by Tim Mason
“To punish, you say?” said Field.
“She’s got the evil eye. Wherever Mary Do-Not goes, they sicken and die.” She shook her head mournfully. “What’s to become of me? Hamlet will be dead soon. Where’s the food to come from? And the coals? How am I to eat?”
The men left her rocking on her stool and moaning. On the first floor they found the two doors off the landing locked.
“Here’s where the odd smell’s coming from, sir,” said Llewellyn. “A mix of scents.”
“Eau de cologne and carbolic? Let’s put our shoulders to it, Sam.”
“No, sir! If it’s true I’m no longer in the Metropolitan, that would be breaking and entering, and I wish to avoid Newgate even if you’re determined to end up there!”
Field, muttering, turned his back on the young man.
“What’s that you said, Mr. Field? If you’ve something to say to me, say it!”
“Never mind!” growled the inspector as he started up to the next floor. The rooms off this landing were unlocked. The first contained two cots and a few bits and pieces of boys’ clothing, some larger, some smaller. The wooden louvered blinds were nailed shut. Field thoughtfully fingered a single slat on one that was loose and could be lifted to give a glimpse of the step below. The second bedroom on that floor looked as though it had been recently vacated by a woman in mourning: there were long black hat pins scattered on the floor, black ribbons at the bottom of a wardrobe, and a torn black veil.
At the top of the house the men found the tidy room with the feminine bed and the divan and the austere desk between them, stained here and there with ink. The grime on the windows had been rubbed repeatedly by someone wishing to see the outside world.
Llewellyn stooped to look under the bed and came up with a sheet of crumpled foolscap. He smoothed it out, brushed off the balls of dust, and read aloud: “‘From 1577 until 1580 Sir Francis Drake circumnavigated parentheses sailed round end parentheses, the globe.’ A young person’s writing, female most likely. She blotted it and discarded it.”
Charles Field was on his hands and knees, peering beneath the divan.
“Hullo!” He got to his feet, holding aloft a boy’s stocking triumphantly. “Here he is, Sam! This right here is Tom Ginty, I just know it is, the little wanker!” He stared at the sock, suddenly somber. “He’s only a boy, Sam. He’s been too long with that bloody monster. I mean to find him and get him back to his mother if it’s the last thing I do!”
Llewellyn cocked his head, listening. “What was that?”
“What?”
Llewellyn put a finger to his lips. He moved quietly to the dumbwaiter set into the wall, listening. He grabbed the handle and shot the door up. A pair of frightened eyes stared out, blinking rapidly.
“What in God’s name . . .?”
The eyes of the girl in the box filled with tears.
“Hullo,” said Field. “How long have you been in there, then? Can’t be comfortable. Climb on out, we don’t bite. Let the handsome young man help you.”
“Can you find Tom?” she whispered.
“I . . . I certainly can.”
“He don’t care for me, but I care for him, see?”
“What’s your name, dear?”
“Belinda.”
“Well, Belinda. Men can be hard to fathom. Same with women, if you think about it. From the male point of view, difficult to decipher. Mysterious.” Field winked kindly at the girl and a smile flickered briefly across her face.
“Do you actually ride up and down in this thing?” said Field, and the girl nodded proudly. “Astonishing. Well, you just climb into Officer Llewellyn’s waiting arms there, and let’s get you out of here and off to my good wife’s.”
Llewellyn smiled and nodded, trying to appear as harmless as possible. Belinda blinked doubtfully from one to the other.
“Wait a moment,” said Field to Llewellyn. “This thing opens onto each of the floors below, don’t it. Sam, she could ride it down to the rooms in question and unlock ’em from inside, don’t you see?”
“Inspector, for Christ’s sake!”
“It wouldn’t be breaking and entering, then, would it!”
“She’s a child!”
“I know she’s a child! I know that!” He took a breath and turned back to the girl. “Sorry, my dear, I am a hasty man. Forgive me.”
“Locked, anyways,” said the girl. Tried it once when he was away.”
