by J. A. Rock
“You did the right thing,” Gale told her sincerely.
“Flum run off that day. Pa said he’d come back—dogs always come back to where there’s food for ’em. But I was scared, ’cause we didn’t have much food for Flum. Just bones what we got from the neighbours. So maybe that’s why he won’t come back.”
“Flum ran off the day you spoke to the captain?”
Elise nodded and looked down at her plate. Gale saw that she’d set aside a small pile of fatty bacon scraps.
“Are you certain he ran away?” Clarissa asked.
Gale started to shoot her a glare, but as he had been about to ask the same question, he simply waited for Elise’s response.
Elise swung her legs under the table and looked at Gale. “Flum don’t catch rats, sir. So where would the captain have heard that? I told him Mrs. Carroll has a dog that’s a good ratter, an’ I even pointed the way to her house, but he didn’t go the way I pointed.”
“Elise, how do you know he ran off? Where did Flum stay when you and your father were at work? Did you keep him chained up? Shut in the house?”
“Pa built him a house outside. It weren’t a very good house, but he liked it. We tied him to it with a rope. Mrs. Carroll said she saw him run through her yard that day—prob’ly chasing a cat, she said. She remembers ’cause she was sleeping, and Flum woke her with an awful racket, and it set her dog barking like the devil. She come outside to see what was the matter, and she saw Flum run by.”
Gale rubbed a hand over his mouth. “All right, Elise, this detail is important. Was the rope on the doghouse—” Gale tried to think how to phrase this for her. “Did it look pulled apart like Flum snapped it himself? Or was it cut?”
Elise stared at him blankly.
Gale sighed. “Never mind. Did Mrs. Carroll say whether she saw anything unusual while she was outside? Anyone passing by?” The captain, perhaps?
“No, sir. She just saw Flum.”
Clarissa said, “You’re doing well, Elise.”
Gale felt a flash of annoyance. He didn’t see that Elise was doing anything particularly noteworthy in answering a few questions. But this was, after all, why he’d asked Clarissa to stay—to smooth things over in the event that he said the wrong thing to the child once again. The girl merely swung her legs and studied the tablecloth as though she hadn’t heard Clarissa at all.
“How did you acquire Flum?” Gale asked.
“Pa brought him home. Said he found him running loose along the river. Thought he’d be good to watch over the house. And so he is. He wouldn’t hurt a fly, mind. Prob’ly wouldn’t even hurt a burglar. But ’e’s big, and that scares people. He’s got so much hair on him you can’t tell which end is which.” She laughed, but the joy of the sound quickly faded. She pushed her plate toward Gale. “Could we go to my house and leave bacon for Flum? Then maybe he’ll come back.”
Clarissa made a noise of sympathy, and Gale could feel both girls’ eyes on him.
“I…” What Gale needed to do was go to the docks and locate this captain. But he thought of what Chant would say if he told Elise no. “I will go to Jacob’s Island,” he promised. “And I will do my best to find Flum while I’m there.”
“Can I come?”
“I think it’s best that you stay here. But I must ask, do you know of anyone who might have been angry at your father? You said he played cards. Did he owe anyone money, perhaps?”
Elise gave him that odd stare again. “We ain’t debtors, sir.”
“No,” Gale agreed quickly. Those wide-set eyes were rather disconcerting, trained on him with such intensity. “But Elise, if you can think of any reason someone might have wanted your father dead, I need to know.”
Something flashed in her eyes—it was there for less than an instant, a combination of surprise, fear, and anger—and Gale might have likened it to the child being caught with her hand in a cookie jar, except that seemed too frivolous a comparison to capture the depth of feeling he’d spied. “No,” she said. “No one.”
Gale rose, pushing in his chair. “All right, then. I’m off to Jacob’s Island.” He glanced at Clarissa, who nodded.
“Don’t forget the bacon, Lord Christmas.” Elise gathered the scraps in her tiny fist and held them out to Gale, who stood there awkwardly for a moment before extending his hand and taking the greasy scraps. He held them, unsure what to do, and then slipped them into the pocket of his buckskins. He was fairly sure he heard Clarissa stifle a snort.
