by Anne Perry
This whole adventure was a very bad idea. He should have had more sense, and sent Henry Rathbone and his dreams on his way. That would have been best for everyone—even this spoiled, self-indulgent young man in his descent to hell. Let him go, if that was what he wanted. He wasn’t coming back; anyone but a fool knew that.
The lavender-coated man turned slowly on his heel, keeping his balance with difficulty, and pointed to a small door to his left. “That way,” he whispered. “And down, always down.”
“Thank you, Mr. …” Henry said.
“Ash,” the man replied with a bow. “Lionel Ash.”
“Thank you, Mr. Ash.”
Crow went first. They had opened the door, and were through it before Mr. Ash called after them. “Be careful of the blood! Don’t slip on it.”
Crow froze.
Henry turned back. “What blood?” he said grimly, a flicker of annoyance in his face.
“At the bottom of the stairs,” Mr. Ash answered. “On the floor. Terrible mess.”
“Whose blood?” Squeaky lunged toward Ash and gripped him by the throat, his strong fingers pressing into the scrawny, completely unresisting flesh.
“My, haven’t we got a nasty temper!” Ash said, seeming quite unaffected by having his neck squeezed till Squeaky could feel the sinews and the bones of his spine. Squeaky tried to yank Ash off his feet, and found him unaccountably heavy.
“Whose blood?” he hissed.
“Why, the ones who were killed there, stupid!” Ash answered. “Heartless, it was.” He gave a violent shudder, as if he were seized with some kind of convulsion. Then, just as quickly, he went completely limp. Suddenly he seemed to collapse and tears streamed down his white cheeks. “So much blood,” he whispered. “So much.”
Crow swore under his breath. He glanced at Bessie, then at Henry Rathbone, his brow furrowed.
“You had better let him go,” he advised Squeaky, nodding toward Ash in his ridiculous lavender coat. “He can’t tell us anything if he can’t breathe.”
Squeaky loosened his grip, then pushed Ash hard against the wall. “Who was killed?” he said between his teeth.
Ash straightened his velvet coat. His eyes were narrow, like slits in the paper-white of his face.
“The handsome young man, and the woman with so much black hair,” he replied. “Isn’t that who you were looking for?”
Henry’s shoulders sagged, and the anger and hope drained out of his eyes. “You said he’d gone down.” He shook his head.
“Oh yes, far, far down, places most people don’t even know about,” Ash agreed. “Dream, maybe, in the silent reaches of the night, and wake up sick with a cold sweat. Down there where the shadows move in shadows!” He gave a little giggle that was almost a sob. “Shadow Man.”
Suddenly Henry was angry. “Your nightmares are no more real than any other drunkard’s or opium addict’s. They’re paper devils of your own making. Is Lucien alive or dead?”
“A good philosophical question.” Ash’s attention was now completely focused on Henry, as though Crow and Squeaky were not real, and Bessie was half a creature of this world anyway. “At what point do we step across that slender, eternal line, eh?”
“When our hearts stop beating and our eyes cloud over,” Henry snapped.
“Ah—hearts.” More tears slid down Ash’s face. “Who knows where their hearts are, or ever were? Eyes can be cloudy in more ways than one. Who sees? Who doesn’t?”
Squeaky was losing his patience again. He grasped Ash by the collar of his velvet coat and jerked him around. “I think we’d better take him with us,” he said to Henry. “He’s a bit slow to give a straight answer.” He yanked him a couple of steps farther toward the door, and the collar of his velevet jacket tore, leaving the lapels crooked and a rent down the collar’s back seam.
Ash’s face contorted with fury. It was still totally colorless because of the strange cosmetic he had smeared over it, but his dark lips were pulled back from small teeth, yellow and sharp. “You’ll pay for that!” he snarled. “You Philistine! You sniveling animal! Go find your Lucien.” He jabbed long-nailed fingers toward the door. “And be careful he doesn’t tear your heart out, too!”