“Well, aren’t you a marvel of resource and invention. My good wife will love to meet you.”
After a moment the girl hesitantly started to inch her way out of the tiny cubicle. Just then there was a hammering from far below on the street door, followed by footsteps in the hall and shouts.
“Field! Mr. Field, do you hear me?” The voice was arch, like a headmaster’s.
“Bloody hell,” muttered Field, “it’s Abercrombie himself. Don’t he have better things to do?”
“Mr. Field, show yourself!”
The inspector stooped to the blinking face in the dumbwaiter again. “Belinda, I want you in my home, in the care of my good wife, before this day is done. Would you like that?”
She nodded tentatively.
“Good. You know your way round this house pretty well, am I right?” Belinda nodded again. “Is there another way out besides the front door?”
“From kitchen. Out the garden.”
“Right, then, go there. Mr. Llewellyn and I are going down to talk with some gentlemen below and we don’t want you mixed up with them. You lower yourself quietly as ever you can and scarper, right? Wait for us at the reservoir in the park—all right?”
The girl nodded. “Here we go,” said Llewellyn, slowly shutting the dumbwaiter door on her.
He and the inspector clattered down the stairs, past the floor with the locked doors, past the hanging body of John Getalong. They found Detective Inspector Abercrombie and Constable Quinn staring up at the corpse. Constable Peale stood uneasily by the door. Hamlet, still seated, seemed to sleep soundly.
“Impersonating an officer of the law,” said Inspector Abercrombie, addressing Field in a deadly tone. “Trespass. And now, in flagrante delicto, with a hanging corpse on premises where you have no legitimate business.”
“It’s all quite dreadful, I agree, sir.”
“And you, Llewellyn! Such an able young man to have squandered your promise on this lunatic, I simply do not understand it!”
“Lunatic’s a bit harsh, don’t you think?” said Field.
“I should lock you up. I really should. Who is this fellow, hanging here?”
“Member of a household that you urgently need to look into, sir.”
“Oh, do I.”
“The head of which household is, we believe, leaving or about to leave the country with the intent of intercepting the royal couple in their upcoming travels, sir, and doing them to death.”
“Still spreading your conspiracy theories, are you?”
“The man’s name is Cobb. He’s killed several persons that we know of.”
“We think he killed Kilvert, sir,” said Llewellyn.
Constable Peale cleared his throat. “Sir?” he said. “The old man, sir.”
Abercrombie turned. “What about him?”
“He appears to have expired, sir.”
“What?”
“Dead, sir.”
Field touched Hamlet’s throat. “Good Lord, so he is. ‘Now cracks a noble heart.’ That’s Shakespeare, Abercrombie.”
“Get out.”
“Abercrombie, I implore you to rise above your plodding, dull-witted ways . . .”
“Get out, Mr. Field! Take your fool Welshman with you! I will be pleased if I never have to clap eyes on either one of you again! Out!”
Field and Llewellyn, free of the house, hastened along Half Moon Street toward Green Park. “Can’t believe he let us off like that,” said the inspector. “I wouldn’t have done, I’d have locked us up for a few hours at least, teach us
a lesson.”
Llewellyn did not deign to reply.
It was dark now, but the lamps were lit and there was a moon. Belinda sat on a curb at the western end of the reservoir, a wooden case on her lap. Traffic was thinning; she looked very small and very alone.
“Well done, Belinda!” cried Field as they approached her. “Look at this, Mr. Llewellyn—she’s even packed a traveling kit for herself!”
Belinda shook her head, her eyes darting around nervously.
“Not mine,” she said.
“What isn’t? What’s wrong, dear? You’re out of that house and you’ll never have to go back, I promise.”
“I stopped for it on me way down,” she whispered, indicating the case. “Dumbwaiter door wasn’t locked this time.”
“This is from your master’s rooms?” said Llewellyn.
She nodded, her face screwed up with fear.
“Would you like me to take it from you, Belinda?” said Field.
“There’s lots more boxes like it,” she said, relinquishing the latched wooden case to the inspector. “I just took the one.” She was trembling.
