Willing Flesh by J. S. Cook
MLR Press, LLC www.mlrpress.com
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Willing Flesh by J. S. Cook
CONTENTS One Two Three Four Five Six Seven Eight Nine Ten Eleven About the Author MLR Press Authors the trevor project ****
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Willing Flesh by J. S. Cook
Willing Flesh Inspector Raft Mystery Series No. 1 J.S. Cook mlrpress www.mlrpress.com
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Willing Flesh by J. S. Cook
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Copyright 2010 by J.S. Cook **** All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. Published by MLR Press, LLC 3052 Gaines Waterport Rd. Albion, NY 14411 Visit ManLoveRomance Press, LLC on the Internet: www.mlrpress.com **** Editing by Kris Jacen Cover art by Deana Jamroz **** ISBN# 978-1-60820-111-2 First Edition 2010
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Willing Flesh by J. S. Cook
One She oughtn't to be on the streets at this hour, a girl like her. What would people think? Her dress was none too clean but that was to be expected, and if the Ripper had taught anybody anything, it was this—the importance of disposable people. When it came to one's work, they could hardly be dispensed with and when the experiments were done, well...they'd never be missed. No one would bother going out of doors after dark in Whitechapel to see where a girl like Lizzie Blunt had gone, or to enquire why she was late to her tea, and what about the parcel she was supposed to call for at the butcher's shop? Only a few odd pieces, true—a scrap of bacon, some gristle and kidneys, the stray piece of offal—but Mr. Fleisch was kind enough to keep it for them, which was more than could be said for most folk round these parts. Really, this was doing her a favour, for what had she to go home to? A cramped and crowded hovel, filthy with the tightpressed flesh of other people, too many bodies crammed into a space designed for merely one or two. But the landlord didn't mind, oh no; he'd take your money without so much as a by-your-leave. He didn't care. This was so much more important, this thing that he was doing, and Lizzie was making a real contribution to the world. Lizzie and others like her were helping to advance the cause of knowledge and if she knew—if, by some strange mischance or fortune she lived to tell about it—she could be proud that her sacrifice made such advances possible. It was a really noble thing she did for 6
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him, and he knew it; she was better than those bitches at the medical school. Oh yes, she was better than all of them put together. Not the done thing, sir. Can't just hand them off to you, to do with as you please. We are patient men and Christians but no, sir. We cannot allow it. He knew the bitter taste of disappointment. It lodged, a clot of gall, beneath the breastbone. He would prove them wrong, and Lizzie Blunt would help him. God bless Lizzie Blunt. He followed her at an easy pace, never moving too close but never letting her out of his sight, either. She walked quickly, without looking around her, and it seemed to him that she was greatly preoccupied tonight. He'd seen her earlier, standing on the pavements in front of the Flying Horse, walking to and fro in a great lather of agitation, swinging her hips and calling to the men who passed her by. He didn't understand it; she was comely enough for a guttersnipe, with her great big eyes, and her lush and promising figure. She went to some trouble to keep herself relatively clean, and when he'd passed her on the street she smelled of lavender, with only the faintest pong of odour underneath. It wasn't easy for a girl like her, but Lizzie Blunt took an interest. Now he was taking an interest in her. She stopped outside a chemist's shop and stood there for a moment, peering in the window, seemingly interested in a display of cosmetic preparations—the compounder's magic, meant to swell the figure and sweeten the breath, white lead powder for the face, arsenic lozenges to soothe unexpected 7
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blemishes, and belladonna to drop into the eyes. He approached her but did not speak or touch her. He stood behind her at the window, watching her reflection in the glass. "Ill met by moonlight, proud Titania." "Go away." She turned and faced him, brave as few of them were nowadays, not since the Ripper, any road. "I'll call me father on you. I'll call a constable!" "Do not trouble yourself, my dear. I mean you no harm." He took off his hat and bowed stiffly from the waist. He was nicely dressed in fine grey wool, his topcoat expensive and beautifully made, and his gloves were of the finest doeskin leather. He kept his curly red beard clipped close to his face and the plain gold rims of his spectacles made a pleasant frame for his pale grey eyes. He might have been a dancing master or a private tutor to young ladies. "I don't know you." She drew her skirts back out of his way. Her top lip curled, the fleeting gesture of a hunted animal. "Get off out of it or I'll call a copper." "You don't remember me at all, do you?" He sighed and put his hat back on. "I thought as much, but really, I can hardly blame you. It was years ago, and I was much younger then. Your mamma introduced us..." He allowed a note of slight regret to creep into his voice. "Ah, well. Perhaps I presume too much. It was merely an afternoon tea dance and you can hardly be expected to remember." The mention of a tea dance worked especially well on younger ladies who, regardless of their station, were flattered by such association. 8
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"Wait." She clutched his arm as he moved away. "Don't mind me. I've got an awful memory. Of course...the tea dance, that afternoon. I remember now." He formed his face into an expression of appropriate surprise and profound delight. His hand closed over her arm, a trap snapping irrevocably shut. "Oiled," said Inspector Raft. "OiiiiiiiilED wards." He held the book clear of the bathwater and peered at it. "Turn the key deftly." He flicked forward several pages. "I mean, it's not Milton, is it?" He was entirely alone in the room and a casual observer would likely be puzzled as to who, precisely, Raft was addressing. The bath was large and deep, of enamelled cast iron, set upon four brass legs and boasting that most modern of inventions, a shower head. "When I consider how my light is spent." His voice deepened several octaves and began to boom like the bass drum in a Salvation Army band. "Ere half my days—d'you hear that? Hawwwwwwwwwlf his days. Hawwwwwwlf. Tum, tum, tum. Yes, quite ponderous, the sanctimonious old fart." It was just past ten in the evening, and Raft was enjoying his nightly bath as he usually did at this hour—enjoying it, that is, in his own inimitable way. On a small table at his elbow there was a cup of tea, rapidly going cold, a candle, a flat packet of his favourite cigars, thin and slender and hand-rolled in Rotterdam to the specifications of Raft's personal tobacconist. "Inspector Raft!" Juliet Featherstonehaugh—all fifteen mighty stone of her—came thundering up the stairs and hammered on the door to Raft's rooms. "Inspector Philemon Raft!" A large woman of indeterminate middle age, she 9
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tolerated Raft only so far as she had to, for all that he paid his rent on time. Raft had occupied the top floor of her house for several years, keeping resolutely to himself. He rarely, if ever, descended to the lower floors and Mrs. Featherstonehaugh couldn't actually remember the last time they'd exchanged more than a handful of words. "What is it, Mrs. Featherstonehaugh?" Raft made an annoyed face and set the book aside. "For God's sake," he muttered, "I'm wet and naked." He stood up suddenly, forgetting about his volume of Keats, which tumbled into the tub and began to soak up its weight in bathwater. Just in time he reached for it and caught it, before it dissolved into wet slurry at the bottom of the tub. "I am, you know." Raft dropped the book onto the floor and slapped his wet flanks. "Wet and bloody naked. Terribly naked. Mother naked." He stepped onto the floor and peered at himself in the mirror opposite. He was thirty-eight years old, not quite six feet tall, long-boned and slender with a mop of thick, dark hair and eyes the colour of coal, or nearly. "What's so terrible about being naked?" He raised an eyebrow at his expression. "Think about that, old man. You just think about it. Have an answer for me when I get back." "Inspector!" The door threatened to buckle inwards under the flurry of knocks. "Yes, alright." He huffed out an annoyed breath and reached for his dressing gown. "There's a constable in the street." Raft approached the closed door. "Mrs. Featherstonehaugh, are you decent?" 10
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She muttered a string of curses. "Come down and see this constable, you bloody fool." "I shall be there anon." By the time Raft had dried himself off and wrapped his dressing gown around his naked body the constable had moved into the front foyer of the house and was amusing himself by picking aphids off an aspidistra. He saw Raft coming down the stairs and straightened up. "Constable Crook, sir. They told me to come fetch you." Crook was possibly the cleanest person that Raft had ever seen. Raft gazed at the tall young man and frowned. "Where's your uniform?" "Haven't got one, sir. I mean, I'm attached to H Division— plainclothes, sir." Raft nodded. "Right. Come on up while I get dressed." Crook followed him up and waited in the sitting room while Raft layered his clothes over clean combinations and doubletied his boot laces. "Bit of an odd name for a policeman, isn't it?" "Sorry, sir?" Crook looked up from his contemplation of the tea set. "Don't quite catch your meaning." "Your name's Crook." Raft fastened his collar and whiplashed his tie into a tight four-in-hand. "But you're a copper." He nodded, as if this pointed to some inescapable truth. The young man nodded. "Right." He appeared to think about it for a moment. "'Fraid I don't understand, sir." Raft sighed. "Your name is Crook. You're a copper." "Yes." 11
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It was a good thing, Raft thought, that Constable Crook was pretty. "Have you got a first name?" "Frederic, sir. Most people call me Freddie." "Freddie Crook. You're new, aren't you?" Freddie Crook was tall and lean, with curly blond hair and long-lashed brown eyes the colour of hazelnuts. An expression of sporting good cheer played about his pale, narrow face, but there was something underneath that gave Raft serious pause— something very like worry or anguish. That wasn't good. No, that wasn't good at all. "In a way, sir. Used to be with the River Division." Raft shrugged into his topcoat and took his hat off the peg by the door. "River? With Abberline, then?" "Yes, sir. Inspector Abberline—" "Is a bloody idiot. He completely bungled the Ripper case. The dog handlers, you know. Completely lost the animals in the fog. Although why in the name of God—" He examined Crook carefully. "Do you read?" Crook coughed and focussed his gaze on a patch of carpet near the fireplace. "Of course, sir." Interesting. Raft found himself intrigued. You seem to be nice and malleable. "Come on, Crook." He lunged for the doorknob and yanked on it. "Take me to the corpse." Constable Crook blinked like a man who has just been confronted with a wonder. "How do you know there's a corpse?" Raft grinned. "There's always a corpse." Inspector Philemon Raft, London Metropolitan Police, stood for a moment on the pavement outside the premises of H. 12
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Charters, Chemist, and peered up at the building's drab grey facade. The shop had long since closed but there was plenty of activity, and everywhere Raft looked there seemed to be a uniformed constable. He showed his warrant card to the man at the door and went into the shop, Crook at his heels. A single light burnt over the counter and the air inside the shop smelled of chemicals and coal. Near the front door stood a life-sized John Bull figure made of stiff card. The figure held a patent medicine bottle to its mouth with an expression of hearty enjoyment. A SURE CURE, the inscription read, FOR THE DRINKING MAN. It was very cold. Raft took his time inspecting the premises, touching the various containers, smelling the contents of bottles and examining a set of brass scales that presided over the compounding table. He took up a small device used to form pills and tapped it against his hand, then examined the palm of his glove. "Hm." Crook was confused. "Sir?" "Not a very successful chemist, Constable. If this had been recently used, a shower of fine powder ought to have descended when I shook it. As you can see—" he extended his hand toward Crook "—there's nothing, which means it hasn't been used in a while. I wonder what happened to make people desert our dear Mr. Charters?" He went behind the counter and peered into the open mouths of a couple of large, green glass carboys, picked up a leech jar and shook it. "Empty. Utterly leechless. Completely leeched out. I suppose that's the leech of our troubles. Jesus, leech me near the Cross..." "Sir, with respect, the corpse —" 13
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She came at him without warning, descending from the embossed tin ceiling in a shower of pale particles. She was young, perhaps twenty, with long red hair tied up in complicated knots and ribbons on either side of her head; her dress suggested a prostitute. She passed through Constable Crook and stood in front of Raft. He did it. It was him that did it, the drinking man. You'd better tell them. I won't see her. Raft fixed his eyes on the far wall. Crook was saying something about the dead girl's head. She isn't real. She isn't really there. You have to tell them. He'll do it again. You'll tell them, won't you? Her hand reached for him, and Raft took an involuntary step backward, stumbling into the counter and upsetting a display of glass medicine bottles. "Sorry." He reached out to steady himself and caught hold of Crook's arm. "I'm sorry. Bit unsteady on my feet." He pressed his eyes closed and when he opened them, the girl was gone. "Where did you say...the victim? Where is the victim, constable?" The drinking man... Crook ought to have been staring at him by now—they always did—but instead he held tight to Raft's arm, squeezing gently. "Right this way, sir." She was propped up in a chair by the stove with her hands arranged in her lap and an expression of surprise on her face. The pupils of her eyes were dilated as they would be after death, and there was a frothy white material in the corners of her open mouth. "A chestnut seller up the street identified her. Her name's Lizzie Blunt, sir. She's a wh—an unfortunate." 14
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"An unfortunate, so says our esteemed Mr. Gladstone. This unfortunate girl. Fortune favours the brave." Raft knelt to examine the soles of her boots, working his way up her legs and—oblivious to Crook's startled exclamations—sorting through her petticoats. He found the burnt stub of a match, the usual dirt and vermin, and a grimy handkerchief with three pennies tied into the corner. "Crook." "Sir?" "Bend down here." There was a pleasant warmth and the scent of vetiver as Crook settled in beside Raft. "What are we looking at, sir?" Raft turned up the girl's palms. "Have a close look." Crook leaned in and looked. "What's that red stuff in the lines?" He fetched out a magnifier and made a closer examination. "It looks like some sort of powder." Raft was impressed. "You'll do well here, constable. Whoever transferred you to H Division knew what he was doing." "Thank you, sir." "Notice anything about her fingernails?" Raft turned the girl's hands over. "Not really, sir. Sorry, sir." Crook looked ridiculously downcast, and bloody adorable. "You'll be wanting to look at her head, sir." Raft looked at her head. At the very crown, hidden under layers of blood-matted hair, a hole approximately one inch in diameter had been sunk straight through the bone, revealing the brain matter beneath. "Christ." Raft turned aside and took several deep breaths. The hair around the hole had been 15
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hastily and inexpertly shorn. At first glance it looked like the killer had employed a razor to do the work. "Sorry, sir. I ought to have warned you. It's a bit nasty, that is." "No, I'm glad you didn't, constable." Raft dusted his hands. "It's best I see it fresh, as it were." "Who'd do such a thing?" Crook hovered near him. "Drilling a hole in her head like that. What's that all about? It's a daft thing to do, that's for bloody well sure." "No." Raft drifted behind the counter. "It depends..." He did it, the drinking man. "How many different brands of laudanum do you suppose the average chemist keeps on hand, Constable Crook?" Crook looked distinctly uncomfortable. "Don't rightly know, sir." "The drinking man..." Be quiet. Too late Raft realised he had spoken his thoughts aloud. He doesn't understand. For God's sake! "I do rather enjoy a glass of port now and then, sir. Don't see as how there's anything wrong in it." Crook realised that Raft wasn't talking to him. "Trepanning." He'd read about it. "Is that what killed her, sir?" To his credit, Crook didn't ask what trepanning was. "No. This was done after she was already dead." Raft indicated the area around the girl. "There's no blood on her clothes." "The red stuff on her palms, sir? Isn't that blood?" 16
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Raft shook his head. "No. No, what's on her palms is something else...probably henna from the looks of it. People use it to dye the hair. It makes the hair turn red." "So that's not her hair? Not really?" Raft turned astonished eyes to him. "Constable, for the love of God —" He stopped himself in time. It was a bad habit, assuming that everyone took notice of trifles the way he did. Crook was only doing his best—whatever that was— and Raft oughtn't to assume. It was the error of a man who spent much of his time alone; eschewing the company of others, for Raft was a thoroughgoing misanthrope. "Sorry," he mumbled. "Most likely the red particles were transferred to her from someone else—perhaps her killer." He felt obligated to apologise again. "I'm sorry." "What killed her, sir?" Raft leaned in and sniffed the girl's mouth, lifted each of her eyelids in turn and let them drop. "She was probably poisoned with an overdose of laudanum. The pupils of her eyes." Crook appeared confused. "This girl, sir?" He took Crook by the elbow and they moved toward the door. "I'll know more once the police surgeon has had a look." A carriage pulled by a pair of glossy black horses stopped in front of Charters' shop. There was a crest on the door but Raft wasn't close enough to make it out. He pulled Freddie back towards the wall, near a display of cough preparations, and motioned for quiet with a finger to his lips. The carriage door opened and a set of narrow steps descended to the pavement. A tall, thin man with a rather drawn, almost 17
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cadaverous face, stepped out. He looked up and down the street then regarded the uniformed constables with a distinct lack of curiosity. "Nothing to do with him," Raft commented, tongue set firmly in his cheek. "Bit late for a gentleman to be about the streets. What's he up to?" "Good God!" Freddie whispered. "That's Lord—" Raft pressed his gloved hand over the constable's mouth. "Sh. Let us observe this Peer and see what he does. I'd hardly have expected him at such a venue, but there he is, large as life." The thin man walked past them, oblivious to the CLOSED sign in the window, and went into a back room; presently he was heard shouting for Charters. Raft seized that moment to escape and propelled Freddie out the door into the chilly evening air. "Good God." Freddie shivered. "That's Lord Godalming." "Yes." Raft's eyes narrowed. "Yes, Constable, that is Lord Godalming." He thumped Freddie's shoulder gently with his fist. "But what on earth is he doing here?" "Sir?" Two days later and Constable Crook stood a respectful distance from Raft's desk, still not entirely sure what to make of his new guv'nor. Common knowledge assumed that Crook was thick, but this wasn't entirely true and Crook, with his finely-tuned awareness of others' moods, knew that Raft was not himself today. "Sir?" "Yes?" "Cup of tea, sir. Bloody wet and cold out there today." Crook laid the mug down at the inspector's elbow and made 18
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to leave, but just then Raft blinked and stared at Crook as if he'd materialised from out of the floor. "Constable." "Crook, sir. It's Constable Frederic Crook." "Yes. Of course." Raft scratched his head, dislodging the part in his hair and Crook smiled. He hadn't been with Raft more than a handful of days but what he'd seen so far he liked. Raft was the sort of chap who got things done, who didn't fuss about with getting constables to do the work, but who waded in and did the job himself. Thus far, he'd been working Freddie hard, but Crook didn't mind, since Raft— unlike others Crook had worked with—seemed to know what he was doing. And if that wasn't enough—here Crook allowed himself a tiny grin—he fancied Inspector Raft just a little bit. He'd never say anything to Raft, not with things the way they were, and Freddie had no desire to end up working the treadmill in Reading Gaol. Labouchere's amendment to the act of parliament laid an ample precedent of fear for men like Freddie—so much so that a night's sport was no longer worth the danger. Nobody wanted to end up in prison. Crook huffed out an irritated breath. "Constable?" Raft sipped his tea. "Nothing, sir. I brought the newspapers." He laid them on the desk. "Shame, isn't it? I wonder what drove him to it?" The headlines caught Raft's eye and whatever he had been going to say next flew out of his mind forever. "Christ!" He grabbed the Daily Standard with both hands, but all the other papers carried much the same headline, albeit with slight stylistic variations. LORD GODALMING COMMITS SUICIDE. "It 19
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says here that his death occurred in Hyde Park. He stood on the parapet of the West or Magazine Bridge and shot himself through the head with a revolver, falling backwards into the water. The body was discovered by a Constable Tyler, of H Division." Raft had heard of Tyler but didn't know him. He let the paper fall from his hand. "Why? He was a member of Parliament, had a lovely wife, a son who apparently is the star of Eton...why would he top himself?" The haze and murmur of a weekday morning faded to nothingness around him. He was somehow there, standing with Godalming on the Magazine Bridge and feeling the cold winds whipping round him. The bullet had gone in cleanly—he was certain of it—but it had been intended to, and in the still night air the revolver's sudden report was heard a long way off. Godalming's body swayed for the merest fraction of a second before tumbling backwards— "Are you suggesting we find out, sir?" "Get hold of Tyler and find out what he knows. Wouldn't hurt to pay a visit to Lady Godalming." Raft drew the paper to him again, hoping Crook hadn't noticed his sudden reverie. "Is the body being displayed at home?" "Not sure, sir. Oh, I nearly forgot." Crook handed Raft a slip of paper. "Thought you might want to see this, sir. Came in this morning's post." Raft took the paper and examined it carefully. "'Drink to me only with thine eyes,'" he read aloud, "'and I will pledge with mine.'" It appeared to have been torn or cut out of a book. 20
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"Sir..." Crook shifted closer to Raft. "Don't think this is the time or place, really." The idea that Raft should want to quote poetry to him gave him a very pleasant frisson. "People might get ideas." "It's a poem, constable." Raft treated him to a look that could peel paint. "Ben Jonson." "Does he live round here?" "He's dead." Raft contemplated the document for a moment. "Was this addressed to me specifically?" "Yes, sir. It was marked on the envelope." Freddie handed it across to him. "Sorry for the creases. It's been in my pocket." The handwriting was a man's, sharp and angular, and the address had been written in pencil. At several places the tip had cut into the paper deep enough to leave a small hole. To Inspector Raft, Scotland Yard, Personal. There was no street address, but that didn't necessarily mean anything; every postman in the city knew where the Yard was on the Embankment. "Why would someone send me a poem?" Crook's forehead creased. "Give up, sir." Raft picked a cigarette out of the box on his desk and lit it. He shook out the flaming lucifer and tossed it into the wastepaper basket. "Why would anyone send me a poem in the post, Constable? A poem in the post, a postal poem, why?" Crook shifted his not inconsiderable weight from one foot to the other. "I'm sorry, sir. I don't know." Was there some hidden meaning in the question, a test of some sort? Perhaps 21
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Raft had already divined something in Freddie's attitude toward him, and felt correction was in order. "It's intended as a message, Constable. Obviously he's trying to tell me something." He smirked. "No trouble to tell you've been working under bloody Abberline." Freddie chose to ignore the remark about his former superior. "Who, sir? The one what did that girl?" "Precisely," Raft nodded. "The drinking man." "I don't know what you're on about, sir." Privately he remarked that, whatever Abberline was, at least he was plainspoken, which was more than Freddie could say for Raft. It seemed like half of whatever Raft was thinking came out of his mouth and the rest got lost somewhere along the way. And his habit of stringing together nonsense words, what the devil was that? "It's nothing, constable." The utterance was perhaps unnecessarily curt. "Look, Freddie..." Up until now, Raft had been his own man, keeping his own hours and running his own investigations in whatever manner he saw fit. If other inspectors had constables under them, that was their affair, but Raft had always worked best by himself, at his own pace and in his own time, without worrying whether a subordinate could keep up. Two weeks ago, Sir Newton Babcock had taken over as commissioner, and one of his first acts had been to assign a constable to every inspector on the force, whether or not every inspector wanted one; Freddie Crook had turned up as Raft's personal prize package. Not that Raft was entirely complaining. Freddie Crook looked like something off a biscuits tin, all long bones and 22
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lean muscle. He was a hair over six feet tall, with the sort of frame that in another man might have been lanky and ungainly. His curly blond hair was slicked back over his head and tamed into place with a generous application of pomade; his eyes were brown—not the deep, nearly-black of Raft's own—but the soft dun colour of sun-warmed earth. His mouth was wide, the lips not overfull but beautifully curved, with the hint of a smirk, as if the young constable knew much more than he was telling. Those who met him were reminded of a glorious young soldier, straight-backed and proud and inevitably strong. The circumstances that made Crook become a Peeler were a mystery. "Well..." Raft turned up the stack of morning papers "...the gentlemen of the press have not yet gotten hold of it. I've been through the lot." "They'll manage to get on to it." Freddie picked up the Pall Mall Gazette and looked over the front page. "If they haven't yet." "Constable, if you've no other plans..." this was facetious, and both men knew it. Whatever Crook's plans were, they were eminently subject to Raft's whims "...I wonder if you'd mind going to the apothecary's for me?" "Not feeling well, sir?" "Feeling horrible, Constable." Raft wrote something on a slip of paper and handed the slip to Freddie. "I'd like you to find out which varieties of laudanum are commonly available for purchase, and their relative medicinal strengths. I'm interested in whether or not the laudanum came from Henry Charters' shop." 23
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Freddie looked at the slip of paper in his hand and his forehead creased in what seemed very like consternation. "Sir...I wonder if..." He fell silent. "Go on, Crook. I'm interested to hear whatever it is you have to say." "Well, aren't you taking a lot for granted? We don't know for sure that he gave the girl anything to drink. You've not heard from the police surgeon yet. Could be it was that hole in her head that killed her?" He shifted his feet, a gesture that seemed to communicate his discomfort. "Maybe you're going a bit far, sir?" "Beg your pardon, sir—" Raft's intended monologue was interrupted by a junior constable the size of a five-year-old. "Sir Newton Babcock would like to see you in his office right sharpish like." "Right." Raft grimaced. "All right, Freddie, laudanum. Think you can manage?" Crook reached for his coat and pulled it on, fastened a long muffler round his neck "Oh, I usually do, sir." He drew on his gloves. "What do you think old Bumcock wants with you this morning?" "Constable." Like the rest of H Division, Raft knew all about Sir Newton Babcock's in-house soubriquet. "Best not to say it in mixed company, eh?" The term had been invented by some semiliterate wit in Special Branch; as far as nicknames went it was hopelessly puerile, and for this reason it stuck. Most policemen of Raft's acquaintance had the mentality of fourteen-year-old boys. 24
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"Understood, sir." Crook tugged his hat brim down over his forehead and smiled. "Be back as soon as I can manage." Raft squared the papers on his desk and paused to straighten his necktie. "You look fine, sir." Crook appeared behind him, smiling gently. "Perfectly all right." No, he remarked privately, better than merely fine, Raft looked ineffablly gorgeous. The inspector's gaze met Freddie's in the mirror, and for a moment something passed between them, something that seemed to Freddie to be impossibly wistful and sweet. "Perhaps he'll be gentle with me." Raft smiled, which did wonderful things to his lean, pale face. "Laudanum, Constable?" Freddie Crook grinned. "Brace up, Inspector. Let's hope you won't be needing it." Sir Newton Babcock was the fattest man that Raft had ever seen. The veteran policeman wasn't merely fleshy; rather, he was a vast, ambulant colossus of a man with a belly the approximate size of some larger species of barrel. In contrast to his girth, his hands were little, as doughy as suet, and his big round head sat atop the great mound of his body like a Chinese lantern. He was ultimately composed of three or four intersecting spheres arranged atop one another, rather like a children's snowman. "Raft." Raft sagged. Sir Newton could manage to fit more disappointment into the single syllable of the inspector's name than most people did; surely this couldn't be good news. "Sir?" He politely refused the glass of brandy that Sir 25
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Newton offered and sat down at Sir Newton's indication that he should do so. "The drinking man." Raft's eyes widened. "Sir?" "Mmm...you wouldn't have seen it just yet. Not your fault." Babcock produced a piece of paper, similar to the one Raft had received in the morning's post, and handed it across to Raft. "This one claims responsibility for the girl with the, er, hole." I thot you would be surprised to see she had any brains at all. Why don't you ask the drinking man? Drink to me only with thine eyes "Mm. Nice of him to write." Raft laid the letter aside. "It's called trepanning, sir—trephination. They make a burr hole in the skull—" Raft closed his mouth. Sir Newton didn't appear interested. "A burr hole." Sir Newton harrumphed into his luxuriant moustaches. "Yes, well, this note says that someone calling himself 'the drinking man' is responsible for cutting a hole in that girl's skull. Have you any insight, Inspector?" "Sir, I've only just started looking into this case. The girl that was found at the apothecary's shop didn't die of the hole in her skull. I'm certain of it." He could have bitten off his tongue; he wasn't certain or anything like it, not yet. "Oh, certain, are you?" Sir Newton stared at him. "Er...no, sir." Raft collapsed into himself and spent several uncomfortable moments contemplating the palms of his hands. "Sorry, sir." 26
