The Aylesford Skull

by James P. Blaylock

  “No, indeed. The second was a Dutchman named de Groot, the secretary of someone highly placed, or so he told me. Whom I can’t say, and it scarcely seemed politic to ask. He was a stout man with short legs, who sweated profusely. Very florid all the way around, including his hair and beard, which were red as a newt.”

  St. Ives nodded. “There’s the telling phrase again: ‘highly placed.’ Narbondo’s nefarious Customer, I don’t doubt. If we knew who this Dutchman was, we could perhaps make use of him – make him sweat a little more. But we do not know him. We’re all to seek.”

  “What do we know in fact?” Doyle asked. “As a newcomer, it’s perhaps none of my business, but…”

  “It’s entirely your business after the way in which you comported yourself tonight,” St. Ives said. “We’re considerably in your debt.”

  “Yes, indeed,” Tubby put in. “That fellow with the dirk will be pissing blood for a week after…”

  “For God’s sake, man!” Jack said.

  “Dreadfully sorry.” Tubby looked abashed. “Perhaps another slice of that pudding?” he asked Winnifred.

  “We’d best start at the beginning,” St. Ives said, and he did his best to reveal the salient points of Mother Laswell’s sad story, including the business of the Aylesford Skull, the alleged lane to the afterlife, and the likely reason for Narbondo’s kidnapping Eddie.

  Keeble sat with a look of startled horror on his face. “The fiends lied to me,” he said. “I had no idea.”

  “Of course,” St. Ives told him. “None of us knew anything at all until now. I still admit to finding elements of the problem little short of ludicrous, but it’s clear that Narbondo does not, and so the immediate dangers are very real.”

  “I find it no such thing, sir, if I might state my opinion,” Doyle said. “There’s nothing necessarily ludicrous in it. I have a high regard for science, but an equally high regard for the thinking of your Mother Laswell. Indeed, science ignorantly deplores things of the spirit, so to speak, and at its own peril. Our highly placed personage – we suspect him of being in league with Narbondo?”

  “Perhaps, but the evidence isn’t persuasive,” St. Ives said. “Narbondo famously keeps to himself, of course. I can’t imagine that he would take on a partner or a confidante, not unless it was for his own immediate gain. If the two are connected, I suspect financial dealings – Narbondo making use of this person’s money or power. And if that’s the case, then the man treads on very thin ice.”

  St. Ives was suddenly weary. The food had done for him. It was past time to put an end to the day. “We’ll give the airship a trial at first light then,” he said.

  Keeble looked askance at him. “Not all of you, certainly? Not at once?”

  “No, William. Hasbro and I will take it aloft. You three,” he said, addressing Jack, Doyle, and Tubby, “should go about your business. I thank you for your loyalty tonight, but I have no idea what tomorrow will bring, and I don’t intend to keep you standing by. I intend to go to the police. Perhaps I should have done so immediately, although it would surely have impeded our own efforts tonight, perhaps for the better.”

  This pronouncement dampened all conversation, and there was a general silence again. The most voracious eating was over, and even Tubby merely toyed with his final piece of toast. “I for one will look in on Uncle Gilbert’s bivouac down the river,” Tubby said.

  “Ah, the search for the elusive bustard,” St. Ives put in. “I had forgotten. Give him my kindest regards, if you will.”

  “He’ll be having a comfortable time of it,” Tubby said. “He has something of the Arabian sultan in him, you know, when it comes to an encampment. I’ll be nearby, Professor, if you’ve got any use for me, and I’ll be on the lookout for your airship.”

  “Perhaps Doyle and I can make inquiries about this Dutchman named de Groot,” Jack said, “if in fact that’s his name.”

  “Happily,” Doyle said. “I’ve no reason to return to Southend for another week.”

  “We’ve got beds already made up,” Dorothy said. “You’ll stay here tonight. You too, Tubby, unless you’re keen on returning to Chingford. The lot of you, in fact. We’ll make do.”

