Horatio Lyle

by Webb, Catherine

  There was one place inside the Bethnal Green rookery that resembled civilization, and even then it was a civilization in decline. Lyle found it through a half-open crumbling door a few steps below street level, above which someone had hammered a sign reading ‘House of Pr’ before someone else had come along and broken off the other half of the sign for some other purpose. He pushed open the door and stepped into a darkness that stank of tobacco, opium, sweat and cheap make-up made from ground lead. Faces lurked in the shadows, and those that weren’t lost in some other world glared at having their rest interrupted. A stair at one end led up to an unseen fiddle player whose instrument possessed no more than three strings. The sounds of drinking and pattering feet accompanied him in occasional loud gales of shouting that lapsed again into an alcoholic silence. Lyle walked to the stairs, but didn’t climb them, turning instead to a small door tucked just behind them, bolted, with a sign crudely written on it in charcoal, ‘kep owut ’. He knocked on the door. After a second it opened and a very large man with a crooked nose that hadn’t healed properly from when it last broke, and a pair of lips so cut and bruised they barely resembled a mouth any more, glowered at him. ‘Keep out,’ he growled, indicating the sign with a huge, bulging finger.

  ‘I need to see the Missus.’

  ‘Keep out!’

  ‘Just tell the Missus Mister Lyle is here, please.’

  The door slammed shut. Lyle waited, leaning into a corner, trying to look unobtrusive in the smoke. Someone lying on a pallet by the opposite door was starting to whine in a high-pitched, if undeniably happy voice that sounded like a frightened cat mewing. The door unbolted again and a new face appeared. It was round, possessed more chins than its owner had fingers - of which three were missing on the right hand, just stumps remaining - above a large red, low-necked dress stained in more mysterious ways than Lyle wanted to speculate on, and was topped by a huge yellow wig that in low-ceilinged houses presented something of a fire hazard. It beamed at Lyle.

  ‘Horatio! Come in, come in.’

  He sidled uneasily into the room. The woman glanced at the large man skulking in a corner and said imperiously, ‘Go.’

  The man lumbered out, his face impassive. The door closed behind him. Lyle looked round the room. A huge, dirty and cracked mirror dominated one corner, a sofa another, the stuffing showing, and another wall was obscured by equally damaged dresses of a similar low-cut nature, and wigs to match. His eyes fell on a desk in front of the mirror, laden with pots and brushes. He picked up a pot at random, sniffed it, frowned and said, ‘This smells of belladonna.’

  ‘Mistress of the night,’ replied the Missus with an overdramatic flourish.

  ‘Hallucinogenic,’ replied Lyle reproachfully, putting the pot down again. ‘How are you, Mrs Gardener?’

  She drooped herself over the end of the sofa, waving a long white hand airily. ‘As well as can be expected, darling boy. And you? Are you still trying to cure society’s ills?’

  ‘Only as a hobby, Mrs Gardener. But I do have a favour to ask.’

  ‘Favours? Horatio, dear, I thought we established that all debts are repaid.’

  ‘All right - an exchange.’

  ‘You’re not going to be so vulgar as to offer money, are you?’

  ‘Ma’am,’ he replied with a faint sigh, ‘I couldn’t compete.’ Lyle dug into a pocket, rummaging around deep inside before he found what he was looking for. He pulled it out triumphantly, held it up and said, ‘Burn one teaspoon in your room whenever you have an attack, inhale the fumes and it ’ll temporarily reduce the breathing difficulties.’

  She took the pot, lifted the lid and peered suspiciously at what was inside. ‘It’s a powder, not a herb.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What’s it made of?’

  ‘It ’s chemically derived.’

  She frowned. ‘Have you tested it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘On people?’

  ‘Once, yes!’

  She sighed, and the pot disappeared somewhere into the desk next to her. ‘Well, I trust you, Horatio Lyle. More than the quacks who call themselves physicians, at least. And what do you desire in return?’

  ‘Information, please.’

  ‘It’s always information with you, Horatio, my darling boy. How do you expect our relationship to develop like this?’

  ‘I need to know about Bray.’

  Her expression darkened. ‘Bray?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why do you want to know about him?’

  ‘I’m looking for him.’

  ‘For yourself, or for them?’