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"You'll want to get busy sorting this matter out, Inspector. I should hate to have to reassign you." "Of course, sir." Get stuffed, you bloody great windbag. "Dismissed, Raft." "Thank you, sir." He was within blessed sight of the doorway when— "Oh, Raft?" Raft composed his face into appropriate lines before turning round. "Sir?" "Going to the departmental charity ball on Saturday next, are you?" Raft bit his bottom lip and stayed silent. Damn Sir Newton and his damned charity ball anyway. A large room full of other people, all of them intent on collaring him and talking about nothing, standing too close to him, breathing brandy fumes into his face. He'd rather spend the evening at home with a good book. The lad who ran the bookstall on Pennyworth Street had just got in a rare, unexpurgated volume of Chaucer's Canterbury Tales; Raft was looking forward to an evening in, a long soak in the tub, and the unabashed medieval bawdiness of the Carpenter's Tale. "I expect you and young Crook will be in attendance?" Raft imagined himself being hauled around the room in Crook's manly grip while a continental orchestra blasted away at a waltz. "Er...charity ball...right...well, you see, sir, I had rather thought—" "I only mention it because it's in aid of the fund for retired policemen. You'll be one yourself someday, Raft, and I should think you'd want to contribute for that reason alone." Sir 27
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Newton peered at him with acute disapproval. "There will be young ladies in attendance. My own daughter will be serving tea and cakes, along with some friends of hers. Anderin is so delightfully civic-minded. I like to think she takes her inspiration from me." "Of course, sir." Raft didn't know Sir Newton well enough to pass judgement on the commissioner's fellow feeling—but it was hard to imagine him up to his elbows in rags or sorting through a jumble bin at a church sale. Perhaps a bake sale was more in Sir Newton's line. All those delicious cakes fairly glistening with marzipan, and row upon row of crusty pies and various other sugary dainties... "Are you listening, man?" "Of course, sir." Raft pulled his mind back from its contemplations of Chou pastry and French egg wash. "I should love to meet, er, Andiron." "Who said anything about meeting her?" Babcock treated Raft to a withering look. "I shouldn't like you to be put down as a bounder, Inspector. Best keep to your own social station, hm?" "Of course, sir." Privately Raft wished all the torments of the devil on Babcock—on him and his ridiculous daughter— but if Raft was to be subjected to the hell that was a policeman's charity ball, there was one small consolation to be had. Sir Newton would see to it that Crook had to suffer, right along with his favourite inspector. This in itself was enough to draw Inspector Raft's lean face into a smile. 28
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Lord Godalming's residence turned out to be a huge, white terrace house encompassing nearly one whole side of Belgravia Square. Raft's cab let him out at the front door and he hesitated, wishing he'd brought Freddie with him, but the constable was presumably still busy at Henry Charters' wretched little shop or wherever he currently was. It didn't do to supervise constables too closely and Raft was a believer in letting a man do his work. One never knew when an intuitive constable—Raft was certain Freddie Crook was one of those— would happen upon some vital piece of information. At any rate, what Freddie was doing was infinitely preferably to what Raft had before him. Visits such as these were a part of police work that Raft disliked enormously; having to step foot inside a grieving household was the worst possible kind of intrusion. He always felt as if he were mocking the family's grief with his—admittedly necessary—questions. The pall of sadness which surrounded a house after a death seeped into his soul and, unlike many others of his profession, Raft could never entirely divorce himself of empathy in such cases. He lifted the knocker and rapped resoundingly on the door, which opened immediately to reveal a grown boy of perhaps nineteen, with wavy blond hair and large blue eyes and a pale, laughing face. He looked Raft up and down and grinned. "You're too late, I fear. The old bugger's gone." Raft raised his eyebrows and his warrant card. "I am Inspector Philemon Raft, London Metropolitan Police. I should like to ask Lady Godalming a few questions. Is she in residence?" 29
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"Oh, fuck me." The blond boy stepped back and gestured at Raft to enter. "Sorry, old man. I thought you were the vicar." He led Raft into a wide foyer. "We've had no end of visitors ever since Pater topped himself." The boy seemed remarkably unmoved by His Lordship's recent demise. "You are Lord Godalming's son?" Raft pulled out his notebook and pencil. "I am. My name's Toby." His grip was firm and he held on to Raft's hand for perhaps longer than necessary. "You, ah...you're a policeman?" "Police inspector, yes." "I've been away at school—Cambridge, you know. Pater insisted, although I don't see what good it's doing." He reached out and dusted Raft's lapels with the flat of his hand. "That is a very nice overcoat, old man. Bit last year, but never mind. I'm sure you'll get a rise in pay soon enough." Raft bit back a nasty retort. "I should like to speak with Lady Godalming. I'm afraid time is rather of the essence." Toby didn't move. He crossed his arms on his chest and regarded Raft's figure with an assessing eye. "I say, do you row?" "No." "That's too bad, old chap. We could use one like you on our team. Bloody awful showing. Those Oxford cunts can outrow anybody." "I am sure what you meant to say was 'punts'." Raft rocked forward on his toes, wondering when the lad was going to fetch his mother. He could hear nothing from the rest of the house and, as was typical in such cases, the 30
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windows had been hung with thick swaths of black bunting. A portrait of Lord Godalming—the same thin, cadaverous man that Raft had seen at Charters' shop—hung opposite the staircase; this too had been draped in black cloth. The expression on Lord Godalming's painted face was one of exhausted forbearance. Toby ignored him. "Do you wrestle, at all?" And, when Raft indicated he did not, "What about riding? Do you ride?" Raft fixed him with a basilisk stare. "Horses?" The young Godalming laughed. "Of course, old man. What else is there to ride?" "You would be amazed." Raft's mind suddenly bloomed with a vivid image of Freddie Crook, naked and sweating, laid prone under him and writhing in ecstasy. "Horses, no I don't." Raft slipped a finger under his collar and eased it away from his neck. "Er, to ride. May I see your mother?" "She's upstairs in her sitting room. I'll go and fetch her." Raft managed a thin smile. "Splendid." While he waited he examined the foyer. It was the usual Belgravia model of overt opulence coupled with questionable taste. An enormous spiral staircase wound its tortuous way upwards from the foyer, its balusters, rails and treads done in gleaming dark mahogany. Directly adjacent to this, a gigantic chandelier of Waterford crystal was suspended from the ceiling, hanging over the space like an enormous glassy spider. Its myriad drops and swags caught the available light and threw it at the walls, glancing off the portraits of Godalmings past and present. The carpet beneath Raft's feet was a dark wine-red, with figured branches and sheaves of 31
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wheat. Trying to follow the pattern gave him a headache, and he was glad when Toby descended the great staircase, leading his mother by the hand. Raft had heard that Lady Godalming was a pretty woman, but whatever beauty she had once possessed had now passed irretrievably beyond her grasp. She was short and stout, not unlike the Queen, and she had a pinched, disapproving face like the Queen, and the Queen's pale, doughy hands. To Raft's surprise she was not in mourning, but wore a plain white blouse and a dark skirt. Her greying hair was pulled back into the sort of bun his landlady often wore and if Raft did not know better, he would have thought this woman was a household servant. He introduced himself, then asked whether she might answer a few questions. "About my husband?" Lady Godalming raised tired eyes to his. "Why on earth do you want to know about that sorry old bugger?" Raft struggled to contain his shock. "Your husband is dead, is he not?" She heaved a great sigh. "So they tell me." She gestured towards the nearest door. "In here, Inspector. We may speak in here. Toby, would you be so kind as to fetch my medicine?" The boy nodded, bounding away. Raft waited till Lady Godalming had seated herself before taking a seat himself. "Do you know where we are, Inspector Raft?" Raft blinked. "London, ma'am?" "We are in hell, Inspector." It was uttered with weary cynicism. "This room was my late husband's study. Here he 32
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spent the greater part of his time—corresponding with those lying mountebanks he called his friends." "I see." He glanced round the room, trying not to be too obvious about it. His gaze lit upon an ornate golden snuffbox, inlaid with rubies, which sat on the desk. "That really is a most singular snuffbox, ma'am. I've never seen one quite like it. May I...?" "Whatever you like, Inspector." He turned it round, examining it from all angles. "It is extremely beautiful. How did your husband come by it, if you don't mind my asking?" She made a dismissive gesture. "It was delivered here yesterday morning. A young man, a messenger boy, brought it." "Messenger boy?" "Yes, yes, blue uniform, round hat, you know the ones I mean." "Quite so, ma'am. Did this messenger boy say anything? Did he indicate who had sent the parcel?" "Well, I don't know!" She called for Toby, clearly irritated at what must have seemed an impertinent question. The boy put his blond head round the door. "What is it, Mater?" "That snuff box that was delivered for your...for Lord Godalming...did the messenger say anything?" "No...it wasn't wrapped up. He put it in my hand and said good-morning, and that was that." "Er, thank you, Toby." Raft nodded that he could go. "Is Lord Godalming...that is to say —" 33
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"My late husband's body has been removed to private viewing rooms elsewhere, Inspector. I should not wish the house overrun with visitors, all clamouring to see his earthly dust. The aftermath of the Cleveland Street investigation has added considerably to his reputation—or should I say, his notoriety." Lady Godalming lifted the lid of a small lacquered box and took out a cigarette, which she lit with a flourish. "What do you know about the Cleveland Street scandal, Inspector? Have you all the details?" Raft told her only those facts which were a matter of public record. This seemed to amuse her. "How tactful you are, Inspector. I suppose you think an outright derogation is necessary to spare my womanly feelings. You need not bother; I have none. My husband was a blackguard and a cad, Inspector Raft. He spent more time with his gentlemen friends than he did with his family. It was rumoured that he had a mistress, but I know this isn't so." "Begging your pardon, ma'am, could you tell me a little more about it?" "He had no mistress, Inspector, because he was an invert—what is it they call them? Homosexuals." Raft's mouth opened and closed while his brain struggled to find an appropriate rejoinder. "My husband," Lady Godalming stabbed out her unsmoked cigarette viciously, "was found in a homosexual brothel in Cleveland Street last July. He escaped prosecution purely because he is an aristocrat." "Lady Godalming, I wonder if you could tell me everything you know about your husband's death." 34
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"My husband went into Hyde Park, stood on the Magazine Bridge and shot himself in the right temple. He died instantly from the gunshot and his body fell backwards into the water, from which it was later retrieved by the police." She might have been reciting a shopping list. "Had your husband any reason to commit suicide? Was he being threatened? Clearly he was able to avoid embarrassment in the Cleveland Street scandal, yet months later, he sees fit to take his own life. Why would he do that, especially when he had so successfully put Cleveland Street behind him?" Toby appeared in the doorway with a tray. On it were two small bottles, a tuft of cotton tow, and a gleaming metal syringe. "You should tell him, Mater." He laid the tray on the desk. "He's bound to find out sooner or later." From somewhere in the back of the house a woman screamed, and went on screaming. It was a wholly horrified noise, as if the screamer had sustained some violent bodily injury. Raft leapt up and charged into the foyer, followed by Toby. "That's Daisy, the upstairs maid. She's in the morning room." The girl was perhaps sixteen, kneeling in the middle of a pale pink rug, holding a sewing basket on her lap. The mending had been taken out and set to one side; clearly she had been about to begin work. It wasn't the mending that made Raft stop and take a ragged breath. There was a human head sitting in the sewing basket, mute and speechless. It appeared to have been originally attached to a young man perhaps twenty years of age, with curly dark hair and a 35
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noticeable cleft in the chin. Raft took the girl's arm and helped her to her feet, instructed the members of the household not to touch anything. While Lady Godalming gave the girl a glass of brandy, Raft took Toby aside. "Fancy doing a bit of police work?" The boy flashed his luminous grin. "Top hole! I should like nothing better." Raft scribbled a hasty note and gave it to him. "Find the nearest telegraph office. Dispatch this immediately to H Division, Scotland Yard. Tell no one what has occurred here— do you hear me, boy? Or I shall have you locked up." Toby Godalming took the slip of paper Raft passed him, then reached out quickly and stroked the back of Raft's hand with two fingers. He leaned close to Raft and smiled in a way that did astonishing things to his youthful blond beauty. "I might like being locked up by you, Inspector. I might like that very much." Raft stepped back immediately, the habitual blankness dropping over his features. "I very much doubt you would enjoy our cells." His fists clenched, but otherwise he gave no outward sign. "I really do think you ought to visit Cambridge." Toby swayed a bit closer, lingering only a moment before turning to go. "You would fit in marvellously." Whatever other qualities Toby Godalming had to recommend him, Raft appreciated his speed because within a very short time a veritable battalion of constables was alighting from a maria and pouring into the front door of the Godalming residence. Raft dispatched them throughout the 36
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house and grounds, to search for signs of intruders and to take careful note of anything they found. The severed head he took, still in its basket, and handed it off to Constable Burley. "Hold this till I get back, and don't open it." Burley looked nonplussed. "What's in it, sir?" "It's a human head." Raft went back to the morning room but the girl had gone. Lady Godalming was also nowhere to be seen when Raft returned to Lord Godalming's study, but the bottles on the little tray were empty and the syringe had clearly been used. There was a drop of liquid clinging to the needle. Raft gathered it on the tip of his finger and brought it to his nostrils, but it either had no identifiable smell, or there wasn't enough present to register. He wrapped the syringe carefully in his handkerchief and stowed it in his pocket, then went to find Burley and retrieve the basket. "How come it's smiling?" Burley handed the basket and its contents to Raft. "It's dead. What's it smiling like that for?" "I told you not to open it." "Just a peek, Inspector. Honest." Raft frowned. "Has anyone found the girl? Her name is Daisy; Toby Godalming said she is the upstairs maid." "There's nobody upstairs but Lady Godalming." Burley jerked his thumb towards the ponderous staircase. "And I think she's done for the day." "Done for the day?" "Out cold, sir." Raft swore quietly. It looked like Lady Godalming had habits all her own. 37
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He went back to the Yard and lost no time in enlisting a police artist to draw a sketch of the severed head. He dispatched the drawing, with an accompanying description, to the various press agencies and, while he waited, sent a cable to Toby Godalming asking if his mother's house maid had been found. It was vital that he question the girl to try and find out whether or not she knew the man to whom the head had once belonged. The young Godalming replied within the hour that the maid had disappeared without giving her notice, taking her personal effects with her. His mother, Raft assumed, was still unconscious. Just after four, when Raft was finishing a second cup of tea, a hesitant tap sounded at his office door, and he turned round to see a grinning youth with sandy hair and a pronounced gap between his front teeth. "They told me to come up, sir. Them at the desk said I was to come up, like. I know about that bloke with the head." "Come in, then." He entered Raft's office and held out his hand, palm up. "Sit down." Raft ignored the outstretched hand and pointed to the chair. "What is your name?" The young man tugged at his forelock and giggled. "Haven't got to give it, have I?" Raft bit back a harsh response. "What have you to tell me?" "That head that were in the basket. I knows whose head that is, like." He ducked his head and giggled, then fell to picking a scab on the back of his hand. He was, Raft thought, 38
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the silliest thing on two legs that he'd ever seen. "I knows him." "Yes?" "Name's Rodney." He brayed with laughter, as if this were the funniest thing he'd ever heard. "He were called Rodney. Ha, ha. Rodney, like." Oh, for Christ's sake. "Yes, his name was Rodney. Rodney who?" "No, he weren't a Chinaman or nothing like that." "What was his full name?" "Rodney..." He scratched his head and feigned thinking, rolling his eyes and making exaggerated humming sounds. "Rodney, Rodney...." "Tell me his name or I will confine you to the cells." "Rodney Bertram. He were a renter." "A renter." Raft noted it down. "You know this because...?" "I'm one. Yes, I am. I get paid for—" "It is generally a good idea to avoid incriminating oneself." The boy frowned. "What do you mean by that?" "He was a renter." Raft pressed on his pencil so hard that the tip broke. "What else?" "He was part of Breedlove's lot. They all go about together." "Thank you." Raft made a dismissive motion. "What about the money?" The boy stood up. "The paper said there was a reward." "The paper lied." "Oh, come on, guv! I come all the way up here to tell you and you don't give me nothing for it? That's not fair." 39
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Raft opened his desk drawer and tossed the boy a shilling. "Now you can get out." When the boy had gone Raft had a look through his own files, but there was nothing on a Rodney Bertram. He went up to the archives room and took down the file boxes for the past several years. He was lucky in that he read much faster than the average policeman and he had the uncanny ability to remember verbatim everything he read. The first two boxes gave no joy, but when Raft went back a year he found the renter's name. Rodney Bertram, came down to London from Sheffield, arrested several times for vagrancy and gross indecency. The name Bertram struck a chord with Raft and he took down the boxes containing Abberline's reports of the Cleveland Street affair. Among those named was Rodney Bertram, who had been seen most notably keeping company with Lord Godalming. Godalming had been among those discovered more-or-less in flagrante in the residence on Cleveland Street when Abberline and his men had arrived to make the arrest. Like several other aristocrats, Godalming had been encouraged to leave the country for a while until the scandal died down. As far as Raft or anybody else knew, no charges had ever been brought, but Godalming's reputation—like the reputations of many of his fellows—had been ruined. The man in bed with Lord Godalming that hot July morning was none other than Rodney Bertram—the same Rodney Bertram whose severed head had shown up in the sewing basket of Lady Godalming's maid. Rodney Bertram had been Lord Godalming's favourite, 40
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indeed, Godalming had given him a present of a golden snuffbox. So why had Bertram's head shown up in the Godalming residence a few days after Lord Godalming topped himself? **** [Back to Table of Contents]
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Two It was six o'clock and quite dark by the time Freddie Crook returned to Scotland Yard with the patent names of several different brands of laudanum pencilled onto a slip of paper. Raft was poring over a thick file folder, the contents of which were spread over his desk. "That looks interesting." Freddie leant over. "Abberline's case notes on Cleveland Street." He regarded Raft with something close to awe. "Did you make a connection, sir?" "I did." Raft sat back in his chair and clasped his hands at the back of his head. "I wasn't involved in Cleveland Street but, considering the things I learnt from Lady Godalming— one of them being that Lord Godalming was there when Abberline's constables went in—I thought I'd best look into it." Freddie seemed to be impressed. "And?" "Guess who holds the lease on the Cleveland Street property?" "I give up, sir." Raft held up a slip of paper. "Henry Charters, apothecary." Freddie digested this in silence for a moment. "Yes, well. As you know I've just come from him and it occurs to me he must have some sort of a sideline—perhaps more than one— because that shop can't possibly be turning a profit." "I think Lady Godalming was on the verge of telling me about it. Right before the screaming started." 42
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"Yes, I ran into Doyle on the way up." Freddie shrugged out of his overcoat and hung it on the hook. "He said you dropped off a basket full of head for him. That was nice of you. Who does it belong to?" "A renter by the name of Rodney Bertram. Apparently he was Lord Godalming's special friend. What have you got for me, constable?" Raft got up to fetch him a hot cup of tea, fresh out of the pot. Freddie took a long drink and reached into his overcoat for his notes. "Went back to Charters'," he said, "and you were right. Hardly a single customer came in the door the whole time I was there. I'd a good look round, probably for an hour or more and there was just the one lady that came in, but she took a blink at me, and just scarpered like the devil was after her. Oh, and I found Tyler in the King's Head having a kneesup with some of the lads. He said Godalming was dead, and wet. That's all." Freddie rubbed his hands together. "Bloody freezing out there. Cold for November." Raft blinked away his irritation. "She ran away? It seems today is a day of fleeing females." "Quick as you please, sir." Freddie shrugged. "Maybe I frightened her." Raft filed this away for future reference and listened as Freddie read out his list of laudanums. Mrs. Winslow's Soothing Syrup ostensibly for teething babies and Battley's Sedative Solution; Dalby's Carminative, Freddie wanted to know what a carminative was, and Godfrey's Cordial; Mother Bailey's Quieting Syrup to drug the young ones and the infamous Battley's Drops, intended to soothe whatever ills the 43
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flesh was heir to. "Still," Raft refilled his own cup and Freddie's from the teapot. "I don't quite understand." Freddie slurped appreciatively at his now burgeoning cup. "Not a great deal of difference in any of 'em, sir, except for the other ingredients. I mean, this Godfrey's has got treacle in. I suppose that's to make it taste better to the little ones. This Winslow's, that's for teething. It's got morphine in it. Keeps 'em quiet. My mother used it on me when I was a little 'un." Raft nodded. How unsurprising. "Not what I meant, constable, but thank you. Well, I doubt we will get anything from examining the different brands. Ah, well. It was merely a passing thought." He indicated that Freddie should sit down. "Here we have a woman who turns up in a chemist's shop with a hole drilled in her head." He fetched down a thick medical volume he'd been perusing earlier and turned up the section on trepanning so that Freddie could see the illustrations. The constable made an inarticulate noise and buried his face in his teacup. "This Charters sells henna as well..." Freddie looked up from his tea. "They use it to dye hair, don't they? I asked him if he'd ever heard of a man using it and he quoted something about vanity. I don't rightly remember what it was." "'Vanity of vanities, all is vanity.' Henna. That's what I said, isn't it?" Raft was impressed with the constable's industry as well as his apparent progress, but kept it to himself. It wouldn't do to have Freddie get too overconfident, not just yet. "That is just what I said. Just what I did say. I say, I did say that, didn't I say that?" The red particles in the 44
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palms of the girl's hands were most likely henna, transferred when she grabbed at her attacker or... ...embraced him. He did it, the drinking man... "Constable, if someone offered you a drink, you'd be grateful?" Freddie blinked at him. The dim lighting in Raft's office struck golden sparks in the young man's eyes, and something deep inside of Raft shifted and groaned. God, Freddie was beautiful. It should have been a crime to be that beautiful. "I suppose so, sir. Depends on what it is. I had absinthe once, when I was on holiday in France. Bloody awful stuff, that is." Raft ignored him. "Laudanum produces a euphoria." Freddie regarded him oddly, and Raft hastened to add, "So I've heard. Perhaps she was grateful." A street prostitute, a Whitechapel bangtail, would have appreciated anything that took away the harsher facts of a sordid existence. It wasn't beyond possibility that she might have thanked him...given the dosage, she might have been very thankful indeed, and far too appreciative of her sudden good fortune to notice or to know that her benefactor had given her too much. "She was hugging him?" Freddie laid down his cup and stood up. "And that's how she got the henna on her hands." He thought for a second; Raft could see that the effort cost him considerably. "Hold on. This chemist chap said you're supposed to rinse it off. He even showed me some. It's green. It only turns red after it's been on the hair awhile, so I don't see how...unless...well..." He sighed. "Sorry, sir. 'Fraid I've lost the thread." 45
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Raft got up and closed his office door. "Come here, Constable." He waited till Freddie approached him, then reached out and wrapped his arms round the younger man's neck. "You've just administered a powerful opiate, the effects of which I am even now feeling." The skin of Freddie's face was pale and very fine, completely without blemish, save for the subtle staining of blood over his cheekbones. His straight nose angled down to a beautifully sculpted mouth—generous without being over wide, the full lower lip complemented by the perfect cupid's bow of the upper. He smelled of damp wool and London air and something fresh and green, like mint or trees. He was scrupulously clean. "Right." Freddie's throat rippled as he swallowed. "You're feeling quite happy and perhaps a little sleepy." His hands crept forward, inching toward Raft's waist and just in time he stopped himself, drew back. "Might I not feel compelled to caress you, just a little?" Raft's long fingers wound their way into Freddie's carefully coiffed hair—clutching, tugging, smoothing the curly strands. Against all his better judgement he swayed forward and their bodies touched and he was in Freddie's arms and they were close enough to kiss— A sudden rap on the door and Raft sprang away from Crook as if he'd been electrified. He dashed round his desk and sat down, made a show of arranging his papers and checking his empty teacup. A red-headed constable peered round the door with a slip of paper in his hand. "Sorry to bother you, Inspector, but Sir Newton says you're to go and 46
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take charge of it. A costermonger found him by the waterspout, sitting up against the wall." "Mitre Square?" The hair on the back of Raft's neck rose. "Is he copying the Ripper?" The constable shook his head. "Don't know, sir. Sorry, sir." Before Raft could question him further he was gone. Raft gazed at Freddie Crook for a long moment. "He's done another one." Freddie reached for his coat and pulled it on. "I'll go with you, shall I?" Raft hailed a cab just off the Embankment and directed the driver to take them to Duke Street. "Not going in the front door, sir?" Freddie lit a cigarette and offered Raft one from a fine silver case inscribed with his initials. "Very nice, Constable. Gift from a lady?" Freddie struck a lucifer and held it to Raft's cigarette before lighting his own. "In a way. My mother gave it to me on my last birthday—right before she passed." "I'm sorry." Freddie's face closed up. "Don't be." His misery was an almost physical presence in the small cab, a sensation like a cold hand placed without warning on the skin. "She is hardly missed." Raft let it go by without comment. "Are you a native Londoner, Constable?" "Bermondsey, sir. Chap I was at school with used to joke I'd come out of a biscuits tin." Raft smiled. "I think I've seen that one. 'The Glories of the Empire'—got soldiers on it." 47
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Freddie Crook laughed, a pleasant sound. "Yes, sir, that's the one." He drew on his cigarette and exhaled smoke in a long plume. "What about you, sir, if you'll pardon my asking? Are you from London?" "Oh yes," Raft replied, "Good old Pimlico. My father used to joke that if you screwed up your eyes and spit you'd hit the Thames." Freddie laughed. "Now about this Henry Charters." He drew on his cigarette. "You said that Henry Charters holds the lease on Cleveland Street?" "Yes." Raft deliberately ignored Freddie's sidelong look. "Obviously he's used it as an investment, making an income from the rents and whatnot." "That's precisely what I was thinking, sir." Freddie shifted his body a little in the narrow cab, turned so he could see Raft's face. "Rent." "As in renters? Male prostitutes?" Raft considered it. "Like messenger boys, you mean? Charters, a procurer...well, it's not unknown. These lads are being recruited from somewhere. Do you think Charters...? I'd hardly think he's the sort. Seems like too much work for someone like him." "True, but don't you think that if he holds the lease, he's only lining his own pockets if he can find a way to fill the tenancy? He's already got the building, and now he would need to fill it. Remember the Cleveland Street mess? That little chap who turned up with all the money in his pockets? What was his name?"