Gale left the house with his pocket full of bacon, wondering why a small child had just lied to him.
Gale returned to the Howes’ house—though to refer to the hovel as a house seemed a generous assessment—as it seemed likely the dog might have returned there too. There was a narrow enclosed space at the back of the house that didn’t deserve to be called a garden. It was full of junk and refuse, and held not a single blade of grass. No fresh dog shit in sight either. He went to what he presumed was the doghouse—a lean-to constructed of wooden planks—and crouched before it. There was indeed a scrap of rope still tied to it, frayed in a manner consistent with it having been pulled to its breaking point. Gale rubbed his jaw. If Elise’s captain had, say, located the Howe’s residence and thought to make off with Flum, would he not have simply untied the rope or else cut it?
There were a few footprints in the mud—a man’s boot, and smaller shoes that had to be Elise’s. One that Gale couldn’t quite identify—it looked a bit slimmer than the other boot prints, but the ground was such a mess, it was hard to say for sure.
He called for Flum several times, feeling quite foolish. He questioned a neighbour who was out feeding her chickens—the hens might once have been white, but were now a tarry black with filth. She glared at him suspiciously and said nothing particularly enlightening about the Howes or their dog. He asked where he might find a Mrs. Carroll, and she replied that Mrs. Carroll worked long nights and would be asleep. Gale decided it was not worth ruffling any further feathers in the neighbourhood to speak to Mrs. Carroll now, and chose to walk along the river toward the dockyard where he would inquire after the captain.
He had just started off when he saw a flash of movement from underneath what appeared to be a pile of lumber. He paused, then approached the pile and knelt. Best not to think of the filth staining the knees of his buckskins. It would benefit his disguise, after all. He wore the same borrowed, shabby overcoat as yesterday, but he’d worried that his breeches—out of fashion but finely made—would prove conspicuous. His hat tumbled off as he craned to peer under the rotting boards. He spied twin glints in the dark: the eyes of what looked to be a rather enormous creature. By its panting, he could presume it was a dog.
He scarcely dared breathe himself. “Flum,” he said carefully, almost warningly. “Here boy. That’s a good fellow.”
Slowly, he reached into his pocket and took out a piece of bacon. He could hear the beast lick its chops as he held it out. But the dog didn’t come forward.
“Look at this, hmm? It’s a gift from Elise. Wouldn’t you like to see her again?”
He tossed the bacon a foot or so in front of him. At the movement, the dog flattened itself against the ground. Gale felt his patience wearing thin.
“Flum! Out with you!”
The dog cowered back. Gale sighed. He never had possessed that good-natured ease that allowed one to communicate with children and with animals.
“Come now.” He tried to soften his voice again. “It can’t be very comfortable down there.”
The animal didn’t budge.
“Flum!” he called sharply. “Here, boy!”
A soft whine, and the creature shifted. It was massive, he could see now. Its thick coat so matted with filth, Gale could hardly blame himself for not recognising it for a dog when he’d first checked under the lumber pile.
“Damn you, you wretched beast!” He tossed another piece of bacon, this time under the edge of the pile. The dog lunged forward, grabbed the bacon,
and then retreated once more. Gale sucked in a breath through his teeth. He had not journeyed all the way to Jacob’s Island and muddied the knees of his buckskins to leave without this dog. “Come! Sit!”
When the brute remained precisely where it was, Gale decided his morning couldn’t really get worse, and started to crawl under the lumber pile. The dog emitted a soft growl, and, with a speed that surprised Gale given the animal’s size and the narrow clearance of the pile, whirled and scrambled out the back way. The beast darted for the back fence, squeezing himself through a narrow gap and escaping. Gale fumbled, mud squelching between his fingers as he pushed himself upright, and then he raced for the fence. By the time he found a gate to push through, Flum was already halfway down the alley, cords of matted fur bouncing as he ran, and after another moment, he was lost from sight.