  ‘If by “them”, you mean the bobbies, no, not necessarily. It depends what he has to say.’

  ‘Horatio, wouldn’t it be simpler for us all if you let him be?’

  ‘Why, where is he?’

  She sighed expansively, leaning back and away from him, to study his face from an angle. As the silence stretched, he shifted uneasily and said, ‘Ma’am, I’m not leaving until I have an answer. A good answer, I mean.’

  She took a deep breath, and let it out again. ‘Bray is an unfortunate. If you’d met his Pa . . . born bad, died drunk. You can’t blame the boy for falling into other pursuits.’

  ‘That’s not really for me to decide, is it? Where is he?’

  ‘He was staying with a friend of his, a man with four fingers . . .’

  ‘Carwell?’

  The sharpness of his question surprised her. ‘Yes, it might well have been the same.’

  ‘Where was he staying?’

  ‘A boarding house owned by Mrs McVicar, a Scottish lady of some repute.’

  ‘I think I know it. Is he there now?’

  She waved her arms in expansive ignorance. ‘He and Carwell both appear to have dug themselves into the shadows. Carwell - and his brother - used to be a common client here, but I hear from those who know such things that he and Bray were both working on something -’ she waggled her eyebrows meaningfully at Lyle - ‘substantial. Is that what brings you here, Horatio? Something “substantial”?’

  ‘I’d rather not talk about it.’

  ‘It must be sensational, then.’

  ‘Will you contact me if you see Bray?’

  Her eyes narrowed fractionally. ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘He might be in danger.’

  ‘From who?’

  ‘The people who killed Carwell.’

  She didn’t blink, and though her smile remained fixed, there was a tiny, imperceptible tightening as she hid her reactions behind a mask of stone. ‘In that case, it may well be that I will contact you.’

  ‘Thank you.’ He smiled, nodded politely at her and, without another word, turned and left the room and that house as fast as he possibly could, trying not to breathe on his way out.

  Mrs McVicar’s boarding house was a leaning tomb around a small courtyard which had, over the years, filled up with other smaller houses, sheds of wood tied together with bits of damp rope, that turned the courtyard into a square surrounding yet more houses of mud floors, cloth roofs and walls through which the light crawled in each long, crooked crack. In the kitchen there was a small group of footpads and thieves carefully sipping thin soup, the colour of which derived more from the orange-brown water that sloshed out of the pump than from the ingredients carefully sprinkled in it. Several glanced at Lyle as he entered, with a calculating look. Tate growled at them. Lyle did his best to ignore them, and asked in a voice increasingly inflected with the accents of that part of town where the Madam was. It was a habit he ’d acquired when young, and never managed to lose, so wherever he went, Lyle found himself speaking in the local accent. Though it could often be embarrassing, it was occasionally useful too, and Lyle was almost grateful for it now.

  The Madam was outside, washing. Lyle found her bent over a stone trough by a wrought-iron pump, hammering sheets so thin he could see through them the colour of her eyes. He waited until she had finished and was hanging them out to drip dirty brown wa
ter on to the dirty brown earth, before saying, ‘Mrs McVicar?’

  She turned quickly, fists instinctively bunching up, saw him and didn’t relax. ‘What d’you want?’

  ‘Erm . . . I’m looking for Bray, ma’am.’

  Her eyebrows knitted together. ‘Who?’

  ‘Bray. Stayed here with Carwell.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Carwell. Short, missing a finger on his right hand? If you have any information about . . .’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. Goodbye,’ she said in a voice that had a strange drone Lyle hadn’t expected to hear. Leaving her washing where it was she turned and marched with a glassy expression into the house. Lyle followed, but she slammed the door shut behind her, without once looking back at him. Lyle stood for a few astonished seconds on the step, then hammered on the door. ‘Mrs McVicar!’ Silence from inside. ‘Mrs McVicar!’ He looked down at Tate, who assumed an unhelpful expression even by doggy standards. Lyle groaned, looked at the door, backed off a few paces and charged shoulder-first at it. On the third impact it burst open and he limped in, rubbing his aching arm and hopping slightly, having nearly tripped over his own feet. Inside, Mrs McVicar was mindlessly scrubbing a couple of thin metal plates in a stone sink. He strode up to her and tried again, in his most authoritative voice.

