Conversation abruptly heightened in the courtyard below. Someone shouted, “It’s him!” and someone else said, “Of course it is, you goddamn sod.”
Finn couldn’t see the ghost from his vantage point, but it was obvious to him that it must emanate from the skull on the table – the dead boy’s skull, no doubt. Narbondo canted his head and narrowed his eyes, as if listening hard. Finn heard nothing at all aside from the chaos of noises below. After a moment Narbondo fiddled with the skull again. The ghost was drawn back into its prison, the skull fell dark, and Narbondo sat back in his chair looking tolerably satisfied.
NINETEEN
BILLSON’S HALF TOAD INN
The evening was wearing on when St. Ives and Hasbro found themselves walking through the door of Billson’s Half Toad Inn on Fingal Street, Lambert Court, Smithfield, near enough to the top end of Shoe Lane so that Chatterton’s unhappy ghost still haunted the neighborhood along with the ghosts of the Smithfield martyrs. They took a table in their accustomed corner, which was luckily empty and where an open window let in the evening breeze, the fog drifting past outside. William Billson himself served them an ewer of ale and then went back after two more empty glasses in anticipation of the appearance of Jack Owlesby and Tubby Frobisher, St. Ives’s companions in arms. St. Ives hoped that they had received his hastily telegraphed message from Gravesend. If they hadn’t, then he and Hasbro would go on alone into the rookery in Spitalfields within the hour.
“This business of a ransom might be an utter fraud, sir,” Hasbro said to St. Ives. “Narbondo wouldn’t scruple to murder a child while swearing that he was playing a fiddle – please forgive me for speaking plainly. Narbondo’s word, such as it is, means nothing to him.”
“Nor would he scruple to take my money into the bargain,” St. Ives said. “And thank you for speaking plainly. This is no time to mince words out of a specious regard for euphemism. I agree with you utterly. Take the case of Mary Eastman. The woman was no real threat to Narbondo, but he murdered her anyway. He sprinkled hemlock on Alice’s pike for no conceivable gain. He made a bargain with Harry Merton, and then took the first opportunity to betray him – to steal his money – and then to insist that Merton pay him for the ill treatment. Whoever suggested that there was honor among thieves knew precious few thieves.”
St. Ives paused for a moment, contemplating, and then said. “That rather puts me in mind of our friend George. There was something about his demeanor there in the alley that was damnably strange. It came over him at the end of our conversation.”
“Something tolerably close to honesty, it seemed to me,” Hasbro said. “Perhaps regret. I can’t make it out, unless George isn’t entirely whom we take him for.”
“Lord knows we’ve taken him for any number of things today. One thing’s sure: he doesn’t know Narbondo as we do – by his acts, as the Bible says. If it turns out George has a soul, he might find himself in deep water. I’ll have no dealings with Narbondo in any event. I mean to strike tonight, for good or ill.”
Hasbro nodded, took a contemplative drink of ale, and said, “There’s some small chance that your agreeing on tomorrow morning’s rendezvous will put them at their ease. Do you believe in the existence of this alleged Customer?”
“Probably the man who commissioned another of these lamps from Keeble,” St. Ives said. “That would be my guess. It’s senseless as mere invention when the threat of murder is entirely enough to force my hand, given that it’s Narbondo who’s making the threat. There’s no need for him to fabricate a more elaborate story. An actual customer would give a rational explanation to the kidnapping, a sensible motivation.”
“His presence might perhaps lend us some time. Narbondo is certainly as avaricious as he is murderous. Merton suggested that the man was highly placed, but that’s scarcely surprising, since wealth would seem to be a requirement, given the cost of the merchandise.”
“Keeble might shed some light on the man’s identity,” St. Ives said.
At that point the door opened, and three men walked in, Jack Owlesby, Tubby Frobisher, and a third man, whom St. Ives didn’t recognize – about Jack’s own age, which is to say twenty-four or -five. He wore a heavy mustache and had a fit look about him, as if he spent his time on a rugby pitch. He looked around the room appreciatively, taking in the high, oak wainscot that had been put up half a century before Dr. Johnson had made his occasional visit to the inn, and a century and a half before William Billson would buy the inn and rename it the Half Toad. The place was a marvel of homely perfection: the candlelight, the paintings of sailing ships on the walls, the enormous joint roasting on the spit, the tap boy drawing pints of ale, the satisfied patrons stowing away vast quantities of food and drink, and Henrietta Billson moving cheerfully and efficiently among it all, as if conducting an orchestra.
