The White Devil

by Justin Evans

  “Are you leaving?” snapped Macrae, incredulous.

  “Need to sort things out. At the hotel.”

  “What’s the problem?”

  “Nothing! Just looking in on Andrew.”

  “He’s lying,” accused Matron. “We heard you in there.”

  “I’ve got it under control,” he replied. He walked to the door.

  “No, you don’t,” said Matron, coldly. “You never have.”

  Fawkes hung there at his own entryway. So the truth comes out at last. A thousand half-formed put-downs scrambled to the surface of Fawkes’s consciousness. Fuck you, you fat cow, maybe none of this would have happened if you’d been a more supportive . . . ? Helpful . . . ? Nothing quite lived up to the moment. He felt fatigued, tired of fighting these people.

  “Then here’s my offer to you. You two take care of the seventy-nine boys here. I’ll look after this one.”

  ANDREW HAD ARRIVED in the dark, quivering as if he’d been electrocuted. Dr. Kahn had immediately diagnosed shock and placed him on her sofa, put a sherry in his hand, and told him that Fawkes was on his way.

  Andrew slurped the sherry and forced himself to breathe normally.

  It wasn’t her.

  He had left Persephone in the hospital. Safe. Not well, exactly, but safe. Harness could not have killed her.

  But if he can sicken her, he can kill her.

  “Need to call . . .” he mumbled.

  He pulled his mobile out of his pocket. His hands trembled. He found the number for the Royal Tredway. Called it. Navigated through the menus to the visitor line. At last he reached a nurse, in the chest center, and asked to speak to the patient Persephone Vine. Was refused. (It was after hours.) He argued. I brought her there! he shouted. Just connect me. There are phones in the rooms, I saw them. Just put me through. He was refused, more firmly. Just . . . just tell me if she’s okay. Please. Is she . . . is she stable? Is she breathing okay? The nurse asked who he was. I’m her boyfriend. I brought her there. The nurse did not warm to him but she took pity, and she put him on hold. He waited, squirming. She’s stable, came the nurse’s voice. Now? You’re sure? he demanded. When did they last check her?

  She’s stable, came the reply. I just talked to the attending. All right? Andrew muttered thanks and hung up.

  Dr. Kahn stared at him, her brow furrowed in concern.

  “What is going on?” she said.

  “Can I have another one of these?” He held out his sherry goblet.

  She topped up his glass from a black, sticky bottle. He sipped. Closed his eyes. Persephone was safe. Then why did he see her dead? What was Harness trying to say? That Persephone was next? That he was going to kill her? Andrew’s body shuddered. He tried to erase the image of her staring, vacant eyes.

  Dr. Kahn was in the kitchen, putting on a kettle. Andrew, for the first time, took in her home. He was surprised. Her imperious bearing might have suggested a Mies van der Rohe cube house, with icy white spaces and a lot of glass. Or an unreformed Victorian curiosity shoppe, with grandfather clocks and porcelain figurines. Neither were on display here. Dr. Kahn lived in a decidedly middle-class cottage with low ceilings, battered floor-model furniture, lamps with dim wattage, worn carpet, snapshots of relatives. Not exactly the Fortress of Solitude, but a decent place to escape to, Andrew decided: it smelled of dusty blankets, steam heat, and Darjeeling. Only the books, he observed, lived in luxury. Built-in, recessed shelves encircled every room, nesting and protecting the volumes: short, fat histories in French with gilt spines; bound atlases, as tall and black in their leather covers as a row of ship’s captains; folios of naturalist drawings; and two shelves dedicated to heterogeneous Dickens, apparently a favorite—an original serialized Bleak House in green binding; a colorfully splashy graphic novel version of Great Expectations.

  A few minutes after the kettle whistled, Piers Fawkes entered the house, wearing a leather jacket and a harried expression.

  “Sorry I’m late. I had Matron and Macrae lurking about. They heard everything. God knows what trouble they’ll make.” Fawkes took in Andrew on the sofa, looking pale. “Speaking of trouble.” He tried to smile. But Andrew’s eyes were red; he fidgeted; his hands wrung themselves in his lap, unconsciously.

  “Persephone,” Andrew said. “Harness wants to kill her.”

  “She’ll be fine.”

  “I should just give myself to him,” Andrew said.