  ‘Mrs McVicar, I am a Special Constable.’

  She stared blankly at him. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Ma’am, I need to find Bray. I have reason to believe . . .’

  ‘Who?’

  He frowned. Her expression was one of total incomprehension. ‘Mrs McVicar?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Are you feeling all right?’

  ‘Of course I’m feeling all right. Who are you? What are you doing here?’

  ‘I’m Special Constable Horatio Lyle, ma’am . . .’

  Immediately her eyebrows came together. She seemed to be trying to remember something. Distantly she murmured, ‘Lyle? Horatio Lyle?’

  ‘Yes, that ’s right.’

  ‘Looking for . . .’

  ‘Bray. Friend of Carwell.’

  ‘Bray. Bray?’ Her eyebrows flickered and she seemed to be trying to say something, mouth working up and down soundlessly around a trapped answer.

  ‘Ma’am, are you sure you’re feeling quite well?’

  Without a word of warning she suddenly turned and marched over to a shelf, turning her back to Lyle. He followed her quickly as she opened a drawer and reached in. ‘Ma’am?’

  Her hand came out, clutching a carving knife. He jumped back quickly. It was a cheap knife, the handle half-fallen off, the blade rusted, but it still had the look of something designed for cutting through meat with the least possible effort. She didn’t move, didn’t look at him, just stared at the rusted knife in her hand. ‘A man came,’ she said in a distant voice.

  ‘A man?’ murmured Lyle, his own voice shaking slightly as he backed towards the door.

  ‘Yes.’ She spoke like someone in a dream. ‘A beautiful, kind man. Eyes like emeralds. “Where is Bray?” he said. “Where is Bray?” I hardly dared speak, I sounded so crude and so weak compared to him.’

  ‘Yes?’ prompted Lyle, his voice barely above a whisper.

  She turned slowly, and though her eyes were open and fixed on him, he doubted if she was seeing him at all. ‘He . . . he smelt of sweet exotic fruits and . . . of leaves in empty forests - such a clean, pure smell, so . . . enticing, so warming. He said, “You are weak” and I almost cried to be honoured by his speech and his looks.’

  ‘“Exotic fruits”? And teeth like a fish?’ suggested Lyle, one foot already outside the doorframe, ready to run, one hand wrapped tightly round a glass vial, half-hidden behind his white knuckles.

  She ignored him. Perhaps she couldn’t hear him. ‘He said a man would come, a policeman, Horatio Lyle. He said this man would want to know where Bray was, and that this man was evil.’ She raised her head slowly, and now her eyes seemed to drift into focus for the very first time. She saw Lyle. She smiled. She slowly changed her grip on the knife and, without warning, without a cry or a change in her serene expression, without a word or a sigh, she ran at him.

  Struck dumb, Lyle doubted his own eyes, and only as she was nearly on top of him, the point angled towards his heart, did instinct kick in. He jumped back, pivoting out of the door and round against the wall, while at his feet Tate barked furiously. Mrs McVicar swung out of the door frantically after him, but was hindered by Tate leaping up and biting at her ankle. Lyle staggered back as she struggled to free herself, face still serene despite the blood flowing around her ankle and Tate clinging on grimly. As she brought the knife up again Lyle threw the glass vial down on to the ground as hard as he could.

  It smashed, sizzled and then exploded in foul-smelling thin grey smoke that leapt up instantly and burnt the eyes, making them run and tickling the throat. Lyle felt something brush his arm and pushed hard against it. He heard a little, unpleasant sound like the snipping of scissors slicing rashers of bacon into pieces, and a sigh that seemed to go on for ever. Tate was barking, but if he was doing that, he couldn’t be biting. Lyle staggered out of the cloud of smoke, coughing and heaving. Windows were opening, voices were shouting, children were appearing at the mouths of alleys to stare, people were emerging from doorways. Lyle flapped ineptly at the smoke with his hat as Tate limped out of it, and slowly, deadened by the still-falling rain, it drifted away. He looked down at the ground. Blood was slowly pooling. Mrs McVicar lay, breathing heavily, legs twisted under her, head to one side, the carving knife bloody at her side. Blood seeped through her bodice, diluted by the rain. He heard someone start to shout, but it was a long way off. Everyone else just watched in silence. For a second he stood in dumbfounded horror, trying to comprehend what he ’d just seen, before instinct once again took over. He rushed over to Mrs McVicar’s side, kicking the carving knife away with the toe of his boot, kneeling down at her side and tearing at her clothes while shouting, ‘Someone get a doctor!’

