Gallowglass sat back and stuffed the rest of the tea-cake into her mouth. She tapped her chin, chewed, and said, “Now that you mention it, neither am I.” She smiled and brushed crumbs off of her shirt. “You should buy me one, and a pretty one, too.”
“Buy it yourself,” he said.
“You don’t pay me,” she said matter-of-factly.
“And yet you can still afford to add to that collection of pornographic postcards you think I don’t know about,” he said.
“They’re artistic, innit?” she said. She smiled at Andraste. “I like art, me.”
“Nobody likes art that much,” St. Cyprian shot back. He shook his head and looked at Andraste. “I apologize. My apprentice and I are still getting used to one another.”
“Assistant,” Gallowglass corrected, reaching for another tea-cake.
“Shall we compromise—millstone, say, or albatross? Regardless, something heavy, dragging me down to unseemly depths,” he said, not looking at Gallowglass.
Andraste raised an eyebrow and took a sip of tea. “Been together long then?”
“A year or thereabouts,” he said. He glanced at Gallowglass, who smiled prettily, her mouth full of tea-cake. “It feels rather longer, at times, I must admit.”
“I’d bet that’s an interesting story,” Andraste said, looking back and forth between them. Gallowglass shrugged and St. Cyprian frowned.
“Horrifying, perhaps, and certainly unpleasant, but interesting? Not as such,” he said. He smiled thinly. “I think it’s safe to say that neither of us has an interest in rehashing it. Especially at the moment,” he added.
“Too bloody right,” Gallowglass muttered.
Andraste shifted in her chair. “I’m sorry,” she said after a moment.
St. Cyprian smiled. “Don’t be. Now, onto different—though no less unpleasant—matters; your partner is, as mentioned earlier, dead.”
Andraste closed her eyes. “It got him, didn’t it?” There was sadness in her voice, and resignation. She had expected it, he knew. He wondered whether she had even considered that Jadwiga might come back for her; if she’d known about his opium habit, probably not.
“Yes,” St. Cyprian said, setting down his cup. “But you knew that, didn’t you?”
Andraste tapped her head. “I could feel it—like a nasty flush of satisfaction. I get flashes of it about its business.” She said the last with a nauseated expression on her face. “Just, funny little turns, where I hear and see things. Mostly it’s just hungry, but not for food, I don’t think.”
“Not as we understand it, no.” St. Cyprian leaned back and interlaced his fingers on his lap. “It’s not of this world, and doesn’t feed on anything we’d recognize as food. I’d say it got its fill of late.”
Andraste flinched. “I saw what it did in the opium den. Not all of it, but…” She looked at him. “You hurt it.”
“Did I?” he mused, scratching his chin. “That’s handy to know. What else?”
Andraste swallowed. “I don’t just feel it. I think—when I try and sleep—I think I can see what it sees. Or what it thinks it sees? I don’t know how to describe it. I can hear things.”
“Carriages,” St. Cyprian said softly. “Can you feel fog and hear the click of shoes on cobbles?” He didn’t wait for her to reply. “It helps if you think of it like a pantomime villain—it’s playing a part, though it doesn’t really know what its lines mean, or why it’s dressed like it is. The noises, the scents, those are as much a part of the effluvium that surrounds it as the stink it puts out. How are you feeling, other than that? Slightly ill, perhaps unsteady on your feet,” he said. “And it’s growing worse too, I’d say.”
Andraste looked at him with a startled expression. “How’d you know?”
“It used you as a conduit, Ms. Andraste. It used your ectenic force to mould the claws it required to hook that unlucky fellow’s soul. Some of you is still in it, I’m afraid. It’s wearing your ectoplasmic discharge like fancy dress. It’s likely still feeding off of you, though at a considerable remove. Not enough to kill you outright, but enough to make you feel ill, and enough that you can see what it sees, to some extent. That feeling will get worse the longer the Ripper roams London. As it grows stronger, you will grow weaker.”
Andraste was about to reply, when a shout from the front of the bakery interrupted her. Gallowglass was on her feet in a flash, hand darting for her revolver. She moved to the door and opened it a crack. He heard Wilde’s voice laying forth at its most strident. Gallowglass slithered out of the room, after holding up a hand in warning.