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"Swinscow—Tom Swinscow. He had 18 shillings in his pocket, which he said he'd got from going to bed with gentlemen." Freddie looked philosophical. "Well, it's a good way to supplement one's income, I suppose. If you don't mind...doing that." Raft gazed at him for several interminable moments. "Constable, you are aware of Labouchere's amendment. As a police officer you know that the crime of buggery carries a stiff penalty." "Oh yes, sir." The constable struggled to master himself. "Extremely stiff, sir." "That's not funny." "Sorry, sir." Freddie sighed. "Look, Inspector, I'm not about to run off and start a new career peddling my arse." Raft drew hard on his cigarette. "No. Because it is illegal." "Precisely, sir." "And we are charged to uphold the law, not violate it." Raft tossed the cigarette out of the cab. "Good idea, going up Duke Street instead of straight in at Mitre Square." Crook's voice sounded strained. "I daresay there's a fair crowd of gawkers there by now." "Yes, well...someone sitting out in a public place with a hole drilled into his skull is hardly common fare." The cab ground to a halt and Raft leapt out, Crook right behind him. They made their way via the narrow passageway that connected Duke Street to Mitre Square. Raft had no trouble finding the corpse; he'd only to follow the crowd of interested 49
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Londoners who were busily crowding round and being regularly pushed back by a phalanx of constables. "Best prepare yourself, Inspector." An older constable by the name of Brumley escorted Raft to the scene. "It's fairly nasty." "I imagine so." Raft shouldered aside a beefy man with an enormous stomach. "They rarely are pretty to look at." A small boy, perhaps six or maybe seven years old, sat propped up against the wall of Messrs. Kearley and Tonge. He was dressed in the ragtag assortment of clothes particular to the London poor, and his hands were clasped over his abdomen. His auburn hair was cut short and his eyes had been removed. "Jesus Christ —" Freddie turned aside and retched behind him, and Raft saw the white flutter of his handkerchief. "Steady, constable." Raft reached out a hand and pulled Freddie down beside him. "Your average Londoner does get nervous when he sees a policeman having an untoward reaction." Freddie wiped his mouth with a trembling hand. "Sorry, sir." "It's understandable." Raft squeezed the younger man's arm. "Brace up, now." He examined the area around the boy, but found nothing besides the usual detritus one might expect on a Whitechapel street. The boy's clothing had been left intact, which meant there had most likely been no sexual advances, and his shoelaces were still neatly tied. Raft wondered if the boy's mother or perhaps an older sister had done that for him— 50
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Ooh, you're ever so neat, darling. Just like a little gentleman, isn't he? Take your book now and off you go... A dark little house but scrupulously clean for all that, set between a milliner's shop and a saddler, the remnants of breakfast still on the table, and the brown teapot with a few warm dregs resting at the bottom— Raft blinked away the apparition. "How long has he been here?" The older constable—Brumley—leaned over. "Constable walking by found him around five this afternoon, sir." "On his way home from school. He probably dawdled...perhaps...no, not jacks, only the girls play jacks...he might...Brumley, bring that bull's-eye near, would you?" He turned the boy's palms up and examined them in the dim light. There were traces of some dark material, probably pencil lead, and the usual boyhood grime. "No henna. Doesn't mean anything, necessarily...Freddie, could you —" "Sir?" Raft gingerly felt the boy's skull, probing the area at the crown of the head. "Small children's skulls don't entirely close, not till much later...a child's skull would be flexible...easier to get through, certainly." He found it at the back of the head, just above the neck—a small hole approximately one inch in diameter, drilled straight through to the brain. The hair around the wound had been chopped off—just like the girl in the apothecary's shop. "There." He grabbed Freddie's wrist and hauled him closer. "Do you see it?" 51
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Freddie swallowed several times before he was able to speak. "Yes, sir. It's the same sort of thing the girl had, in the chemist's shop." "What sort of business do they carry on, this Kearley and Tonge?" "Tea, sir." "Just tea?" Freddie thought for a moment. "Far as I know, sir." "Tea, tea, a nice hot cup of tea, alright. Alright then." Raft searched the boy's person thoroughly, checking through the pockets and examining even the soles of the child's boots. He returned again and again to the bloody eye sockets, but was thwarted in his examination by the lack of available light. Finally, Raft straightened up and wiped his hands with his handkerchief. "All right, constable—put him into the ambulance." "Nothing, sir?" Freddie Crook followed Raft down to Duke Street and waited while Raft hailed a cab. "Plenty, constable." A hansom pulled by a large grey hack drew up beside them. Raft gave directions to the driver then he and Freddie climbed inside. "The removal of the eyes is new. He didn't do that with the girl. " Drink to me only with thine eyes. "Perhaps he didn't have time, sir." Freddie again proffered the cigarette case, and Raft accepted both a cigarette and a light. "It doesn't add up. The girl was done in the apothecary's shop—or at least left there—seemingly after it was closed, so the murderer had privacy, he had opportunity, and he had 52
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time to do as he liked with her. He could have taken out her eyes or anything else if he wanted to. The boy? Probably on his way home from school. Late, mind you, but he probably dawdled. Boys usually do." Freddie grinned. "Did you, sir? When you were a lad?" "I went to public school." Raft was gazing straight ahead, at something only he could see. "Boarding school. I rarely got home...sometimes at Christmas." He turned to look at Freddie. "'Drink to me only with thine eyes'." "Right." "That poem, remember? It came in a letter." Freddie remembered. "So it has to do with this lad?" Raft shrugged. He was suddenly very tired. "It might. Then again, it might not. It could just be some lunatic looking to get a rise out of me." He smiled at Freddie. "Now we wait for medical intervention. I can't proceed much further with this until the surgeon's had his go." Drink to me only with thine eyes, and I will pledge with mine. The sudden flare of a match illuminated Raft's small suite of rooms. Raft drew hard on his cigarette and pushed open the window, admitting a flood of chilly November air into the room. There was benefit in living alone, for there was no one near to comment on his strange nocturnal habits. The fact that he talked in his sleep, for instance, or the way he sometimes started up and spoke to the darkness that lay about the corners of the room. Not now. Not now, I'm trying to sleep. Go away. You must. His current lodgings were infinitely preferable to small rooms crowded with other 53
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people, but the house itself had once been a notorious baby farm, a horrible place where unwanted children died of neglect, or were killed with an overdose of laudanum, or smothered in the night. Their anguished deaths had seeped into the room's surfaces, laying over everything like a coat of invisible paint. Freddie Crook had asked what sort of man he was, but what could Raft possibly say? I am driven by devils, tormented. You have no idea. There is nowhere I can go; no way I can possibly escape. Once, early in his career, a keeneyed supervisor had recommended him to a sympathetic parish priest, but Raft had merely laughed it off. There was nothing the matter with him. He'd been a little overwrought, hadn't slept the night before. The facile excuses came easily to his lips after a lifetime of practise. He'd been reluctant to talk about his school days for the same reason—that, and Douglas Manby-Smith. Dear, impossible Dougie. They'd lost touch after Douglas had gone off to university, but Raft thought about him often and wondered where Dougie was now. He had been the one and only solace Raft had during his school days, and he often fancied that some kindly Providence had placed them in a room together that first day at Mayberley. He'd wept at their commencement, because Dougie was destined for a career in medicine while Raft would return home to take up his father's mantle, and become a uniformed bluebottle. If ever life's circumstances brought them together again, they could hardly be expected to move in the same circles. You'll be a doctor. Never mind old Philly then, eh? 54
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Don't be an arse. Douglas' fingers traced the outline of Raft's mouth. I'll always love you. You know that. Dear Philemon Raft. Perhaps we can get together at the Christmas holiday, and you can tell me all about being a copper and I'll tell you about medicine. Last he'd heard, Manby-Smith had become a prominent specialist in the field of mental diseases, some sort of alienist or something like that. It was all the rage nowadays, having one's innermost thoughts and feelings dissected. Raft rubbed his hand over his tired face and took another drag of his cigarette. What about Frederic Crook? What was he doing tonight? Had he anyone to go home to? His reaction to Raft's questions about the cigarette case had been instructive. Clearly there had been no love lost between young Crook and his mother. Freddie had made no mention of his father, so he'd probably been dead awhile or maybe Crook had never known him. What sorts of things did Crook do when he wasn't on duty? Had he heeded Raft's warning about the penalties for buggery? Raft would hate to have to arrest him but he would do, if it came to that. He sighed, tossed the cigarette out the window and went back to bed. For some time he lay wide-eyed in the darkness, staring up at the ceiling, listening to the myriad of small noises filtering in from the street, then there was a drifting sensation, and he slid effortlessly into sleep. "Inspector Raft." The voice penetrated straight into his dreams and, as policemen will, Raft sat bolt upright in the bed. The room was still dark but there was light enough to make out the figure of 55
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a man, sitting by his bed. "Go away. I'm sleeping. I can't help you now." These damned phantoms had wills of their own and it wasn't fair of them to torment a man when he was sleeping. "Inspector Raft, I think you might want to listen to what I have to say." It was a young man's voice, firm and authoritative, but with something voluptuous in it. "Oh?" Raft reached under the pillow for his revolver. "You won't need that. I've no intention of hurting you." "You just like scaring people in their beds for no particular reason." Raft struck a vesta. The candle cast wavering shadows on the walls and floor, and on the visage of an elegant young man with a pale face and curly auburn hair. He was dressed very much a la mode and his clothes were of good quality. Only a hint of salaciousness gave him away for what he was. "Your surmises are correct, Inspector—for I see on your face that you have puzzled me out." He extended a manicured hand. "My name is Geoffrey Breedlove. I am what you would call a renter, but I prefer to think of myself as a gentlemen's escort." "I am not in the market for your services," Raft said severely. Nevertheless he reached to shake the man's hand. "You realise such conduct is illegal." Breedlove laughed. "Hardly that, Inspector. I come with information." "Information?" Raft held the candle closer to Breedlove's face. "What sort of information?" 56
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"Something which might be useful to you in your current investigation...something entrusted to me by several of my fellows. You will have heard, of course, of the recent suicide of Lord Godalming." Seeing Raft's assent, he continued. "What you may not know is the reason why such a man would choose to top himself." Raft lit a cigar and offered one to Breedlove, who declined. "I am listening, Mr. Breedlove." "Lord Godalming and several others like him were discovered at a homosexual brothel in Cleveland Street last July, by Inspector Frederic Abberline." "Common knowledge." Raft yawned. "Now, if this is all you've to tell me—" "Under normal circumstances this would be reason enough to arrest the man, but Lord Godalming was able to buy his way out of a criminal prosecution." "Are you saying that Abberline was bribed?" Raft sat back against the wall and drew the blankets around his waist; the room was cold. "No. I am saying that Lord Godalming had the means and the motive to obtain the very best legal help available. Thus was he able to evade the worst." "He didn't manage to evade the scandal." Raft took his cigar out of his mouth and examined the glowing tip. "Godalming, Baverstock and others have had to retire from public life as a result of the scandal—not to mention Prince Albert Victor." Good old 'Collar-and-Cuffs'. The man never met a vice he didn't like. 57
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"True. Nor did he learn from his mistakes, as a clever man ought to do." This last struck a chord. Raft leant forward. "What do you mean?" "There are other brothels, Inspector Raft. Dozens upon dozens of them. You will have noticed that London has no shortage of able, handsome young men willing to earn their keep by peddling their own flesh. Lately, however, the upper classes are demanding something extra. Their tastes are no longer sated by the ordinary things. A warm fuck no longer measures up." "Mr. Breedlove, I wonder if you would consent to come to my office at Scotland Yard and make a formal—" "I am speaking to you now, Inspector. That will have to suffice. I have taken an enormous risk even coming here." "I see." "Let me lay it out plain for you, Inspector, there are certain members of the aristocracy who will pay handsomely to fuck a boy, abuse him, and...kill him." Breedlove's mouth twisted. "Some of them are London boys; others are brought up to London from the country. It's quite simple to do, if you've the money and the means. For a long time this foul business has been conducted quietly and no one was the wiser." He shrugged. "Who cares if a dead renter washes up near Shoreditch with the tide? Who cares if his severed head turns up in a house maid's sewing basket?" Raft was suddenly colder than he had ever been in his life. "You knew him." Of course, the head turning up in Daisy's sewing basket was a message, just like the gift of an ornate 58
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snuffbox had been a message. Which meant someone was on to Baverstock and Godalming. "Rodney Bertram. We were...not friends, exactly." Breedlove leant forward, elbows on his knees, his face inches from Raft's own. "No one should ever die like that." He stopped talking and dropped his head. "Forgive me." "You realise I would require evidence." I believe you. "I cannot simply launch an investigation into the covert sexual practices of the upper classes on the word of a...man like you." "I can take you there." Raft's skin crawled. "Take me where?" "I said sometimes a dead renter washes up with the tide. That's not entirely true." Breedlove glanced round him as if expecting someone to come in the door. "Could you not trust me, even a little? I swear to you, Inspector, I am telling the truth about this." "I shall want further evidence." "And you shall have it, only not now." Breedlove stood up, patting down his pockets as if looking for something. "Here." Raft brought the candle close. Breedlove was holding a gold cabochon ring set with a garnet, the sides embossed with wreaths of fruit and flowers. "Beautiful. Are we to be married?" The renter made a face. "Take this. Present this ring to any renter anywhere in the East End and he shall tell you where to find me." He grasped Raft's wrist. "Please. Believe what I am telling you." "If what you say is true—" 59
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"If what I say is true, Inspector, you shall soon understand the whole of the matter." He stood up. "They say you find your criminals by unconventional means. It's even said you have powers that other men do not." Breedlove smiled. "Goodbye, Inspector. I'll lock the door on my way out, shall I?" He fitted his hat onto his head, and slipped away into the darkness. Raft lay back on his pillows and felt for his revolver. Yes, he very much wished he knew where Freddie Crook was. Just then Frederic Crook was sitting in a little hidden-away pub, safe behind no fewer than three sets of locked doors, each one leading through a labyrinthine passageway to the cosiness of the Iron Duke. The Iron Duke had been founded one hundred and fifty years before by three brothers, each of whom had taken to himself a recalcitrant wife. In order to escape their respective domestic situations they'd set up a small drinking establishment in the bowels of an East End stationer's. The beauty of the Iron Duke was that absolutely no one knew where it was unless they had first been introduced and vetted by the other members of the establishment. Upon acceptance into the brotherhood, a new man was presented with a set of three small, iron keys to open each of the three doors leading down into the club from street level. This level of secrecy was necessary because, despite the original reason for the club's existence, it now catered exclusively to men like Freddie Crook. "Freddie, all alone tonight?" Thomas Cheek, parliamentary clerk to Lord Havisham, tapped him on the shoulder as he went past. Cheek was with an elegant, middle-aged man who 60
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looked a lot like disgraced solicitor Jeremy Hoare, but Crook had never seen Hoare in the club before. It was rumoured that Hoare fancied himself something of an amateur detective, so whatever he was doing in the Iron Duke, he was probably not socialising. Perhaps he was bending Cheek's ear on matters of state; with Hoare one simply never knew. One of Freddie's colleagues at the Yard—a talkative man with the unlikely surname of Butter—swore up and down that Hoare was a famous detective, that he'd solved thousands of crimes that the Yard couldn't solve, that he was particularly beloved of the Queen herself. More likely Hoare was a nosey bugger with a talent for pushing in where he was not wanted. Hoare turned and gave Freddie a wink and a somewhat salacious smile before disappearing into a private room with Thomas Cheek. That was another thing about the Duke that Freddie liked. The proprietor was a man like Freddie, like Hoare and like Thomas Cheek, and he kept particular spaces in the back of the club where men could go if they wished to be more intimate with the chosen companion of an evening. No one of Freddie's persuasion was safe in London these days, not since Labouchere's amendment to the act of parliament. Where the Act had once covered sex crimes against young women, Labouchere's bill added severe penalties for male persons convicted of 'gross indecency'— which meant that no man could engage in intimate behaviour with another man under penalty of two years' hard labour. Perhaps, Freddie reflected, it was England's way of suppressing the desires of the flesh. 61
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His cigarette left a foul taste in his mouth. He shuddered and stubbed it out. Even the Iron Duke wasn't entirely safe. Twice in its long history it had been raided by the police, after which the system of iron keys came into being. The iron keys were the only thing that saved the Duke from the fate of the brothel in Cleveland Street, and the accompanying scandal. Freddie was grateful not only for the three doors leading to three dark passageways but also the Duke's location, on a narrow little street in an unremarkable corner of the East End. Freddie had never seen Philemon Raft here, nor had he seen any of the others from H Division, which left him wondering— about Raft, and his seemingly ironclad restraint. Freddie's instincts were good. He could have sworn there was something happening, something darkly erotic, the day that Raft had pantomimed the murder in the apothecary's shop. You've just administered a powerful opiate, the effects of which I am even now feeling. Might I not feel compelled to caress you? Was Raft sleeping right now? Or did he rise like Freddie did, to seek company among others of his kind? Probably not. It was unlikely Raft would take the risk, and he seemed to Freddie like the most careful of men. Would it be utterly criminal to go to Raft's lodgings, to find him there, to wake him? He knew he shouldn't torture himself with fantasies about something he could never have, but the temptation was difficult to resist. He wondered what it would be like to kiss Raft—to take the inspector's pale, lean face into his hands and capture that sculpted mouth, to kiss him long and slow and deep. He wanted to strip the inspector's clothes off and 62
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lave the warm skin of his chest with his tongue...he wanted to make Raft come off hard, and he wanted to hear the noises Raft made while he was doing it. And he wanted to lie next to Raft after it was over, sweaty and sleepy and sated. In his rooms, Raft fell into a fitful sleep and dreamed that he and Freddie Crook were on a train heading north to Scotland. They were alone in a first-class compartment and a heavy rain fell outside the windows of the train, drowning the passing landscape. It was late afternoon, perhaps four or five, and nearing dark. Freddie Crook was talking about picking plums in his grandmother's garden, naming the types of plums aloud as his deft hands slipped between the layers of Raft's clothing, and his long fingers found the Inspector's cock. Freddie bent low over him and licked away the tiny drops of moisture that had collected around the head, then swallowed him deep, sucking vigorously. Raft's body jerked and a jagged thrill ran through him, left him trembling and wakeful. "No, no, not yet," he murmured, and turned over, sinking almost immediately back into sleep. Somewhere beyond his rooms, the Bow Bells chimed the hours, and the London underworld moved slowly through its own dark paces, but nothing penetrated Raft's cocoon of sleep. He was in his office now at Scotland Yard, and there was some great tumult in the building that caused all the other officers to go running up and down the stairs. But Raft, naked as a babe, pushed Freddie Crook back against the wall and kissed him, feeling the slow burn of Freddie's tongue in his mouth and the hot press of Crook's lean body against his own, skin to skin. His cock was still hard, and he felt Crook's 63
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hands on him, stroking him, sliding in his body's own wetness as Raft climaxed in short, sharp bursts. He awoke in the early light of dawn, trembling, the smell of himself on his hands and in the room. The sheets were wet with his emissions, and his body ached as though he'd run a long distance. "Sir." Raft blinked, desperate to clear his vision. He'd thrown the blankets off and he hastened to cover himself. What was Freddie Crook doing in his bedroom? Where had he come from? The young constable looked tired, as if he'd been awakened too early and without sufficient rest. "Sorry to disturb you so early, sir. Old Bumcock got me up at four and sent me over here to rouse you. We've had another one. It's bad this time." Raft knew it was as the constable had said. Judging by the expression on Freddie's face, it had to be very, very bad indeed. He wondered what could be worse than a trepanned school boy with his eyes torn out. Raft set his bare feet upon the floor, and scratched his head vigorously. "How did you get in?" We were on a train, he thought, and then we were in my office. He fervently hoped Freddie couldn't read his mind. "Old lady downstairs let me in. She said you were probably still sleeping. I really am sorry to have to disturb you, sir." Raft waved it off. "Can't be helped." "Best get ready then, sir." Freddie moved about Raft's sparse lodgings, rummaging in the wardrobe and the dresser drawers, collecting articles of clothing with an almost 64
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frightening single-mindedness. He withdrew Raft's shoes from underneath the bed, dusted them with his sleeve and laid them out, then selected a clean collar and necktie from inside the wardrobe. Raft watched this performance with a feeling of immense irritation. "Constable, I don't recall engaging you as my personal valet." He was still somewhat aroused and seeing Freddie here wasn't helping to erase the dream's imagery from his mind. "Sorry, sir. Old Bumcock said it was urgent." "Er...go wait outside while I dress, would you?" For God's sake... His dressing gown was within reach on the end of the bed, and Raft caught it to him, belted it securely 'round his lean middle. "If you want to make yourself useful, go ask Mrs. Featherstonehaugh for some breakfast. Have you eaten?" Raft wasn't interested in food—already his mind was racing ahead to this latest crime—but prudence dictated at least a piece of toast and some tea. "I've had some tea. That was all there was time for, really." Freddie reached for the door knob. "She won't mind me bothering her?" "I don't give a toss." Raft narrowed his eyes. "Bad enough I put up with her horrible bloody cooking and her constant sniping about the state of my rooms." Freddie had just opened the door when Raft added, "Tell that old hag I want at least a strong pot of tea, and a rack of toast." Raft exited the cab as quickly as he'd got in, and made directly for a cloth-covered bundle huddled in the doorway of a modest house in Buck's Row, Freddie Crook at his heels. 65
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Two stout constables were standing guard over the body but there was already quite a throng of gawkers, despite the early hour. "What time's it, Crook?" Freddie fished out his watch. "Just gone seven, sir." "Mm." Raft crouched beside the bundle and peeled back the sheet. The victim was an elderly woman, her hair and eyebrows dyed the same bright red. She was dressed in a satin dress of a particularly lurid purple, and wore new boots upon her feet. There was a hole bored neatly through the middle of her forehead, and her nose had been cut off. "Bastard." "It's him again, isn't it?" Freddie Crook crouched beside Raft, his lips compressed to a thin line. "What the devil is he on about? What sort of—" he glanced round at the onlookers and lowered his voice "—what sort of lunatic goes about drilling holes into people's heads?" "Careful, Constable." Raft drew back each of the eyelids in turn. "We don't know that he's a lunatic." Freddie stood up. "Don't see how he could be anything else, sir." "How long?" It took seven or eight hours for the pupils to relax after death. This was one of those random facts that someone had told him a long time ago and which Raft's mind had the habit of retaining. "Few hours...had to be...no longer than that." Raft lifted each of the palms and rubbed the skin with his thumb, but, unlike the first two victims, there was no residue. "No residue and no embrace, although the pupils are constricted." "What's that mean?" 66
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"Any of the opiates will constrict the pupils, constable— laudanum, morphine. She's definitely been drugged." He reached behind the body and, catching it around the waist, levered it up and forward. The resultant but not unexpected— to Raft at least—gush of excrement and bodily fluids set the nearest constables reeling backward, and the younger of the two was suddenly and noisily sick. Freddie Crook fumbled for his handkerchief and pressed the scented square against his mouth and nose. "Two street Arabs found her this morning, sir, round about two thirty." It dovetailed with Raft's own estimation, but only just. He was suddenly glad Old Bumcock had knocked Freddie up early. Raft glanced round at the crowd of onlookers. "Does anyone here know this woman?" The crowd mumbled and shifted its feet. "Anyone?" There was something set against the wall where the body had been. Raft picked it up and examined it. A trephine. He wrapped it carefully in his handkerchief and stowed it into his coat. "That the weapon of choice, sir?" Freddie's sharp eyes had seen the instrument. "Possibly, constable." Raft laid the old woman back against the wall and probed the hole gently with a gloved hand. "Little or no bleeding, just like the others. This was done after she was dead. If I'm right, he's been using laudanum to ease them down before he—" His stomach threatened to return its contents, but only for a moment. "—cuts into them." The injury yielded a little dried blood and a waxy yellow substance that slid easily between the fingers. "That's unusual." 67
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Freddie leant close, handkerchief still pressed firmly against his face. "Looks like wax, sir. That's a bit odd, isn't it?" "Mm. Couldn't be candle wax...might have lit a candle...if it was that early he'd be working in the dark." Raft flicked the sheet over the old woman's face and wandered a little ways away. Three women, still wearing nightgowns and with shawls over their shoulders, hissed at him as he passed. "Poor old Mary!" one of them said. "What'd she ever do to anybody, eh?" "Mary?" Raft's ears pricked up. "Mary who?" "Mary Ratty—that's who that is." She looked Raft up and down. "What are you doing about this, Inspector? Bloody ridiculous, it is. This is a nice, quiet neighbourhood. Poor old Mary." She made as if to follow, but Freddie Crook got between her and Raft. In close quarters, Freddie's six-foot-tall frame was rather imposing. Raft had asked around and learnt that before his promotion to H Division, he'd walked a beat in the notorious Seven Dials section of London, with a reputation as a very tough cop who brooked no insolence or interference. "Go back to your homes." Freddie clenched one fist and smacked it into the palm of his other hand. "Or I'll have the lot of you arrested." "You can piss off and all." A skinny, horse-faced woman wearing men's shoes on her narrow feet lunged at Freddie. He caught her arm and twisted it behind her, then shoved her headlong into the nearest uniformed constable. 68
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Freddie straightened his clothes and fell into step beside Raft. "Sorry about that, sir. Won't happen again." By the time they returned to Scotland Yard, the rest of H Division had already reported for work, the corridors and stairwells practically humming with the news of the newest killing. Jamieson, a young Scotsman from Aberdeen, collared Freddie Crook in the lavatory and quizzed him about the scene and its details but Freddie told him nothing. "Sorry, Jamie, my lips are sealed." "I heard he drilled out both her eyes." Jamieson had a taste for the gory and the unconventional and his wide grin said he was clearly enjoying his own version of the tale. "And swallowed 'em." Freddie dried his hands and checked his tie in the mirror. "Oh, for God's sake." "Is it true?" Jamieson followed him up the stairs and down the corridor. "Some of the lads are saying we've got a cannibal killer about." Freddie paused at the open door of Raft's office. Raft was standing by the filing cabinet, frowning over something—a slip of paper or an envelope, perhaps—in his hand. "Don't be an idiot," Freddie shut the door in Jamieson's face. "Something new there, sir?" Raft looked up briefly. "Oh, Crook, right. Yes, I've got a very odd bit of correspondence here." He handed it across to Freddie and went back to rifling through the files. Freddie's initial impressions were correct. It was an envelope and it contained a single photograph of two young men in public school blazers and flannels, gazing into the camera with their 69
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arms round each other's shoulders. The eyes of each had been cut out. "Christ, that's a bit grim, isn't it?" Freddie turned the photograph over; the same bit of verse was written on the back. Drink to me only with thine eyes. "Any idea who it's from?" Raft closed the filing drawer and sat down behind his desk. "No. It's a...photograph of me and a friend when we were at school." Freddie examined it again. There was nothing particularly unusual about the photograph in its original state, but the damage inflicted upon the eyes of the two young men appeared to have been very carefully done. "Looks like it's been cut out with something very sharp, sir. He'll not have done that with m'lady's embroidery scissors." Freddie held the image up to the light. "The cuts are quite precise, almost what you'd call surgical, really. The handwriting's a dreadful mess. Looks to have been done with an ordinary lead pencil, not very sharp—horrible scrawl or else he's writing with the wrong hand." Raft smiled. "You know, Constable, for a walking biscuits tin from Bermondsey, you don't do so badly." Freddie returned the smile, even as his cheeks were padded with hot colour. "Thank you, sir. What are we to make of it? Is he threatening you?" Raft shrugged. "Might be." "Sir, if you're in any personal danger—" "Can't be helped." Raft patted Freddie on the shoulder. "If someone wanted to do me harm, Constable, he'd go to the 70
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trouble of showing up. Either that or he'd waylay me at my home or on my way here. No, the ones who send dodgy messages—" "Often end up doing the deed themselves." Freddie took a deep breath, if only to quell the nervous roiling in his gut. "Shall I make the tea?" "I think we've earned it," Raft declared, "after what we've been through." He called Freddie back just as the constable reached the door. "Oh, Crook...?" "Sir?" "Got any theories on our killer?" Freddie hesitated. He wanted Raft to like him, and more than that, he wanted Raft to feel that he could count on him in a pinch. He'd worked with other inspectors before Raft, men who'd come up the hard way themselves and who regarded constables as little more than uniformed dogsbodies. He'd learnt to keep his mouth shut when it came to his opinions and, unless specifically asked, he tended to keep his theories to himself. "Well, sir, I don't—" "Go on." Raft's tone was infinitely gentle. "I really do want to hear what you think." Freddie wet his lips nervously and took a breath. "Right, sir. Well, I don't think he's just your average killer. I mean, he's not hacking people to pieces or bashing their brains out. He takes his time and does what he wants to do. I daresay it takes a bit of effort to drill a hole in someone's head." Raft nodded. He was clearly impressed. "Good thinking, Constable." "Thank you, sir. Get the tea, shall I?" 71
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"Please do," Raft said, "I'm dying for a cup." He picked up the photograph and examined it. He'd forgotten its existence, but not the day that he and Douglas Manby-Smith had posed for it. I shall never see you again after today. You'll be gone off to make your name in the annals of medicine. Oh shut up, Philly. People never really lose track of one another, not really. A sunny day, hot for June, and Raft had sweated in his flannel trousers, gazing into the camera's dark lens. The entire procedure had an air of unreality about it. The sun was too bright, the sky too blue, the school lawns too impossibly green. It wasn't the sort of memory he wanted to take away with him. It was far better to remember the night before, when they'd lain awake, loving each other with lips and tongues, their strong young bodies writhing and shuddering as they came together again and again. I love it when we do it...when we're like this together... Dougie's auburn curls were plastered against his sweating forehead, and their bodies were sore by the time the sun rose, but they were young and time was nothing to them, an ephemeral thing. Who had taken the photograph? Raft couldn't rightly remember. One of the teachers, perhaps. It didn't matter. Manby-Smith had left on the next train, and that was that. That was that. There was nothing on the envelope to indicate its origins; there was no postmark and no stamp, merely Raft's own name and Scotland Yard below it. It could have come from anywhere, from anyone. 72
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There was a clatter on the stairs and Raft looked up from his contemplations of the photograph, expecting to see Freddie returning with the tea tray. Instead, an older man, out of breath and obviously angry, pushed his way past two sergeants and charged toward Raft's office. "You, sir!" His voice was loud and of the haw-haw variety. The deep tan on his face and hands declared him newly returned from some warmer climate. Raft got up and met him at the door. "Can I help you?" "You, sir!" The man shoved his index finger into Raft's chest. "You, sir." Raft raised an eyebrow. "Quite." "Don't you dare mock me, sir! Don't you dare!" Jenkins, one of the sergeants on the stairs, called up to Raft. "Need some help, Inspector?" Raft declined. "Should you like to come into my office?" Raft stood to one side of the door. "Or shall we shout at one another in the corridor?" "Damn you, sir." He fetched out a handkerchief and swabbed spittle from the corners of his mouth. "Damn you to hell, sir!" He accepted a seat, all the while damning Raft to hell and to other, less salutary places. "You should be ashamed, sir!" "Should I?" "I shall bring a private prosecution against you, sir." The old man shook his handkerchief. "That I shall, and make no mistake about it." Raft offered him a cigarette and lit one for himself. "Suppose you tell me about it." 73
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"Tell you about it? Tell you about it?" The man got up and walked an agitated circuit of Raft's office, waving his arms like a Methodist preacher at a Sunday picnic. "I shouldn't have to tell you anything, sir! I should think you'd know!" Raft narrowed his eyes. "I see." There was a cosy sitting room somewhere, and a deep chair by the fire, and a billiards table dressed in green baize...a wife...no, a daughter...bringing him his slippers and his pipe, a scene of peaceful domesticity and something else...something unwholesome and quite sinister, throbbing beneath the surface like a sickness. "How is your daughter?" The effect was immediate and quite profound. The man flushed violently red beneath his tan and roared like someone in the throes of an apoplectic fit. Raft wondered if he oughtn't ring for a doctor. "Damn you, sir!" "Yes, we've already damned me quite sufficiently for one day, I should think. What's your name, man, and what are you doing here?" "I am Lord Havisham, and I daresay you know well enough why I am here, Inspector Raft!" "No, my Lord. Perhaps your Lordship might do me the honour of telling me why I have been so repeatedly damned?" "My daughter Heloise, sir. Oh yes, I see you start and quail with fear at the mention of her name! Well you should, sir! Well you should!" This is starting, Raft thought, to take on the feeling of a comic opera. He wondered whether the old gent had been drinking. "I'm afraid I've no idea what you mean." 74
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"You shall find out!" Lord Havisham, still quite red and still quite heartily roaring, pulled a duelling pistol out of his coat and pointed it at the centre of Raft's forehead. The gun made a distinct clicking noise as he cocked it. "You shall find out, sir." "Right, that'll do—" Freddie Crook reached around Lord Havisham and neatly extracted the pistol from his grip. With his other hand he twisted Havisham's free hand behind him and shoved him out into the corridor. "Sergeant Jenkins, take this man below and confine him in the cells." "You have sullied my daughter, sir!" Havisham could be heard all the way down the stairs. "And I shall have my satisfaction!" Freddie laid a steaming cup of hot tea down in front of Raft. "What time is it?" Raft asked. He pulled out his watch to check for himself but he'd evidently forgotten to wind it. "I shall want to make note of this in my diary. It's not every day I get a duelling pistol pointed at my face." His sang-froid was manufactured. Raft's hands were shaking uncontrollably and his legs threatened to give way at any moment, spilling him to the floor. "Half nine, sir." Freddie reached into the filing cabinet and extracted the biscuit tin. "You want a choccy one?" "Nothing for me, thanks." Raft sipped his tea and tried to shrug off the image of the pistol's cold black mouth. "What d'you make of old Havisham?" Freddie laughed. "He's not too happy with you, sir, although I doubt he'd have really pulled the trigger." He 75
