The Somnambulist: A Novel

by Jonathan Barnes

  “Is he really a mute?” Charlotte asked, rather rudely.

  “He’s never spoken to me. Nonetheless, it’s one of my fondest hopes that one day he shall. And I’ve little doubt that when he does he will astonish us all.”

  She gave the Somnambulist a cursory glance and seemed unimpressed. “Not as handsome as his predecessor.”

  “Believe me,” said Moon, sounding pained, “if you saw him now you would no longer call him that.”

  “I suppose not.”

  “The Somnambulist is a brilliant illusionist,” said Moon, doing his best not to sound patronizing. “Did you ever see the show?”

  “Three times,” Charlotte said lightly. “Once as an old woman, once as a drunken Pole and once as a dwarf. That last was rather a challenge, I admit. It’s not joke taking three feet off your height for hours at a time.” She paused and chewed her lower lip awkwardly. “I’m sorry about what happened to the theatre.”

  “Skimpole,” Moon said, as if that explained it all.

  “He really doesn’t like you, does he?”

  Moon looked away. “You never told me you were affiliated with the Committee.”

  “You never told me what happened in Clapham. I had to read about it in the papers.”

  “Must have slipped my mind.”

  The silence was broken by the familiar tap of chalk on board. The Somnambulist had begun to feel left out.

  DRINK

  “Capital suggestion,” Moon exclaimed, in an abrupt and unexpected burst of jollity. “Charlotte?”

  “Just a small one,” she said doubtfully. “Nothing too strong.”

  But Moon was already out of earshot and racing hungrily over to the bar. As he gave his extensive, expensive order, he offered the bartender his sharkiest smile. “Make sure,” he grinned, “that you bill all this to Mr. Skimpole.”

  Limehouse, unique amongst the districts of the city, does not belong to England. The curious smells which fill its streets are resolutely foreign in nature, its placards, signs and boardings are thick with hieroglyphics baffling to the uninitiated, and its people, whilst welcoming and well-mannered enough, are nonetheless alien and sallow-skinned to a man. If you’ve ever walked along its frantic, lurid streets, you will doubtless think of the place much as I do — as a piece of some exotic metropolis sliced from the Far East and set down wholesale amongst the boroughs of London, a vision of an impossible England where the Empire has fallen and the Orient is king.

  Strange, then, to see Mr. Skimpole walk with such confidence and ease through those selfsame streets — his appearance quite as outré as ever, pince-nez perched upon his nose, his hair and skin bleached graveyard white. One might reasonably assume that he could not be more out of place amongst these multitudinous yellow faces, but they seemed happy to accept him as one of their own and he attracted no open curiosity, no inquisitive stares, no muffled laughter.

  Less than half an hour after leaving the hotel, the albino reached his destination, coming to a halt outside a dilapidated butcher’s shop. It was the kind of place which looked as though it had existed for years without customers, its windows cobwebbed and soot-streaked from neglect, filthy with the greasy rime of oil and what appeared to be dried blood. A bird was roasting on a spit in the window, its featherless cadaver turning slowly in the light, browning and crisping for passers-by to gawp at. Skimpole could not be entirely certain what species of fowl it had been in life — a duck, perhaps, or a chicken, or some other, nameless bird unique to the peoples of the East — but as he watched the thing revolve plumply behind the glass he thought unwillingly of Mrs. Puggsley and felt a momentary flicker of guilt. Struggling with his conscience, kicking against the tug of the past, he thrust the image from his mind and stepped inside. As he pushed open the front door a bell rang and a young Chinaman materialized, greeting him with a bow and the words, “a pleasure to see you again, sir.”

  “Good day,” Skimpole said imperiously. He had never bothered to learn the name of his host or that of the young man’s father, who had owned and run this place before him. The albino saw no reason to defy tradition at this late stage. Sins of the father and all that.

  He strode through the shop. Slabs of meat, salted and of indeterminate origin, hung on hooks behind the counter; something old and sour bubbled and boiled in a pot and the smell of blood was all-pervasive. Skimpole ignored it, too familiar with the place to allow himself to be unsettled by its magic-lantern menace, its storybook smoke and mirrors. “Is he here?” he asked.