Gale gave a tremendous sigh and pressed a fist to his forehead. The scent of bacon grease combined with the stench coming off the nearby ditch was nearly enough to make his stomach heave. After a moment, he looked up at the grey sky. Well, at least they had proof the bugger was alive. He would simply have to bring Elise back here tomorrow so she could call the dog. Surely Flum would come to her. Breathing hard, and a bit embarrassed to find himself so winded after what was admittedly a very short sprint, he started toward the river.
And nearly ran into a man whose dress, underneath an unassuming brown overcoat, suggested he was closer to Gale’s station than any of the inhabitants of this slum.
“Gale!” came the fellow’s startled exclamation.
It was Chant.
So his morning could, in fact, get worse. And had. “Good day, sir,” Gale said stiffly.
“What are you doing here? Well, I suppose that’s a foolish question. You’re looking for Elise’s dog.” Chant’s gaze dropped to Gale’s muddied knees and ruined stockings. “Rather committed to the task, I see.”
Gale held himself as straight as possible. “She would not stop going on about him. So yes, I came here to look. What are you doing here?” The question was entirely unnecessary. “But of course, you’ve come to look for Flum too.”
“I could not sleep for thinking about that girl. To have just lost her father and have not even her dog for comfort…”
Gale tried not to perceive the comment as a slight against his own character—though in all likelihood it was intended as such.
“I have seen the beast,” he told Chant. “Not a moment ago, it was cowering beneath a lumber pile, but it would not come when I called. And when I approached, it fled.”
“Which direction? Perhaps we might still find him.”
Gale shook his head. “I have no more time to waste on the creature. Elise has informed me that she was stopped en route to work two days past by a fellow looking to buy her dog. He said he was a ship’s captain and had rats on his ship. Said he’d heard her dog was a fine ratter. Yet Elise has informed me that Flummery is quite incapable of catching rats.”
“But what of it?” Chant asked, confused.
Gale grimaced. “You see, this! This is why I do not like people! I have just laid out to you the facts of the matter, two points which are in absolute opposition, and you say, ‘But what of it?’ Whoever this captain is, he lied, do you see?”
“Yes,” Chant said, “but perhaps this captain didn’t know that Flummery was not—”
“No,” Gale said, and jabbed him in the breast with a thin finger. “The dog disappeared later that day. Snapped its rope and ran off. A neighbour witnessed its flight. You tell me that’s coincidence.” Gale was aware that he was growing rather more agitated than the situation called for, but his mind was racing, and Chant’s presence was a hindrance to putting his thoughts in order. “The captain tried to obtain the dog, the dog fled, and now Howe is dead. I don’t know why, but the captain is looking for the dog, and so we must look for the captain. I!” He corrected abruptly, his face heating. “I must look for the captain.”
“You must not!” Chant protested at once.
Gale furrowed his brow. “It is the most logical next step in this investigation.”
“But what if this fellow is dangerous?”
“That is precisely what I hope to determine.”
“You mean to traverse Jacob’s Island alone, dressed as you are, and confront a man you suspect is connected to a murder?”
“Yes, I believe I have made that quite clear.”
Chant’s blue eyes had lost their usual good humour, and held instead a concern that Gale did not entirely understand. “I cannot let you do that, Gale.”
Something in Gale blazed. “You are in no position to tell me what I may or may not do. Stand aside, sir, if you please.” For Chant had widened his stance as though he intended to tackle Gale should Gale step forward.
“I’m coming with you.”
“Nonsense.”
“Wherever you go, I shall dog your steps.” Chant paused. “The pun was not intended. Though it is apt, I suppose.”
“You shall ruin my investigation with your presence.”
“I most certainly shall not. I shall be quiet as a dormouse, unless this captain attempts to do you harm. In which case, I will kill him.”
At some point during the exchange, Gale felt they had slipped into an odd sort of banter. They were not joking, precisely, but there was a speed and ease to their speech that suggested they had been bickering about such things for many years. It gave Gale a bit of a rush to trade words with the man. Odder still was that Gale did not doubt Chant meant his last statement sincerely. What an mix of feelings that knowledge brought—confusion, chagrin, and the smallest spot of warmth, lying in his stomach like a pebble. “I should think you would be glad to witness my demise at the hands of this potentially nefarious sea captain.”