“I see,” said Field. “Did you look inside?”
She nodded, tears starting down her cheeks. Field offered his hand and she took it, standing.
“It’s got bits in it,” whispered the girl. Field nodded somberly.
“Let’s go say hello to Mrs. Field, shall we? Won’t she be surprised! You can show her that lovely bracelet if you like.”
She touched the gold-link bracelet on one wrist and looked up at Field gratefully.
“We will let Officer Llewellyn carry the box.” The inspector passed the box back to the constable. “We won’t even think about it no more. All right, Belinda?”
The girl nodded and the two of them started walking, hand in hand, followed by Llewellyn with the case.
“Before you know it Mrs. Field will have set something tasty to eat before us. You all right back there, Sam?”
Llewellyn nodded grimly.
A rapidly approaching carriage swerved toward them and clattered to a sudden stop. “There she is!” cried a woman from within. “Belinda? Precious? What have they done to you!” A streetlamp caught the woman’s luxuriant coppery hair, blossoming out from under her bonnet.
“Who’s that?” said Field. “Mrs. Carmichael?”
The dignified silver-haired gentleman holding the reins shouted, “Despicable men! Vile! Get them, boys!”
The few passersby watched with interest. Two lanky youths leapt down from the carriage. One slashed at Field’s face with a stiletto while the other tore Belinda from him and swung her up into the carriage. The Reverend Carmichael caught Llewellyn around the neck with his riding whip and pulled him to the paving stones. There was another crack of the whip and the horses jolted forward. Field tried to grab hold of the rig, but a blow from a cosh wielded by Mrs. Carmichael knocked him to the ground, unconscious. The carriage sped into the night.
When the ambush struck, Llewellyn realized in an instant that they were not up against a sole madman but concerted enemies. Mr. Field had been right all along. Llewellyn flopped over onto the wooden case and lay there covering it until he heard the carriage clattering off. When all was quiet, he got to his feet, clutching the box with one hand and gingerly touching his neck with the other. He approached Field, who lay motionless in a pool of lamplight, and knelt beside him.
“Hi! You there!” A constable was approaching quickly.
Who knew how wide this conspiracy was? How far did it reach? Into the Metropolitan Police itself? Llewellyn stood and walked at a sedate pace into Green Park.
“Is that you, Llewellyn?” the constable shouted after him. He blew his whistle, and Llewellyn stepped up his pace, turned the corner round the reservoir, and broke into a run.
But where to? This will never do.
He gradually slowed to a walk again, glanced casually over his shoulder and assured himself he was not followed. He found a bench beneath a gas lamp and sat. He would ignore the pain running round his neck from the whiplash. He would take time to see what he had on his hands. He set the case on his lap and opened it.
He was not surprised by the ears; he had expected these. It was the other “bits” that provoked a sharp intake of breath. Mr. Cobb’s tastes were eclectic. The specimens were each mounted under little glass squares. The glass squares were mounted on cream-colored mats; one per mat in some cases, two in others. The mats were attached to the case by wire rings. Orderly. Scientific. A fine hand had labeled each; a flowing black script on the cream-colored boards.
A withered nipple. An ear. What seemed to be a portion, perfectly preserved, of a young person’s lips: pale, cracked, pursed.
Llewellyn slammed shut the case and took deep breaths. He would not be sick. He would think and act. He headed on foot toward Pimlico. The case at the end of his arm felt heavy as lead.
Whatever am I doing?
He had openly antagonized his superiors at the Metropolitan Police. He was hardly in a position to stop this madman, much less to protect Albert and Victoria. It was a hopeless tangle. He shifted the case from one hand to the other. Doing so brought to mind its contents.
Never mind hopeless, Sam Llewellyn. The man who filled this case and others like it must not be allowed to walk the earth. All there is to it, really.
Tom Ginty was surprised to find he did not feel sick in the least. His master was off, walking up and down the deck of the little steamer as it rose and plunged with the waves. Tom stood at the bow, clinging to the rail. From the atlases he’d studied, he roughly knew the course the ship would take across the North Sea to Ostend. He knew the streets of the town ahead of him—those nearest the harbor, anyhow—and the roads that led to Antwerp. Many maps lived within Tom’s head.