Crow slammed the door open and grabbed Bessie by the hand. Squeaky followed them onto a short landing, Henry behind them, then down the narrow stone steps. There was a faint light from a lantern on the wall, and at the bottom, where it widened by several feet, there were dark stains. It was impossible by the look of them to know what they were, but in his mind he had no doubt that they were human blood.
Henry stood still, regarding the silent stone walls and floor, breathing in the stale smells: mud, candle tallow, something metallic, a sourness like body waste, old terror, and despair.
“Was Lucien the victim, or did he kill Niccolo and Sadie here?” His voice shook a little. He was giving words to his own worst fear, and Squeaky knew it as certainly as if he had known the man for years. He did not want to know him. He did not want to be forced into liking him, even admiring him. Rathbone was a dreamer and a fool. He had no grip on the realities of the world at all. He was like some child—far more so than Bessie, who at least knew what to expect of life.
Squeaky wanted to say something clever, but knew that whatever he said had to be the truth. He looked at Crow, but Crow was inspecting the floor and the lower parts of the walls. There appeared to be scratches on the stone and spatters of blood—if it was blood. Somebody had been horribly injured here—probably bled to death. Who had moved the body, and why?
“Are you sure you want to do this?” Crow turned to Henry. “If it was Lucien who was killed here, his father isn’t going to want to hear that. If it was he who killed Niccolo or Sadie, he’s going to want to hear that even less. Wouldn’t you rather just tell him we tried, but we lost the trail? He doesn’t need to know different.”
“Of course I’d rather tell him that,” Henry said quietly. His eyes stared into the darkness ahead of them, where the passageway seemed to go upward again, but at a slope rather than by steps. “But I’m not a very good liar.”
“Then I’ll do it for you,” Squeaky offered. “I’m excellent.”
Henry laughed quietly. “That’s very kind of you, Mr. Robinson, but it wouldn’t help, not in the long run. James Wentworth is my friend. I owe him a better answer than a lie.”
“Why?” Squeaky said reasonably. “He did something for you that you got to pay back?”
“Not as simple as that,” Henry answered. “But yes, I suppose so. Friendship. Being there over the years, knowing when to speak and when to keep silent. Sharing things because they mattered to me, even though not to him. Telling me about funny and interesting things he’d learned. Being open about his failures as well as his successes.”
Squeaky had a glimpse of something new and perhaps beautiful. It was annoying, but he felt as if he had arrived somewhere just after the party was over. The music had stopped, but he could hear its echo.
Crow stood up. His face was masklike in the sallow light from the one lantern on the wall. “I’m pretty certain at least two people were killed here,” he said quietly. “Very violently indeed. One here, where this blood is.” He pointed to the largest stain on the ground. “Then it looks as if two people fought.” He looked at splashes and smears, which were apparently trodden in several times by feet that seemed to have slipped and twisted on the edge of a larger stain. “And the other one was killed, or at least seriously injured, here. That effigy with the white lead face was right about that. Whether Lucien was one of the victims or not we need to find out.”
“Yes,” Henry agreed quietly. “Of course we do. And I suppose if he wasn’t, we need to know what has happened to him, and … and if the victims were Sadie and Niccolo, then we need to know who killed them.”
Squeaky was about to say that it could only have been Lucien, then changed his mind. Poor Henry had had enough for the moment. He must be exhausted, hungry, and cold, and none of th
em knew what time it was, or more than roughly even where they were.
Crow pushed his hands into his pockets. “We need to find someone else who knows Lucien and can tell us something of what happened here. To judge by how sticky the blood still is, it wasn’t very long ago.”
“What do you mean by ‘not long ago’?” Squeaky said with a tremor in his voice. “An’ where’s the body anyway? That much blood, someone’s dead, but how do we know if it was a man or a woman, let alone that it was Lucien?”
“We don’t,” Henry replied. “That’s why we must find proof of this. Someone moved it. Where to, and why? And what is this place?”