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reached for a biscuit. "Is it true, what he says? Have you been messing about with his daughter?" Raft gave Freddie a look and left it at that. "Constable, I want you to do something for me. Pay a visit to Charters, the apothecary." Freddie blinked at him. "Begging your pardon, sir, I've already been 'round there." Raft ignored him. "I want you to have a look 'round the shop again—linger for a while, see who comes in and who goes out. He probably won't let you look at his ledgers—not without a warrant, any road—but find out what you can. Don't overlook anything, even if it seems unimportant." He gripped the cup with both hands. "Dammit, man, I need surveillance! I need someone—you—watching him. There is something very wrong." Freddie was already on his feet and shrugging into his coat, his tea forgotten. "Anything in particular you want me to look for, sir?" "Have another look at his medicines—the bottles and boxes—see what sort of condition they're in, which ones are dusty or shop worn. Take particular notice if there are any that seem to be selling well, and have an eye to his equipment." There ought to be more, he thought. I should be telling him more than this, I need to provide direction "Like that thingy you were fiddling about with the other day? The..." Freddie's hands described a shape. "What was that thing?" "The pill machine. And Constable..." "Sir?" 76
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"I'd like you to keep an eye open for two substances in particular. They'll most likely be labelled as such, so it shouldn't trouble you overmuch—tansy and pennyroyal." "Right." Freddie mouthed the names silently. "I'll have a good look 'round and let you know if I find anything at all, sir." "And Crook..." "Sir?" "Pay particular attention to the customers. Make a note of how many there are and what sort of people. I don't think he does much of a business, at least not as an apothecary." "You think there's something more going on there, sir?" "It's just a hunch, Constable, but worth following up, I think." Raft hoisted his teacup and grinned. "Off you go, then." Freddie gave him a knowing look. "I'll remember this," he said, "the next time you're wanting a hot cuppa." He sketched an ironic little bow and was gone. While Freddie took himself off to Charters again, Raft caught the lift down to the basement to visit with Pontius Doyle, a mountain of a young man who ran the police morgue with great efficiency, and not a little oddness. Doyle was a medical student, ostensibly hired as an interim replacement for the Yard's official police surgeon, a Mr. Queeg. Queeg had abruptly left one morning after claiming that the bodies of three merchant seamen had disclosed the location of a sunken pirate treasure. It went without saying that Mr. Queeg was a drunken sot. 77
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"It's not your usual henna." Doyle tossed this off by way of greeting. "Not like you get 'round here, any road." Raft encouraged him to continue. "Pure Indian, this is. I'd say the Punjab. That's not unusual, mind you. Lots of henna comes from there, but this is of a grade not normally available for export." Doyle grunted and, pulling out a scarlet handkerchief, swabbed his face and neck. "It's the sort of thing I'd expect to find on someone who'd spent some time in India—gone native, like. Or he could be importing it for himself—one of these vain types who insists on using the very best he can get." "Hm." Raft sighed. "That takes in about half the upper classes." "India." Doyle squeezed between two tables. "Might have been associated with the Raj, perhaps." "Do you really think so?" Raft gazed at him queerly. "Might he not just as likely be Church of England?" Doyle stared at him, shrugged, and let it go. "The first one's fairly straightforward. I found alcohol in her stomach, and laudanum." He picked up a clear glass beaker containing some dark, reddish substance and swirled it under Raft's nose. "Smell that." Raft did; it smelled like laudanum. "What about the hole in the head?" "Done with a trephine, sir." Doyle turned the dead woman's head toward him and inserted one thick, hairy finger into the hole. "Very nicely done, I might add. That takes skill." "I've got the tool upstairs in my office," Raft said. 78
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"No, he's just gone out." Doyle picked up one of the dead woman's hands without missing a beat. "Saw him leave myself." "Don't let on," Raft admonished him. "I should hate to hurt the poor lad's feelings." "I shall be as silent as the grave," Doyle promised. "Now this henna, here, it's got very, very fine particles." Doyle's own hair was a fiery shade of bright red. Raft wondered if the big man came by it naturally. "They've all got the same kind. I'd a look myself, under the microscope. Here, have a gander." He led Raft over to his workbench, upon which were heaped all manner of things— knives and saws, retractors, forceps, glass bottles and jars—some of which contained body parts floating in ether—and Doyle's most prized possession, the microscope. "Take a look down there." He gestured at the microscope. Raft did as he was told but saw nothing besides the leg of a dead fly and his own dark eyelashes, immensely magnified and, for some reason, festooned with rainbow stripes. "Er, yes, quite...er...quite compelling, Mr. Doyle. I see what you mean." Raft fetched a folded slip of brown paper out of his pocket and handed it to Doyle. "I found this on the third victim. Any idea what it is?" Doyle opened the piece of paper and looked at it about as long as it took Raft to blink. "Bone wax." "Bone wax?" "Yeah. Doctors use it. When you're cutting into live bone, see, you've got to remember that you're going to get bleeding as the marrow comes out. So you put a dab of this bone wax 79
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and it stops the bleeding." Doyle rolled it between his fingers with every evidence of great—albeit unnerving—enjoyment. "Wonderful stuff." "So is there any common thread among the three of them?" Raft asked. He was eager to tear Doyle's attention away from the wax, which he was assiduously rolling into a tiny yellow ball that bore a disconcerting similarity to nasal mucus. "They're all dead, sir, if that's what you mean." "Is it safe to assume they were all killed in the same way? I mean, did the...hole...kill them?" The dead boy was standing in the corner of the morgue, clutching a red, India rubber ball and picking his nose. He gazed at Raft resentfully and bounced his ball on the floor. It was him that did it, the drinking man. You'd better tell them. You'd better do it. "Overdose of laudanum, sir." Doyle laid the ball of wax down on the workbench with real regret. "I checked the stomach contents of all of them. They'd each had enough laudanum on board to fell a horse." "Right. Good. Thank you, Doyle." Raft took the stairs back up to his office. The overdose of laudanum was suggestive. Only a medical man, or someone acutely attuned to human suffering would have bothered to sedate his victims before he drilled into their heads. Of course, some measure of sedation was necessary to his task. Raft had yet to meet anyone who'd sit still and let someone cut a hole in their skull. A person could only put up with so much. There was a woman waiting for him when he got to his desk, not much older than twenty and dressed in black 80
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mourning crepe and a travelling bonnet which appeared to have been rather hastily donned. Her clothes were old, but clean and well-mended. She had the pale, plain face of a seamstress or a school teacher. A strand of her red hair escaped her bonnet to trail against her cheek. "Inspector Raft, the man at the desk said I might find you here. I am Judith Driscoll. Wilbur was my...younger brother." Her illegitimate son, more likely, but Raft said nothing. People had their proclivities; it was none of his business. "My condolences, Miss Driscoll." He offered her a chair, a cup of tea, but she wanted nothing. "I've come to collect my...brother." She pulled a handkerchief out of her sleeve and pressed it to her eyes for a moment. Her restraint was admirable but Raft rather feared she was losing the battle. "I should like to bury him." "I shall see that he's released into your custody as soon as possible." He hated these conversations, but he was so often obliged as a policeman to have them. Everyone reacted differently. Some people fainted, some cursed or screamed or cried. One man, when told of the drowning death of his son, laughed full in Raft's face. "Why can I not take him now?" She hovered at the edge of his desk, twisting the handkerchief between her fingers. Her lips were pale and her nose was pointed and pinched-looking. "I should like to bury him as soon as I can." "I understand, Miss Driscoll, however—" "No, Inspector, I don't believe you do." She drew a deep breath. "Wilbur must be buried before nightfall." It was the 81
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drinking man. "This is the one point on which I am afraid I cannot compromise." "Miss Driscoll, I am bound by the law and bound by the demands of my investigation. You know that your brother did not die a natural death. I owe it to him and to you to find whoever killed him and bring them to justice. If you leave your name and your home address with the desk man downstairs, I shall have someone contact you when the body is available for release." She gazed at him for several long moments without speaking then turned on her heel and went. Raft could hear her clattering down over the stairs, clearly upset, but it couldn't be helped. "Pennyroyal pills, sir." Freddie Crook's tall frame loomed in the doorway; he seemed to have materialised out of nowhere. "He'd boxes and boxes of them, all sorts, all different brands, as far as I could tell." He tossed a tin box down onto Raft's desk. Lady Widgeon's Female Pills. "Two women came in while I was there, had a quiet word with Charters, and left again." "Did they know you were a police officer?" Freddie took off his hat and dropped it onto Raft's desk. "I don't know, sir. However, if you're looking for renovating pills, Mr. Charters has got lots of them." "And the rest of the shop?" "Dusty. Doesn't seem to do much trade with anything else. No related paraphernalia that I could make out—no womb veils or French letters or...anal dilators." "Anal dilators." 82
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"Yes, sir. For—" "I know what they're for, constable." Raft sighed. "Right. I think we'd best leave Mr. Charters alone for the time being." "Good idea, sir. He were getting a bit shirty. Said he'd throw me out if I didn't buy something." "Did you?" "'Fraid I had to, sir." Freddie tossed a small packet onto Raft's desk. "There you are, sir. French letters." "French letters?" "Well, sir, after all that business with Lord Havisham's daughter..." Raft damned him to hell and back. Freddie was still chuckling when he went to hang up his coat. **** [Back to Table of Contents]
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Three It was difficult, finding suitable people. Like as not, there was some weakness present, some minuscule thing that rendered a subject entirely unfit for the procedure. There was nothing to be done about it, except find another one and luckily, London being what it was, there were plenty of them about. The weather made it difficult of course, especially now that the nights were beginning to close in and the winter cold was coming on. It tended to drive a great many of them indoors, or toward such shelter as they could find—the back room of a particularly sympathetic church, cheap lodgings in a doss house. For him it meant much later nights, and a great deal more time spent procuring suitable volunteers for his work—not an easy thing for a man in his position. It was something over which he and Sir Simon had argued long and hard. I don't see what harm it will do. They're lunatics, unfortunates, the dregs of society. What sort of future should they ever hope to have outside of an asylum? If my theories are correct, think how their sacrifices will have aided me! He'd begged and pleaded, had presented numerous reasons why, but Sir Simon wouldn't hear of it. If there is, God forbid, an unfortunate failure, I can ensure a clean disposal. He knew of men who did that sort of thing, experienced men who would be only too glad to haul away a corpse. No one will come looking. Still, it wasn't quite as tidy as it could have been, within the walls of some sympathetic lunatic asylum. He'd only had 84
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the opportunity to try it once, on a lunatic named Thomas Charles Rennie—an unfortunate and delusional man who spent the larger portion of his days creeping around on all fours, eating insects from the floor. He'd mistaken the amount of laudanum required, and it took far more than he'd anticipated to ease the bugger down, and even then he'd had scarce enough time to make even one hole into the skull, but it was perfect, a work of art, the trephine sinking without effort through the skin, the periosteum and bone, breaching the pia mater to reveal the pulsing brain beneath. Rennie had roused to partial consciousness at this point, and his resultant thrashing about brought the orderly. There were many questions, some of them uncomfortable, disturbing. He had been called to Sir Simon's personal office and asked to give an account of himself. We cannot have these sorts of mayhems perpetrated inside this institution. You understand we must maintain a certain standard of decorum. The papers had lately begun to take notice of it, and some part of him was glad. What he was doing was revolutionary, staggering and brilliant; he was a pioneer in his field. That sort of recognition was important to him, had always been that way, even when he was a boy at school. He'd never been any good at sport, didn't go in for cricket or football or riding. He didn't dare try the sorts of things the other boys enjoyed; for he was certain he would fail and be laughed at. No, it was far better to remain just as he was, immersed in books and daydreams. That was something they would never understand about him. They would never understand. 85
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He slipped into his overcoat and took his hat from the peg, his bag already packed and standing at the door. Penelope was drowsing over her needlework. He leant down to her. "Are you going out again?" she asked. She sounded cross, but it wasn't really her fault. The baby ought to have come three weeks ago, and she could be forgiven if she was a little tired of waiting. Her hands and feet were swollen, and her belly bulged in front of her, enormous. "I have to, darling. Can't be helped." She offered her cheek to be kissed. "And what am I going to tell this baby if it comes while you're out? That its father was too busy to be here while it was being born?" He held his face against her soft hair for a moment. "You know what Mrs. Durham said. I'll only be in the way." "Mmm. Perhaps you ought to be married to Mrs. Durham." He stood up and fastened his overcoat. "Don't sit up waiting for me, will you, dear? I am afraid I shall be very late this evening." He stopped before the pier glass in the foyer and tapped his hat down firmly. The winds tonight were cold and directly from the east. There would likely be hardly anyone about. The hall where the annual Retired Policeman's Ball and Charity Gala was traditionally held had burnt to the ground the previous year, the victim of an arsonist with a penchant for destroying heritage works of architecture. The only place available and with sufficient space to house the sheer numbers of policemen that Sir Newton expected was a rather ramshackle Masonic Hall, set upon the brow of what once had been a hill, but was now sadly reduced by time and progress 86
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to a mere bump in the Kensington landscape. There was hardly any room out front for the carriages and landaus and barouches and broughams of those attending. Raft could have hardly expected such a lavish assortment of vehicles, especially considering the company. He and Freddie Crook had arrived in a cab. "Couldn't we take one of the marias?" Freddie had appeared at Raft's lodgings precisely at eight, dressed in white tie and tails. Looking at him quite took Raft's breath away. "Constable, while this is a policeman's ball, I somehow think it's not the done thing to appear in a vehicle normally used for transporting prisoners." Raft's attempts to fasten his tie had thus far accomplished nothing. "Have you any idea how to tie these bloody things?" "Of course, sir." Freddie laid two fingers under Raft's chin and lifted the inspector's face. "Got to get your chin out of the way." There was some business with the little strip of cloth, while Freddie stood deliciously close to him, and then a final tug. "There you are, sir." Freddie stepped back very slightly. "Not too bad at all, if I do say so myself." "Are you sure?" Raft despised fancy dress balls and social occasions of any sort. There was absolutely nothing to be accomplished from an evening spent in idle chatter with mere acquaintances. "I think it looks a bit...I mean, it's quite the fashion, isn't it? It's just not me, I'm afraid." He inserted a finger under his collar and tugged. "Always feel like I'm choking in this thing." "You look quite...breathtaking, sir." 87
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"Don't mock me." "I wouldn't dream of it." Freddie reached out to brush a particle of dust from Raft's lapel. "What do they call you— your family, I mean? You have got a first name, haven't you?" "Yes, it's—you know my first name is Philemon, constable." Freddie was standing much too close to him—close enough for Raft to see the warm golden lights in Freddie's soft brown eyes. "So your family calls you Philemon?" "I haven't got—that is to say—my parents—" There was something he was supposed to remember about that, something very confusing that had to do with the house he'd grown up in, and that room at the back. It was Mother's room and she had a table. "There was a white cloth on it." "Sir?" Raft summoned a smile. "Mostly I'm called Phil," he said. "Some people have attempted to call me Philly, but I really don't recommend it." Freddie straightened his spine and assumed a humble, compliant expression. "Of course, sir." His right hand lingered for a moment on Raft's cheek. The caress was so brief, so fleeting that Raft might have supposed he'd imagined it. "Ever been to one of these things before, sir?" "I have, constable." "Bad as all that, sir?" "Bad as all that, constable." "Right, then." Freddie sighed like a man going to his own execution. "Once more into the breach." 88
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It was every bit as bad as Raft had expected—no, it was a good deal worse, for there was absolutely nothing to be had except weak tea and the ever present champagne, which Raft couldn't drink. He'd tried once before, at a birthday party for Sir Newton Babcock's predecessor, Sir Vincent Thrashe. Something in the wine had made him violently ill and he'd spent the better part of the next week vomiting into a basin. The Masonic Hall had been decorated for the occasion with bright paper streamers and Mr. J.G. Ingram's balloons. The main salon had been opened up for dancing, and there was a large table at the head of the room with sandwiches and little cakes and punch bowls filled with lemonade and pots of tea. Raft had poured himself a glass of lemonade and carried it, held out slightly in front of him, terrified of being jostled. Freddie had accepted a glass of champagne from a man in a dark topcoat, presumably a waiter. In lieu of an actual balcony, the orchestra had been installed in one corner of the ballroom and were even now gnawing their way through one of Mr. Strauss' waltzes, to the delight of some thirty-odd policemen and their dancing partners. "I suppose we should dance." Raft regarded the scene before him with great apprehension. Freddie started. "With each other, sir?" A young woman appeared at Raft's elbow, sparing him the necessity of a response. "You must be Inspector Raft." He turned rather more quickly than he should have, sloshing lemonade onto his shoes. She was perhaps his own age, wearing the black dress and white apron of a serving maid. Her face was thin and a little sharp, and the pale blue 89
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eyes with their tiny pupils were cunning and strange. "I beg your pardon, miss." "Oh, fuck me if you're gonna get all mannered." She looked him up and down. "You don't remember me at all, do you?" She nodded to Freddie. "Is he always this absentminded?" "Afraid I couldn't say," Freddie replied. There was something distasteful about the girl, but he couldn't put his finger on what it was—something about her rang eminently false, as though her persona were enacted for their benefit. Her language alone gave him serious pause. "It were last year. You know, I'd been turned out by my employer, Mr. Brown, and you found me a situation in Knightsbridge, maid of all work." "Did I?" Raft took her hand and politely shook it. "I'm afraid I've forgotten your name." "That's all right. It's Tansy—Tansy Penelope Royal." Raft's laughter surprised even him. "Oh, come now." He glanced at Freddie. "You're named after a patent nostrum?" Tansy and pennyroyal, which together made a potent abortifacient— surely she didn't think he was that thick? She peered at him like he was something she'd just scraped off her shoe. "Begging your bloody pardon, but it is my name, alright?" "Nice to meet you," Freddie interjected swiftly. Raft was caught rather off his balance by a flurry of images, one following hard on the heels of the other—a young girl in a long winter coat, walking between two rows of trees, a man on a horse scanning the horizon, a foreign city of 90
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sparkling white, a stormy sea, dark grey and menacing. He dropped her hand and rocked back on his heels, unnerved by the apparition. Freddie leant close and spoke quietly into Raft's ear. "You all right, sir?" Tansy grinned, revealing two rows of sharp white teeth. "Feeling a bit faint, Inspector?" She indicated the tray. "Can I offer you gents a sandwich?" Raft declined but Freddie helped himself to three of the small, crustless dainties, washing them down with champagne. The young wife of a sergeant smiled and nodded at Freddie, who asked her to dance. Raft stood to one side of the dance floor watching them and wishing he could somehow manipulate time. He yearned for his own fire and a good, thick book, and perhaps the comfortable indulgence of his dressing gown instead of the awful getup he was currently wearing. Surely there was some way to make the evening go by a little faster. Tansy nodded toward Freddie and the sergeant's wife. "They make a pretty picture, don't they? He's not a bad dancer, your Constable Crook." "He's not my Constable Crook." "It's quite all right, darling—no need to get shirty." Tansy regarded him in silence for a moment. "Fancy smoking a fag with me on the terrace?" She led him through the crowded dance floor and out the back door of the hall. The rear porch let onto a walled garden with the usual topiary and statues, and stone lions vomiting an endless stream of water into lichened cement basins. Raft 91
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offered her his cigarettes; she reached into the case and extracted one, bent her face to the glowing lucifer in Raft's hand. "That's lovely." She sighed, exhaling a long plume of smoke. "You really don't recall me?" Raft lit a cigarette for himself. "No. I'm sorry, I don't." "I think he fancies you," she began. "That constable of yours." She tilted her head and gazed at Raft. "You're not used to a woman talking this way, are you?" Raft's heart thumped wildly in his chest, and his palms were suddenly wet. "Er, I beg your pardon—" "'Fraid I'm not as versed in the niceties as I ought to be, Inspector." She slanted a gaze at him. "You're awfully handsome. How come you aren't married, then?" Her blue eyes were narrowed against the plume of smoke from her cigarette, making her appear sinister and atavistic. "I'm afraid police work doesn't leave a lot of time for a social life, Miss Royal." "It's Tansy to you, darling—always Tansy to you. I think I've heard this one before. You haven't got the time to be married, your work's too dangerous, a wife would be an added expense." She laughed. "How much do you make, then? Go on. I'm curious to hear." Raft's face prickled. "I'm terribly sorry but I fail to see how that is any of your business." Tansy took a long drag on her cigarette, exhaled smoke with a practised air. "I know all about you, Inspector," she said softly, "always walking the fine line, always running away and hiding." She shook her head, crushed the cigarette under 92
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the heel of her shoe. "Of course, everybody's got secrets." She grinned. "Oh yes, I've heard all about you, Inspector." The blood thundering in Raft's head was silent for a long moment. "I've no idea what you mean." He moved toward the door. "Excuse me, but I promised a dance to a young lady inside." "Don't run away, Inspector." She flicked up the hem of her skirt and, before Raft's astonished eyes, extracted a silver flask from the top of her stocking. "Have a little drink with me, won't you? For old time's sake." "What is it?" He took the flask from her and smelled it. Not champagne, but that didn't make it safe. "Just a little brandy, Inspector. Only the highest quality. Go on, have a little drink." She came close to him in the darkness and wrapped her arms round his neck. "I promise I won't tell a living soul." Raft couldn't tell if he were actually drunk but whatever Tansy Royal had put into her little flask, it bloody well wasn't brandy, or at least, it wasn't any brandy that he had ever had. "I ought to go back inside," he slurred. Tansy Royal was nowhere to be seen and the garden had begun to dip and whirl in an alarming fashion. The sight of the fountain with its vomiting lions was making him feel distinctly ill. What the devil had he been thinking? "Sir...?" Freddie Crook's face suddenly filled the whole of Raft's vision. "Are you...?" He drew back in astonishment, then began to laugh. "Are you drunk?" "I most certainly am not." Raft tried to loop an arm around Crook's neck and thus steady himself, but was unable to 93
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make his limbs obey him. "There is certainly no need to announce it to the world at large." He gestured expansively at the hall and its occupants. "Do you feel all right?" Freddie wrapped his arm around Raft, steadying him enough to stand. "I think I ought to take you home, Inspector." He walked Raft through the garden and back into the hall. "You're in no condition at all. I fear you should sleep." "No, I'm not drunk. I simply feel quite ill, really—" Whatever Raft had been going to say next was lost for all time. A piercing scream—a woman's scream—echoed from somewhere near the front of the hall. "Good God," Raft heard Freddie say, "he's killed another one." "That's Dick Menchions," someone said, "he's been serving here for years." The dead body of the man in the dark topcoat—the same waiter who'd passed Freddie Crook his champagne earlier in the evening—sat upright and fully clothed on a commode in the ladies' WC. His hands were crossed in his lap, with the right hand resting on the top of his left thigh and vice versa, his mouth bloodied. Raft fought his way through the crowd and knelt in front of the man. "Crook, would you please assist me?" "Of course, sir." Crook was at his side in an instant. "Still not feeling well, sir?" he asked quietly. "Sir Newton will be along in a trice." Raft lifted each of the man's eyelids and examined the pupils. "I shall very much need your help to remain upright." The small room tilted and 94
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swung around him and the gaslights seemed impossibly bright. He wasn't drunk; this was something else. "Absolutely, Inspector." Raft noticed a Constable Burley standing to one side and instructed him to find Sir Newton. "Please advise him of the situation, Constable." "Move back there." Freddie drew one of the junior constables away from the scene. "Milton, perhaps it would be best if you could direct the ladies away. I fear such a scene is hardly suitable..." Milton, ill at ease in his rented evening costume, appeared grateful for something to do. "Right this way, ladies. Breath of fresh air will do us all good." He gathered the women into a loose bunch and herded them toward the front door. "Help me draw him forward. I want to examine his head." Raft took hold of the man's shoulders and pulled the inert body toward him while Freddie Crook exerted steadying pressure in the opposite direction. "Right here, behind the left ear." He felt the wound with his fingers. It was jagged, inaccurate. "It's been rushed. He was interrupted." He glanced over the assembled crowd. "Has anyone been in here besides this man?" His voice was unnaturally loud, booming in his ears, and there was a curious pressure in his stomach. "Anyone?" "Sir." Freddie caught hold of his elbow. "No woman is going to admit...that." His voice dropped to a whisper. "You'd best let me take you out of here as soon as possible, guv. You don't look very well." 95
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Raft passed a hand over his forehead. "Right. Of course. Yes, you're quite right, Constable." He raised his voice and called for a couple of constables to arrange for the body's removal. "Quickly, sir, before Old Bumcock shows up." "Quite." Raft stood up shakily and wiped his bloodied hands on his handkerchief. He stationed two constables in front of the door and ordered them to let no one in until the body had been taken away. He had just turned to go when something occurred to him. He skidded to his knees in front of the dead man and pried his jaws open. "Good God." The man's tongue had been severed at the root. Freddie Crook left Raft resting in the carriage while he went into the kitchen and questioned the servants about the waiter Dick Menchions. Menchions' body had been carted off to the morgue but his murder had the immediate effect of breaking up the party, and a steady stream of departing policemen and their women filed sombrely down the front stairs of the Masonic Temple. Tonight's staff had been hired along with the venue and indeed, most of them served whenever the Temple premises were in use. Freddie's first interview was a young woman about twenty years old, rather stout and pudding-faced. She had obviously been weeping, as evidenced by her red and swollen eyes. "Dicky never said a bad word to no one. He were as good as gold." She was shushed by a tall man with a tray who came forward reluctantly.
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"He was an utter blackguard," the man said. "If he were serving and someone said something untoward, he'd spit in their food." Freddie's stomach curdled at the thought, but he soldiered on. "He would actually spit in the food?" "That's not all, guv'nor." A younger man, red-headed and freckled, raised his hand to speak as if he were at school. "I saw him pick his nose, like, and put it in a lady's hair." "He were as good as gold!" the girl said. She blew her nose loudly into her handkerchief. "There was another girl serving with you tonight, wasn't there? A Miss Tansy Royal?" Freddie flipped through the pages of his notebook. "Has anyone seen her since the...er, incident?" "Oh, her." The pudding-faced girl made a rude noise. "She's too good for the likes of us. Took her pay and pissed off out of it, she did." "Do any of you happen to know where she lives?" The girl exchanged looks with the ginger-haired young man. "Dunno, guv'." Freddie wondered if they had been hired through an employment agency, but the tall man put paid to that idea. "Don't have nothing to do with it, guv'. All they're good for is taking your dosh. They like to take a cut of whatever you make, like. It ain't right." The kitchen was small, and the air was hot and close. Freddie slipped his index finger under his collar, wishing he could take the damned thing off. The assembled servants weren't the cleanest group of people he'd ever met, and the 97
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smell of their bodies was a pungent stench in his nostrils. A hot bath and a clean nightshirt couldn't come too soon as far as he was concerned. Just being in the presence of such unhygienic specimens was making his skin crawl. "Alright," he said at last. "Leave me your names and addresses as you go out, just in case I need to contact you later on. That'll be all. Good night." "Tansy Royal." Raft fought to stay awake over the jouncing of the carriage, but whatever he'd had to drink was having a deleterious effect on him. It was as if he'd been drugged. "Where did she get to, that girl? She was there." "Try and rest, sir." Raft was leaning against Freddie. The young constable shifted to one side and put his arm round Raft's shoulders. "You're not well." "Not well," Raft murmured. There was a young girl walking between two rows of trees, and a treacherous dark sea...a foreign city, its white towers gleaming in the early morning sun. His head dropped to Freddie's shoulder. "You've had a rough night of it." Freddie, emboldened by Raft's somnolent state and the darkness, stroked the inspector's cheek. "I am beginning to understand why you dislike social gatherings." He laughed mirthlessly. "Of course it's not every day you find a dead man in the ladies' lavatory—or do you have a talent for that sort of thing?" Raft smiled sleepily, but didn't—or couldn't—speak. He turned his face up and laid his thumb on Freddie's bottom lip. Freddie groaned quietly and leant forward, pressing his opened mouth to Raft's own, claiming the inspector's lips. 98
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Raft fumbled toward him briefly then subsided quietly, and disappointingly, into unconsciousness. The man in the lavatory. The man in the bloody lavatory! Why did she have to come in and interrupt him, just when he'd been making progress? Damn the girl! Damn her anyway! And there'd been no one about, and then he'd stumbled upon the dance, all those people packed together in the one space— it was perfect! Naturally to operate in such an area was taking a risk, but he'd had no choice. The opportunities for research, for real scientific enquiry, were growing scantier every day. It wasn't like such chances presented themselves as a matter of course. Quite the opposite. No, such an opportunity wouldn't likely come again. Damn the girl. Damn Inspector Raft, and damn that daft blond constable. He cursed aloud, walking with his head bent against the cold November wind. Damn them. Next time he'd find a good one. Never mind the girl, but Inspector Raft and all his cronies would have to deal with her. Oh yes. They'd have to deal with her for certain sure. Raft awoke groaning, in a strange bed and a set of entirely unexpected circumstances. His head felt huge, and all night he'd been tortured by dreams of impromptu trephination at the hands of a shadowy, faceless man. Worse, he wasn't alone in the comfort of his own bed. Through bleary eyes he could just make out Freddie Crook's blond curls on the pillow next to his. "Constable!" The effort of speech caused his stomach to lurch in a most disagreeable manner, and he bolted from the 99
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bed in a desperate search for a basin. He'd vomited twice into the gleaming porcelain lavatory pan when he suddenly realised that he was as naked as a babe—naked, with his backside in the air, vomiting copiously into the lavatory pan of a constable. He'd never live it down. "Let me help you, sir. I'll fetch some towels." Freddie went away and came back with an armload of Turkish cotton. Raft selected the largest towel and wrapped it round his waist. "Sorry about the, er, nudity, Constable." "Not to worry, sir." Freddie was gracefully offhanded about the whole thing and Raft appreciated it. "I've been to the baths before. Nothing new to me." He passed Raft a cold cloth to wipe his face. "You feeling a little better, sir?" "Yes, thank you, Constable." Raft sat back on his heels for a moment, his ribs sore from the violence of his sudden illness. "Can't think what caused that. I hardly drank enough to intoxicate a gnat." "Sometimes it's a bit deceptive, sir." Freddie helped him up. "I'd a run-in with some Russian vodka once—present, it was, from a bloke on the docks." He chuckled. "Not a mistake I'd ever care to make again, I can tell you." He wrapped a blanket around Raft's shoulders. "You all right to walk?" "I think so." Raft smiled at him. "You're being ever so kind about this. I can't help but think I'm going to owe you rather more than an explanation." "Not in my book, sir." Freddie steered him into the bedroom. "I hung your clothes up for you so they wouldn't get wrinkled." He grinned. "I remember hearing you say something about me not being your personal valet?" 100
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Raft blushed. "Yes, well...look here, Constable, you're being absolutely top-hole about this and I appreciate it." He began slowly and methodically to dress. Freddie, mindful of decorum, tactfully turned his back and pretended some busyness with the pillows on the bed. "I had a chat with the serving staff last night." Freddie fixed his gaze out the window, even as the desire to look gnawed at him. "None of them knew anything except Menchions' name and that he was a filthy bastard." He examined his own immaculate fingers, rubbing each nail methodically with his thumb. A tiny spot near the tip of his nail on the littlest finger of his left hand...what was it? If he started to pick it he would have to keep going, so best save it till later, when he could do a proper job of it. It was important to be as thorough as possible; half measures were hardly adequate. "I got addresses for the works of them except that one with the blue eyes—that nasty one." "She gave her name as Tansy Royal." Raft's fingers felt clumsy and inept on the buttons of his shirt. "She had that tray of sandwiches." "And she just offered you a drink?" "She asked me for a cigarette," Raft recalled. He paused in buttoning his waistcoat. "It was the oddest thing. She claimed to know me." He described the things Tansy had said, and her strange, overly-familiar manner. "And then she gave me a drink out of her flask. I swear, I didn't have more than a mouthful of the stuff..." Freddie put his left hand in his dressing gown pocket. "Do you think you were poisoned, then?" 101
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"I don't know." Raft put on his jacket. "I honestly don't know." He reached for his topcoat. "You know what the worst of it is, don't you?" Freddie didn't know, so Raft filled him in. "We never did get to meet Sir Newton's esteemed daughter." Freddie nodded. "Anderin." "Do you suppose he'll hold it against us?" "I rather think he's blessing his lucky stars he managed to keep her away from us, sir. We're not exactly upper crust, are we?" By the time Raft got into his office early Monday morning, the whole city of London was humming with the news, courtesy of a series of increasingly lurid headlines supplied by the gentlemen of the press and their respective syndicates. MAN CUT TO PIECES IN KNIGHTSBRIDGE LAVATORY screamed from the front page of the Pall Mall Gazette; the Evening Standard's rebuttal consisted of PAGAN CULT AT WORK IN LONDON while the Illustrated Police News featured a full-scale anatomical drawing of a transected human tongue with the legend, SILENCED FOREVER! Raft always tried to keep such matters out of the paper insofar as such a thing was possible. That he hadn't been entirely successful this time pointed to a leak somewhere along the way, a servant eager to make a few extra shillings or the disgruntled wife of a minor peer of the realm—or a bent copper. Now and then a member of the force would think it worth his while to drop a word into a strategically placed ear or two, but Raft couldn't think who in his immediate circle would do such a thing. For all that he'd only known Freddie Crook a short time, the constable didn't seem 102
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the type to tell tales out of school. He'd been remarkably civil about Raft's condition on Sunday morning. Where another man might be disposed to a kind of laddish, off-colour humour at Raft's expense, Freddie had been the soul of kindly discretion—but just this once, Raft wished that Freddie could be elsewhere. He didn't remember much about the aftermath of the policeman's ball, just that he had woken in the bed of his subordinate completely mother-naked. Freddie had been courteous and respectable, and hadn't laid a finger on him. This last made Raft incredibly depressed. Freddie Crook came in about half an hour later, redcheeked and smelling of cold. He unwrapped the longest muffler Raft had ever seen and slung it over the hook. He seemed to be in a frightfully good humour for a Monday morning. "Shall I put on a pot of tea, sir? I could certainly use a cup myself." While he was doing that, Raft intercepted a missive from Pontius Doyle regarding the dead man from the ball. "Look at this, Constable." Raft passed the slip of paper to Freddie. "I say, Doyle has the makings of a really top-drawer detective, you know." Freddie read the message. "They were all cut with the same tool." He looked at Raft. "So it's not the one you found behind the old lady then, is it?" "Apparently not." "So what was a—what's it again, sir?" "A trephine."