Chant looked aghast. “How can you say such a thing?”
“Based upon your statements last night, you do not think highly of me. I have no wish to trouble you further with my defective personality, which is why I ask that you return home, or visit Bucknall’s, or indulge in whatever form of idleness best suits you.” Perhaps it was a test. Perhaps some part of him hoped to prompt Chant into refuting him—Of course I think highly of you, Gale. Your personality is far from defective. Trouble me all you like. That part of him ought to be cut out with a carving knife and thrown to starving hounds.
“You fool.” The fellow said it so simply—without rancour, but with complete authority, as though he found Gale more pitiable than vexing.
“How am I the fool in this equation? I have shown you your exit, and yet you insist on standing here, making conversation with me.”
Chant’s fingers curled at his sides. “I was angry last night, I’ll admit. I am usually a fair judge of character, and I was drawn to you in a way I have not been drawn to another person in many years. I see what kindness you are capable of, and I do not understand why you choose to reject that side of yourself.”
Why should that hurt? It did not; it did not hurt—Gale would not allow it to. He was about to point out the absurdity of having a conversation such as this in the small, mucky yard of a run-down house in a neighbourhood neither of them had any business visiting. But instead, he said, “You have misjudged my character, sir, if you think I am capable of kindness. I am sorry. Perhaps it smarts.”
“I have not misjudged you,” Chant insisted. “I do not wish for your demise. In fact, quite the opposite. Which is why I am going with you to locate this captain.”
No. The word was on the tip of Gale’s tongue, and yet he could not say it. Why—why on earth should Chant care what Gale did, or where he went, or to whom he spoke? Drawn to him; what did Chant mean by that? Balls! This was not where his focus should lie, not when he was meant to be investigating a murder.
Gale began walking down the alley, searching for a way back to the street. He could hear Chant’s footsteps close behind him.
Damn it all, was the man serious?
Gale walked faster. So did Chant. Eventuall
y, Chant matched his pace, and Gale had no desire to make a fool of himself by moving any faster, and so he was forced to walk side by side with Chant as they found their way again to the streets close to the river. Their strides were so long, it caused their arms to swing, and once, Chant’s hand brushed Gale’s, and Gale stumbled sideways as though Chant had shoved him.
When they at last reached the dockyard at Surrey Quays, Gale found his concentration had gone to hell. Who, pray tell, was he looking for? He could not remember. A ship’s captain. Tall fellow. Hair like twine. Dash it, if Chant truly cared about the girl, he would not compromise Gale’s investigation so.
He scanned the ships that bobbed upon the Thames. One in particular caught his eye: a square-rig merchant ship, her hull made of dark wood, her bow bearing a weathered figurehead in the shape of an eagle, wings outstretched.
The question he was most often asked by—the word made him sick—admirers, was how did you know? How did you put it all together? In truth, he didn’t understand how his own mind worked. He rarely strategised consciously. More often than not, the moves he made during an investigation were based on feelings. Wretched things, feelings—though they were certainly preferable to sentiments. He looked at the ship, and the darkness he felt within himself upon looking at it matched the darkness he had felt last night, hearing Darling speak of a six-fingered corpse. And he knew, even before the wind lifted her sails, revealing a rip in one staysail like a jagged leer, that this ship belonged to Elise’s captain.
He could not hope to stand and think for a moment with Chant breathing down his neck, so he strode purposefully up to a fellow who was manhandling a barrel of fish. Doing his best to ignore the stench, he informed the man that he was seeking a ship’s captain, tall in stature, with hair like twine. The man looked Gale up and down with combined bemusement and disgust. “Hair like twine, you say? Wha’, have you wrote me a poem about ’im?”
Gale forced a smile, disliking immensely the sensation of being mocked in front of Chant. “I’m afraid I got quite drunk the other night at The Belled Cat. Got to talking with the fellow I’ve just described. I can’t remember his name, only that he was very tall and his hair was…”