“It’s the passage between two clubs, of sorts,” Squeaky answered, looking around them at the stained walls, some brick, some stone. “Or maybe more than two. I’ll shake the bleedin’ truth out of someone.” He set off toward the light, then past it, and found a fork to the right. There was a whole network of tunnels under London that he knew about. Indeed, in the past he had used them himself. He had forgotten how dark they were, and he had intentionally forgotten the smell. It washed back on him now as if the years between had been erased and he was again a young man, hot-tempered, desperate, and greedy, buying and selling anything, especially people. It was more than distaste he felt, more than a clogging stench in his nose and throat.
Bessie was pulling on his coattails. He wanted to turn round and slap her away. She trusted him, and she had no right to. It was stupid, as if she were trying to remind him of all those other girls that he had put into the trade, faces he couldn’t even remember now.
He stopped abruptly and she collided with him, hands still clinging on to the stuff of his coat.
“Stop it!” he snarled at her. “Don’t follow me like …” He was going to say ‘like a dog,’ but that was too harsh, even if it was apt. She looked just like a loyal, trusting, stupid little dog that expected him to treat it right.
She let her hands fall, still looking at him, which made him feel as if she had kicked him in the pit of his stomach.
“Like … like I could look after you,” he finished. “Someone’s got to find out what happened to the corpse. In’t fit for you to see. Stay with Mr. Rathbone.”
“I seen corpses,” she told him, putting out her hand and taking hold of his coattails again. “I’ll ’elp yer.”
He blasphemed under his breath, and felt Henry Rathbone’s eyes on him, even though he was farther from the light and his figure was only a shadow behind them.
“Aren’t yer going on, then?” Bessie asked. “Yer in’t given up, ’ave yer?”
Squeaky swore again, turning around to continue his way along the passage and up more steps to a door. Beyond it were sounds of music and laughter.
“No, I in’t given up,” he answered her at last. “But we’ve got to think what to do now. If Lucien’s dead, that’s the end of it.”
“If it wasn’t Lucien, then who was it?” Henry asked. “And even more important, who killed him, or her?”
“You mean, was it Lucien?” Crow said softly. He looked at Henry. “Do you want to know that? What are we going to do if it was?”
Henry was silent for several moments. No one interrupted his thoughts.
“That may depend on the reasons,” he answered at last, hope struggling in his voice, in what they could see of his face in the dim light. “Maybe it was self-defense. In a place like this that is imaginable.”
Squeaky was torn between pity and the urgent desire to tell Henry not to be so naive. This was getting more ridiculous by the moment.
“Lucien wouldn’t kill nobody less ’e ’ad ter,” Bessie said at last. “If … if it weren’t ’im as were killed.”
“Right, Bessie,” Henry agreed warmly. “We need to find anyone at all who has seen him in the last few hours—two or three, let us say. Please lead on, Mr. Robinson. If we can find Sadie, she may well know.”
Squeaky bit back the words on the edge of his tongue, and started forward again.
They went from one tavern or doss-house to another all through the night and well into the cold, midwinter daylight. They shook people awake to ask about Lucien or Sadie. They threatened and promised. Squeaky lied inventively, while Henry persuaded—often with a few coins or a ham sandwich that he bought from a peddler—but no one would admit to knowing anything about murder. Even a hot cup of coffee from a stand on the corner of one of the alleys elicited nothing useful.
They found people huddled in doorways, covered with old clothes or discarded packing and newspapers, sometimes too drunk to even be aware of their freezing limbs. All questions about Lucien or Sadie were met with vacant stares. For most that was also true for any mention of Shadwell. The two or three who reacted did so with blank denial and with shivering more than was warranted by the cold of the icy morning.
They stopped at last for a hot breakfast at a tavern off Shaftesbury Avenue. There was a good fire in the hearth. Although the room was dirty and everything smelled of smoke and spilled ale, they sat at a scarred wooden table and ate bacon, eggs, and piles of hot toast, and drank fresh tea. Bessie managed to consume more than the other three together.
“What do we know?” Henry asked, looking at each of them in turn. “Somebody was killed at the bottom of those steps. There was too much blood for those wounds not to have been fatal.” He turned questioningly to Crow.