“Will she be all right?” Andraste whispered.
“Tip-top,” he said, finishing his tea. “A great one for sneaking is our Gallowglass; cat-like, even, though I’d recommended not using that particular descriptor within her earshot. She’s quite petrified of our feline friends.”
“She’s scared of cats?”
“More a general antipathy, I admit,” he said. He pinched a bit of tea-cake and chewed. Gallowglass had been right. It was quite good. Gallowglass slipped back into the room.
“Blokes in masks,” she said, “And when I say masks, I don’t mean ladies’ stockings pulled over their heads.” St. Cyprian waved Andraste back to her seat and patted at his pockets as he got to his feet. Gallowglass looked back at him as he spread his hands helplessly. “You left your revolver in the damn Crossley again didn’t you?” she spat.
“I assumed you’d be here to protect me from feral Socialists, now didn’t I?” he shot back. “Well, how many of them are there?”
“Four,” she said as she peered through the crack between the door and the frame again. “Your pal Bobbie is keeping them penned in the front.” She hefted her revolver meaningfully.
“Jolly good,” St. Cyprian said. “Try not to murder them, unless strictly necessary.”
“Squeamish,” she muttered.
“Sensible,” he snapped. “I’ve seen quite enough bodies to last me a lifetime, thank you. Besides which, masks or no, there’s no reason to believe that they’re anything other than customers.” The words sounded foolish the moment they left his mouth. Of course they weren’t customers. At best, they were looking to rob the till. At worst…he glanced at Andraste, who had grown even paler. He looked back at Gallowglass. “Just be careful,” he said tersely.
Gallowglass didn’t reply. She cracked the door open and scuttled out, crouched low. St. Cyprian followed, after doffing his great coat. He felt a small twinge of guilt—Gallowglass was correct. He was squeamish, to some extent. He’d waded through rivers enough of blood during the War and had little inclination to do so again. Unfortunately, sometimes—more than he liked—the job called for it. Was a man any less a man because he happened to be in the shape of a beast, or possessed by his cousin, fifteen centuries removed?
Probably, he mused. He pushed the thought aside as he followed Gallowglass into the corridor. He could hear voices echoing back from the storefront. Wilde’s in particular had that piercing quality he’d come to associate with someone about to get a thwack with a rolling pin. Gallowglass crept down the corridor on cat-like feet, the boards barely shifting beneath her weight. She slid up the wall when she reached the end of the corridor and darted a quick look around the corner.
Without turning, she wiggled four fingers at him. Still four then, he thought, but who are they? Gallowglass made a sharp gesture. And armed, damn it all, he thought, Desperate measures then. He grabbed her hand. She looked at his hand, and then at him. He let go quickly, but mimed holstering a weapon. She frowned, but did as he indicated. Good. Wouldn’t want to accidentally shoot Bobbie, now would we, he thought. Not that Gallowglass would. She was a far better shot than most military-types he knew, himself included. But why risk collateral damage when there was no need?
No, what was called for here was subtlety.
He straightened and pushed away from the wall, straightening his tie. “Hello, hello, hello, what’s all this then?”
he said, in his most officious-sounding voice as he went around the corner and stepped out in full view of the startled newcomers. “Might I be of service?”
9.
St. Cyprian stopped as he caught sight of the men. Gallowglass hadn’t been exaggerating about the masks. The newcomers were dressed in suits and ties of varying dark shades and three of the four wore plaster death-masks, each depicting the post-mortem grimace of a man or woman. The fourth man, bigger than the others, wore a hangman’s hood and leaned against the door to the bakery, blocking it with his lean bulk.
They were faced off with Wilde and her assistants—both women, and dressed for work, in aprons, with flour liberally splashed across their forearms, aprons and faces. He didn’t recall seeing them when they’d come in. Likely they’d been in the kitchen. Wilde had always been more upstairs than downstairs, whatever her politics.