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"What's a trephine doing—" Freddie blinked rapidly, and Raft had the very real impression that some portion of his brain had just exploded. "It's for us, isn't it?" "Yes. Not hard to figure out at all." Raft took the message back from Freddie and stuck it on the spike on his desk. He'd get round to filing things some day. "The girl, Tansy Royal. There's something about her, Constable. Something unusual—something bloody strange." "Besides the fact that she poisoned you?" Raft waved it away. "I don't think she poisoned me. I'm just not much of a drinker." "So you think she's involved? With this chap that's going about drilling holes in people's heads?" "I don't know. She might be. She might not be. She could be merely incidental." Raft shrugged. "That's the thing. There are four people who have all turned up in London with holes drilled into their heads, and seemingly nothing in common to connect them." The man appeared quite suddenly in the space between Raft's desk and the window. The inspector held himself absolutely still and gave no indication that he'd seen anything at all. The man was the same one found in the lavatory at the Masonic Hall. He opened his mouth to speak and Raft could see the stump of his severed tongue, bobbing grotesquely at the back of his throat. It was him. It was the drinking man. You'd better do something about it. "I don't know what to do about it," he murmured aloud. "Sir?" 104
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Raft hastened to cover his lapse. "I don't know what to do about it—the case—these four people who aren't in any way alike." Below the top of his desk his hands clenched into fists, released themselves. "What was Lizzie Blunt doing at an apothecary shop? A woman like that wouldn't have any money for patent medicines, not unless someone else had given it to her. What was she buying? Nothing. There was nothing found on her person except what you saw me take away. So she wasn't in there buying anything. She was put in the chemist's shop by the killer, who used it to carry out his...surgery." Raft's eyes slid toward the window; the man was gone. "The next question has to be whether the victims knew one another." He extracted a thick folder from his desk drawer and handed it across to Freddie Crook. "Start with Lizzie Blunt. We know that she's a prostitute—was a prostitute—and she probably lived somewhere close to Charters' shop." Freddie glanced up from the folder. "How d'you know that, sir?" "Most people are killed close to where they live." Raft drew an imaginary diagram on the desktop with his fingertip. "If you lived in Kensington, it's unlikely that you'd stray very far from there. Living in Kensington means that you can afford a nice house, which means you've either got a private income or a good job. Because you live and work in Kensington, most of your friends are going to be from Kensington, and if they're like you—which they most likely are—then they won't stray far from their native soil either. Do you see what I mean?" 105
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Freddie nodded. "Yes, sir, I think I do." It pleased him that Raft chose to confer with him in this way. It was a novelty. "Kensington." "Unless you're slumming, you've no need to go to Whitechapel—or the Seven Dials or Elephant and Castle. It wouldn't occur to you. If you were murdered, you would likely be murdered in Kensington, by someone else from Kensington." "Got a picture of her, sir?" Raft fished out the post-mortem photographs of Lizzie Blunt and her Bertillon card from an earlier conviction for vagrancy. "I'd go with the Bertillon, Constable. The other is for your own reference. Don't flash it 'round if you can help it. Your average Whitechapel lout is easily roused to savagery for vengeance sake." He added photographs of the small boy and the old woman to Freddie's pile. "Wilbur Driscoll's...sister was in here the other day, asking for the release of his body. You can certainly start with her, Judith Driscoll. The address she left with the desk sergeant is 17B Petticoat Lane. She might not want to talk to you, but find out what you can about the boy, where he went to school, how old he was, who his friends were, you know the sort of thing. Mary Ratty—the old woman we found in Buck's Row—make a survey of shops and whatnot in the area, see if anyone knew anything about her. Maybe there is something there, something that connects them." Freddie stowed the photographs away in his coat. "What about you, sir? Got any ideas?" 106
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"Oh, don't worry, Constable. I shall be as busy as you." Raft grinned and stood up. "I'm going to see a doctor...more or less." "Is it about...what happened Saturday?" The young constable looked pained. "You are all right, aren't you?" The concern in his voice would have been evident to an earless deaf-mute sealed into a barrel. "I am perfectly fine, Constable...Freddie." Raft reached out and touched the young man on the shoulder. "Perfectly fine," he murmured. Freddie cupped Raft's face between his hands and slowly, gently captured Raft's mouth with his own. The kiss was hot and desperate, and Freddie's tongue flickered and teased. He grunted when Raft returned the caress and moved into the constable's embrace. "Not here—" Raft pulled away, gasping. "Someone might walk in. We can't... The risk, you understand..." Freddie pressed his fingers against Raft's mouth. "I know," he whispered. He kissed Raft gently and drew away. "You really are a bastard," Raft said, straightening his clothes. His face, he knew, was blazing hot. Freddie smirked. "I'll catch up with you later, shall I?" "Do that, Constable." Raft pressed a hand to the centre of his chest and tried to calm the fevered throbbing of his heart. "Do that." Petticoat Lane was long, narrow, and filthy, a lunatic's idea of a lane with a great many turnings, each successively darker, narrower and dirtier than the last, and it seemed to Freddie Crook that the entire place smelt of old clothes—a 107
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mouldy, musty smell comprised of equal parts dirt and damp and evocative of a slop-shop jumble sale. It was, moreover, a place where confusion appeared as a preponderance of little shops—hat shops, boot shops, fried-fish shops, butcher's shops, coffee shops and tea rooms, and one sad little fallingdown shack advertising pork pies for sale, hot. Freddie stopped before this last for a moment, eager to get his bearings in the fever-dream landscape. Immediately, he was set upon by some six or seven men, two of whom seized him by the shoulders while a third pointed a stick at him. "You wants ter buy a pie, don't you, guv'nor?" "Not now." Freddie tried to back away but ran into another of their fellows, a huge man with hands like small grease barrels. "I beg your pardon." The one with the stick crowed with laughter; the inside of his mouth resembled the outlet of a drain and his teeth were like iron nails. "He begs your pardon. He begs your pardon. He don't want a pork pie, but—" Here he sketched an elaborate bow and doffed his filthy hat "—but he begs your pardon." The thugs holding Freddie's shoulders had nearly reached the pie shop when a tall, thin man with overlong arms appeared and hauled Freddie to one side. He was nattily dressed in a pink-and-white striped waistcoat, with a pink bow tie to match; his hair was plastered to his head with a greasy pomade and his breath smelled like an open grave. "What you want, guv'nor, is one of these eight-day clocks like what I has in my shop right now. Eight days, guv'nor, and you've no need to wind it! Imagine: eight days!" 108
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"I'm not interested." Freddie pulled away from the clock seller. "Please, I'm here on official police business." "It's the Bill!" This was shouted by one of the pie-shop thugs. "Scarper—or he'll have the lot of us!" But instead of running they began to jump and caper around him, and one of them produced an unfortunately battered concertina, which he squeezed vigorously, while the air filled with the noise of ten cats being simultaneously trod upon. Freddie did the only thing he could do under such circumstances—he turned tail and ran as fast as he could in the other direction then stopped quite suddenly at number 17. His knock was answered by a tall, severe-looking woman with a narrow face and dry lips, which she commenced to smack together in a gesture of disapproval. "Piss off," she said, and made to shut the door but Freddie got his shoulder against it and pushed into the house. "You've got your nerve!" The woman reached for a broom that was standing against the wall. "I'll have the police on you!" Freddie brandished his warrant card in her face. "I am the police. You can either help me, or I can take you in. It's entirely up to you." The woman made a spitting noise. "Right then, who's it this time?" "I'm looking for a Judith Driscoll. She gave this as her place of residence." The house was simple, but seemed clean enough. The drapes had been drawn over all the windows as tradition dictated, and the mirrors and pictures were covered with black cloth. A narrow hallway led from the front door to the back of the house; the stairs were directly opposite the 109
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front door, ascending at a steep angle to the upper floor. The rugs were worn thin, almost threadbare, and the gambolling birds on the wallpaper had long since gambolled their last. A small table in the hall was bare expect for two calling cards in a glass bowl and a handful of dead flowers. "I should very much like to speak to her." The woman turned and bellowed up the stairs for Judy. A young woman appeared in the foyer and invited Freddie into the sitting room. She was dressed in black bombazine mourning, with black jet earrings in her ears and a mourning bracelet on her arm. Her red hair was pulled back from her face and she wore no paint, but was nonetheless an uncommonly handsome woman. "Wilbur was my...younger brother." She crushed her handkerchief between her fingers. "I came to the police to request my brother's body for burial. My request was denied." "I am truly sorry, Miss Driscoll, but we are in the midst of a homicide investigation." Freddie took his leather-covered notebook out of his pocket. "It would help us enormously if you could answer a few questions about your brother." Judith Driscoll nodded. "Of course." The inadequacy of police procedure had often occurred to Freddie before now, but never this strongly. It seemed ridiculous to ask if a small boy had any enemies, but it was necessary, as were the questions about his friends and associates, and those with whom he habitually congregated. Judith Driscoll gave short, to-the-point answers, sometimes pausing when her grief became too much. By the end of the brief interview, her handkerchief was soaked with tears and 110
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Freddie damned himself for a blackguard several times over. "There is just one more question, Miss Driscoll. Had Wilbur suffered from any illness requiring hospitalisation?" It was as if he'd slapped her in the face. She rose to her feet, her dark eyes snapping. "Get out! How dare you come here and ask me such a thing? Get out! I insist you go right now, Constable!" "Forgive me, I—" She pushed past him and ran up the stairs. He heard a door slam on the landing above and then the house was silent. The tall, thin woman appeared. "She won't thank you for asking that," she said. She had a rag in her hand and appeared to have been doing some cleaning. "I don't understand." "Judith...is understandably sensitive where Wilbur is concerned. She's been so very involved with his care ever since he was born." She avoided Freddie's gaze. "When Wilbur was two he tripped and fell down the stairs, hitting his head. The doctors told us he would be an idiot, but he recovered and enjoyed normal intelligence. Apart from brief periods of...difficulty, he was a normal child." "Had he ever gone to hospital during these periods? Was a doctor called in?" She moved close to Freddie and lowered her voice. "The child often reported seeing things that weren't there...he sometimes became violent. He threw a heavy glass paperweight at his mother once and struck her in the eye. You must understand, Constable, the boy was suffering. It 111
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was appropriate to try and mitigate his suffering. That was why Doctor Blessington was called, to attend Wilbur." "Doctor...Blessington, did you say?" Freddie jotted the name in his notebook. "What sort of doctor was he?" "He presented himself as a general physician, but Judith and myself were disposed to understand that he had aspirations to being an alienist. He suggested that Wilbur spend some time at St. Luke's." The tiny hairs on the back of Freddie Crook's neck prickled. "St. Luke's." It was a renowned hospital for lunatics, second only to Bedlam in both the number and the loudness of its inmates. "Quite so." She raised her chin and gazed at him. There was something rather like kindness in her eyes—that, and a fierce protectiveness. "Now I have told you everything, Constable." "You have, ma'am, and I thank you." Freddie tucked his notebook away, a favourite ruse to put the unwary off their guard. "Are you the boy's mother?" "No, Constable. I am his grandmother." "His mother...?" "Is my daughter, Judith." She pressed her lips together. "When may I expect my grandson's body to be released for burial?" "I shall see to it personally, ma'am." He sketched a tiny bow. "Good day to you." He was eager to escape the small, dark house with its air of grieving and despair. He hailed a cab and drove to Charters' shop. The apothecary saw him coming and barred the door, but Freddie wasn't interested in 112
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him. He paid the cabbie and set off at a leisurely pace, walking like a man who had somewhere to go but who didn't particularly care when he arrived. His first stop was a bookseller with large green awnings out front. The awnings had probably been quite the thing when new, now, however, they were sadly dilapidated and sported large, jagged holes. The bookseller, a young man about Freddie's own age, wore an eye shade and a distracted air that suggested someone of an academic background. He perused the picture of Lizzie Blunt but, beyond having seen her a time or two standing on the pavements, he knew nothing about her. Freddie had better luck at a fruit seller's stall. The old lady remembered speaking to Lizzie Blunt a day before she was found in Charters'. "She were drunk, sir, on cheap gin that she got from the pub. She said she was going home early to sleep it off." "Where did she live?" The old woman looked at him like he was insane. "Didn't live nowhere! She'd sleep in the rope most nights. Ask Jerry Sykes. He runs a doss round the corner. He knew her." Jerry Sykes was a big man with a previously broken nose, a convict's haircut and three days' growth of beard. He was chewing on something that crackled and sloshed, now and then he leaned to one side to spit a long, brown stream into a small tin bucket by the door. The doss was empty at this hour and the windows had been opened to the cold November wind, which did nothing for the smell. "I knew Lizzie." He gestured at an old church pew with a rope tied to one end of it. At night the rope would be passed 113
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across the sleeping bodies to hold them in place and to prevent them falling off the pew. "Slept there in the rope with the rest of 'em. She'd stay here whenever she was out. 'Course, she was more often in than she was out." "In?" Freddie's pencil hovered over his notebook. "In where?" "She'd a bit of head trouble, Lizzie. She'd go in to St. Luke's when it got to bothering her. Can't say as I blame her myself." Freddie next found himself again in Buck's Row, but here he had better luck. One of the women who'd hissed at Raft that day was lounging on the pavements in front of a tobacconist. She saw Freddie and came hurtling toward him. "Did you find him? The man what did Mary? Did you find him?" It was almost too much to hope for, but Freddie asked her anyway—had Mary Ratty ever been incarcerated in a lunatic asylum? Had she ever been a patient at St. Luke's? "Can't say as I'd know, guv'nor, but it don't seem likely. She lived round here. I ain't never seen her nowhere else." Freddie fished in his pocket and gave her a shilling to thank her then turned away with a sinking feeling in his stomach. The odds against the victims all having been patients of Blessington were overwhelming. The sort of thing that happened in the serials or the Illustrated Police News. Two out of three wasn't bad, and he'd yet to recover any further information about Dick Menchions. The sergeant who'd hired him belonged to J Division, but his reply to Freddie's telegram added nothing to what Freddie had already gleaned from the 114
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other servants. Menchions was like an incidental character in a play. He appeared, spoke his piece, and vanished into the wings, never to be heard from again. Except in this case, his severed tongue prevented him from saying anything at all, Freddie thought grimly. He stopped at noon for a quick luncheon in a pub, looking over his notes while he ate. The Blessington link was suggestive. The more he thought about it, the more it seemed there was something there—something significant. He made a mental note to find Blessington and question him as soon as possible. Judith Driscoll's son and Lizzie Blunt had both been patients at the same asylum. That there was no information on Mary Ratty or Dick Menchions didn't bother Freddie. Things sometimes had a way of coming together when one least expected it. Wasn't that what dear old Mamma had always said? His mouth twisted. Yes, dear old Mamma... He could almost see her now, holding court in her bath chair, sitting in the conservatory and basking in the sun like some desiccated reptile. It was always and forever the same thing with her for as long as Freddie could remember. His hair wouldn't lie flat, his shirttails were perpetually out, the crease in his trousers was sloppy, his clothes appeared slovenly, he was dirty. As far as dear old Mamma was concerned, he was never clean enough to suit her. He was a disgrace to the family name. She would have to hide herself away at the family home in Surrey and close up the Kensington townhouse if he kept on much longer. When he was seven she sent him away to school, only allowing him home at Christmas. She 'couldn't bear to look at him', she said. She'd already developed the 115
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chest pains which would carry her off, and when Freddie told her he wasn't going to Cambridge—that he was going to be a police officer instead—she took to her bed for six months, supposedly insensible with grief and shame. Her passing had come as a great relief to him, although in his more vulnerable moments he sometimes wondered whether he hadn't hated her to death. He disliked lying to Raft about his origins, but really, it was so much easier than the truth. It was simpler to say he'd come from Bermondsey, and make jokes about the Peek Frean biscuit factory, than to admit to being the youngest son of the Earl of Bolsover. It was just as well, since dear Mamma had made it abundantly clear that he was to have nothing whatsoever to do with her, with his older brother Armitage, or with the family name. Your disregard for my well being and the family honour is criminal, utterly criminal. You should be ashamed of yourself. You make me sick to look at you! And Freddie, with his finely-honed sense of the absurd, had taken the surname Crook and set about distancing himself in every possible way from his mother, his brother, and the family's bloody honour. The last time he'd seen Armitage had been at their mother's funeral. Armitage—predictably—was drunk and escorting some ridiculous woman who hung on his every word. Freddie had just pushed away his plate when a shadow fell over his table. He looked up slowly. "You look like someone what could make use of some good information." A man tossed a small square of folded paper onto the table. "Feast your eyes, guv." The man turned and 116
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disappeared into the pub's smoky darkness. Freddie unfolded the slip of paper and read it. St. Luke's is worth a look. St. Luke's, Freddie reflected, was always worth a look. He immediately went outside and hailed a cab. "So what you're telling me is that this sort of thing is regularly done...on lunatics." Raft looked on as John Ponsonby deftly extracted a vial of blood from the lifeless body of a man lying on the table before him. The man wasn't actually dead—merely very old, quite deaf and almost insensible with fright. Raft didn't blame him. The needle was dreadfully large. "They drill a hole to...what? Let the evil spirits escape?" Raft was very proud of this last remark. He'd stayed up late, reading a rather weighty tome on the subject of trephination and spirit possession, among the headhunting tribes of New Guinea. "I very much doubt your modern medical man consents to trepan a patient in order to let the demons out." Ponsonby was about Raft's age but seemed much older, due in large part to the air of ponderous medical dignity that he affected. He'd only just graduated from medical school, and that by the skin of his teeth, but Ponsonby wasn't unintelligent, merely too fond of his extracurricular pursuits. He shared rooms— some said a bed—with the notorious resurrection man, Jeremy Hoare, a disgraced solicitor who fancied himself a kind of amateur detective. Hoare had once been a respected solicitor and a scion of the Inner Temple, but his frequent forays into the graves and ossuaries of London had cost him. That, and his unabashed personal flamboyance. 117
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Hoare made Oscar Wilde look like a schoolhouse full of nuns. That such behaviour might eventually result in his arrest and imprisonment—especially since the passage of Labouchere's bill in parliament—didn't occur to Hoare. He frequented the homosexual clubs with abandon and cared not one whit what anyone thought of him. Hoare was rumoured to be the natural son of an especially highly-placed member of the House of Lords, and thus enjoyed a certain immunity to prosecution. Privately, Raft thought the man was mad. After Cleveland Street, no man of Hoare's persuasion could count himself safe in London. "The procedure is most often performed to relieve pressure on the brain." Ponsonby tapped the old man on the shoulder, bent over and shouted into his ear that he could get up now. The old gent rose from the examination bed with a great creaking and groaning and frequent gasps for air. Raft wondered if he'd even make it out of Ponsonby's surgery alive. "In the case of a grievous head injury, for example. It has saved more lives than you can imagine." "Would there be any other reason to use it?" Raft watched with a curious detachment as the old man attempted to put on his trousers. "In the absence of a head injury, for example? Could it be used in some other case?" "No doubt you're referring to the murders I've been reading about in the papers." Ponsonby wrote something on a slip of paper and thrust it into the old man's hand. "Five a day, Mr. Porter. Two in the morning, one at luncheon, and two at night." 118
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The old man's head wobbled toward the sound of Ponsonby's voice. "Beg pardon?" "I don't understand," Raft began. "FIVE A DAY," Ponsonby shouted. He cast an irritated look at Raft. "What, Inspector?" "I say, would this be done on someone who hadn't had a head injury?" "There are certain alienists who do it." Ponsonby reached out in time to prevent the old man from falling into a large glass cabinet full of medicines. "The premise is that destroying certain parts of the brain...cutting it out...is helpful in those patients who have exhibited violent behaviour in the past. Mr. Porter, are you quite all right?" Mr. Porter had managed to get into his trousers, but his jacket proved too much for him, and he had slung it around his neck like a muffler. "Please, sir." He appealed to Ponsonby and to Raft. "Could one of you gentlemen please hail a cab for me?" [Back to Table of Contents]
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Four It was well past noon when Raft arrived back at Scotland Yard, his mind full of trepanned skulls and burr holes. He took the stairs up to his office, fully expecting to see Freddie Crook, but the office was empty save for Raft's spare coat and a pile of mail that had been deposited on his desk. He sat down and flicked through the envelopes, which were nothing more than the usual, but the final piece on the pile made him stop short. It was a postcard, the sort of thing offered for sale in dodgy little shops in Paris by men with teeth and underwear of an equally yellow hue. The picture on the front was of a young man in a summer suit, wearing a straw boater on his head, embracing a naked young woman. The young man's eyes had been cut out of the photograph and Raft turned the card over with a sense of expectation. LOVE LOOKS NOT WITH THE EYES BUT WITH THE MIND. Shakespeare; he was sure of it. A Midsummer Night's Dream. Helena mourning her abandonment. "Hermia," Raft mused. "Fair Hermia." Chances were this postcard was probably from the same source as the similarly mutilated photograph. Odd, though— he'd have thought that whoever sent these things, having sent something of personal significance to Raft, would continue to do so. Of course, he'd probably run out of suitable source material, and the naughty postcard was the best that he could do under the circumstances. If the postcard's sender was the same man who'd trepanned Lizzie Blunt and all the 120
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others, then there was a connection to Raft himself. That wasn't anything too alarming. Over the years he'd had any number of lunatics and moral invalids come crawling out of the metaphorical woodwork at him. One more wouldn't make that much of a difference, not really, and Raft was long past the age to be frightened by some lunatic with a grudge. So if the man who'd sent the postcard— "How do you know it's a man?" he murmured. "Because," he answered his own question, "most murderers are men." But 'most' didn't make for a guarantee. It was just as likely that the sender was a woman—perhaps a woman with a score to settle, or something that she wanted. "Say the killer is a man, then." Raft reached for a scrap of paper and a pencil. Say the killer is a man, then he would have to be a man with a thorough knowledge of trephination. Every burr hole had passed through the relative layers of the skull and gone straight to the brain. An amateur interested in thrilling himself, or possessed of a greater than normal curiosity might have stopped at the sight of blood. This man hadn't. He'd gone all the way, and that took knowledge and a certain strength of stomach, which meant he was a doctor or a medical student, someone who knew about anatomy. The red henna on victims' palms gave credence to the possibility that the murderer dyed his hair and perhaps his beard as well, if he wore one. He would have carried his own tools, which meant he had the money to buy them—and to leave them behind at the murder scene, for reasons of his own. It stood to reason that Raft was looking for an educated man, perhaps a doctor, well-off, who dyed his hair red with henna— 121
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dyed it inexpertly, since the imperfectly rinsed compound had left a residue behind, a residue that collected on the hands of his victims. Perhaps he could have placards printed up and posted round Whitechapel—WANTED BY POLICE, A REDHEADED MAN. He might as well invent some sort of lottery and have them queued up outside his door for miles. Sir Newton would be over the moon about that one, for certain sure. "A red-headed doctor who dyes his hair." It was precious little to go on. He turned up the morning's papers, flicking quickly through the quotidian madness and the adverts for wind relievers. The front page of the Daily Telegraph caught his attention, or rather its headline did: LORD BAVERSTOCK DEAD BY HIS OWN HAND. "Bloody hell." Baverstock had allegedly been tied up in the Cleveland Street scandal earlier in the year—'tied up' being apt terminology. When police discovered Baverstock in a back room, he was wearing little more than a leather codpiece and restraints, and being soundly beaten by two coal miners from Newcastle. It was only his family's influence that had kept the matter out of the papers. The piece claimed that Baverstock had been blackmailed by "an unknown correspondent" who had threatened to tell all unless Baverstock paid out an undisclosed sum. Raft could guess what came next. Baverstock had declined to pay and the informant had put about the news that His Lordship liked a bit o' the rough. Considering how unforgiving the aristocracy could be toward 122
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its own, the only thing left for Baverstock to do under the circumstances was to top himself. There was a rap on his office door and Raft looked up, fully expecting to see Freddie Crook, but instead the slight figure of a girl slipped inside. She was dressed plainly, in a dark coat and wearing a knitted bonnet with matching muffler and gloves. "You don't remember me." There was something sly in her smile, something cold and calculating but also very familiar, and Raft realised where he'd seen her before. "No more brandy, Miss Royal, if you please. That last tipple of yours nearly did me in." He stood up and gestured that she should sit down. "Please, make yourself comfortable. To what do I owe this pleasure?" "Oh, it ain't no pleasure, sir. Leastways, I don't think it'll be any pleasure for you." She sniggered, and it drew her thinlipped mouth into a sidelong smirk that Raft found quite distasteful. "You'll recall our little talk at the policeman's ball the other night. You weren't half trying to get away from me. Not half." She unwound her muffler and held it on her lap. Raft confessed he didn't understand the purpose of her visit. Could she enlighten him? "Well, it's like this, guv'nor. I finds meself in dire straits in terms of dosh. What I mean is, I ain't got any." Raft's skin prickled. "I fail to see how I can help." "Well of course you can, guv'nor! That's the beauty of it! You help me and I'll do me best to help you. Don't you see?" Raft allowed that he didn't. "Well, sir, you and I both know what happened the other night at the dance. I was alone with you for a good half hour, 123
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out there in the garden." She began to wind the muffler around her fingers. "You could have done anything to me, and there was no one around to help me. No one at all." Raft's hands clenched into fists. "Don't be ridiculous." His voice hardened. "I never so much as laid a finger on you." She simpered at him. "Course you didn't. But you wouldn't, would you? Not you, being the sort of man you are, and all." "What the devil does that mean?" "Do you know, Inspector, being the kind of girl I am, I do get round London quite a bit. Sometimes it's a fancy dress ball, and sometimes it's a small do. There's always someone wanting sandwiches served or dishes cleared away, and I'm very good at it." "I imagine," Raft growled, "that you're very good at a lot of things." "Now, don't be like that." She giggled at him. "What I mean is, I get lots of work serving the upper classes. I've been just about everywhere and being everywhere has its advantages. I hear things." She smoothed the fringes of the muffler. "I might have heard a whisper somewhere that you, Inspector Raft, are not quite the man you make yourself out to be." "Is that right?" "Oh, yes. It is very right, Inspector. You are not at all what you make yourself out to be and I got to wondering, being short on dosh as I am, what might happen if I went to Sir Newton Babcock and told him what I heard folk whispering about." 124
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"And what might that be?" She couldn't know; he had always been utterly discreet. There had been absolutely no one since he'd gone into the force, not even a casual liaison. He'd been completely circumspect. She had nothing on him. "You'd love to know, wouldn't you?" "Get out of here, and if you ever come here again I'll have you arrested!" Rage, sudden and violent, coursed through his body like the tide. "You get out of here, or I swear to God I'll have you in the cells, you filthy little baggage!" She stood up and smiled. "Oh, I'll be back, Inspector. You might want to be careful, that's all I'm saying. Sometimes things can catch up with a man, things he never expected. It could be very, very bad. But I think you know that already." Raft came out from behind the desk but she had already scurried down the corridor and down the stairs. He stood very still for several long moments, breathing heavily through his nose. "Damn you." He returned to his desk, sat down and picked up his paperweight. Of green glass and faintly eggshaped, it was cool and soothing in the hand, comfortable to hold, and it had the ability to calm him when nothing else could. He supposed it was a bit odd, sitting here and holding on to a glass knickknack, a trivial thing that he'd had as long as he could remember. Where had it come from? Had it been a gift? Had he found it somewhere? It was ordinary enough, pale green, smooth to the touch, with three small bubbles in it, evidence of the glassblower's imperfect art. He fancied he could see things in it sometimes. Distant, snow-capped mountains or the tall, cool spires of a foreign city lapped 125
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about by the waves of the sea. It looked like a nice place, this imagined world. He went down to the cells to check on Lord Havisham and to see whether His Lordship had recanted his accusations, but when he got there Havisham was gone, the cell occupied by an old Frenchman in a beret who seemed in imminent danger of coughing up a vital organ. "Where is Lord Havisham?" Raft collared the young constable seated by the door. "Lord Havisham was here. Where has he gone?" "I beg your pardon, sir, but Sir Newton Babcock ordered him released." "Released?" There must have been something unusually frightening in Raft's voice, for the young man took an involuntary step backward. "Yes, sir. Sir Newton came down himself and said to let the old bas—the old bloke out." He swallowed hard and tugged on his tunic. "I was only following orders, sir." "Right." Raft examined him carefully. He was tall and filled his constable's tunic nicely at the shoulders. His eyes were wide and blue, long-lashed and innocent. "What's your name, lad?" "It's Cholmondely, sir." "Right, well...mind you keep on doing, er, whatever it is you're doing." Raft turned on his heel and fled back upstairs. Of course bloody Sir Newton would intervene. God forbid one of Bumcock's cronies languished in the cells. With any luck at all, Raft would be hearing about it from Sir Newton himself. Raft did. Sir Newton summoned him and kept him standing in front of his desk for the longest fifteen minutes of Raft's 126
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life, while he sorted through his mail and grunted obscenities under his breath. "What the devil are you on about, Raft?" Sir Newton had a cold, and it made him even more unreasonable than usual. The veritable tide of nasal mucus coming from him could hardly have been matched by any ordinary man. "Imprisoning Lord Havisham. Are you out of your mind?" Raft opened his mouth to reply, but Sir Newton had already gone on without him. "He could have you taken up in a private prosecution! Where would we be then, eh? It doesn't look good, I tell you. It doesn't look good at all! What that man has been through since that whole business with Cleveland Street, well, I don't wonder." Raft got a metaphorical toehold and dove in. "With respect, sir, he came here accusing me of interfering with his daughter. I've never even met his daughter! And he pointed a duelling pistol at my face." Cleveland Street? "Unfortunate error, my boy! He'd lost heavily on the horses! Lord Havisham likes a little flutter now and then." Sir Newton harrumphed and spat into his handkerchief. "Nothing wrong with it. I like a little flutter myself. Used to ride you know, back in the day." The mental image of Sir Newton astride a horse was hardly salutary. Given the old man's weight, the animal would almost certainly have to have been put down. The aristocracy were cruel bastards generally. Perhaps there was a graveyard somewhere full of horses with broken backs. "Are you listening to me?" 127