  Fawkes exchanged a concerned glance with Dr. Kahn.

  “Give yourself . . . to whom, Andrew?” he asked.

  “To Harness. Then maybe he’d leave the others alone. That’s what he wants, isn’t it?”

  “Andrew . . . ,” said Fawkes. “Even if you wanted to, how would you go about doing that?”

  “I don’t know.” Andrew’s voice was vacant, despondent. “Throw myself down the cistern. Or just let him know. He could have me, if he gave the others back.”

  Fawkes watched Andrew intently. “When was the last time you ate, my friend?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Get him something,” said Fawkes. Dr. Kahn went to the kitchen and started rummaging for sandwich makings. Fawkes sat down next to Andrew. “This isn’t a chess game, where you can sacrifice one piece and win. We’re protecting you. If we lose you, we’ve lost—and Harness wins. Please don’t say things like that again.”

  “What about Roddy and Persephone? And Theo?” Andrew continued. “They would have been fine, if it weren’t . . .”

  “If it weren’t for John Harness,” finished Fawkes, firmly. “He’s the one doing this. It’s not your fault. Do you understand?”

  Andrew nodded reluctantly.

  “Good man. Now don’t say another word until you eat.”

  They watched while Andrew devoured two cheese sandwiches on wheat bread, seasoned with pickle, a blackish, sour relish that could only exist, and be combined with cheese, in England; and he washed it all down with a mug of hot, sugary tea. He wiped his mouth with his hand.

  “Biscuits?” Dr. Kahn offered.

  Andrew ate four, with a second mug of tea.

  “Now,” commanded Fawkes. “Talk.”

  Andrew sighed. “I saw the murder,” he said. “The whole thing.” He started describing the vision.

  “The Three Arrows is an old spot,” said Dr. Kahn. “Some variation of guesthouse, inn, or hostel has been in that spot since the sixteen hundreds.”

  “Funny, Montague said something about that when he recommended the hotel,” mused Fawkes. “He said its only guests were people who come for Speech Day.”

  “People coming for Speech Day—like Byron in 1809?” said Andrew.

  “Those kinds of traditions do have a way of sticking,” said Dr. Kahn.

  “So the murder could have taken place at the Three Arrows,” said Fawkes. “Maybe Byron is out visiting friends. Harness descends on Byron’s new friend, alone . . .”

  Now Andrew’s expression clouded. “There’s one thing I left out. The person he killed was a girl.”

  “What?”

  “Her hair came spilling out from under a cap. I saw it. She was only dressed as a boy.”

  “But who was she?” asked Fawkes.

  Andrew seemed stricken. Then suddenly he shouted, in a different voice:

  “Who was it? Tell me!”

  The two others jumped and looked at him in alarm.

  “Harness said that to me,” he explained. “Back when I saw him in the cistern. Who was it. Tell me.” Andrew’s mind churned. “It seemed so out of place at the time. But now I think I understand it. He killed the wrong person. He knew he was too sick to kill again and get it right,” Andrew said, turning it over in his head. “So he doesn’t actually know who he killed. He must have died without finding out. That’s what we need to discover. But we don’t have much time.”

  “What do you mean?” Fawkes asked.

  “And at the end, the girl’s face changed to Persephone’s,” Andrew said, his voice cracking wi
th emotion. “Like Harness was trying to tell me she’s next.”

  “Not if we do our job right,” said Fawkes. “What’s all that new material you have stuffed into your bag?”

  Andrew pulled out a detailed timeline of Byron’s life during 1808 and 1809. It came from a website created by Dr. Cade: a chronology of Byron’s life. The year 1809 began with the damning reviews of his first volume of poetry, Hours of Idleness; continued with Byron’s debauchery in London as he tried to forget his disappointment, borrowing money for clothes, coaches, liquor, prostitutes; leading up to his return to Harrow in 1809, for Speech Day. Then—abruptly—turning to preparations for his European journey.

  “Well, that’s one mystery solved. The murder is what drove Byron to flee England,” Fawkes observed. “He finds someone dead in his hotel room. He was afraid of being accused of the murder.”

  Andrew mused, “Or maybe he left because his spirit was crushed.”

  “That’s only if the girl they found was special to him. Was she?” Dr. Kahn turned to Fawkes.