Four against three was never fair odds, especially when several of the four appeared to be armed. One of them had been gesticulating with a rather sharp looking ice-knife in Wilde’s general direction as St. Cyprian rounded the corner, and another tapped his thigh with a hefty sailor’s club. Neither the man in the doorway, nor the fourth of them, who seemed to be acting as the group’s spokesman, were carrying any obvious weapons, but there was a distinctly Webley-shaped bulge in the latter’s coat pocket. He also had a Cambridge knot on his tie. St. Cyprian took an instant dislike of him. The dislike only grew when he caught sight of the gallows’ noose pin on his lapel. Each of the others was wearing one as well. The gallows maker; for that frame outlives a thousand tenants, he thought, as the line from Hamlet swam to the surface of his mind. It was the same as the pin he’d found in the garret. He knew that pin, he was certain of it. But he couldn’t recall from where, or what, just yet. It would come to him, he was certain, if he survived the next few minutes.
“Bobbie, I heard a ruckus, and came to see what, as they say, was what,” he said.
“These…gentlemen wanted to inquire after a certain matter,” Wilde said primly. “I informed them where they could go, masks and all. They objected.”
“Imagine that,” St. Cyprian murmured. He turned. “Well gentlemen?” he said, “What seems to be the problem?”
“Where the deuce did you appear from?” ice-knife yipped, twitching about in a sudden display of nervous energy.
“I was in the back,” St. Cyprian said. He stepped towards the counter. “I was rolling dough and such for the hungry proletariat, huzzah the worker, that sort of thing, donchaknow.” He caught Wilde’s eye and winked. “Now what’s all this commotion about?”
Cambridge-knot sniffed and said, “And who might you be, and why is it any concern of yours?” His voice was somewhat muffled by his mask, but St. Cyprian could hear the barely concealed scorn easily enough. This was a man used to getting his own way.
“I believe I asked first,” St. Cyprian said.
“What are you up to, Charley,” Wilde hissed. “I was handling this just fine.”
“And so you were,” St. Cyprian replied without looking at her. “One couldn’t help but notice that you’re outnumbered, however.”
“One can go soak his head,” Wilde growled.
“Attitudes like that are why one might break off an engagement, if one was wondering,” St. Cyprian shot back, cutting his eyes towards her.
“One wasn’t. One was simply relieved to be rid of a burdensome ass,” Wilde said.
“One might take offense at that,” St. Cyprian said, glaring at her.
“One wonders if we could, perhaps, get back to the matter at hand.” Cambridge-knot interjected. “Who are you?”
“A concerned citizen,” St. Cyprian said, grateful to have an excuse to ignore Wilde. He straightened his tie. The masked man glanced at it.
“Oxford?” he said. He tilted his head slightly. “I’m guessing…Old College-er?”
“Bang on,” St. Cyprian said, grinning mirthlessly. “I can see by the jaunty knot of your choker that you’re a Cambridge man. Never could abide the four-in-hand knot, myself. It makes a fellow look like a ragamuffin out of Dickens.”
“Better than that modified hangman’s noose of a full Oxford around your neck,” four-in-hand-knot said. He glanced at ice-knife, as if to see whether his compatriot had appreciated his witticism. “No wonder Oxford graduates’ heads are so fat, eh?”
“Steady on old man, I went to Oxford,” ice-knife said, sounding somewhat hurt.
“I went to Durham,” the one carrying the club piped up.
“No one asked you,” four-in-hand-knot barked. “Where’s the woman?”
“There’s a woman,” St. Cyprian said, motioning helpfully to Wilde. “And what a woman she is; she can crush a croquet ball in those delicate talons.” Wilde shot a glare at him, but said nothing, for which he was grateful.
“Oh I say, I bet that’s jolly fun to watch!” ice-knife said.
“Yes, it’s too bad we didn’t bring a croquet ball with us. We’ll make a note of it for next time, shall we? Not that woman. Not any of the women in sight. Andraste, Aife Andraste—where is she?” four-in-hand-knot growled.
“Sorry chaps, no one here by that name. We start at the ‘B’s in the directory,” St. Cyprian said. Behind him, he could hear Gallowglass rustling about. At least she hadn’t come out blasting. He felt something brush his ankles and he glanced down. The ginger tom was back, and feeling affectionate. Trying not to give any indication of what he was about St. Cyprian deftly corralled the cat with his foot so that it was close enough to grab. One worked with what weapons one had to hand, to mangle an old saying. Luckily, Lord Peter seemed quite content to sit and shed all over his shoes. “Might I ask as to why you want her?”