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"Er, of course, sir." Raft let his features go blank. "Every word, sir." "What about this head man, then? Anything on him?" "Head man, sir?" Perhaps it was a sort of code or something. "The holes, man!" Sir Newton gestured at his head. "The cuts in the heads! The holes! The hole cutter!" Right. "We're bringing all our efforts to bear, sir." "Mm. Means you haven't a bloody clue, have you?" "Respectfully, sir, Constable Crook and I are doing our very best to find—" Babcock waved one fat hand at him. "Get out, Raft. Dismissed." The main foyer of St. Luke's Hospital was unremarkable, and had it not been for the sturdy iron bars upon the windows, Freddie Crook would have imagined himself a visitor to any great institution. The floors were scrupulously clean and as he passed into the main portion of the building, he saw several people with washing cloths in their hands engaged in just this sort of work. A young woman with a long braid was standing on a wooden ladder polishing the brass fitments on some of the windows, while an older gentleman, shambling and bent-backed, carried a pail of sudsy water. Freddie gestured to a uniformed orderly carrying a blanket. "Those people over there," he said. "What are they doing?" "It helps them if the patients are kept occupied," the man said. "They give them work to do. It eases their minds considerably." He apparently mistook Freddie for the agent of some charity. It was quite the done thing for society's 128
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Gladstones and Nightingales to take a tour of the mental wards. "Like to have a look round?" "Please." They turned a corner and went up a flight of stairs. "It's very quiet, isn't it?" Freddie glanced up at the high, barred windows. "No shouting or anything of that sort." The man looked at him askance. "Yes, we no longer beat them with rubber tubing, either." He stopped suddenly, looking Freddie up and down. "I say, what charity do you represent?" Freddie's mind spun frantically on its axis. "The Fraternal Society of...er, St. Brutus." "Mm..." The man shrugged. "Never heard of it."He stepped neatly around a middle-aged man who was sitting on the floor, leaning against a wall. The man had a cloth-bodied doll in his hands and was smoothing down its hair and talking quietly to it. "That is Gerard," the orderly said. "He strangled his newborn baby because the devil told him to do it." "I see." Freddie suppressed a shudder. "The, er, society is most interested in the work of a doctor I believe you have here, named Blessington? Yes, he has recently come to our attention as one most deserving of whatever honour we might bestow upon him." He reached into his pocket and brought out a slip of paper, which he unfolded with a flourish; it was actually his laundry list. "We've determined that Doctor Blessington should receive our highest award." He regarded his list with what he hoped was an expression of benevolence. "They don't make men like Doctor Blessington any more. No, sir, they do not." The orderly reached for the paper but Freddie stuffed it back into his pocket. "I am afraid I cannot 129
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permit that," Freddie said frostily. "Not done, sir. Not the uninitiated, oh no!" "Right." The orderly's expression said he couldn't decide whether Freddie was a benefactor of society or an absolute nutter. "Well, he's not here anymore but his office is. Would you like to have a look?" "I would." The orderly held out his hand with an air of expectation, and Freddie put a shilling in it. "Over here." They stopped in front of a door marked DOCTOR BLESSINGTON and the man produced a key. The room was furnished with a desk and chair, and smelled as though it could use a good airing out. "Doctor Blessington was, until very recently, a respected member of this hospital's staff and a very accomplished physician." "What made him leave?" Freddie asked. "Couldn't tell you, sir." The man tossed the key onto the desk. "I just take the patients round, and scrub the lavatories." He turned to go. "Wait!" Freddie reached out a hand. "Please. I'm afraid I'm terribly at sea here. Doctor Blessington—what sort of a doctor was he?" "I don't know nothing about medicine. But there were many times I escorted patients here, to this office, because Doctor Blessington had sent for them. I brought them here, and they went into this room. Sometimes I never saw them again for days— often it was longer, weeks. Sometimes they 130
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were never seen at all." He leant close to Freddie and lowered his voice. "One man came to this hospital to be treated for what they call it? Melancholy? He were a solicitor. A solicitor, mind. I took him to see this Blessington, right? He were in that room for a very long time. A few days later, I saw him in the garden, wearing a bloody bandage on his head. He was dirty, like he hadn't made it to the WC in time. I tried to talk to him but...Blessington did something to him." "You're saying he...killed them?" The man glanced around to make sure they weren't being overheard. "I once came upon Doctor Blessington in a heated argument with Dr. Fearing. He were the administrator of this place." "Fearing? Where is he now?" "Dead." His expression was one of deep and fervent loathing. "By his own hand, some say, but I don't know. This Blessington, he wanted to do something, and Doctor Fearing would not allow it. I remember what he said, They are not animals, Blessington. You cannot simply carve them up and leave them like that. Find another way." "Oh my God." Freddie swallowed hard. "He was experimenting." "Sure you still want to give him that award?" "This will certainly weigh heavily on our decision." "Right." The orderly jerked his chin at Blessington's office. "Have at it, guv'nor." "Thank you." Freddie called after him as he walked away. "I'll do the best I can." 131
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Three-quarters of an hour later he had been through Blessington's former office, but had nothing to show for his labours except a fine coating of dust and a bump on his head from where he'd struck it, crawling under the desk. Blessington had taken his files with him when he went, and the bookshelves of course were empty. Freddie had just finished prying up one of the floorboards when something on the underside of the good doctor's desk caught his eye. At first glance it was nothing much, merely a slip of paper or light card, coloured dark green. When he tugged on it, the whole underside of the desk gave way and he realised that the coloured card concealed a false bottom. He got his fingernails into a thin seam—barely a hairline crack in the wood—and tugged. The seam parted and a small, leathercovered notebook fell into his waiting hands. "What you doing down there, my lad?" A pair of dark stockings, a relic of the last century, paused before the desk. Presently, the head of an elderly man appeared, wearing bushy side whiskers and a pair of silver-rimmed spectacles. "Bit dusty, isn't it?" "Horribly so." As if to prove it, Freddie sneezed. "Give you a hand up?" the man asked. "Gladly." Freddie allowed himself to be towed out from under the desk. He rose to his feet slowly. "Thank you, Mr....?" "Bodleigh." He tucked his thumbs into the pockets of his waistcoat and beamed. "I am Mr. Bodleigh, formerly the schoolmaster at Upping-Dowton and now the chief librarian of 132
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this fine establishment." He peered at Freddie over his spectacles. "You have been to the library, haven't you?" "Er, no." Freddie dusted down his clothes. "Sorry. Haven't quite got round to it, you see." "Oh well, you must go!" Mr. Bodleigh took hold of Freddie's arm and walked him out into the corridor. "It's quite the thing, you know, and I do insist upon a visit. It's required for all new arrivals." "New...oh, Mr. Bodleigh—" Freddie disengaged his arm from the old man's grip. "I'm not an inmate of this establishment." "Not an inmate?" Bodleigh craned his neck forward and backward while he thought about this. "Then what are you doing here?" "I'm...visiting a friend of mine." "Ohhhhhhhhhh." Bodleigh nodded. "Are you lost, then?" Freddie took a deep breath and affected his most gormless expression. "You know, I do believe I am." "Let me help you," Bodleigh said. "I know the way to the front door." Freddie let the old gentleman take his arm. "So very kind of you, Mr. Bodleigh." "Do you know, sir," Mr. Bodleigh said, "I should very much like a packet of beetle wafer. Have you any such thing about you?" Freddie regretted that he had not. "That is a shame," Mr. Bodleigh said, "for you know, sir, I am greatly troubled with beetles on the brain. They are harmless insects, and I've no great disliking for them on a 133
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kitchen floor, or in a coal cupboard, but when they do their running about inside my skull they disturb me dreadfully. If they would let me have just one packet of beetle wafer to poison 'em, I should be well in a couple of hours; I am sure I should." "But how should you apply it?" Freddie asked, now greatly curious. "I should swallow it in warm water, and then stand on my head and let it settle on 'em. That is what I should do, sir. I should let it settle down upon them, ever so gently." The surgeon came out of the other room, his hands bloody to the elbows. He stepped to the basin and scrubbed, dried his hands on a towel "Please—let us convene somewhere quiet." "My study will do." Blessington shut the door behind them. It was early morning, perhaps six o'clock, and he could hear the slow traverse of milk wagons and tradesmen on the street outside. All the windows in the house had been heavily shuttered; the small oil lamp that burnt on the desk threw scant light. He sat down heavily and indicated that his guest should occupy a chair of his choosing. "Sir, it has been—" "Far too long." The man did not flinch. "Sir, your wife has been straining most terribly for some fourteen hours. I very much doubt her strength will hold out for much longer." He passed a hand over his forehead. "There has been, as well, significant loss of blood." Blessington started up, intending to go to her, but the doctor stopped him. "Why won't you let me see my wife?" he 134
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demanded. "She will want the comfort of her husband! I ought to be there with her!" "Calm yourself, sir. You do no good by this...display." Blessington collapsed back into the chair, defeated. "What is the expected outcome?" "I don't have to tell you. Surely you are familiar with the mechanics of parturition. I can be nothing less than honest with you, the head is stuck in the birthing chamber. No amount of pushing will suffice to extricate it. In my opinion the child has descended beyond the point where a surgical intervention will succeed. I have tried to turn it, but it refuses to be turned. The child will almost certainly die." There was a ringing silence in the room. The small lamp on the desk guttered and nearly went out. He got up and walked several agonised steps back and forth. "What about my wife?" His voice was strained, almost guttural. It was a question to which he did not want an answer. "If her suffering is not immediately ended, I fear her strength will fail. It has nearly failed already." "May I see her?" "I think that would be wise." The nurse looked up as the door to his wife's room opened. She nodded to the birthing surgeon, once, and slipped out into the corridor. His wife lay listlessly upon the bed, her unbound hair soaked with sweat. The front of her birthing gown was wet with the leakage from her distended breasts. She called him near and he sat by her side. He clasped her hand. "Here I am, my dear." 135
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"I knew you should come." She reached out and touched his face. "I like your beard that way. I should like you to continue it after I am gone." "Don't talk nonsense. You'll live to be a hundred, just you wait and see." It was difficult to look at her. There was something sinister in her eyes, a lingering darkness that hovered on her features like a fatal shadow. A slight smile curved her lips. "Oh, I don't believe I will. In fact I shall be dead before morning." She raised his hand and kissed it. "Give my jewels to my sister Constance. I should like for her to have them." "Please." Tears filled his eyes. "You cannot leave me. I absolutely forbid it." "You forbid it." It appeared to amuse her, although she lacked the strength to laugh. "You forbid." She closed her eyes and seemed asleep in an instant. "Have you heard?" Raft pounced on Freddie Crook as he came in the door. "And where have you been? Good God, man, it's been hours!" "You won't believe it." Freddie slung his overcoat at the hook. "I've been to St. Luke's." "Hospital?" "Yes." He related the details of the visit, emphasising the orderly's accusations against Blessington. "The Driscoll boy had been in that very asylum and was almost certainly a patient of Blessington's. Until a few weeks ago, Blessington was the resident alienist. Lizzie Blunt had also been a patient. Now why d'you think both of them ended up with holes drilled in their heads, eh? Maybe he was practising." Freddie 136
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retrieved the notebook from the pocket of his overcoat. "The desk had a false bottom in it. This was hidden inside. I suppose he must have left in such a hurry that he didn't have time to retrieve it." "Practising." Raft held Freddie's gaze for a moment. "Because they wouldn't let him practise trephination at St. Luke's?" He took the notebook and flipped through the pages. It contained a great many handwritten notations interspersed with rough anatomical drawings. "Right here it says, 'Performed on J.W. Results less than expected. Will do follow up with Dr. C.'" Raft turned the book so Freddie could see. "Seems to have been keeping a record of sorts." Raft nodded. "Yes. Blessington. The same one?" Freddie exhaled a long plume of smoke. "There are probably any number of Blessingtons in London and God knows how many evil physicians. It's like something out of a novel, isn't it? One of those novels that Mrs. Shelley writes, all those monsters and things." "Speaking of monsters..." Raft passed him the newspaper. "Lord Baverstock's done away with himself." "Lord Baverstock?" Freddie's eyebrows seemed in real danger of disappearing into his hairline. He scanned the newspaper quickly before handing it back to Raft. "The same Lord Baverstock who campaigned for proper sanitation in Seven Dials?" "The same." "That's horrible. I didn't know the man personally, of course—" He coughed and regarded his cigarette with 137
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suspicion. "He seemed like a good 'un—not your usual sort of politician, I mean. In it for something besides personal gain." "Yes, well. Whatever he was in, he's out of it now." "I don't understand. Baverstock was on the verge of introducing a new anti-poverty bill in the House of Lords. Why on earth would he top himself?" "Baverstock was being blackmailed. You remember Cleveland Street?" Freddie did. "He was there. Oh, it was all hushed up by the newspapers. The popular press had explicit instructions." Raft sighed. "But you know what people are like. Servants listen at doors, things get whispered in the downstairs, and word gets out. Someone found out that His Lordship fancied...er, that sort of thing." "Christ. That's ghastly." "Ghastly, yes, but hardly unexpected, and it leads well enough into what I've been wanting to say." Freddie tensed. "Sir?" "Constable." How to phrase it? "Constable, lately there have been certain...expressions of camaraderie between us." "That what you call it, sir?" Freddie moved closer to Raft and lowered his voice so it wasn't audible beyond where they were standing. "Sir...I kissed...we...I kissed you. I think you can assume I'm not about to run to the press." Raft allowed himself to sway forward just a little. He touched the buttons on Freddie's waistcoat, one by one. "It is so very difficult to know whom to trust." 138
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"You can trust me, sir." Freddie reached toward him and stopped himself just in time. His fists clenched for a moment at his sides. "I've just as much to lose as you." "Yes." Raft let himself be lost for a moment in those warm brown eyes. "Yes, I suppose you do." He reached out and cupped Freddie's cheek in his hand. The younger man closed his eyes and leant into the caress. "I had a visitor this afternoon." Raft forced himself away and sat down behind his desk. "Remember the lovely and talented Miss Tansy Royal?" "Oh, her." Freddie made a face. "Yes, her I remember." Raft told him what the girl had said. "Of course, when I turned up the papers and saw the news about Lord Baverstock, well..." "So you think it bears looking into, sir?" "I want someone to follow Miss Tansy Royal about." He saw Freddie's mouth opening. "No, not you. I need you for the case we've already got in hand. I need someone familiar with the underworld and its less...wholesome denizens. Someone used to keeping company with backstabbers and bit fakers." "Have you got someone in mind, sir?" "I do, Constable. And while he is following Miss Tansy Royal, you and I will do a little creeping about of our own. It's vital that we find this Doctor Blessington and have a little talk to him, and after that..." Raft grinned. "I realise I owe you something after that horrible policeman's ball. Do you fancy a night out?" Blessington's home was located in Chelsea at the end of a quiet street in a grove of mature oaks and maples. The house 139
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itself was large and white, with columns in front and a wrought-iron fence running round the property. They exited the growler before the front steps and ascended. Raft seized the knocker and gave the door a series of smart raps. "Think he still lives here?" Freddie leant back and peered up at the topmost storey, but there was nothing to see. The windows turned blank faces to the street. "He might have changed his residence. People do." "Do they?" Raft looked at him oddly. "I've lived at Mrs. Featherstonehaugh's for years." Yes, well. Freddie arranged his features into a suitable expression. You're a special case, aren't you? "Some people," Freddie amended, "change their residences." The door swung open slowly, to reveal a housekeeperlooking woman in thick felt slippers and a white apron starched to the texture of sailcloth. Her iron-grey hair had been scraped back into a tight bun, and her mouth was thinlipped and disapproving. She looked like someone who had never laughed in her life. "Yes?" Raft stepped forward, warrant card in hand. "I am Inspector Philemon Raft of Scotland Yard and this is Constable Frederic Crook. I wonder if Doctor Blessington is at home?" "Doctor Blessington is a very busy man." She straightened her back; Freddie imagined he could hear individual vertebrae snapping into place. "We've an illness in the house. I'm not sure Doctor Blessington wants anyone about."
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"Please." Raft treated her to his most winning smile. "We would appreciate it extremely, and we promise not to take more time than necessary." She examined them both, then made a growling noise in the back of her throat which he assumed was an assent. She stood back from the door and gestured that they should come in. The interior of the house was quiet; all the windows had been heavily shrouded, casting the foyer and the downstairs hall into relative darkness. A candle burnt on a table by the door, and the air was heavy with the sweet, antiseptic smell of chloroform. "Childbirth." At Raft's inquiring look Freddie shook his head. "Not going well, I'll warrant." "No?" Raft looked vaguely frightened, as if he thought they might be asked to intervene. "How do you know that?" Freddie didn't have time to answer, for a tall, heavy-set man had appeared in the hallway and was making his way towards them. He was perhaps forty or forty-five, with a pale and rather waxy complexion. In the dim candlelight his hair and beard glowed scarlet. "I am Doctor Blessington." He flexed his hands, not quite wringing them together. "What can I do for you gentlemen?" "We would like to ask you a few questions." Raft dug his notebook and pencil out of his pocket. "Is there somewhere quiet we could talk?" Blessington gazed at him for a moment, and Freddie fancied he could see the colour mounting in the doctor's face. "My wife is very ill." 141
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"I appreciate that, sir, but this will only take a few moments." Raft peered round Blessington's shoulder. "Have you a sitting room where we can talk?" Blessington's mouth twisted. "Always the same with you people. Always putting your nose in, except when you're needed, and then you're nowhere to be found, are you?" He waved them towards the nearest open door. "I can give you five minutes, no more." A noise sounded from upstairs, a long, low wail that reminded Freddie of an animal in pain. "Five minutes will suffice." He cast a glance at Raft. "I'm sure it won't take much more than that." The room was well furnished and hung with oil paintings depicting various foreign street scenes. Freddie thought he recognised some imitator of Monet in the impressionistic flower markets and bakeries. A fire had been laid in the fireplace some time ago but had long since burnt to embers. The thin layer of dust sitting over everything spoke to a certain unconscious neglect. Clearly the room had not been occupied for a while. Blessington did not invite them to sit, nor did he offer tea or other refreshment. Freddie caught sight of a frightened face at the door; a uniformed maid scuttled quickly away on silent feet. Like the housekeeper, the girl was wearing thick felt slippers on her feet, presumably to stifle the sound of her steps. No, Freddie thought, the child's birth was not going well at all. "Talk quickly." Blessington took up station at the mantelpiece. "I haven't all day." 142
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"Doctor Blessington, you no doubt are aware that there have been a number of rather bizarre murders lately." Raft flipped through his notebook. "We have been able to determine that the victims are all former patients of yours. I believe you were an alienist at St. Luke's hospital?" "I was, Inspector. I haven't been at St. Luke's for some time." Raft duly noted this down. "And why is that, Doctor Blessington?" Blessington hesitated for a fraction of a second. "The working conditions were no longer suitable." One large, red hand fiddled with the seals on his watch chain. "One was required to work long hours for rather less remuneration than is customary." Raft fixed the doctor with his gaze. "So you weren't being paid as handsomely as you might have liked." The remnants of a log tumbled down the back of the grate, sending a shower of embers up the chimney. Blessington jumped, and the hand that had been holding the seals clenched itself into a fist. "Something like that." "So far the victims have all exhibited the same sort of curious wound." Raft's long fingers described a circle in space. "A burr hole cut into their skulls with a sharp instrument. What sort of instrument would make such a wound?" Blessington shook his head, assumed a bland expression. "I'm afraid I wouldn't know, gentlemen. I never operated— that sort of thing is beyond the purview of a physician." He examined a signet ring on the pinkie finger of his right hand. "Only surgeons operate, Inspector." 143
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Raft's pencil hovered above the notebook, but his eyes were fixed on Blessington. "So you never practised trephination?" "Why ever would I?" "Do you know who might practise it? For...experimental purposes?" Blessington laughed abruptly, a harsh, barking noise. "I've no idea, gentlemen." A long wail rang out from upstairs, and the small hairs on the back of Freddie's neck rose, quivering. Raft appeared not to have heard it at all. "A student of yours, perhaps? A protegee?" "I have never taken on students." Something occurred to Freddie. "Trephination is used on the irrevocably insane, is it not? As a means of alleviating the symptoms of madness?" "There are some who believe so." "Had you ever prescribed its use?" Raft's gaze drifted past Blessington's shoulder. He was taking an inventory of the room, perhaps, noting the positioning of objects and their quality. Yes, Freddie thought, Blessington was indeed a wealthy physician—not that there was anything wrong with that— but it did speak to certain aspects of his character that he perhaps wished to keep hidden. His venality, for instance. "I might have done. I really don't remember." Blessington pulled his watch from his waistcoat pocket. "Gentlemen, this interview is at an end. Anna will see you out." He walked out of the room, leaving them alone in front of the dying fire. 144
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Raft flipped his notebook shut. "The root of all evil...lucre, Constable, filthy lucre...not exactly five minutes, was it?" Freddie buttoned up his overcoat. "Not exactly, sir." The square figure of the housekeeper bore down upon them, and shut them out of the house. Raft was more disturbed than titillated by the spectacle before him, and he was grateful for he couldn't imagine ever finding this evening's dubious proposition engaging. For half an hour he'd sat beside Constable Crook at a lavishly appointed banquette to the rear of the Iron Duke, deflecting the leers and expressions of interest from the other men in attendance this evening. In the interests of verisimilitude, and to keep others away from Raft's dark beauty, Crook's left hand lay quiescent on Raft's thigh. It was, Raft thought, playing it a bit too close to the bone. The heat of Freddie's hand, lying as it was so close to his cock, kept him in a state of suspended arousal the entire evening, and excited the sensualist in him. It would be easy to lean back, to let his thighs fall open, to surrender to the tender pressure of the young man's hand. The idea of an illicit encounter was more than a little enticing. It was positively intoxicating and it was quickly becoming the only thing Raft could think of. This would never do. He and Freddie had come here to work, but right now the only thing occupying Raft's consciousness, was the possibility of being worked over by Freddie. The club's entertainment consisted of a rather vapid floor show, wherein young men dressed in frocks mounted—here Raft chided himself severely for the paucity of his personal lexicon—a low stage and crooned the collected works of Mr. 145
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Gilbert and Mr. Sullivan, not necessarily in that order. So far this evening they'd had, "They'll None of 'Em Be Missed" and "Three Little Maids from School Are We," both from The Mikado. A slender aesthete wearing a green carnation in his lapel and bearing a large placard announced that The Pirates of Penzance was next on the program. Raft wondered how he could possibly survive a warbled, "When Frederic Was a Little Lad." The real entertainment, Raft thought, was in the club itself, which presented the same overall sentiment as a knacker's yard the day after a particularly bad showing at Ascot. He saw men openly engage each other for assignations, all within clear view, and couples disappear into shadowy rooms at the rear of the club, their arms around each other and their faces close together. Raft wondered what on earth could possibly be back there, but he was willing to bet it had something to do with lust and secrets, the slow slide of skin on skin. Oh don't stop...yes, please...quiet, we have to be quiet, they'll hear us. He was seventeen again, lying naked under Douglas Manby-Smith, his hands clenched in Dougie's auburn curls, their nude bodies sliding wetly on one another. Yes. Yes. Yes. Oh God. Oh my God, oh Jesus Christ, Oh God, then his crisis pumping through him, drawing his body backward into a bow, his face convulsed into a rictus of pleasure as he groaned and clawed his way back down to sanity. "Sir?" Freddie leant close to him. "You all right, sir?" Dammit. Raft must have made some small noise, said something. His collar was suddenly too tight. And his 146
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imagination, he thought sourly, was becoming far too florid. "Fine, Constable, thank you." It was ridiculous for a man in his position, getting carried away like this. He ought to check himself before it went too far, and undertake some form of chastisement that would effectively curtail such fantastic musings. A tall, lean man with dark hair and blue eyes, impeccably dressed in a gorgeous suit of evening clothes leant over the banquette. His skin was the most perfect porcelain, and his blue eyes were wide and beautiful and faintly mocking. His accent, when he spoke, was American. "I wonder if you'd mind." "Sorry?" The American grinned. "I'd like you to hit me." Raft drew back and stared at him. "I beg your pardon?" He offered Raft the handle of a whip, a quirt or riding crop, a strip of stinging leather. "Come on. Take me in the back and beat me senseless." Raft was suddenly and unpleasantly reminded of the headmaster of his school days, who liked to put boys over his bended knees and administer a caning. Perhaps, Raft mused, his old headmaster was here tonight. "Oh, come on...beat the hell out of me." Raft frowned. "I...don't believe I will." He pushed out from underneath Crook's hand. "Lavatory," he whispered. He pitched through the mass of men with a kind of rabid defiance, struggling past the backs of men, accosted on all sides by the faces of men, their open mouths sneering under waxed moustaches. He gained the comparative safety of the WC and leant with all his weight against the door, forcing 147
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himself to breathe more slowly, to be calm. As a policeman he'd seen some awful things, murder and dismemberment and blood and ordure, but nothing terrified him so much as the frank appreciation of his beauty. He didn't know what to do with it. Worse, he had no idea what was expected of him in such a situation. "Inspector Raft!" The familiar summons gripped him with a flare of panic. He opened his eyes cautiously, uncertain of what he might find. Jeremy Hoare had never looked better. The dark suit he wore set off his strange green eyes with a particular inevitability, as if some malicious destiny had decreed that he meet Raft here in the toilets. "Mr. Hoare." "Inspector Raft. John tells me you are engaged in a most unpleasant case just at the moment. You came to him for insight, did you not? John always tries to do his best. I can assure you of this personally." Raft could well imagine what Ponsonby's best entailed. "I appreciate his help, Mr. Hoare. Mr. Ponsonby is most knowledgeable." What the devil was Hoare doing here, Raft wondered, and more to the point, did his naturally inquisitive mind lead him to make suppositions about Raft that would prove to be of a devastating truth? Did Hoare think Raft was here on anything other than official business? "Are you here alone?" Hoare was leaning on the door in what could only be construed as a proprietary manner. His gaze flickered on Raft's face, travelled to Raft's throat, his practised eye entirely appreciative of the inspector's 148
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appearance. "More to the point, do the fine gentlemen out there—" Hoare's green eyes flicked toward the door "—know that you're an inspector with Scotland Yard?" He made a tutting noise. "They don't take kindly to the police, you know, especially after Cleveland Street. Being raided by the police destroyed that fine establishment, and many of its patrons." "Freddie...I am here with Constable Crook." Raft couldn't seem to make his vocal cords work. He was mesmerised by the glint in Hoare's eyes, the heat in his expression as he moved, catlike, to cover Raft's body with his own. "You have always made much of the distances between us, Raft." Hoare cupped the inspector's face between his palms, his mouth inches from Raft's own. "And yet, I see that we are truly not so different." It was, Raft thought, like sucking on one of those new electric wires, with a current that ran from his groin to his brain and back again, in a never-ending loop. He was held back against the door as Hoare claimed his mouth with ruthless accuracy, his agile tongue coaxing Raft's lips apart, devouring him. When Hoare finally released him, Raft found that he had lost his voice completely. "You know, Raft..." Hoare straightened his tie with a certain aplomb that Raft had always envied and had never been able to achieve. "I have wanted to do that for a very, very long time." The door closed behind him and Raft went to the sink and ran the cold water. He held his hands in it, letting the coolness play over the veins in his wrists. His face sported 149
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twin spots of red, high up on his cheekbones; his lips were red as well. How do I look? Dougie? Dougie, pay attention. Do I look all right? Is my tie straight? How do I look? Don't worry, Phil. You look well-ridden. He patted some cold water on his face and wiped it off with his handkerchief. Freddie was sipping a glass of wine when he returned. The fellow with the whip had thankfully gone. Raft slid into the banquette. "She can't be working on her own." "The Royal girl?" "Yes. She might get away with it once, perhaps twice if she's really lucky and the stars are aligned in her favour." Raft paused to light a cigar. "And maybe one of her friends put the idea in her head that she could make some dosh this way. But she doesn't have what's needed to do the job properly." "What do you mean, sir? To do the job properly?" "In order to blackmail successfully, you must have something to hold over your intended victim, something to frighten him with, something which, if it comes out, will ruin him utterly. That's how blackmail works. Not by the thing itself but by the threat. If you're being blackmailed, you never really know whether or not your blackmailer has got the goods on you. You can't know for certain if she means to do what she says or if she is merely putting it on. Either way, it doesn't matter as long as she gets what she's after." Freddie studied him for a moment. "Does she have something on you, sir?" 150
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Raft glanced at him and looked away. "I don't know. That is, I don't know for sure. She was rather vague about the whole thing. She said I'd been alone with her at the policeman's ball—you know, that sort of rubbish." He laughed mirthlessly. "But of course you and I both know, constable, that yes, I am that sort of man. Not the sort that Tansy Royal thinks. I wonder what she'd do if she did know. Either way, she is trying to blackmail me." He crushed his cigar out violently. Freddie reached for his hand and held on. "She's a bully, then." He squeezed Raft's fingers. "Right? I don't know about you, sir, but I don't care for bullies. I don't care for them at all." "We must find out who is at back of this. Tansy Royal can't come into a place like this, and so she has no way of knowing who might be..." Raft sighed. "She has no way of picking them out of a crowd. Since Cleveland Street, many men of that...persuasion... have gone into hiding. If he finds somewhere to go—like this place—he'll have made sure he can trust his fellows not to reveal his secret. But someone is telling secrets, Freddie—" Raft stopped, his eyes wide. "Constable. That's what I meant to say. I meant to say Constable." Freddie leant in and kissed him. "I like it when you call me by my name." "Will you like it when we're in Reading Gaol, riding the treadmill every day?" Raft clenched his fists and forced himself to pull away. "Will you like it when they make us walk 151
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round and round in circles with canvas masks on our faces? When they strip us of our dignity?" "Stop it." Freddie caught his hands and held onto them. "That is not going to happen." "Isn't it?" Raft looked around at the milling mass of people, gentlemen in evening clothes, chatting amiably to one another and smoking good cigars. Who were they hurting? What was wrong with an evening spent in the company of one's fellows? It was too bad, he reflected, that the entertainment left something to be desired. "What would Henry Labouchere think if he walked in here right now?" "Fuck Henry Labouchere." God bless you, Constable Freddie Crook, and God bless your kindly heart. "Should we do some work, constable?" "I rather think we ought to, sir." Freddie slid out of the banquette and straightened his tie. "I'll just go and mingle." "Brilliant idea," Raft said. "I shall do the same." He went to the bar and ordered a lemonade. The barman, resplendent in a sailor suit, winked at him. "Not too strong for you now, is it?" "I'm sure I'll manage," Raft replied. "If you need any help, you just call out for Ronnie." He leant on the bar and grinned. He had the beefy forearms of a labourer, a brick-red face, and a carbuncle on the end of his nose. "You just call out for Ronnie, and I'll give you whatever you might want, my little lovely." Raft drifted over to the snooker table and stood quietly for a few moments observing the game. He didn't play himself and, as he did with most other leisure pursuits, he considered 152