“Yes,” Crow agreed. “From the way it was placed, it could have been two people. Or it could have been one dead and one badly injured. It looked as if they had been dragged, but where to? Where are they now?”
“Why move them anyway?” Henry asked. “That’s a question to which we need the answer. Buried decently, or just disposed of? Hidden to conceal who killed them, or who they were?”
“Or that they were killed at all,” Crow added. “Except that they didn’t wash away the blood. They could have done something about that.”
“Rats’ll get rid of that, in time,” Squeaky pointed out.
Crow’s face registered his distaste, but also a sudden spark of interest. “Then it can’t have been there long,” he observed. “No one we spoke to admitted to having seen anything at all.” He leaned forward a little over the table. “Is that indifference, even to the bribe of food? Or are they too afraid to answer anyone? Is this man Shadwell’s power so great?” He looked at Henry and Squeaky in turn. “Or is it that the murderer never came aboveground into the world in which we have been asking?”
Henry shivered, his face bleak with exhaustion, and the weight of the terrible new way of existence that had never entered his imagination before now. “I suppose there is nothing with which the police can help us?” he asked, but there was no hope in his eyes.
Squeaky nearly dropped his mug of tea, saving it with difficulty. “Damn.” It would have ruined his bread and bacon. “Never!” He also narrowly avoided using the language that sprang to his mind. “We don’t want the police in this,” he said fervently. “If it’s Lucien who’s dead we don’t want his father to find out this way. Then all the world’ll know.” He saw the alarm and the pity in Henry’s face and how no more explanation was necessary.
“We have to know whether it was him or not,” Henry said quietly. “How can we do that?” He looked first at Squeaky, then at Crow.
It was Bessie who answered, her mouth still full of toast.
“In’t no use lookin’ fer the corpses. If it’s Shadwell wot done it, ’e’ll put ’em where the rats’ll get ’em. Rats are always ’ungry, an’ bones all look the same.”
Crow stopped eating, as if he could not swallow the bacon in his mouth.
Henry closed his eyes, then opened them again slowly. “Have you any idea where else we should look, Bessie?” he asked.
“ ‘We can’t find Sadie, we could look fer ’oo owned ’er,’ ” she replied. She took another piece of toast and bit into it, then wiped her hand across her chin to rub away the excess butter. “She’s a fly piece, an’ all, but worth summink. ’Ooever
’e is, ’e’s goin’ ter be as mad as ’ell if she’s dead. Yer gotta look after yer property, or anybody’ll take it from yer. ’E’s gonna make sure as ’ooever did this pays fer it, so’s it don’t ’appen again. Keep respect, like.”
She was suddenly conscious of the three men staring at her. She lowered her eyes and rubbed her sleeve across her chin, just in case there was still butter there. She wasn’t used to food like this. In fact, she wasn’t used to having her own food at all, specially set out for her alone, on a separate plate.
Squeaky knew she was right. He was annoyed that he hadn’t thought of that himself. He should have! He really had to get out of Portpool Lane; his brain was curdling.
“Course,” he agreed a little sourly. “That’s the one thing we know. She were the woman dead, so someone’s going ter be mad as hell, ’cause he’s been robbed. By all accounts she were something real special. Drove men mad for ’er. Who knows how many more, before Lucien.”
“Excellent,” Henry approved wryly. “A little sleep, and then we shall begin again. That is, if you are all still willing? I would be extremely grateful for your help.”
“Course,” Bessie said immediately.
“Yer’d help anyone on two legs, fer a piece o’ toast an’ jam,” Squeaky said with disgust.
She gave him a radiant smile. “ ’E don’t ’ave ter ’ave two legs,” she corrected him.
Henry and Crow both laughed aloud. Henry patted her gently on the shoulder. “I suggest we find somewhere with a place to sleep, reconvene at dusk for something to eat, and then continue on our way.”
Crow turned to Bessie. “I’ll find you somewhere.” He stood up. “Come on.”
She rose also and followed him obediently, leaving Squeaky feeling oddly alone. Crow was out of line: Squeaky was the one looking after her, not him. He did not notice Henry Rathbone’s smile.