where the boys stay. If the ledger is used to keep track of what they bring in, maybe it was left there by mistake.”
He muttered an assent. I flicked a match to light a spare lamp, took it up, and headed for the properties room, all the while listening for footsteps. I pulled up the hidden panel and dropped in. The room stank of sweat, old food, and animal droppings. I raised the lantern and saw that the benches were no longer scattered around the room but pushed close together in the middle of the floor. From under one of the benches came a rat, which darted across the semicircle of lamplight and vanished behind a crate. Rats ate human flesh, I knew. The thought of the boys trying to sleep amid them made me shudder.
I began to search, working my way around the right side of the room. Most of the crates were nailed shut at the top, their sides rough with cheap wood that bore splinters. To my surprise, two of the lids were askew, so I wedged them up and peered in. I didn’t find the red ledger in either crate—but what I did see stunned me, though I suppose it shouldn’t have. Silver candlesticks, gold chains, shining spoons, ornate brooches, strings of pearls, gilded frames—the treasures of dozens of families across London, tumbled together haphazardly, with no more care than if they’d been in a rag-and-bone shop.