St. Ives found the presence of the newcomer tedious, however, regardless of the man’s sensible appreciation of the place in which he found himself. Surely Jack had understood from the nature of his message that there was perilous work to be done. St. Ives had no intention of entertaining strangers, tonight of all nights.
Tubby saw the two of them and angled toward their table, a dark look on his usually jovial face. He carried a heavy blackthorn stick, which gave him a rough and ready appearance. St. Ives was heartily glad to see him. Tubby’s stick was a cudgel rather than a cane, and with the top hollowed out and filled with lead, a more deadly weapon, perhaps, than St. Ives’s true Irish shillelagh, although St. Ives in his youth had learned to fight with it in the Irish manner, and he much preferred its length and weight – more versatile than a cudgel, and without the lethal appearance.
Jack, a comparatively young man, was sometimes frivolous in his speech and actions, and rather too inclined to be whimsical and hyperbolic, but was utterly dependable. He was an aspiring writer, who had sold pieces to The Graphic and Cornhill Magazine, several of them concerning the adventures of Langdon St. Ives, which were accurate enough, but contrived to sound like fiction. St. Ives had known him and his wife Dorothy – the daughter of William Keeble – for many years. Although it couldn’t be said that he was fearless, St. Ives had never known Jack to hesitate in the face of danger. Banishing fear, St. Ives had always thought, was more remarkable than fearlessness, which was too often mere stupidity, and equally often deadly. Jack’s loyalty to St. Ives was complete. He drew up before the table now, gesturing at his companion.
“I’d like to introduce the two of you to my particular friend,” he said. “Arthur Doyle. He’s a doctor, University of Edinburgh, with a new practice in Southend. He’s also a literary man, in London to speak to his publishers. I met him today at the offices of the Temple Bar, where he managed to sell a story. I, however, did not. Doyle, meet Professor Langdon St. Ives, and his long-time friend Hasbro.”
“Very pleased to meet you both,” the man said, his Scottish accent moderate.
His illuminated smile and the evident pleasure in his eyes were genuine, St. Ives noted, and he wondered what kind of writerly swill Jack had been filling him with this afternoon – apocryphal tales of grand exploits, no doubt.
“I’ve long wanted to meet you, sir,” Doyle said to St. Ives. “We have a mutual friend at the university. You know Joseph Bell, I believe. He speaks highly of you.”
“I do indeed,” said St. Ives with happy surprise. “I had the pleasure of meeting with him a year ago, when we were in your country, in Dundee, looking into the Tay Bridge disaster. We went considerably out of our way to consult with Dr. Bell, although to no avail, despite our concurring on the issue of Thomas Bouch’s culpability. The rail bridge was indeed badly engineered, although not so badly that it collapsed without, shall we say, nefarious encouragement. Please, sit down. We’re about to take some supper, although we haven’t much time to enjoy it.”
“Thank you, sir,” he said, and the two seated themselves. Tubby had already sat down and was familiarizing himself with the ale. “I’ve heard of this Narbondo
,” Doyle continued. “Highly interesting man, and I don’t doubt but what he had a hand in the Tay Bridge disaster, and has the blood of those seventy-five passengers on his hands. He was briefly at Edinburgh, you know, although long before my time. I believe that he called himself by a different name then. He was sent down for practicing vivisection. Doctor Bell brought the charges against him.”
“Is that true?” St. Ives said. “I had no idea.”
“It was kept quiet, of course – hidden from the press lest it sully the reputation of the University.”
The inn door opened just then and a newsboy entered, selling the Daily Telegraph. “Lord Moorgate cuts up rough!” the boy shouted. “Calls Gladstone a bloody anarchist!” He moved among the tables, collecting coins, and was given a bowl of plum duff by Henrietta Billson, who also paid for several copies of the paper, which she hung over a stick on the wall. The act was a kindness, it seemed to St. Ives, since the patrons who wanted the paper had already paid for it. Tubby Frobisher bought a copy as the boy headed toward the door.