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it a colossal waste of time. As far as he could tell, it involved knocking the little balls about with a long stick. Just then a slender blond man with a visible goitre was walking round the table, peering at the balls as if he expected them to attack him. "Oh for God's sake, Gervaise!" A dark-haired man with a slight Scots accent saw fit to launch a complaint. "Don't take all bloody night. You're not playing for the crown bloody jewels." "Likes to size them up, does he?" Raft moved to stand next to the Scot, who turned and peered at him. "What?" "I say, he likes to look at the balls, does he?" A redhead on the other side of the table sniggered. "We all do, mate. That's why we're here." This elicited an outburst of laughter from the assembly, and Raft joined in. "Oh, shut up, you lot!" The one the Scot had called Gervaise raised his stick and positioned the tip next to one of the little balls. "It's all bad enough." "Oooh, someone's in a temper," one man said. "Must be that time of the month." This from a grown boy with a gap between his front teeth. "Time of the month?" Raft murmured. "Lord Gervaise Montefoy's been in a spot of trouble lately." The Scot leant on the table. "It's making him unhappy." "Yes, well...I don't blame him. It's bad enough trying to honour one's debts without some faceless blackguard dunning one for money." This was a very old trick, but it had served Raft well in the past. 153
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"Beg your pardon?" The Scot turned to him. "I don't believe I've seen you in here before." "Oh, this is my first time." Raft put on his most winning smile and offered his hand. "Thomas Atcheson. I'm here with, er..." Bugger. Had Freddie given his real name? Or did he operate here under an alias? "Danny Trumble, yes, I saw you sitting with him." Thank God. "Yes." He shook the Scot's hand. "And you are?" "Robert Bruce." Raft blinked. "Of course. I mean...yes, well, it's better to be safe, isn't it? Can't be too safe nowadays." The Scot narrowed his eyes. "What the devil are you talking about?" "I quite understand. The need to assume an alias." A bead of sweat slid down between his shoulder blades. "Especially these days, what with...everything." He forced a feeble laugh. "Robert Bruce. That's a good one." "It's my bloody name." "Oh." He was rapidly losing ground here. Best to apologise and make the best of what was an already very bad situation. "I'm sorry. I...please, forgive me. I thought that, being Scots, you—er, the need to assume an alias—what with Lord Baverstock, and all." He cleared his throat. "Terrible situation." "Yes. It is." Bruce examined him carefully, then let it go. "You're not the first one to laugh. Everybody thinks I'm having them on. As soon as I say it, there's general merriment all round." He raised his stick and knocked one of 154
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the little balls away. "Aw, fuck it. I guess that's another for you, Gervaise." "So he was blackmailed, Lord Baverstock. That's what the newspapers are saying. Of course, you can't always believe the newspapers, can you?" "Can't you?" Bruce laughed shortly. "He's not the first and he won't be the last. That's Gervaise's trouble, isn't it, Gervaise?" Lord Montefoy said something uncomplimentary about Bruce's mother then returned to his contemplation of the balls. "So someone's..." Raft lowered his voice. "Are you serious, man?" His hand crept to his throat. "Good God! They're probably going to do it to everyone." "Probably." "What will...what if it happens to you?" Bruce shrugged. "I've got an estate in the Highlands." "Ah. So you'd retire there awhile, until things calm down." "No." Bruce raised his stick and whacked one of the little balls with it. "I'd go up there and blow my brains out." He had scarcely uttered the words when the crack of a pistol shattered the air. The barman—the red-faced labourer in the sailor suit—fell backward over a table, a bullet hole through the middle of his forehead. The slender boy with the gap between his front teeth stood over him, the still-smoking pistol in his hand. "You told her! You bloody bastard, you told her! You've ruined everything!" **** 155
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Five "Tell me." It was twenty after two in the morning and Raft had long since abandoned any pretence as he walked round the body of the fallen barman. The barman's killer was handcuffed to a chair a short distance away. Raft had detained the members of the club. "Tell me what this—" he gestured at the corpse, "is about." There was silence. A man sitting near the stage coughed quietly into his hand. "Tell me!" Raft roared, "or by God every man-jack of you will be taken into custody tonight!" "It was the girl." An older man with the patient face of a long-suffering butler stood up. "There's a girl that comes here once a fortnight to clean. She said a friend of hers was looking for information. He'd pay good money for it." "Did she say who this friend was?" "No, sir." Raft made a note of it. "Has anyone else here been approached by this young woman?" Nine men raised their hands, and Gervaise Montefoy. After a moment's pause two older men standing to the rear of the group each lifted a reluctant arm. Raft had Freddie make a thorough survey of the room. No fewer than twelve men had been approached by the girl and several of them, when questioned by Raft, gave a very good description of Tansy Royal. "This is a right fucking mess," Freddie said. 157
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"How right you are, Constable." Raft tucked his notebook away. "How right you are. We have a dead man and a club full of...Gilbert and Sullivan lovers." He pressed his eyes shut for a moment. "Right. Maybe I can salvage something of this...stew. My report will say that Flinders—" the gap-toothed boy "—killed the barman in a dispute about a girl." Freddie nodded. "Dispute about a girl. Champion, sir." "This is a gentlemen's lodge, a place where men go to relax and to enjoy the company of their fellows. I'll put that in my report." He sighed. "I just won't mention the...kissing. Flinders will be hanged and no one will say anything else and there won't be any uncomfortable questions from Sir Newton Bloody Babcock about unofficial investigations and striking out on one's own." He sent Freddie outside to find a uniformed constable, then waited for the maria to arrive. The Scot, Robert Bruce, approached while Raft watched Flinders being loaded into the carriage that had been sent by mistake. It was just bloody typical, but Raft was too tired to send it back and wait for a maria. "Were you just making out?" Bruce was absolutely livid— there was no other word for it. Even in the dim light of the streetlamps, his face was an unpleasantly bilious shade. "Pretending to be one of us, so you could get the dirt on us?" "I was pursuing a line of inquiry," Raft replied, "related to the Lord Baverstock case." "So what you're saying is that you'll be back next week with a maria to take the lot of us. Is that it?" Raft climbed into the carriage. "Good night, Mr. Bruce." 158
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The carriage had just begun to cross Waterloo Bridge when Flinders turned to him. There was something odd, even sinister in the young man's smile. "Good night, Inspector." He flung himself out of the carriage and leapt over the rail, plunging to the Thames, and a watery grave. Hoare was in the bathtub when Raft arrived early the next morning, but this did not deter the solicitor from receiving him. Indeed, Hoare directed Raft to take a seat upon the closed lid of the commode, the better to converse with him. Raft wondered if it were not some misaligned attempt at seduction, considering the kiss that Hoare had bestowed on him just the previous night. The fact that Hoare was necessarily naked was also a factor. Raft did his utmost to focus his gaze elsewhere, but time and again his eyes were drawn to the solicitor's smooth, wet skin. "So very unlike you to simply drop in unannounced, Inspector." Hoare scrubbed himself vigorously with a bar of soap. "I would have thought that Scotland Yard's business would keep you elsewhere this fine morning." Hoare leant back until he was completely submerged in the soapy water, save for the tip of his nose. He remained that way for several long moments then surfaced with a great deal of sputtering and blowing. "I've come on business, Mr. Hoare. Official police matters, you might say." Raft wriggled a little. The hard wooden lid was pressing into his buttocks and causing him discomfort—or perhaps it was the imagined kick up the arse he was expecting when Sir Newton found out about Baverstock and the Iron Duke. It was rather like something out of the 159
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Illustrated Police News, Raft mused, the sort of thing Inspector Abernathy liked to read, stories full of bumbling policemen and nubile young maidens in imminent danger of white slavery and whatnot. "Official police business?" Hoare dumped a jug of water over his head. "Am I to infer that you are taking me into custody, Inspector?" "Have I a reason to?" Raft prised his notebook free of his coat pocket. "Now that you mention it..." "Forgive me." Hoare raised himself up on his knees and began scrubbing at his nether regions. Raft quickly averted his gaze, glancing back only when a safe interval had passed. "There is the small matter of the cemetery on the Isle of Dogs, Mr. Hoare." "Isle of Dogs." Hoare rolled his eyes up into his head as if he were struggling to remember. "The cemetery attendant said that on the twenty-first of this month, he came upon two gentlemen in slovenly dress and of a low manner. He maintains they were in the process of disinterring a body." Raft folded the notebook shut. "Now, what do you think of that, Mr. Hoare?" Hoare made an exaggerated face. "It's a wicked world." He grinned. "Have you come to arrest me, Inspector? Do let me know because I should like to be appropriately groomed if I'm to appear before a magistrate." "No, Mr. Hoare. Alas, I'm not here to arrest you. I'm here to ask you a favour." It left rather a bad taste in Raft's mouth. Asking Hoare for help felt an awful lot like cheating. "A favour? Inspector, you astonish me." 160
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"You will have heard about Lord Baverstock, of course." "Yes." Hoare lifted one pale, narrow foot free of the water and washed between the toes. "Such a shame. He was one of the few honest politicians in existence." "Then you probably know he was being blackmailed." Raft wondered what else Hoare knew. "Of course. I'd heard rumours he was involved in the Cleveland Street scandal. That sort of thing..." Hoare shook his head and immediately got to work on the other foot. "Dreadful." He peered at Raft. "Do you think I had something to do with Baverstock's suicide?" Raft sighed. "Don't be ridiculous." "Then why are you here?" Raft explained about Tansy Royal and her bid to blackmail him. He also told Hoare about the photograph and the postcard that had come to Scotland Yard. "You are fortunate, Mr. Hoare. You can go where my office does not allow me to go. You are not constrained by the same rules as I am." "So you want me to find out about this Tansy girl." "I would be most indebted. It's our theory that someone else is behind this, someone who stands to lose a great deal if he were found out. The girl, on the other hand, is expendable." "Hmm. Yes, the lower classes usually are." Raft's ears pricked up. "What did you say?" "Forgive me, Inspector." Hoare smirked. "I fear my class sensitivity is not what it once was. I said the lower classes are expendable—disposable, if you will. Therefore the girl is an appropriate—if a little coarse—choice for such an endeavour. 161
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Whoever her benefactor is, I'll wager he's paying her well to do his dirty work." Hoare stood up abruptly, in a shower of droplets, and reached out a long arm for his bath sheet. Raft tactfully looked away, occupied with examining the cracks in the ceiling. "Come along, Raft!" Hoare hovered impatiently in the doorway. "And let that water out, would you?" Raft accepted the cup of hot coffee that Hoare passed to him, and sank into a chair beside the fire. His entire body ached. Lately he hadn't been getting more than three hours of sleep at night. He wondered if he would ever sleep again. "So you'll do it?" The hot drink warmed him through, and he felt a dangerous lassitude creeping upon him, relaxing all his limbs. He couldn't sleep. There was far too much to do. "You were at school with a Douglas Manby-Smith." Hoare offered Raft a cigar, lit it for him with a glowing splint from the fire. Raft struggled to conceal his surprise. "How d'you know that?" Hoare's features arranged themselves into an appropriately condescending expression. "Raft." "Yes, I was. That is to say, I knew him." Where the devil was Hoare going with this? "We were...close." "Have you seen him—recently, I mean." "No." Promise me you'll write letters...lots and lots of letters...and I'll write as well, every day. "No, we lost touch with one another after we left school. I've not seen him in years." "Your parents did without a very great deal in order to afford your tuition. They wanted to send you to a good 162
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school, give you the education they felt you deserved." Hoare cradled his coffee cup, warming his hands. "You were a bright child. Not so your sister, Ada." Hoare smirked. "You and she might have been from different worlds." "Mr. Hoare, if you are going somewhere with this..." Raft sipped his coffee in an effort to cover his irritation. "Would Manby-Smith have any reason to resent you? To want to get back at you?" Raft understood. "I very much doubt Doug—Mr. ManbySmith—is the blackmailer. Good God, Hoare, his family was wealthy beyond the dreams of avarice. His father could have bought and sold mine ten times over!" Panic descended, smothering and absolute. "You cannot possibly mean what I assume you mean. There would be no need. He could come to me if he needed money." He fancied that Hoare could see right through his skin and deep into his bones, into the core and marrow of him. He could not confide in Hoare. The truth was far too shattering for him to tell anyone. "We have all, in our time, made errors in judgement, Raft." Hoare's hand reached out, closed around his wrist gently. "I would never condemn you for that." The wind was rising, buffeting the windows of Hoare's sitting room and rattling the sash. The fire flickered in the grate, struggling against the November gale, and the mantles of the gas lamps shuddered. "I've no idea what you mean." Raft was cold, cold to the bone. "I merely mention it because the blackmailer has already turned to you." Hoare's voice was very gentle. "We have had 163
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our disagreements in the past, Inspector, but I should hate to see a distinguished career destroyed." "Will you follow Tansy Royal for me?" Raft laid the coffee cup down on the table. "Please. Follow Tansy Royal and find out where she goes and who her associates are, and Mr. Hoare, I promise you—" "You'll overlook that little incident on the Isle of Dogs?" Hoare raised one elegantly-groomed eyebrow. "Yes. I've no address for her. God knows, 'Tansy Royal' can't possibly be her real name—but I have every confidence in your abilities, Mr. Hoare. I strongly suspect that the girl is involved in blackmail—whether as originator or merely subordinate to some other, controlling mind, I don't know. Every incidence of blackmail that has come to our attention lately, this girl is at the back of it." "How very reassuring." Hoare smiled faintly. "But what about your constable—the very able Mr. Crook? Why not ask him to follow the girl?" "She'll remember him from the policeman's ball. He spoke to her. She'd spot him in an instant." Besides, Raft had specifically asked Freddie to examine the mortuary photographs of the trepanned victims and to follow up on the information that he'd found at St. Luke's hospital. Blessington had proven infinitely unhelpful, and if Raft could uncover further links between the victims it would open up other avenues of investigation. "Quite. Well." Hoare nodded. "There's one thing I don't quite understand, Inspector. Why should you be willing to overlook my...proclivities the way you do? After all, there's 164
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nothing to prevent you—and you were only in the Iron Duke on official police business last night. Am I correct?" The solicitor's pale eyes gazed kindly on Raft, but the inspector was willing to bet Hoare knew the truth. Before his untimely fall from grace, Jeremy Hoare had been one of the most brilliant litigators in London. He might be a lot of things but stupid wasn't one of them—and there was still the matter of that kiss he'd bestowed on Raft in the lavatory. "What do you say, Inspector?" Raft stammered something about the privilege of long association...confessed to turning a blind eye...consideration for one's friends...surely Mr. Hoare understood. "And anyway," he conceded, "if I had to arrest people for open defiance of the act, half of bloody London would be rotting in Reading Gaol!" He clutched his overcoat around him and tore off out the door, trembling. He paused on the pavements and looked up and down Fowler Street. Douglas Manby-Smith—no, it was too remote a possibility, and there was no way he would ever blackmail Raft or anyone else. Dougie had always maintained that he'd go into medicine or some other honourable profession. He was eminently upright and distinguished, and he and Raft had been more than merely friends. It was simply insupportable to think... It wasn't possible. It was half past ten by Raft's watch when he flagged down a cab and directed the driver to the home of the late lamented Lord Baverstock. Baverstock's family seat was somewhere in Suffolk but, like many others of his social class 165
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and ilk, Baverstock kept a London home. His Lordship's was located naturally enough in Kensington and took up most of one side of a broad, tree-lined street. The house was white, with a great many arched windows, a lot of wrought iron, small shrubs growing out of window boxes, and a brass knocker in the shape of a lion's head, the tongue outstretched as though it were vomiting or yawning. Raft took hold of the tongue and gave the thing several smart raps against the door. Presently, a butler-shaped man appeared and gazed down his long nose at Raft. "We had understood that your colleagues have already been and gone," he said. "Was there something else?" "Sorry?" Raft saw the man's gaze rake over his black coat, black trousers and black hat and understood at once. "Oh, I beg your pardon. They sent me to make some additional measurements of His Lordship. I'm afraid the messenger was most unclear about the appropriate, er, dimensions—the hearse, you see. Might I come in and measure again?" It was a heinous and callous tactic but Raft had used it many times to his advantage—and he seriously doubted that His Lordship's widow would appreciate an unofficial visit from the Yard, especially at a time like this. "If you insist, although I must protest. This is highly irregular." "So very sorry." Raft let his head droop toward his chest in what he hoped was an appropriately obsequious posture. "My associates are dreadfully lax with the help. Really, I think we ought to beat the boy, myself." "Please, if you would wait here." 166
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The butler left him at the foot of the most massive staircase Raft had ever seen, and disappeared into another room. The stairs led up to an enormous window, now heavily draped in black. Black bunting had been twined around the balusters and trailed onto the stairs to give an appropriately mournful effect. Privately Raft thought that someone— perhaps a servant or even Her Ladyship herself—would trip on the damned stuff some night and suffer a broken neck. "This way, sir. His Lordship is in here." Raft was shown into a curved sitting room with a large fireplace at one end and three tall windows at the other. His Lordship lay in a polished oak casket, hands crossed on his abdomen, and an expression of supreme disapproval on his pasty face. Raft leant over and gazed at him. The undertaker's art was not so much in evidence. The right side of Baverstock's head was curiously misshapen, bulging out toward the back, and the flesh around the right eye appeared sunken. The mouth was pulled to one side, perhaps the result of some effort to normalize the appearance of the head. When Raft reached around he found the ear much lower than it ought to have been, and the skin drawn tightly back toward the nape of the neck. It was really a very sloppy job, especially for nowadays, when an embalmer had any number of tools at his fingertips to perfect the appearance of the dear departed. The newspapers had reported that His Lordship had shot himself. Raft wasn't convinced. Even if Baverstock had been shamed by the Cleveland Street scandal, and even if he had every reason in the world to want to top himself, there was 167
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something eminently false about the whole situation. For one thing, the Cleveland Street job had been more than three months ago. If Baverstock were sufficiently mortified to want to kill himself, why wait three months to do it? Surely someone so eminent and with such a defensible position in society would want to ameliorate the situation as soon as possible. The several months' gap between Cleveland Street and Lord Baverstock's supposed suicide cast serious doubt on the official story—at least, the story as the newspapers had it. Raft lifted Baverstock's head off the satin pillow and felt around, probing the hair and hoping that the mortician hadn't felt it necessary to plug the wounds. His fingers found a small depression, but not on one of the temples where he would expect it to be. The bullet wound was in the middle of the forehead, just above the nose. It had been partially filled in with some sort of soft, putty-like substance and covered with a cosmetic preparation; there was no corresponding exit wound. In all probability the bullet was probably still inside Lord Baverstock's skull. Raft let the head drop gently back into position. It was impossible to shoot oneself from quite that angle. The mechanics of the human wrist were simply too awkward to ensure the bullet's penetration. A man who was really serious about topping himself would choose the angle at which sufficient penetration was assured. Suicide required that one's aim was true, and thus the temple was a much more suitable site, or the mouth. Lord Baverstock hadn't killed himself. He'd been murdered. "Have you everything you need, sir?" The voice was a lady's. Raft turned to see the Lady herself, standing just 168
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inside the door. She was a woman of about Raft's own age, with dark hair and eyes, and a pale complexion that in a certain light might be considered consumptive. Apart from a slight clumsiness about the waist she was slender, with a beautifully-shaped face. Lady Baverstock was dressed in the rusty black of deep mourning, but her eyes were dry and her face was quite composed. Her left hand was bandaged round the thumb and across the palm. She was what most men would consider luminously beautiful, for there was a vivacity in her eyes. She was one of those women, Raft thought, who always look best in motion, as if that motion drew some spark of her innermost self to the surface. "Yes, m'lady. Quite so." Raft bowed to her, wishing he had a measuring tape to hand, so he could properly enact this ridiculous tableau. "I had only to measure again." "Why on earth would you be measuring my husband, Inspector Raft?" She came nearer. "Yes, I know you. I have seen your likeness in the newspapers. When Henshaw said someone from the undertaker's was here, I was naturally suspicious." Raft saw it was fruitless to deny it. "Your Ladyship is quite correct." "Then tell me at once, I insist." She indicated a chair opposite the fireplace and Raft thought it best that he sit down. A small table near his chair held a selection of objects, among them a very ornate gold snuffbox. Raft picked it up and examined it. "That was delivered here the day my husband died." She stopped abruptly and pressed her lips 169
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together. "A London messenger boy brought it. He said it was a gift." "A gift?" She ignored the question. "My husband died by his own hand, Inspector. Why should Scotland Yard have any interest in him now?" "Madam, forgive me if I seem impertinent—" "You have arranged to come into my home under false pretences, Inspector. I rather think the danger of impertinence is the least of your worries." Raft decided to dispense with the niceties. "My Lady, your husband did not kill himself. I strongly believe he was murdered." The large clock on the mantelpiece ticked loudly in the silence. Lady Baverstock's gaze remained firmly fixed on Raft. "Murdered." "Yes, ma'am." "By whom?" "I have not yet determined that." "Was it someone in this house?" "Madam, I cannot say until I have completed my investigation." She raised her chin. "My husband is to be buried tomorrow morning. I am afraid, Inspector, that your investigation will be...impossible." "Madam, with respect, I can petition the courts to have the burial delayed." Raft's heart thumped almost painfully in his chest. "Or, in any case, the body disinterred." 170
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Her pale cheeks blazed suddenly red. "You will not." She stood up, so did Raft. "You will absolutely not, Inspector. Do you hear me?" "Lady Baverstock, I believe a murder has been committed. I will do whatever is in my power to bring your husband's killer to justice." "His killer?" She advanced on him, her hands clenched into fists. "My husband's killer? My husband, Inspector, was a—" She faltered, but only for a moment. "My husband was unnatural, Inspector. He was a filthy, vile beast who—he went mad, and he killed himself." "No, ma'am. He could not have. It is difficult to successfully shoot oneself with the hand at such an angle. The mechanics of it are problematic, at best." "He killed himself!" She screamed and flew at him, hands clawing for his eyes. "He killed himself! He was a filthy beast and he shot himself in the head!" Raft caught her forearms and held her away from him. The door burst open and the butler came in, accompanied by a footman and a housemaid. "I'll take Her Ladyship," the butler said. He and the footman held Lady Baverstock supported between them. "Come now, m'lady. What you need is a rest." "Oh, the filthy beast." Her voice echoed back to Raft as she was borne upstairs. "Oh, the filthy, filthy beast." "I rather believe it is time you left." The voice was unfamiliar. Raft turned to see a tall young man, blond and brown-eyed, dressed in hunting garb and carrying a riding crop. "I beg your pardon?" 171
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"Beg it all you like. You have no business being here. Her Ladyship has absolutely nothing to say to Scotland Yard." He came closer, whisking the riding crop before him so it made a swishing sound in the air. "If you persist, I shall personally see you prosecuted in open court. Your career will be ended before it has even begun." He planted his feet and peered at Raft with assumed hauteur. "I know you, Raft." The declaration was amusing. "Do you?" "Yes." The riding crop swished. "Get out." "And who, precisely, is throwing me out?" "Thomas Roderick, QC. Queen's Counsel, sir. Now get out." "A solicitor." Raft smirked. "What, I wonder, can Her Ladyship want with a solicitor?" Especially now that His Lordship's dead? "That is none of your affair." Roderick drew himself up in a manner he probably thought was imposing. "I won't ask you to leave again, Raft." "Don't worry, Mr. Roderick." Raft pushed past him, making sure to thump Roderick hard with his shoulder as he went. "You won't have to." Burke's Peerage and the London newspapers aside, Raft wondered whether Lord Baverstock, filthy beast or not, was a member of any gentlemen's clubs. If so, this would be good news at least as far as Raft's investigation went. He went first to the Athenaeum Club, and was promptly turned away by a uniformed flunkey at the door until he produced his warrant card. The flunkey examined it, sniffed something about things "highly irregular" and led Raft down an elegantly-carpeted 172
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corridor, past the smoking room and the dining room—with a pervasive smell of hard-boiled eggs—and into a small library. "Lord Glanders will see to your needs." Glanders turned out to be a small, round man with a shock of wiry yellow hair and pale blue, short-sighted eyes partially hidden behind a pair of glittering gold pince-nez. He looked Raft up and down. "Now then, Raft—of what Rafts would you be? The Fitzroy Rafts or—God forbid—the Melbourne Rafts?" "Neither, I'm afraid, My Lord. I'm here on official business from Scotland Yard." "Scotland?" Glanders adjusted his tiny spectacles. "I say. Dashed long distance to come, isn't it? Did you walk or take the train?" "Er, I wonder if I could ask you a few questions about Lord Baverstock. I believe he was a member of this club, was he not?" Raft searched the room for a chair, but there wasn't any, the only stick of furniture in the entire place being a thin white lectern set upon a podium by the far wall. "Baverstock? Absolutely not. Topped himself, didn't he? You know, that's a highly irregular thing to do. Highly irregular." Glanders produced a tiny muslin bag from an inner pocket and pressed it to his nose. "I say. Do you?" He waved the bag at Raft. "No, thank you, my Lord, I don't use it." "Ah." Whatever was in the little bag, Glanders seemed quite eager to get at it. "Don't mind if I do?" "Not at all, My Lord. Please." Raft tried not to stare as Glanders, unfastening a ribbon from the mouth of the bag, pressed its contents to his nose. "Now, am I to understand 173
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that Lord Baverstock had not been admitted to this club? On what grounds would his membership have been refused?" He fetched out his notebook and stood with his pencil hovering over the page, waiting. "Who?" Glanders shifted uncomfortably. "Baverstock? Oh yes, chap topped himself. Bloody shame, really. I wonder what made him do that?" "I believe he was being blackmailed." "Blackmail? I say, that's dashed unsporting, isn't it? Dashed unsporting. What sort of a chap do you suppose would do such a thing?" Good God, Punch notwithstanding, they really are idiots, every one of them. "Er, look here, Lord Glanders, did you know Lord Baverstock personally?" Glanders sniffed vigorously at his little bag. "Never clapped eyes on the man." "Never?" "Never, sir. I'd know it if I had." He extended the bag toward Raft. "Are you sure you don't...? Just a little won't hurt, you know." Raft's luck was similarly bad at the other clubs. The doorman at the Garrick Club turned him away and, despite Raft's avowals that he would return with a warrant, wouldn't let him back in on the grounds that he was improperly dressed. The Beefsteak Club appeared to be both closed and locked, and a handwritten sign in the window made vague reference to some bank holiday or other. The gentlemen members of Boodles hissed him when he walked in, and his 174
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inquiries regarding Lord Baverstock met with nothing but polite disinterest. By mid afternoon, Raft, disheartened and footsore, decided to have a late luncheon on Expenses. He hailed a cab and in short order found himself sitting in a restaurant in Maiden Lane, near Covent Garden. He was fortunate enough to find a table near the fireplace, and he sat awhile, simply warming himself, basking in the glow of the flames. His fingers were icy, and his feet similarly cold. He didn't relish the idea of winter, with all its attendant chills and he wondered if he oughtn't to invest in a new overcoat. His own, although far from threadbare, was thin, and let the cold and damp in. He seemed so much more susceptible to the weather than other people. It was his individual nature, he supposed. Other people went on holiday to warm places—the south of France, Rome, or Spain—but travel to such exotic destinations wasn't possible, not on a policeman's salary. "A menu, sir." A waiter approached noiselessly and handed him the card, inquiring whether Raft would like anything to drink. On impulse he requested a hot cup of coffee, suddenly craving something dark and strong, something that wasn't tea. He would have extra cream in it as well, and perhaps pudding after his meal. It was cold outside, and he deserved something after the morning's work. Most of the menu items would leave a considerable hole in his finances. When the waiter returned Raft ordered Welsh rarebit and a second cup of coffee, studiously ignoring the waiter's sniggering contempt. While he waited for his meal, his gaze strayed across the adjacent tables, mostly occupied by couples or the 175
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odd well-bred family with their equally well-bred and wellbehaved children. Nearest his own table was a sumptuously appointed banquette, occupied by two men about his own age, obviously friends, and obviously engaged in comfortable and intimate conversation. As Raft watched, the taller of the two reached out to cover the other man's hand with his own in a fleeting caress, and whispered something that Raft could not hear. The patent evidence of warmth and compassion was almost more than he could bear. He was forced to turn his eyes away, pretending to study the pattern of the tablecloth. Where was Freddie Crook? Had he any luck with his own inquiries, or did he, like Raft, find himself at a dead end? There were so many various threads and so many possibilities, and as he often did when stymied for an answer, Raft took out his pencil and began sketching out all the myriad prospects. Lord Baverstock wasn't a suicide, but murder; he had also been blackmailed. Tansy Royal was the party charged with contacting members of the Iron Duke, but wasn't herself the blackmailer. Who would want to kill Lord Baverstock? Jeremy Hoare was following Tansy Royal. Freddie Crook was examining the morgue photographs of the trepanned skulls. That they were probably looking for a doctor was evident by now, and so he'd instructed Freddie to look further into the notebook he'd recovered from St. Luke's Hospital. If Freddie's informant was genuine, then Blessington might well be the man that they were looking for. By all accounts, Raft ought to be making cracking good progress, except nothing was coming together, either in his head or otherwise. 176
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"Would sir care for another cup of coffee?" The waiter appeared at his elbow, bearing a silver coffee pot and a small ewer of cream. "That is, if sir has finished drawing on the tablecloth." Raft was halfway through coffee and a Chelsea bun before he noticed the bluebottle standing near the entrance. Instinctively he flagged the young man, beckoned him over. "What is it, Constable...?" "Cholmondely, sir. You'd best come with me right away, Inspector." It was yet another murder, Raft thought. Had to be, on the face of it. Nothing else would turn his guts to water like the intuition that the killer had struck again. He tossed some coins upon the table and, shrugging into his overcoat, followed the constable out into the gathering darkness of a late November afternoon. At the corner they stopped to hail a cab and a short, emaciated man with the bearing of a beggar approached Raft and tugged on his sleeve. "Piss off," Cholmondely growled, "the Inspector's busy." "Why aren't you at home?" He twisted a fold of Raft's coat between his fingers and held on. "Why did you let them do it? Why did you let them send you here?" "I said bugger off!" Cholmondely raised his truncheon but the beggar had already gone. A hansom cab drew near the curb and they climbed in. At four that afternoon the birthing surgeon came out of his wife's room, wiping his hands on a towel. His arms were bloody to the elbows. The hired nurse came out behind him, 177