“No, you may not,” four-in-hand-knot said. “And I know she’s here. Bring her out, and this doesn’t have to become unpleasant.”
“Too late for that,” Gallowglass shouted. She sprang to her feet, a mixing bowl full of flour in her hands. With a single, convulsive heave, she sent the contents spraying across the masked men. Gallowglass sent the bowl sailing towards the one with the club, and he ducked with a yell. She glanced at Wilde and St. Cyprian. “Bit of help?”
“This is what you came up with?” St. Cyprian said.
“It’d be easier to shoot them,” Gallowglass countered.
“Dash it all, this won’t do,” ice-knife snarled. He scraped flour out of his eyes and made to lunge across the counter. St. Cyprian hefted the by-now squalling cat and said, “Catch!” The cat struck ice-knife on the shoulder and sent him spinning, the weight of the aggravated feline knocking him over. The cat shrieked with affronted ferocity, and ice-knife gave a series of yelps as his blade clattered to the floor and he was forced to defend himself with his all-too vulnerable naked hands. When he finally pried the enraged animal off, he was immediately hit in the chest with a handful of wet dough.
Wilde and the others had followed Gallowglass’ example. Lumps of dough and handfuls of flour were pelting the other intruders in a display that would have raised the hackles of any rationing-warden. The men staggered under the assault and seemed unable to comprehend the forces set against them. Wilde and her employees moved out from behind the counter, clutching rolling pins and pans. Gallowglass glanced at St. Cyprian as she pulled herself up over the counter and took a seat. “Better than Chaplin,” she crowed. St. Cyprian said nothing. He was content to let Wilde and the others deal with the intruders; if they chased them away, so much the better for Andraste.
“Ketch, deal with this, please,” four-in-one-knot bellowed as he narrowly avoided a flung pot lid. The tall man in the hangman’s hood moved forward, ignoring the flour. Wilde neared him in height, and she swept her rolling pin at his head. St. Cyprian winced, ready for the sound of wood meeting skull. Instead, Ketch caught the pin on his palm and with a deft twist, yanked it from Wilde’s grip. St. Cyprian’s eyes widened.
Ketch spun Wilde about and dragged her back to him. He held the rolling pin tight ac
ross her throat. “Back off, ladies, if you please, or I’ll pop her neck-bone as sure as Wellington popped Boney at Waterloo,” Ketch said loudly, though politely. “I’m a dab hand at cracking bones.”
“Well, that’s the only way to get the marrow, what?” St. Cyprian said.
“Even as you say sir,” Ketch said.
“Quiet, Ketch,” four-in-one-knot barked. “Bring me Andraste, or Ketch will twist her head off.” He gestured to Ketch. “He won’t hesitate, I promise you that.”
“Don’t do it,” Wilde said. Ketch gave the rolling pin a jerk and she fell into a strangled silence.
“Wasn’t planning on it, old girl,” St. Cyprian drawled. The nonchalance was feigned. Inside, he was seething. He and Wilde didn’t get along these days as well as they once had, but he didn’t want to see her hurt. He forced himself to remain calm.
“You don’t have to,” Andraste said, from behind him. Startled, St. Cyprian turned. Andraste didn’t look at him. If anything, she looked even more pale and ill than before, and she had her hand pressed to the wall for support. “No need for any neck-snapping.”
“Aife, no,” Wilde shouted. She struggled in Ketch’s grip, but to no avail.
“Quiet, Bobbie. I was planning on leaving anyway. It’s too dangerous to stay here,” Andraste said. She stumbled and St. Cyprian caught her.
“What are you playing at?” he hissed.
“I can feel that—that thing in my head,” she snapped. “It’s looking for me. Better it finds me with them, than otherwise.”
“Admirable sentiments, but inadvisable,” he said.
“But preferable to the alternative, isn’t that right, Mr. Eddowes?” Andraste said, looking at four-in-one-knot. “That is you, isn’t it, under that ridiculous mask?” The man called Eddowes hesitated. “I’d say it’s a pleasure to see you again, but we both know that’d be a lie.”
“Your honesty does you credit. Come here,” Eddowes said, holding out his hand.
“Hold on, old sport,” St. Cyprian said. “I don’t think so.”
The Whitechapel Demon Page 9