“Lord Moorgate is an idiot,” Tubby announced after looking at the front page.
“Moorgate has the Queen’s ear,” Doyle said. “Gladstone is once again on the outs.”
“Aye, she’s influenced by Moorgate,” Tubby said, “but she can’t believe that Gladstone is planting infernal devices around London, for God’s sake. Moorgate hates the Irish and so hates Gladstone. To my mind it’s a crying shame that Moorgate wasn’t stabbed to death in Phoenix Park. A knife in the guts would have gone a long way toward civilizing the man.”
“I dare say,” Doyle said, looking in a wide-eyed way at Tubby.
“Tubby has the habit of speaking what’s on his mind, Doyle, as soon as the thought enters it,” Jack Owlesby said. “His thoughts are his children, you see, and he loves them all equally.”
“What Jack says is true, Mr. Doyle,” Tubby put in. “Jack, on the other hand, very often attempts to say what’s not on his mind, which generally leads to a sad confusion. One time he was bold enough to sing ‘The Highwayman’s Lament’ without ever having heard it. He filled in nine-tenths of the lyrics with ta-dum, ta-dum, ta-dum. It was such a fulsome endeavor that the audience had no need ever to hear it again, something they admitted to the last man, quite vehemently as I recall.”
“Never mind him, Doyle,” Jack said. “Certainly it’s the ale speaking, and not the man, prodigious though he might be.”
“It’s high time we got down to business, gentlemen,” St. Ives said, making an effort to hide his growing impatience.
“I hope it wasn’t forward of me,” Jack put in quickly, “but I took it upon myself to invite Doyle along on our little adventure tonight.”
“Only if it’s entirely convenient to you, sir,” Doyle said. “If you need another hand, so to speak.”
St. Ives regarded him openly and liked what he saw. The man had a forthright and honest face, and a look of great vigor about him. Still, the offer was very nearly senseless, taken all the way around, since Doyle could scarcely know what he was asking. “Thank you for the offer, Mr. Doyle. Aside from the mention of Ignacio Narbondo, did Jack reveal the nature of our business?”
“Not the details,” Jack said.
“Just so. I can tell you, Mr. Doyle – and I adjure you to remain silent on this front – that we’re working on the nether side of the law. It’s odds-on that people will be injured, perhaps killed. I’m in a desperate way, you see, sailing under a black flag. I tell you that plainly. My own safety is of little consequence to me.”
“Nor mine,” said Tubby, who picked up his blackthorn and thumped it on the floorboards. “I intend to knock these people on the head and let Satan sort them out.”
Hasbro said nothing, but his silence and the set look on his face seemed to reveal a like way of thinking.
Doyle looked from one to the other of them and nodded. “I’m with you,” he said to St. Ives. “I’ve read of your exploits in The Graphic, sir, and for a number of reasons I would be pleased to be a part of one of them. I’m a fair boxer, and I’ve made a particular study of a human being’s natural physical weaknesses. I’m unencumbered by a wife, and although it’s true that I have a new practice in Southend, business can be optimistically described as slow, and at present a locum attends to my affairs. He’ll be glad to have another few days’ salary before I return. In short, I’m my own man, and I’m quite prepared to follow you, come what may.”
“There’s spirit for you, eh!” Tubby cried, reaching for his glass. “Let’s drink to the unencumbered Mr. Doyle! We’ll beard Narbondo in his den, and be damned to him.”
“So be it,” St. Ives said, dismissing caution and raising his own glass. “Now there are five of us. I prefer an odd number. Are you armed, Jack?”
Owlesby opened his coat, revealing a marlinspike slipped into a long, narrow pocket.
“And you, Mr. Doyle? We’ll be going into the rookery, Flower and Dean Street, and it’s odds on we’ll have to fight our way out.”
“I prefer to use my fists, sir, if it comes to it.”
“More in keeping with the Oath, perhaps?”
“Yes, although I let my conscience guide me in that regard.”