  “Hm?”

  “With all these boys,” Dr. Kahn said. “It is still possible to love women, you know. Any evidence that Byron was serious about a girl at this time?”

  “A girl . . .”

  Fawkes lit a cigarette. He held a page from the timeline in front of his nose. He had a faraway expression of someone whose mind is grinding on a problem like a slow hard drive.

  Andrew and Dr. Kahn exchanged glances and left him alone.

  “Byron was all dark and tragic after that, right?” Andrew said. “He was Childe Harold, carrying the burden of a horrible secret. Maybe what crushed Byron wasn’t that he was accused of murder. Maybe it was that he knew Harness was a murderer. I mean, he was in love with Harness, right? For years. Imagine finding out the person you loved was a psychopathic killer.”

  Dr. Kahn smiled. “We’ll make a proper researcher of you yet.”

  Andrew managed a smile.

  “But we’re not done,” she continued. “Who was Harness’s victim? I’m getting confused now. Was it a boy or a girl?”

  “It was both!” exclaimed Fawkes.

  They turned to him. He still held up the paper.

  “What are you on about, Piers?” Dr. Kahn demanded.

  “Covent Garden.” He pointed his cigarette at a point on the page. “There it is.”

  He was interrupted by an insistent buzz of the doorbell.

  “Who can that be?” Dr. Kahn rose, irritated. “I haven’t had a guest for weeks, and suddenly all of Harrow is tromping through . . .”

  “One moment, Judy.” Fawkes touched her arm, stopping her. “Andrew’s supposed to be at his hotel. If that’s anyone from the school and they find him here, it will be trouble.”

  They looked at Andrew.

  “They might force me into the hospital,” he said, then added, brightly: “I could be with Persephone.”

  “Yeah, locked in the tuberculosis honeymoon suite,” Fawkes said. “That won’t help us with Harness.”

  The doorbell buzzed again.

  “Come on,” said Dr. Kahn. She grabbed Andrew’s elbow.

  She dragged him up the stairs to a small reading room, consisting of a lime-green divan under a reading lamp, and more teeming bookshelves. “Don’t move until I come for you.” The doorbell rang a third time. She scuttled off.

  “SIR ALAN,” SHE said. The damp evening air curled her breath into white puffs.

  “Judy,” came the familiar voice. “I apologize for the abrupt visit. This is Ronnie Pickles, from the Health Protection Agency. We’ve just been to the Three Arrows Inn, looking for Andrew Taylor, who’s in serious trouble. We’ve searched for him back at his house, and were led here. Ah, hello Piers. Now the story comes together. May we come in?”

  The four of them crowded into Dr. Kahn’s entryway, next to a row of coat pegs and an umbrella stand.

  “How can I help you?” Dr. Kahn said stiffly.

  “Piers can tell you,” said Sir Alan. But Fawkes stared coldly back at him. Sir Alan continued. “Andrew Taylor may have tuberculosis, which is disturbing enough, but now he’s gone missing.”

  “Missing?” said Fawkes.

  “Your assistant housemaster called me, saying you ran off after getting a call. Made it sound like there was trouble at the hotel; the boy wasn’t staying put. I called Mr. Pickles, here, from the HPA, to return to school and join me; and sure enough . . . no Andrew Taylor in room twelve.” His eyes bored into Fawkes. “Funny, Piers, I’ve been at Headland for four years now, and I haven’t lost a single boy. But here in the course of a few months, you’ve got one missing, one in hospital, and one dead.”

  Fawkes took a step forward. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “My daughter’s in hospital because you let someone with tuberculosis run coughing through the Hill,” Sir Alan snarled, shedding his polite façade and himself stepping closer to Fawkes. They were a mere foot apart, in street-fighting pose. “I’ve been at her hospital bed. I think I know what I’m talking about.” The two men glared at each other. “You’ve nearly shut us down. But you’re not through yet. You’re hiding the boy, God knows why, and making this into a real catastrophe. Stop mucking about and put the boy under the proper care.”

  “I can’t do that.”

  “And just why the devil not?”

  “Because he doesn’t know where he is,” put in Dr. Kahn, quickly.

  “Really.” Sir Alan’s sarcasm was thick.