  “He’s waiting,” the Chinaman said, unfailingly placid and respectful.

  Skimpole noticed a fluffy down on the man’s upper lip. “Trying a mustache?” he asked sarcastically.

  The Chinaman blushed.

  “Good luck,” Skimpole smirked. “Incidentally, is that a chicken in the window?”

  The proprietor looked confused.

  “Chicken,” Skimpole repeated, becoming irritated at the man’s apparent lack of comprehension. “Chick—en.” Still entertaining the long-standing misapprehension that his host had only the most tenuous grasp of English, the albino did his best to mime the actions of a chicken, flapping his arms like a bird and squawking.

  The man did not seem to react, so Skimpole took his leave of him and walked through a door at the back of the shop. Incongruously, there was an elevator behind it. A Chinaman squeezed into a tight red uniform stood inside. He hauled back the metal grille when he saw Skimpole approach. “Morning, sah.”

  “Good morning.”

  “Noughth Level?”

  “Thank you, yes.”

  The man operated the controls and, with a nauseating heave, the lift lurched downwards, eventually reaching its destination with a creak and shudder.

  “Noughth Level,” the man said in a toneless, mechanical voice.

  “Thank you,” Skimpole snapped. “I can see that.” He stepped out into a well-furnished room, smart, modern, dominated by a vast and ostentatious circular table. This, then, was the Directorate.

  A bulky, broad-shouldered man strode forward to meet him, four or five Orientals standing deferentially behind him.

  “Skimpole!” There was a warmth to his voice which suggested he was pleased to see him, but the albino knew it to be feigned for courtesy’s sake — suspected that it also masked a lifetime of disdain, even loathing.

  Without thinking, he deployed a sleek, professional smile. “Dedlock.”

  They shook hands. Skimpole’s palm was damp and sticky from his exertions and Dedlock was far from successful in masking his discomfort.

  “Forgive me,” Skimpole said, taking off his coat and passing it without a glance to a hovering lackey. “I had business at the hotel.”

  “Ah.” Dedlock’s eyes glittered with undisguised inquisitiveness. “Mr. Moon?”

  “That’s right,” Skimpole replied stiffly.

  “Sit down, old man, and tell me all about it.” His curiosity had dissipated and Dedlock sounded bluff and jolly again, like a retired colonel proposing nothing more vexatious than a post-prandial round of gin rummy.

  They sat opposite one another at the round table, Dedlock busying himself rustling a sheaf of official-looking papers, Skimpole reaching for a cigar and lighter only to return them reluctantly to his pocket when he remembered that he had already enjoyed his little piece of luxury for the day.

  Dedlock had the meaty look of an ageing rugby player about him, the kind of man (and the albino knew this for a fact) who had excelled at games at school — one of those heroes of the playing field who possessed in spades that particularly English composite of brutishness and impeccable manners. An unsightly scar intersected the space between his nose and left ear, a relic from some long-ago conflict. It was so vividly colored and Dedlock took such perverse pleasure in displaying it that Skimpole had long suspected him of exaggerating its ferocity with greasepaint and make-up — a touch of vanity far from uncharacteristic of the man.

  “Drink?” the scarred man asked.<
br />
  Skimpole hauled out his pocket watch. “It’s a little early,” he said, in a voice which clearly indicated his willingness to be persuaded.

  “This may take some time. Why not indulge yourself for once?”

  The albino acquiesced. “Very well.”

  Dedlock snapped his fingers and one of the Chinamen stepped forward. Dressed as a butcher, his face was a strikingly lurid shade of yellow, his hair styled into glossy black pigtails and he had tied about his waist a filthy apron spattered with gristle and blood. The man bent close to Dedlock and whispered obsequiously: “Yes, sah? How may I help?” Unlike the proprietor, he had a strong, all but unintelligible accent, speaking his halting, uncertain English as though he were saying each word for the first time.

  “A whisky for me,” Dedlock said. “You know the way I like it.”

  “Whis-kee?” the Chinaman repeated doubtfully.

  Dedlock leant across the table toward Skimpole. “You?”

  Thinking it unwise to commit himself to any more complicated order, the albino asked for the same.