For now, though, there was no land in sight. Under the moon the steel-colored sea merged into a steel-colored sky without a join. There was no past and no future. Tom closed his eyes, letting the wind lift his hair and breathing deeply the sharp salt tang of the air.
Part IV
31
When Charles Field regained consciousness, a constable was taking him in charge. His head throbbed, his vision was blurred, and Sam Llewellyn was nowhere to be seen.
“Had more to drink as was good for you, am I right, Mr. Field?” said the policeman. “Do you find it wearying at all, sir, living up to your reputation?”
When the officers at the station found the pistol in Field’s pocket, their mood shifted; he was no longer a joking matter. Furious, Field called for Detective Abercrombie, who finally appeared and obliged the inspector by having him locked up for the night. He was led off, shouting about a girl named Belinda and the Shepherd’s Rest chapel by the Fortune of War.
The next morning, with a parched mouth and spots swimming before his eyes, he called from his cell until he was hoarse. At length Abercrombie approached with Police Commissioner Mayne himself, both of them regarding him—he felt—with pity and disgust.
“Show us,” said Mayne. “Come along with us to this pub and this chapel and show us the hidden room and all the corpses.”
With a swimming head, the inspector crossed town in a carriage with the senior policemen. He asked them what they’d done with Sam Llewellyn, but they seemed not to know what he was talking about. At the Fortune of War Field stumbled dizzily on the threshold and nearly fell. Mayne and Abercrombie exchanged meaningful glances.
Mickie Goodfellow greeted the police officers cordially enough and led them through his establishment.
“Decimus Cobb owns it all,” Field said, his voice cracking. “It’s his game, start to finish.”
“Is it now, Charlie?” said Goodfellow. “And who is this Cobb when he’s at home?”
“The man who owns you, Mickie—that’s who!”
Goodfellow smiled compassionately and shook his head.
“Take us to the gents!” cried Field hoarsely, realizing how ridiculous he must sound. “Ta
ke us to the room!”
Goodfellow shrugged indulgently and led them to the door in the saloon bar marked Not in service. The publican was saying something quietly to Commissioner Mayne; Field strained to hear.
“ . . . took him on for old times’ sake but had to dismiss him, poor man, he was drinking up all my stock . . .”
Goodfellow led them down the brick corridor and into the chapel’s back room. It was brightly lit. Rows of shelves ran round the room, on which sat funeral urns and buckets of flowers, sprays and wreaths. Two tall young men were arranging a large bouquet; they registered surprise at the interruption but bowed to the visitors gravely. Field felt he was underwater. Sounds were muted and motion was unnaturally slow.
The Carmichaels entered and greeted the officers respectfully after their fashion, the reverend, reserved and dignified; Mrs. Carmichael, effusive and beaming.
“Where is she?” rasped Field, his voice nearly gone. “What have you done with the little girl? I’ll walk away, I’ll forget about the bodies and all the rest of it if you just let me have the little girl again!”
“What little girl is this, then, my dear?” said Mrs. Carmichael sweetly. Field tried to strike her, but Goodfellow grabbed him and held him back.
“Good God, Charles,” muttered Commissioner Mayne.
“Poor man,” said Goodfellow. “He’s far gone.”
The figures in the brightly lit room spun round and round, looking at him with distaste.
“Go on, Field,” said Mayne. “Get out.”
And then he was crawling out of a hogshead. It felt like dawn, or nearly. He was somewhere in Smithfield, he thought. He found a pump, stripped to his smalls, and put himself under it. Bruises on his head came alive under the streams of icy water. He sat on the ground, dizzy with hunger. To an old woman who was passing with a bulging sack of bread, he said, “Mother, give us half a loaf. You can see I’ve had hard times.”
She passed him by, then stopped and turned her toothless, creased face to him. “Do you mean to teach me about hard times?”