  “Thank you,” St. Ives said, “but we’ll just nip back over to the Half Toad as usual. Our dunnage is there. I’m done in, I’m afraid, so the sooner the better.” He pushed his chair back from the table and Hasbro did the same, but before they had time to stand, the doorknocker downstairs hammered a half dozen times, leading to an absolute silence in the room. St. Ives was keenly alert. This would not be a social call, not at this late hour.

  “I’ll see to it,” Jack said. He arose and went to the several speaking tubes moored to a wooden rack on the wall of the room. He plucked the first of them free and spoke into the funnel-like mouth of the thing. “Please to identify yourself,” he said.

  From the considerably larger funnel affixed to the wall nearby came a disembodied voice, a boy’s voice, perhaps. “It’s Newman, sir, at your service,” the voice said.

  “Do any of us know a Newman?” Jack asked the company, covering the speaking tube with his hand.

  “Not any sort of Newman who would be knocking at the door at this hour,” Tubby said. “It’s not the police, though, thank God.”

  “What do you want, Mr. Newman?” Jack asked into the mouthpiece. “State your business.”

  “Message for Mr. Owlesby or the missus if he ain’t there,” came the reply. “Finn Conrad sends word of the Doctor!”

  St. Ives stood up out of his chair, a wave of pain cutting across his forehead and nearly staggering him. “Finn Conrad!” he shouted. “What on Earth…?” But he was already crossing the room to the door, Jack at his heels, the both of them hurrying down the stairs toward the street.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  LORD MOORGATE

  Mother Laswell found herself crossing the mouth of Angel Alley again, following the disguised man. He headed up Whitechapel Road, and then very soon turned north onto Brick Lane, crossing Wentworth Street several streets east from where Mother Laswell had crossed it earlier in the evening. Abruptly she recalled his name: Nesbitt – Layton Nesbitt. She had a memory for names, especially names from the past, but she had to allow her mind to recover them by itself. If she actively sought them out, they’d stay hidden. There had been mention of Nesbitt in her husband’s logbooks – several, if she remembered aright – that seemed to reveal his generally low opinion of the man, although a generally high regard for the man’s money. Nesbitt had been a young man at the time.

  The long day told on her joints, and she found she was limping on her right foot, her corns no doubt enflamed. She half expected Nesbitt to hail a hansom cab and disappear, leaving her to trudge back the way she’d come, a mile out of her way now, the entire adventure utterly pointless. Could she find her way back to Lime Street without entirely retracing her steps? Most of the street names meant little to her, but in her mind she could picture herself walking around the perimeter of a box. Currently they were moving dead away from the river. When he turned left again on a street called Hanbury, she was relieved to think that another left turn would take her in the general direction of Mabel’s. If he turned right again, they would part company. She didn’t have it in her to keep on at this pace.

  Not long after this thought came into her mind, he turned abruptly into the shallow portico of a building with a bright-red door, hesitating for a moment while he fitted a key to the lock, then opened the door, and went in. She walked up to the building and stood looking at the facade. There was no sign of any sort – not an inn. A place, perhaps, where he kept rooms. Two windows fronted the street, hung with heavy velvet curtains. The interior was dimly lit. She peered past the curtain but could make little out, and she was acutely aware that she was merely loitering. She wondered what she meant to do. Beat on the door? What would she confront him with even if he answered?

  It was long past midnight, and the street was very nearly empty. Two men
hurried along down the footpath opposite, turning up an alley and disappearing. There was another man ambling along toward her, a few yards down. She felt perfectly aimless, like a top that had spun itself out under a chair. Had she gone about her business she would be at Mabel’s by now, taking her ease.

  The door opened, surprising her, and Nesbitt reappeared. He was accompanied now by a young woman who seemed to be half his age. He had removed the disguise, which had given him a comical air, and there was nothing comical about him now. He had steel gray hair and an angular face despite his heavy build. In the gaslight his eyes were the same color as his hair.

  “Who cares that you lost your ring?” the woman said to him. “You can buy another.”

  “My signet ring,” he told her, stopping on the footpath to pull on his gloves. “Of course I can buy another. Money is not the issue. I wouldn’t want it found, do you see? Not where I’ve been tonight. The police would recognize it easily enough and wonder why I had been in that room.”