“Then I advise you to be prudent. No unnecessary heroics. We leave none of us behind, alive or dead, and so it’s best for all of us if we walk out.” To the entire company St. Ives said, “As for the police, if something goes awry, we’ll want the same story – simply that we were set upon by a gang of thieves and undertook to defend ourselves. That should answer nicely, given the low neighborhood, although the police might wonder at our business there. Our adversaries will scarcely lodge a complaint in any event. Mr. Doyle, I’ll reveal to you that Dr. Narbondo has kidnapped my son and is threatening his life. Our only advantage, as Hasbro was just pointing out to me when you three walked in, is that the Doctor is particularly avaricious, always on the lookout for means with which to carry out his schemes. He has demanded a considerable sum of money as ransom. We very much hope that simple greed will preserve the life of my son, giving us time to act.”
The food arrived at the table – thick cuts of roast beef, boiled potatoes with butter, an immense turbot stuffed with an oyster hash, and a leek pastry with bacon. They fell to, eating with a will, St. Ives discovering that he was sharp set, that he relished the food and was vastly hungry, had rarely eaten better – a great contrast with his closed stomach earlier in the day. It was the pending battle that did it, the chance that it was a last meal, or perhaps simply some bodily demand for sustenance before going into dangerous territory.
“I strongly suspect that to Narbondo’s mind this is merely the prelude to further villainy,” St. Ives told them. “It’s quite possible that he means to draw us in, murder us, and have a clear field. Narbondo is rumored to be engaged in some larger, infinitely evil scheme, which we will thwart if ever we can, although thwarting that scheme is secondary to me tonight. Hasbro and I will go in first. They’ll be on the lookout for us, but they have no idea of the three of you. You’ll take no unwarranted chances, but if you can find a way to come around behind them, then between the surprise of the thing and the weight of our attack, we can dispatch them quickly and beard Narbondo in his den.”
“Quite so,” Tubby said, hefting his stick. “If I can’t lay them out like wheat before the scythe, I’m a damned humbug.” He was nearly apoplectic with anticipation, and Doyle looked at him with an expression that was something between admiring wonder and professional concern.
“But we must keep in sight of each other,” St. Ives said, “each looking out for the other.” He talked around the food, telling them what news they had got from Slocumb – the alley, the arched passage, the possibility of multiple exits. The rest they would discover in Spitalfields, come what may.
“One thing, gentlemen,” he said, when they were rising to leave. “If it is within my power to do so, I mean to end Narbondo’s career this evening, by whatever means are ne
cessary, even if we are successful in securing my son unharmed. I have cold-blooded murder in my mind; I tell you that plainly and with no compunctions. If you have any objections to that, then by all means go about your business now; it’s far the more sensible course.”
Tubby laughed out loud, which startled Doyle once again, although he hesitated only a moment before putting out his hand for St. Ives to shake. “One for all, and all for one, as the saying goes.” He winked at Tubby, who slapped him manfully on the shoulder, hard enough to knock a smaller man out of his chair. St. Ives was heartened by the high spirits, but Eddie was ever on his mind, as was Alice, and his own spirits were something less than high. George had been dead right about one thing: St. Ives could not return to Aylesford and to Alice having failed again, not this time.
TWENTY
MOTHER AND SON
For an anxious time, Mother Laswell had thought that Mabel was dead – throttled by the immense psychic charge of Narbondo’s presence in the room. When her friend had come to, she was physically exhausted, barely able to stagger to bed, where she fell instantly into a fitful sleep, sitting up wild-eyed from time to time as if she saw some horror right there in the room. Mother Laswell had sat with her throughout the day, listening to her feverish ramblings and sponging her brow, returning time and again to study the torn, vellum map. The planchette needle had plowed a furrow straight into Spitalfields, stopping directly above Whitechapel Road in what appeared to be a warren of unnamed courtyards and alleyways. She wished that it had somehow been more exacting, but it would have to be enough. She would depend upon her senses to lead her on once she was near her destination.
In the evening she persuaded Mabel to drink a cup of tea, after which her friend passed into a more natural slumber. Mother Laswell had left her then, along with a note that expressed her gratitude but said nothing of her intentions. Mabel needn’t be a party to the pending horror, for a horror it would surely be. Mother Laswell had gone down the stairs, taking her parasol with her, unsure whether she would return, or whether her journey would simply end tonight.
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