  The Oriental screwed up his face perplexedly. “Same?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Velly good, sah.” The Chinaman scurried away, but Dedlock stopped him before he reached the door. “Now, now, what do we ask?” he chided, as though he were addressing a small child still being trained in the niceties of the adult world.

  The man looked horribly confused before understanding flooded across his face. He giggled. “Yes, yes. Mistah Simpole want ice? Ice?”

  The albino was transparently amused. “No ice, thank you.”

  “Incidentally,” Dedlock said, before the man could disappear, “I think we can dispense with the accent, don’t you?” Mr. Skimpole’s not likely to be impressed.”

  Embarrassed, the Chinaman stood up straight, cleared his throat and spoke at once in an English accent so plummy and rich that it could only have emerged from one of our most prestigious public schools. “Terribly sorry, sir,” he said briskly. “Had no idea. Thought I was doing rather well, as it happens.”

  Skimpole sniffed disparagingly. “I’m sure you could afford to be a little less theatrical,” Mr….?”

  “Benjamin Mackenzie-Cooper, sir.”

  “Well, then, Mackenzie-Cooper, at present, your delivery’s pure music hall. It’s corn, frankly, and silly with it. And your make-up… florid and overstated.” The man looked disappointed and Skimpole softened. “Still. It’s a promising start.”

  Mackenzie-Cooper thanked him and left the room.

  “New man?” Skimpole asked.

  Dedlock nodded. “Eton and Oxford. Just come down from Oriel. Promising, don’t you think?”

  “Oh, I think so,” Skimpole said (though of course he didn’t).

  Dedlock adopted a curt, businesslike tone. “What news of Moon?”

  “He’s proving a little recalcitrant. You know he and I have… history?”

  “You have history with us all.”

  Skimpole bristled.

  “I gather the Bagshaw woman’s left the country. Dear, dear, poor Lister will be disappointed.”

  “She knew something,” Skimpole protested. “One of our best leads and we’ve lost her.”

  “Another mess, then?” Dedlock tutted. “I’ve warned you before about your obsession with Moon.”

  “Edward Moon was not the man who exposed her. We believe it was a member of the Vigilance Committee. You know yourself they’ve shown no compunction about framing psychics in the past.”

  “This committee member — do we have a name?”

  “As I understand it, the woman was in disguise. I’ve no direct evidence but I believe her to be an associate of Moon’s — possibly more.”

  “A friend?”

  “Perhaps.”

  Mackenzie-Cooper returned with their drinks, set them discreetly down upon the table and vanished. Skimpole took a demure sip of his whisky; Dedlock swallowed half of his in the first gulp. It was the albino who spoke first.

  “Moon seems to have struck up a friendship with a man called Thomas Cribb.”

  “Can’t place him. Is he affiliated?”

  “He appears to be an independent. I suspect their association’s rather set the cat amongst the pigeons with the Somnambulist.”

  Dedlock grinned. “Oh yes? Has he spoken yet?”

  The albino shook his head and Dedlock brayed a laugh — a callous sound, devoid of any genuine mirth.

  “And you?” Skimpole broached the subject carefully. “Any movement?”

  “The Okhrana have been busy,” Dedlock said flatly, as though he were describing nothing more thrilling than team tactics to his favorite center forward. “They’ve been getting reckless of late. Something’s got their agents excited. We suspect they’ve got wind of the conspiracy. Perhaps they have access to an Innocenti of their own.”

  Skimpole drummed his fingers thoughtfully on the table. “Agents?” he said. “By which I take you to mean anarchists?”

  “Oh, I do hope not. I’ve had enough of men making a nuisance of themselves up on the Embankment to last me a lifetime. I had to scrape the last one off the pavement myself. Little bits of him got stuck between the cobbles. Besides, it isn’t who they send we need to worry about.”

  “No?”

  “We know who they are. We can track their movements as soon as they enter the city. Our biggest problems are the sleepers.”

  “Sleepers?”

  “The Russians have seeded agents in this country, dormant for many years. I do wish you’d read the files.”

  Skimpole ignored the rebuke. “Do the Okhrana know of our involvement?”

  Dedlock looked away. “It seems likely.”