  A child ran off, but whether to find help or not, he didn’t know. In the silence broken only by the drumming rain, the crowd of onlookers edged tighter around the body. ‘Someone get a doctor now!’ he yelled. He tore away at the bodice and saw the long, deep slice in her side. ‘Oh God,’ he whispered under his breath. Her eyes flickered open and slowly focused on him.

  ‘Who . . .’ she began weakly.

  Lyle grabbed a wet sheet from the stone trough by the pump and started tearing through the flimsy fabric, while everyone stood and watched. ‘Help me!’ he snapped at the nearest person, who came forward uncertainly to take a handful of sheet. ‘Hold it against the cut, hard,’ snapped Lyle, digging through his pockets furiously.

  ‘Who . . .’ began Mrs McVicar again, trying to raise herself and see his face clearly.

  ‘Horatio Lyle,’ he whispered. ‘It ’s all right.’

  ‘Lyle?’ There was understanding there now, a recognition and warmth he hadn’t heard before. She reached up with a bloody hand and tried to grab his. He held her hand tightly, feeling the weak pulse underneath it. Trying to move nearer to him, and in a voice that was almost drowned out by the rain, she whispered, ‘Don’t look at the eyes.’ Then she smiled. And gently lay back, and let go of his hand.

  The only noise left was of the falling rain. The man holding the bloody sheets glanced up at Lyle with a question in his eyes, and Lyle looked away. He stood up slowly. He turned to search for Tate, saw him cowering, sodden and cold, in a corner, walked over to him, squatted down, wrapped the freezing, wet dog in his coat, and carried him to the nearest hansom cab without saying a word.

  CHAPTER 9

  Stone

  ‘You all right, Mister Lyle? You look all pale an’ all.’

  ‘I’m fine, thank you, Teresa. Come in out of the rain.’

  He closed the door quickly behind Tess as she slouched into the quiet house. Taking her coat, he hung it up next to his own sodden garment, so
that the two could drip together, and led her quickly into the sitting room, where a fire was blazing and Tate was lying in a warm basket, snoozing happily. A half-eaten plate of bread and cold meat lay on the table next to a large padded armchair, which was grooved and worn in a shape that exactly matched Lyle ’s dimensions. Into this Lyle flopped without a word, not looking directly at Tess, but staring into the fire. She had a feeling he ’d been doing that most of the afternoon. At his feet was a pile of the day’s newspapers, crumpled by intensive reading and careless discarding.

  ‘Good . . . dog walk, Mister Lyle?’ she hazarded.

  ‘I found out where our elusive follower is staying.’

  ‘An’?’

  ‘He’s staying with five other Chinese gentlemen in a mews off Hyde Park. His neighbour said they’d moved in there about three months ago.’

  ‘Ain’t that a bit odd?’

  ‘Yes, a bit.’

  She shifted uneasily. She wasn’t used to his intense silence. ‘An’ anything else happen?’

  ‘I read the newspapers.’

  Tess brightened at this. ‘Well, that don’t sound so bad!’

  ‘They’ve found Carwell’s brother, Jack. He was thrown up by the tide a few hundred yards further down the river, after we’d gone. According to the reports, his throat had been cut, with some sort of hunting knife.’ Lyle’s voice sounded tired and empty. ‘The Carwells always worked together. It ’s no surprise.’ And, almost inaudible, ‘Such a waste.’

  Tess felt obliged to say something but couldn’t think what. ‘Oh. But nothin’ else happen, right? Only ’cos it seems to me how you got this way of sorta gettin’ into trouble when I ain’t here to make sure that you don’t do nothin’ silly an’—’

  ‘A lady attacked me with a carving knife. Without provocation. In mysterious circumstances.’

  Tess shuffled uneasily. ‘Oh,’ she repeated finally, when the silence dragged too long. ‘Well, you ain’t seemin’ too dead, so it can’t have been that nasty.’