  “You should have kept it on your finger.”

  “I thank you for your advice. I found myself among strangers, actually, and so I put it into my pocket. Evidently it fell out. I wasn’t at ease in that damned rookery, I can tell you. And I don’t trust Narbondo. He’s done nothing to demonstrate good faith. It’s almost as if he’s mocking me. He’ll regret it if he is.”

  The two set out again, in Mother Laswell’s direction, and in that moment Nesbitt looked straight at her. He blinked, as if in surprise, and then a slow, contemptuous smile formed on his face.

  “You’ve followed me,” he said. “How tenacious of you.”

  “You knew my late husband,” she told him, “many years ago. You’re Layton Nesbitt, I believe?”

  “He’s Lord Moorgate now,” the woman said to her, a haughty look on her face. “You’d best curtsey, you old slattern.”

  “And you’d be wise to find more savory company, young lady. Your Lord Moorgate has dangerous friends, my son among them.”

  “Come now,” Moorgate said, “why have you followed me?”

  “I really cannot tell you,” she said. “It was a sleeveless errand.”

  “You cannot, you say? You underestimate yourself, or perhaps you underestimate me. This is your second sleeveless errand of the evening, apparently. That seems uncannily thoughtless of you. I believe that you know something more than you say, or that you believe you do. How you know it is a mystery, but mysteries bore me. I’ll just ask you to accompany us, ma’am, in order to come at a solution. We’ll chat further, in the company of one or two of my dangerous friends.”

  “I will not, sir. I have no fear of you.”

  The woman grinned abruptly, as if finding this amusing, and Mother Laswell moved back a step, holding her parasol before her like a sword. She had a premonition of real danger now – from the woman, and not Nesbitt or Moorgate or whatever he called himself. Running wasn’t in her, though. They would have her if they wanted her, no doubt about that, but perhaps she could poke one of them in the eye…

  Moorgate lunged forward suddenly, taking three long steps and closing with her. He clutched her arm, wrenching the parasol out of her grasp and pitching it into the street. She attempted to twist away, but the woman came up beside her now and latched onto her other arm, and Mother Laswell found herself propelled forward, walking so as not to fall down. Quickly she decided that falling down was a better thing than going on, and so she slumped, her weight dragging her to the ground.

  “I won’t go another step,” she said, sitting on the pavement. “I have nothing to say to you or your friends.”

  “I believe that you do,” Lord Moorgate said, “and I believe that you will. Helen, convince her that I’m correct, if you don’t mind. I’m weary of this.”

  The woman named Helen bent over in front of her and produced an ivory knitting needle from her sleeve. It had been filed to a sharp point, which she displayed for Mother Laswell’s edification. “Upon my honor you’ll come along willingly or I’ll put this in your ear, my lady.”

  Mother Laswell stared into her face for a moment. You’ve trod on a hornets’ nest now, Mother, she told herself. Having no choice in the matter she struggled to rise, neither of the two lending her any assistance. They were talking again. The woman laughed aloud. Mother Laswell heard a rush of footsteps behind her now – someone coming at a dead run – and she looked back in surprise, as did Moorgate and the woman named Helen.

  Mother Laswell was confounded to see Bill Kraken six paces away running and not slowing down. Lord Moorgate set his feet to meet the onrush, but was simply mowed down, his hat flying away, Kraken banking off the nearby wall, catching himself, and leaping forward to kick Moorgate on the knee. Helen, knitting needle in her hand, lunged at Kraken as Moorgate fell, but Mother Laswell threw herself forward and grabbed a handful of Helen’s dress and the woman tripped and went down, grunting audibly when her knee and hands struck the stones of the pavement, her knitting needle snapping in half. Mother Laswell leaned heavily against her as she got to her feet, stepping into the road to fetch her parasol, meaning to teach Helen a lesson in manners.

  Moorgate leapt up and assumed a boxer’s stance, he and Kraken circling Helen, who rolled up onto the footpath, shielding herself with her hands and arms. Moorgate feinted at Kraken, who ducked backward as his opponent took a wild swing at his jaw, Kraken knocking his fist away, Moorgate bobbing toward him again, lashing out and catching Kraken on the chin this time, knocking him backward.