  She continued. “Piers told the boy to come here, but he never showed. We’ve no idea where he is. He’s probably back at the Lot by now.”

  “We’ve just come from there,” said Pickles. He looked fatigued, and out of his depth.

  “Well, maybe he went out for food, or to sneak a pint,” Dr. Kahn replied tartly. “He’s a teenager, not a toddler. He’ll turn up.”

  “You seem awfully cool about the spread of tuberculosis in Greater London, Judy. I doubt the authorities would share your sangfroid. Going out and eating and breathing in public is exactly what he’s not supposed to be doing. Easy for you to say, when you haven’t got a sick daughter. What about you, Fawkes? Any theories about where the boy might have vanished to?”

  “None.” Fawkes still looked like he wanted to take a bite out of Sir Alan.

  “Well, I have one.” Sir Alan adopted a new voice: that of a litigator cross-examining a witness with a weak story. “Andrew Taylor, an arrogant American student, decides for himself that, despite the orders of his school, the recommendation of the government health department, and the risk he poses to other people, he doesn’t like staying at the Three Arrows. He’d rather go to a friend’s house. That friend,” Sir Alan continued, with a nod at Dr. Kahn, “gives him a sandwich.” The plate still sat on the coffee table, with two crusts. “That friend then hears the mean old health authorities knocking . . . so the friend takes him to an upper room to hide,” he pointed upward, to the second story, “where he won’t be discovered. And the friend cleverly turns on the light while the mean old health authorities are still standing on the stoop, where they can see everything. Not exactly an inspired plan. Perhaps the friend isn’t as bright as she makes herself out to be.”

  Dr. Kahn blushed scarlet. “Get out of here, Alan.”

  “Let me see him,” he demanded.

  “I said get out.”

  “Take me upstairs, Judy. I want to see that room.” He stood his ground, puffed up and furious. It looked like he wanted to run past her and make a break for the stairs.

  “Sir Alan!” she shouted. “Remove yourself from my home or I will call the police!”

  “Go ahead,” he sneered. “Let them find him. I should have thought of that myself.”

  Dr. Kahn’s eyes bugged. “Piers,” she appealed.

  Fawkes took a step into the center of the hall. But Sir Alan scoffed. “You’re going to have the poet rough me up? I’d rip you apart, and enjoy it.” His eyes flashed. “But I don�
��t need to go that far. You’re sacked, Piers.”

  “What?”

  “Effective immediately.”

  “You don’t have the authority,” Fawkes challenged, disbelieving.

  Sir Alan twisted out a smile. “You’re right. I don’t. I already have it from the head man. When I told him what was happening, he gave the word in about five seconds.”

  He turned his back and stomped outside. Pickles scampered behind. Outside, on the walkway in the dark, Sir Alan stopped and faced the upstairs window.

  “You’ve messed with the wrong family!” Dr. Kahn rushed to her front door. Sir Alan! Stop it! But he was possessed by rage. “You should see Persephone now!” he shouted. “She’s barely alive. Because of you. Eh?” The upstairs curtain did not move. “I know what you did,” he continued shouting. “I talked to Persephone. Yes, I know it all. You’re a disgusting, druggie shit!”

  With this final shriek, he stomped to the car that stood waiting at the end of the walkway. He turned back for one last assault.

  “Do his parents know where he is?” he called out to Dr. Kahn and Fawkes. “Do you have their permission? Or maybe you want a kidnapping charge added on to all your other mistakes tonight?”

  With that parting shot he leapt into the car and gunned the engine, and barely waited for Pickles to climb in the passenger side before he pulled away with a screech. Down the street, a porch light illuminated, and a worried neighbor stepped outside to investigate.

  “Come on,” muttered Dr. Kahn, pulling a stunned Fawkes inside the house after her.

  23

  Redeeming a Whore

  THE THREE OF them took turns pacing, and sitting despondently in Dr. Kahn’s living room, but in the end they decided there was nothing to do about Sir Alan.

  “Their main goal is to get Andrew out of the Lot. Whether he’s at the Three Arrows or here—it makes little difference,” argued Fawkes. “Jute won’t make any more of a row than he already has.”

  “I don’t want the police calling and accusing me of kidnapping,” fumed Dr. Kahn. “Do we have to hide Andrew in the attic like Anne Frank?”