  “How did that happen?”

  Dedlock muttered something about a mistake.

  “Then we may be in trouble.”

  “I know,” he replied, and there was a moment’s bleak silence. A heartbeat later, Dedlock continued cheerfully, as though nothing had been said at all. “Incidentally, the Bagshaw woman — did Moon the anything out of her before the end?”

  “Just a few words, though I’m sure he doesn’t understand their worth. She talked about the plot, told Moon he was being used — as if he didn’t know that already.”

  Dedlock began to clear away his papers. “Anything more?”

  Skimpole took another sip of his whisky, a larger one this time, and felt a giddy, honeyed surge of pleasure at the taste of it. “She said we have ten days. We have four of them left.”

  Dedlock grimaced.

  “Something else…”

  “What?”

  “Danger,” he said. “Danger underground.”

  Trying his best to ignore the frenzied recitation echoing down the corridor, Meyrick Owsley tapped on the door of a killer’s cell, as politely and discreetly as a delivery boy calling at some fine country house, bearing a telegram, perhaps, a wedding gift or an expensive bouquet. Barabbas’s voice drifted from inside, ravaged and diseased, riddled with immorality. “Meyrick?”

  Owsley’s face was blank and expressionless, a tragedian’s mask. “I’m here, sir.”

  “Am I forgiven?”

  “Quite forgiven, sir.”

  A pause, a snuffling noise, then: “Thank Christ.” Owsley heard what might have been a sob. “It was just a spat, wasn’t it? Just a nonsense?”

  “That’s right, sir. A spat, sir. It meant nothing.”

  A grateful sigh. “Good.”

  “Sir?”

  No reply (although his neighbor had begun again his favorite psalm).

  “You have visitors.”

  A sudden stirring, a pacing, a shuffling sound, then Barabbas appeared at the tiny aperture of the cell, his bloated, toad-like face segmented by its bars. “Edward?” His breath was fetid and rank.

  “He’s here with me,” Owsley said calmly. “He wants to speak to you. Stand back, sir. I’m letting him through.”

  On hearing the iron rattle of keys
, the mocking creak of the door, Barabbas fell to the floor and cowered in a corner of his tiny world. Somebody stepped inside, the door clanged shut and when the prisoner looked up he saw that not one but two figures stood before him in the gloom.

  “Edward?” he murmured again.

  “I’m here.” The voice was strong, compassionate, but with a hint of unworthy pleasure at seeing him reduced to such a condition.

  “Edward? Who is this?”

  Moon stepped forward. “You remember my sister?”

  “Charlotte?” he breathed. “My but you’ve changed. When we last met you were still a girl. Barely out of school. But you’re a woman now.”

  Charlotte stared at him, fascinated, repulsed.

  “Please forgive the mess,” the prisoner said, slouching back against the wall. “Try to ignore the smell. I had no idea you were coming.”

  “What have you done to yourself?” Charlotte asked, curiosity winning out over disgust.

  “You’ve grown, haven’t you?” said Barabbas, ignoring the question. “Swollen in all the right places. Ripened and budded.” His tongue darted lasciviously in and out of his mouth and he winked. “You feel safe with me, don’t you?”

  With admirable self-restraint, Charlotte replied, “I feel sorry for you.”

  “Barabbas,” Moon began, then stopped himself, exasperated. “Do I have to call you that? Charlotte — she… We knew you by another name.”

  “Like poor Edgar’s, my name is lost.”

  Moon sighed, reached into his pocket and pulled out a small padded box. “I brought you something.”

  “A bribe,” Barabbas muttered sulkily.

  “A gift,” Moon said firmly. “Here,” and he held out the box. “Take it.”

  The killer shuffled his behemoth frame across the floor, grabbed at the box and tore it open. “A tiepin?” he said once he’d examined its contents. “For me?”

  “It was very dear. Gold-plated. Thought you’d like it.”

  “You were right.” Barabbas stared avariciously at the thing. “Oh yes, you were quite right. You’ll have to excuse me whilst I put it with my collection.” He slithered back across the room and added the gift to his stash of precious things. “Thank you,” he said, then added: “I shall wear it the day I die.”