  With room to move now, Helen scrambled to her feet and turned toward Mother Laswell, who rushed in at her, pummeling her with the umbrella, thrusting it into her face, Helen windmilling her arms to fend it off and fleeing into the street. Mother Laswell followed, her blood up now, and took a wild swing with the umbrella at the back of Helen’s head. The umbrella flew open, two of the ribs entangling themselves in Helen’s hair and bringing her up short.

  “Murder!” Helen began screaming. “Murder! Murder!”

  Mother Laswell snatched the umbrella away with both hands, shouting, “We’ll see who murders whom!” and starting forward again, but abruptly finding herself pulled backward. Behind them, Lord Moorgate lay face down on the pavement.

  “We’d best take our leave,” Kraken said, hurrying her along.

  Suddenly energized, Mother Laswell found herself running, her corns be damned – something she hadn’t done in years, the two of them rounding the corner and hastening south along Bishopsgate. When it was certain they weren’t being followed, they slowed their pace and limped along, Kraken looking back every few yards, both of them laboring simply to breathe. No one followed. Lord Moorgate had given it up, apparently. Mother Laswell wondered if he were dead. More likely he would simply have gone on his way. He wouldn’t want the police involved, not if he thought she knew something about his dealings, which he evidently did think, although he was dead wrong in that regard.

  “We’d best keep on,” Kraken said, gasping. “They’d jail me for certain, Mother, for laying into that gent.”

  “He’s no gent,” Mother Laswell said. “You’re a gent, Bill, and I owe you an apology for running out on you this morning. Indeed, I owe you considerably more than that.”

  “Nobody owes me nothing, Mother, including you,” Kraken said. “I don’t hold with being owed. Who was he, then – him and the strumpet?”

  “That was Lord Moorgate. You’ve savaged a Peer of the Realm, Bill. The woman was a vicious little adder. It’s my great hope that we never meet them again. I’ve gone my entire life without brawling, and now twice in one night I’ve found myself in a rout. If you hadn’t come along when you did, they’d have had their way with me.” She took stock of her umbrella, which was flayed to pieces. A considerable hank of black hair was entangled in the bent ribs, and she saw with satisfaction that there was a bit of bloody skin attached.

  The tooth! she thought, thrusting her hand into her pocket. With it, Mabel might once again locate Edward, even if
Narbondo had moved him out of London. The tooth was still there, safe enough.

  “Mabel Morningstar showed me the map,” Kraken said, “and I been searching these last hours. It was dumb luck that I fell in with you when you were a-standing outside there on the street. When the two of them joined you, I held back till I seen what they were about. You didn’t kill the Doctor, did you? I’m hopeful that you didn’t. You couldn’t of stood it, a woman with your heart.”

  “No, Bill. I didn’t kill him, although I admit that I tried, or I think I did. I didn’t have the spirit to do it for its own sake, but there was a boy there, and I plucked up the courage to use the pistol when it came into my mind to take the boy away.”

  “Eddie, his name is – the boy,” Kraken said.

  “Yes. How did you know?”

  “The missus told me. Alice St. Ives – the Professor’s missus, before I come into London.”

  “I’m bound to find that boy, Bill. I nearly brought him away with me, but I couldn’t manage it. Narbondo will kill another child, do you see, and I can’t have that. I couldn’t stand having two on my conscience.”

  “No more can I, Mother. We’re in it together, up to our necks. We’ve got a mort of seams to caulk, and no pitch hot, but we’ll see it done, by God. Damn me if we won’t.”

  “Nobody will damn you, Bill, ever. I don’t deserve a friend such as you. I tell you that plainly.”

  “More than a friend, ma’am,” Kraken mumbled. And then he nodded his head resolutely. “More than a friend.” He said it clearly this time, his face looking both pleased and determined in the moonlight.

  She gazed at him quizzically, a smile on her own face, but he kept his eyes forward. She took his arm, happy enough not to press him, and he reached over and patted her hand.