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already wearing her bonnet and coat, and nodded to him. "Should you wish me to stay, Mr. Higgins?" He shook his head. "We have done all we can do." She approached Blessington and touched his arm. "God bless you, sir. God bless your lady wife." A swift curtsey and she slipped out into the gathering darkness. "Doctor Blessington." The surgeon beckoned to him. "You may come in now, if you wish." Time seemed pulled outward, distended to its ultimate expansion, frozen in place. The wind rattled the casements and roared down the chimney flue as he followed the doctor into the room. They had cleaned her up and placed the dead child in her arms, cold and still and blue. His wife was smiling, and on her features was such an expression of serenity that he almost envied her. The nurse had washed her and dressed her in a pretty nightgown, and dropped crushed lavender around the bed and in the sheets. A single candle burnt on a little table by the door. "I shall be in the foyer if you want me. Please, take as long as you wish." The doctor slipped away and left Blessington there. For a long time he sat by his wife's bed, merely watching her, wondering now and then if his eyes or the darkness deceived him, and imagining that he sometimes saw her breathe. Her beloved face had already begun to sink, assuming the dark contours of a sinister mask, and her eyes were heavily shadowed by the pangs of her ordeal. He touched her cold face and her hands, and held the small hand of his dead son, and something rose in him like water cascading over a dam. The darkness that lay about the 178
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corners of the room seemed to fly in upon him, lodging in his skin like a thousand tiny darts. It soaked into his body and swam in his blood and he felt compelled to move to its dictates. He had to leave for there was much to do. He seized his coat and hat as he went out, passing the startled surgeon waiting patiently in the front hall. He felt the stone of his own doorstep under his heels as he passed out into the street, and his breath steamed out in front of him, a warm white plume. He moved with purpose now, his arms swinging easily at his sides, his whole mind in tune with the breathing, pulsing city around him. You must swear to me, Blessy, that you will never tell a soul. If anyone knew what we have done here. Surely a promise made so many years ago no longer held? He found her walking by herself near Highgate Cemetery, a young widow in black, heavily veiled and weeping uncontrollably. She allowed him to escort her to an inn where he bought her a glass of sherry. It was simple, so very simple, to drop a little laudanum in while she turned away, looking for some imagined thing he pointed out to her. When she complained of feeling faint, he helped her outside and hailed a cab. She was unconscious by the time they reached his intended destination and he tipped the cabbie something extra and sent him on his way. He laid her on the ground behind the great monument, his back to the sighing Thames, and as he worked, he wept. The girl came out of a shop near the Hotel Cecil a little after seven that evening, clutching something done up in a parcel. She was humming to herself and rather nicely dressed—too nicely dressed for a simple maid-of-all-work. If 179
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Inspector Raft's suppositions were correct and she was involved in blackmail, then her portion of the proceeds was significant. Hoare knew fine clothes, and the coat and bonnet she wore were both of the latest fashion. The girl herself was nothing much to look at—far too thin and with a certain viciousness evident in the facial features—but Hoare supposed that she got the job done for whomever was employing her, and that was all that really mattered in such cases. He kept well behind her, but not so far behind that he might lose sight of her in the milling crowd. Fortunately, she walked slowly, in a meandering fashion that indicated no real hurry to go anywhere. Either she was in no great rush to get home or she knew he was following her—unlikely, considering Hoare's prowess at trailing even the most slippery characters. Once or twice she looked back in a casual manner, as if attempting to catch Hoare off-guard, but both times he was able to duck into a doorway or behind a lamppost, and thus escape detection. She turned down a narrow alleyway. Hoare followed her, until the alley let out where the old Hungerford Market used to be. She turned heading toward the dark bulk of the Norman Shaw Building, and Hoare was momentarily confused. Was the girl going to New Scotland Yard? If so, why? Raft had said she was blackmailing him, but surely she wasn't so brazen as to approach him there. Hoare kept her in his sights as she strolled on the Embankment, stopping now and then to gaze out at the Thames, shivering slightly with her hands in her pockets. Presently, she headed for one of the benches at the base of 180
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Cleopatra's Needle and Hoare went with her. He had just about decided to settle in for a long wait when the girl appeared around the other side of the monument, terrified nearly out of her wits, and screaming loud enough to wake the dead. **** [Back to Table of Contents]
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Six The cab stopped on the Embankment near Cleopatra's Needle, and Raft was out of it like a shot, Cholmondely on his heels. Three sturdy constables guarded the scene but there was already a large group of onlookers doing their best to press close enough to see. Raft took a report from the constable nearest the scene, a rosy-cheeked blond youngster who couldn't have been more than sixteen. "She was found right there, sir. A Mr. Jeremy Hoare alerted us. He's with the body. I told him you'd want him for questioning." Raft thanked him and went round to the Thames side of the monument. Hoare was leaning against the obelisk, smoking a cigarette and looking as if such events were just a regular day's work for him. He shook Raft's hand as the inspector drew near. "I was following the girl. This would have been around seven this evening. She stopped on the Embankment, just over there—" he motioned to a spot overlooking the river "—and then went behind the monument. It was her screaming that alerted me." "Where is the girl now?" Raft knelt beside the body. Someone, probably a constable—they were given to the chivalric gestures—had draped an overcoat about the head and shoulders. In the evening darkness this gave the effect of the body's top half having vanished, leaving behind nothing but the victim's legs and pelvis. 182
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"Ran away," Hoare said. "I thought to follow but, given the situation, I decided it was best to alert the police." He gestured at the body. "And so here you are." Raft flicked away the covering and looked at the body. He recognised her immediately: Lady Baverstock. He supposed he ought to be shocked, but some part of him rather expected something like this. Now I'll never know who killed Lord Baverstock. He pressed his ungloved hand to the side of his neck and then against the dead woman's cheek. She was very cold, probably air temperature but no more. Without a thermometer he had no way of making an accurate measurement. "One degree per hour, more or less...two degrees? Three? An hour?" Raft gazed at Jeremy Hoare, who merely shrugged. "Or more?" He suppressed a sigh and bent to make his examination. Instead of a single trephination, the murderer had made numerous partial punctures. Raft counted six in all, one on the right cheek, one under the chin, one on the left cheek, one just above the nose, and one on either side of the forehead. None of the holes had been sunk to its full depth. Rather, the killer had begun the process and then stopped before the wound was complete. Considering how thorough and methodical the previous murders had been, this was strange indeed. Up until now, the killer had been meticulous in his methods. Even the traces left behind were similar. A deep trephination sunk through to the brain, henna left behind on the corpse, the mutilation of the body. Lady Baverstock didn't seem to have been mutilated. 183
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"Got a bit carried away," Hoare remarked. "Those holes in the forehead are suggestive." Raft looked at him. "In what way?" "To me they suggest horns." Hoare smiled thinly. "Perhaps it is but a trick of the light, Inspector." "No," Raft replied, "No, it looks that way to me as well." He lifted the woman's hands and examined the palms, but even with the aid of the streetlamps it was too dark to tell if anything had been deposited on the skin. The fingernails appeared clean and well-kept, and everything about the woman's person suggested she had been engaged in the activities of an ordinary afternoon. "And you're right, Mr. Hoare. He did get carried away. There's been a distinct loss of control, that much is evident, although I wonder if—" Raft sat back on his heels. "This isn't the same man." Hoare's expression was worth money. "I beg—not the same—Inspector Raft, whatever are you talking about?" Raft stood up. "It's not him. It's all different, I can tell you that just from looking. This isn't the same man who did the others. Those murders were methodical, carefully planned, and this is just..." His mouth twisted. "Butchery." She drifted over the pavements silently, and her form appeared to glow from within. She stopped a foot or so away from Raft and pointed over his shoulder at the monument. No, she didn't merely point; it was so much more imperious than that. She seemed to be demanding that he look where she was pointing. "Inspector?" Hoare leant close to him, a hand on his shoulder. "Are you quite well?" 184
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"Yes." Raft turned his gaze resolutely toward the Thames until he felt the thing withdraw. "Yes, Mr. Hoare, I'm fine." He flicked the covering over the corpse then signalled the constables to load the body into the ambulance. "There is one other thing." Hoare reached into his coat. "I found this near the body. You might find it useful." Raft turned the piece of cardboard over in his hands. It was rather stiff card stock, the sort of thing found in chocolate boxes and various shop displays. One side was blank but on the other was written the word SINISTER, above a crude drawing of a woman's face, the eyes scribbled out. Raft examined it carefully but there was nothing else. "What do you make of it?" Hoare asked. "It could be something," Raft said. "It could be nothing at all." He stowed it in his pocket and thanked Jeremy Hoare for his help. "Would you mind...er, that is—" "I shall wait outside Miss Tansy Royal's residence and follow her as you initially requested." Hoare coughed delicately. "I shall, of course, expect remuneration per my usual fee." "Brilliant, Mr. Hoare." Raft clapped him on the back. "Anything to keep you out of the cemeteries." Raft was summoned to see Sir Newton the very next morning, almost as soon as he'd got in. His coat was still warm on the hook when a junior constable passed along the message that Babcock was waiting in his office, the implication being that he was waiting for Raft. He took the lift down, and found his superior in a foul mood. 185
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"Well?" Sir Newton Babcock was as fat as he'd ever been, but there was something loose and sunken about his face, a defeated look, as if someone had let some of the air out of him. He didn't merely sit behind his enormous desk, he commanded it. But his usual acerbic zest was missing. Raft wondered if Babcock had been friendly with Lord and Lady Baverstock. If so, he was bound to take Her Ladyship's death very hard indeed. "Afraid there's no one out there in Clubland who's even remotely interested in talking about Lord Baverstock. I'm not sure why. Perhaps they truly don't know anything, or perhaps they simply disliked the man." "Yet you maintain he was murdered—that someone murdered him. Someone crept into Lord Baverstock's house some night—" "Respectfully, sir—" It was only nine in the morning but Raft was tired. "I never said that someone crept into his house. What I said was I seriously doubt he topped himself. There's no way the man could have done it. The angle of the gun is completely wrong—" "Yes, all right." Sir Newton pushed aside a pile of paper and regarded Raft with something less than pleasure. "So you've spent all this time roaming about London with nothing to show for it. And now Lady Baverstock is dead as well." Oh for Christ's sake, it's not like I can summon an informant out of thin air. "I suppose so, sir, if you want to look at it that way."
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"Young Crook's been in and briefed me about St. Luke's. Rather a lucky break, that, happening upon Dr. Blessington's diary." Raft allowed that yes, it was lucky. "Constable Crook is a good policeman, sir. I've every confidence in him." "Right, then, Raft. I should like you to track down this Blessington." Raft managed not to roll his eyes, but only just. "We've spoken to Doctor Blessington, sir. He disavowed any knowledge of the crimes and furthermore, assured us that his status as consulting physician precluded any possibility that he would have operated on anyone." Babcock made a noncommittal noise and, when nothing further seemed to be forthcoming, Raft slipped quietly away and took the lift up to his office. The invigorating effects of his night's sleep had long since gone, and he felt inestimably weary. He found Freddie Crook waiting for him. Raft's tiredness must have shown in his face. "Cold out there, sir. I daresay it's an early winter for us this year." "You may be correct, Constable." Raft summoned the energy to smile. "Been keeping yourself busy?" He gestured at the pile of file folders Crook had amassed in his absence. There were several sheets of paper pinned to the bulletin board over Raft's desk. Obviously Freddie Crook had been working out certain aspects of the case. "Always, sir." Freddie pushed the folders to one side. "I've been doing a fair bit of detecting, if you want to know, but—" He smiled self-consciously and a ball of heat bloomed in Raft's belly. "Perhaps a cup of tea, first, to warm you?" 187
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Freddie was dressed beautifully today. His dark, striped trousers clung to his thighs and his backside, and his waistcoat buttoned close to his flat stomach. His shirt studs and sleeve links were of the same design, and his tie clip was an Oriental dragon worked in gold, with ruby eyes. He was quite breathtaking—then again, he usually was. "I should love a cup of tea," Raft murmured. "I've had rather a trying day so far. You've heard about the...woman we found by the Needle?" "I was very sorry to hear that, sir." Freddie hovered near him, so close that Raft could feel the heat of his body and smell the subtle fragrance on his skin. "If I might, sir, your collar...?" His long-fingered hands cupped Raft's face and just in time Raft hissed at him to close the door. It fell to with a gentle click and Freddie's mouth closed over his, the kiss deep and hot and wet. His pulse boomed in his ears as Freddie's mouth ravaged his, the constable's tongue teasing Raft's lips apart while one hand slid down to cup and gently squeeze the Inspector's growing erection. Raft broke away with a gasp, walked to the opposite end of the room and took several deep breaths. "Freddie." The constable's mouth quirked. "Sir." "You ought not to sneak up on me." He laughed breathlessly. "You know I've had a very hard go of it lately, and I daresay cornering a man in his own office is hardly fair." "Are you certain about that, sir?" Freddie advanced on him and backed him up against the wall. "I could always plead duress." 188
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"Duress?" Raft slid his palms up the younger man's chest. "You wouldn't dare." The constable's breath ghosted against the side of Raft's neck. "Wouldn't I?" His lips pressed the inspector's skin gently, stubble burning against Raft's cheek. "You ought to try me sometime, sir." Raft whimpered and pushed him off. "Someone might see us." He shivered as Freddie leant in for one final kiss, then broke away. "Right, Inspector. Now then." Freddie straightened his waistcoat and headed for the door. "Tea it is. Piping hot, yes sir." Raft collapsed into his chair, his legs a wobbly jelly. "I shall pay you back for that," he said, "abundantly." They set to work as soon as Freddie returned, fortifying themselves with strong cups of tea and biscuits from Raft's own private cache. Freddie hadn't been idle while Raft was out. He'd gone through the notebook from the lunatic asylum, but thus far hadn't been able to make head nor tail of it. "It seems to be in code, sir. I've had one of the lads below take a look at it. He says it's nothing that he's ever seen, but he's going to wire some bloke on the continent. I'm just waiting for him to report back to me." He turned up the top folder from the pile he'd amassed on Raft's desk. "I've been doing a bit of checking since we saw Doctor Blessington at his house. The Royal College of Physicians of London keep impeccable records. I know, because I've been in their library." "You do get on," Raft smirked, "don't you?" 189
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"There are forty-odd physicians in London whose last names begin with the letter B, only one of whom is a Blessington." Freddie opened the folder and laid it out so Raft could see. "This Blessington is an alienist and until recently was attached to the lunatic asylum of St. Luke's Hospital." Raft felt a sensation akin to hope and dared not let it blossom. "Couldn't possibly be a different Doctor Blessington? There's just the one?" "Just the one, sir." Freddie pulled a chair up to Raft's desk and sat down. "He was dismissed from St. Luke's Hospital for—" he made a face "—his unorthodox methods. At least, that's what the official report says. The Royal College were none too eager to turn that over to me, I can tell you. I'm sorry to tell you, sir, but I had to get forceful with those chaps." "You did it very well, Constable. How unsurprising that the good doctor lied." Raft thought for a moment. "What are the odds that this Blessington took exception to his abrupt dismissal and decided to do something about it?" "What? You mean, roaming about and carving people up?" Freddie's eyes narrowed. "You think he—" Freddie lowered his voice. "Do you think Blessington killed Lady Baverstock?" Raft hesitated to draw conclusions where there wasn't sufficient proof. "No, I don't suppose we can make that leap just yet. That reminds me." Raft retrieved the piece of card from his overcoat pocket. "Jeremy Hoare found this at Cleopatra's Needle. What do you make of it?"
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Freddie examined it and shrugged. "I don't know, sir. It's fairly vague, whatever it is. Sinister? That's Latin for left. And the eyes scratched out. Who's it supposed to be a picture of?" "No idea." Raft shook his head. "The further this thing progresses, the more complicated it becomes. I think I shall take a long holiday after this—perhaps Cornwall or somewhere by the sea. I've always fancied the sea, Constable. There's just something restful about it." He grinned. "Here I am rhapsodizing. Constable, I think for the time being we shall proceed as if Blessington is our man. The fact that he lied to us persuades me that he has something to hide. Have you any predisposition to arrest him?" Freddie indicated that he had. "Take two constables and bring him in. Best take a maria. I don't want a repeat of what happened with Flinders." Freddie was halfway out the door when Raft called him back. "Sir?" "Constable..." He hesitated. Perhaps this wasn't the best way. "With regard to the Iron Duke..." Freddie's face smoothed out, became absolutely expressionless. "Yes, sir?" "I'd prefer it if you didn't spend your leisure hours there." Freddie drew himself up. "Respectfully, sir, I think my leisure hours are my own affair." "Constable." Raft huffed out an annoyed breath. "Please." "What do you care where I go after work? What business is it of yours?" Freddie's voice rose, loud enough to be heard by the offices on either side. "I don't think you've got any call to tell me where I can go and where I can't." 191
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"Constable Crook!" Raft's voice cracked like a whip. "Sir." "Freddie." He sighed. "Please. Stay away. I should hate to—" "Hate to what, sir?" "I should hate to have to arrest you for gross indecency." Raft held his gaze long enough to make the point, then turned away. "Dismissed." "Sir, I think—" "You are dismissed, Constable." The temptation to recant— to apologize—was nearly unendurable. "Please, be about your duties." Below the level of his desk, Raft's hands clenched into fists. He forced himself to breathe slowly, even while his heart beat a strange threnody in his chest. Freddie's expression was chastened, and a little ashamed. He seemed surprised that Raft would speak to him that way. For a moment he seemed on the verge of saying something, but then he turned abruptly and went out of the room. Raft took up the 'sinister' card and examined it. The drawing was crude, almost child-like, the outline of a woman's body with a round, comical head set atop it. The hair was long and curly, the nose merely two dots, the mouth a single pen-stroke with no lips or teeth. Raft fetched out his magnifier and peered closely at the eyes. "Cover her face." The artist, whoever he was, hadn't bothered to depict even rudimentary pupils. The figure's eyes were empty circles, hastily scribbled over in dark pencil. The strokes were short and savage, and at several points the pencil had bit deeply 192
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into the cardboard. The marks were uniformly slanted left-toright, which probably indicated that the scribbler was lefthanded. "Mine eyes dazzle." Raft laid the card on his desk. "She died young." Had the killer known that the woman he murdered was Lady Baverstock? And why had she been roaming the Embankment by herself? There was nothing on the Embankment that Lady Baverstock could have wanted, unless... "She died young." Raft leapt up, snatched his coat from the hook and went charging down the stairs, taking them two at a time. He hailed a cab on the Embankment and climbed in. The dark bunting draped over the windows of the Baverstock house blocked all available light from inside and gave the dwelling the queer appearance of being eyeless. Raft seized the knocker and gave it a couple of sharp raps. A uniformed maid appeared and curtseyed to him. Her eyes and nose were red, and she was sniffling as though she'd been weeping, and he wondered if the household had already been notified of Lady Baverstock's murder. "My name is Inspector Philemon Raft, from Scotland Yard." He produced his warrant card and waved it in front of her watering eyes. "I should like to speak with the domestic staff if I may." "There's nowt but me and Albert here just now. The rest have gone out, like, to help with the arrangements. I still can't believe what's 'appened to 'Er Ladyship. Oh, it's terrible!" The girl's accent was Norfolk, which wasn't in itself surprising. More and more the smaller northern villages were emptying out, their folk leaving the ancestral home in droves 193
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to find work in the cities. "I'll go fetch him if you don't mind waiting." Raft shuffled his feet for some ten minutes in front of the fireplace, turning his hat round and round and counting the panes in the windows opposite. By the time the maid appeared he had counted and re-counted the panes, multiplied them, divided them, and added up the results to see if he might come out with an even number. "This is Albert." The girl thrust forward a tall, ungainly youth with huge hands and feet and the ruddy complexion of one who has spent a lifetime working out of doors. "He does this and that round the property." Raft's extended hand was engulfed in an enormous paw, thoroughly handled, squeezed, and finally released. "Albert, I won't waste your time with unnecessary questions." "It's alright." The lad shifted his large feet. "I've nowt to do now that 'Er Ladyship's 'ooked it." Raft frowned. "Er, quite. Have either of you noticed any visitors recently? Anyone who's been here more than once?" The girl thought for a moment. "There was a lady that come all the time— young, she was, and a bit poor-looking. She used to sit over there—" She pointed to a tapestry chair by the window. "And she'd smoke cigarettes. Sometimes she'd walk up and down." Raft fished in his pocket and brought out a photograph of Tansy Royal. "Is this the woman?" The girl examined it carefully, her finger in her mouth. The clock ticked loudly in the quiet house, and a horse and trap rattled past the window. "I think so, sir. She had different 194
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clothes on, but she had the same eyes, and she sort of looks like that." She handed him back the photograph. "Yes, I believe that is the girl who was here." "How often did she visit?" Albert shifted his big body. "She were always here," he rumbled. "Last few weeks she were here every day, almost. Got so that the mistress wouldn't have her in the house, especially after 'Is Lordship passed." "Do you remember anything she might have said?" Raft knew the average servant's propensity for listening at doors was only outweighed by a powerful native curiosity. "Perhaps you were passing by and overheard something?" "I don't listen at doors." Right. And I'm the long-lost ruler of another world. "Of course not." Raft assumed an appropriately-penitent expression. "But let us say you happened to pass by. Might you have heard something?" She twisted her handkerchief into knots, her face averted. When she looked back, there were tears on her cheeks. "She said awful things, called her ladyship horrible names. She said she were coming back to get what was hers." Raft turned to the boy. "Albert, have you ever known Her Ladyship—" Both young people bowed their heads reflexively and Raft wondered if he ought to genuflect or something. "Have you ever known Her Ladyship to go out at night by herself? Say, to the theatre or to religious services?" Albert allowed that no, "'Er Ladyship wasn't in the 'abit of going out nights." 195
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"Have you ever known her to go anywhere on her own, in recent days?" Raft wondered how to put it delicately? "Since Lord Baverstock..." "Since 'Is Lordship 'ooked it?" "Quite." "Only place she went was t'cemetery." Raft suppressed the surge of excitement building through his chest and belly. "The cemetery." "'Ighgate, sir. She went every morning, early, and every night, round this time, before...well, before she were killed, sir. It's where 'Is Lordship is buried, like. All the family's buried there. She went often, putting flowers on the graves, like. Such a beautiful family crypt it is, too. Anybody would be pleased...well, you know what I mean, sir." Albert gazed at him mournfully from under a jagged fringe of hair, his eyes red-rimmed and wet. "I 'spect she's there, now, in 'er spirit form, waiting for 'im to join 'er." For the love of Christ... "One more thing." It occurred to him almost as an afterthought. "Had Lady Baverstock done any shooting lately? With small arms?" The two exchanged a look, but it was Albert who spoke. "I don't think so, sir." He tried not to let his disappointment show. "I see." The injury to her thumb and the palm of the hand reminded him of something he'd seen before. A newcomer to Raft's own shooting club, a young coxcomb with rather more money than good sense, had been given a revolver as a birthday present. Not knowing how to properly use it, he'd sustained a nasty injury. "Well, thank you. I'm sorry to have troubled you." 196
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He told himself that it was just a hunch and by itself meant nothing—but the question of Lady Baverstock's thumb haunted Raft well into the afternoon. Raft wasn't in the habit of frequenting the cemeteries. His natural propensity to attract phantoms made visiting such places akin to a stroll in Rotten Row on a summer Sunday, but there was something about Highgate that was inevitably pretty, with its rows of tidy mausoleums, and its gravestones twined with ivy. The trench is overgrown with the smoothest turf, and the Walls with ivy. Those words, from one of Keats' letters, always came to him whenever he visited the cemetery. He positioned himself behind a stately mausoleum in the newer section, lit a cigar and waited. It wasn't inevitable that the shade of Lady Baverstock might come to visit, but in Raft's experience, ghosts were often rather scanty with their information. No, he lay in wait for living quarry, hoping that in this case his patience might garner some choice reward. The servants had said that 'Er Ladyship only ever went to Highgate to pay her respects to the Baverstock dead, and because it was where 'Is Lordship was buried, but this didn't ring true for Raft. Baverstock's tendencies had made him an outcast from society, and Raft doubted that his love of London renters had endeared him to his wife. As for the Baverstocks themselves, there was no great love lost between them and the widow. Raft couldn't imagine Lady Baverstock visiting the family crypt to leave a floral tribute— something less redolent, perhaps, not flowers. It was highly unlikely that Lady Baverstock had been going to Highgate to 197
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contemplate the demise of her dear, departed husband and the disposition of his earthly remains—although it might be convenient for some to think so. It was more likely that she had been meeting someone there; someone who Raft hoped might show himself. As it turned out, he didn't have long to wait. Twenty minutes into his cigar the lone figure of a man came slowly along the paths, tapping an ebony walking stick on the ground. He was tall, handsome and brown-eyed, dressed in a dark topper and an elegant cashmere overcoat. He might have been a prosperous young solicitor—and he was. Thomas Roderick, QC, tapped his way round the mausoleum belonging to the Tindall family, purveyors of fine jams, jellies and relishes, and past the crypt of the Gaunts, reportedly a tall, hollow-cheeked tribe of Bible salesmen. He stopped in front of a huge, Gothic tomb emblazoned with the Baverstock crest and waited, while Raft remained carefully out of sight some little distance away. Roderick seemed put out when his party did not arrive within short order, and several times took out his watch and scrutinized it. He walked up and down and tapped the ground with his stick, and smoked, and finally, when another twenty minutes had passed, Raft slipped out of his hiding place and walked up behind him. "She isn't coming." "I say, do you—oh, it's you." Roderick regarded him narrowly. "I promised to thrash you before, Raft, and I'll do it." 198
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"Will you?" Raft was easily as tall as Roderick and, while not as heavily built, he would have matched his own wiry strength against the solicitor's any day. "You do know that threatening a police officer with violence is a crime." He looked Roderick up and down. "You are a solicitor, after all." Roderick swore at him. "What business have you here?" "I might ask you the same thing. Is it usual for a busy young solicitor to haunt Highgate night and morning?" "I'm to meet someone." "She isn't coming." Raft tossed away the end of his spent cigar. "Lady Baverstock's body was found behind Cleopatra's Needle yesterday afternoon around four. She had been murdered." Roderick's face seemed to cave in on itself. He rushed at Raft, his stick upraised, but Raft anticipated him. He caught hold of the stick with both hands and shoved it back at Roderick, toppling him off-balance. The solicitor staggered, regained himself and came at Raft again, was again similarly intercepted, only this time Raft used Roderick's own momentum to swing him round and slam him face-first into the Baverstock crypt. He yanked one of Roderick's hands behind his back and then the other, and secured him with the bracelets. "I'll have you in the dock for this, Raft!" "Who's your solicitor, Roderick? Yourself?" Raft turned him round. "A man who represents himself has a fool for a client. Didn't they teach you that at university?" Roderick's head snapped back and then forward, but Raft was long gone before Roderick's forehead could make 199
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contact. He grabbed hold of the solicitor's nose and twisted it between two fingers until tears came into Roderick's eyes. "Don't be such a bloody idiot." Raft tightened his grip. "Are you going to behave and talk sensibly or have I got to twist it right off your face?" "Fine," Roderick said, albeit rather nasally. "Just let go of me, dammit!" "Much better. Mind you behave yourself. I've only to whistle and I'll have every constable within call at my side. How would it look, Mr. Roderick, to be loaded aboard a maria in full view of London? I might even give a...what do they call it? An exclusive. I might even give an exclusive. 'I Arrested Tommy Roderick In Highgate'. I'd have to frame that one and hang it on my wall." "Oh, for God's sake, get on with it, would you?" "What are you doing here? And don't give me some rubbish about visiting the dear departed. I doubt even Lord Baverstock would cheer you on for what you've been doing." Roderick's chin lifted. "Oh? What have I been doing?" "You've been shagging his wife." To his credit, the solicitor didn't bother to deny it. "So what if I have?" "You know, you seem particularly unmoved for someone who's been told his bit of crumpet's no longer in any position to put herself about. Or perhaps she was merely convenient?" Roderick laughed. "You are vulgar, Raft, but even someone as common as you shouldn't have to be told what's what."
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"Ah. So you were dabbing it up with her and that's all. Not planning to marry her after Lord Baverstock had topped himself?" "No." Roderick shifted against the stone. "I say, can we take these things off, now? They're too tight." "What about Lord Baverstock? Did Lady Baverstock ever say anything about his after-hours pursuits?" "We didn't talk about her husband." "What exactly did you talk about?" "We had a business arrangement. Lord Baverstock had made scant provision for her in his will and we had hoped—" "To shake a few more coppers out of the jug. Mm. I thought it was something like that. Right, turn round." Raft took the darbies off and stepped back as Roderick took a swing at him. "Get off!" He shoved the solicitor in the direction of Swains Lane. "And don't let me see you round here again or I'll take you in." He pocketed his darbies and turned, nearly running into Mr. Finch, the cemetery's ancient caretaker. He was wearing a long tweed frock coat and a battered top hat, and carrying a broken umbrella of torn pink silk. "Mr. Finch!" "Inspector Raft, I suffer horribly with the gout today, I am sad to say." He pointed to one foot with the tip of the umbrella. "All the devils of hell are gnawing on that very toe." "I am sorry to hear that, Mr. Finch." Finch had been associated with Highgate as long as anybody could remember, but nobody really knew where he'd come from. The parish allowed him a small living allowance in exchange for general maintenance; he could usually be found trimming 201
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the weeds from around the graves. "I truly am sorry. 'Though wherefore, poor old King? I have no comfort for thee...'" "Hyperion." Mr. Finch nodded. "I do wish he'd finished that one. It has that wonderfully pagan element to it, quite a pastoral sensibility, really. Reminds me of Ode to Psyche. I say, what do you think of Shelley?" Raft fixed him with a sorrowful look and shook his head. "Oh, Mr. Finch. And here I had such hopes for you. Such valiant hopes." He fished a photograph out of his pocket and held it in front of the old man's eyes. "What about this?" "Oooh, that's a pretty one. I knew her when she was Lively Ivy." "Lively Ivy?" "Ivy Mulqueen, she was. Born over there in Seven Dials." Finch sighed, eyes moist with remembrance. "Did a fan dance the likes of which you've never seen. Ahhh, they don't make them like Ivy." "No, Mr. Finch, that they don't." Raft thanked him, pocketed the photograph of Lady Baverstock, and went away whistling. Freddie decided to walk back to the Yard, even though the wind was cold enough to shear the skin from his face. He'd sent the two constables back with Blessington but he wanted to feel the cold air and even relished it, because it helped to clear his head and give his thoughts a more rational framework. He couldn't be rational around Raft. The man's effect on Freddie was nothing less than devastating, and even when Raft was displeased with him—Freddie had noted the warning about the Iron Duke—he couldn't find it in his heart 202
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to hold it against the man. And that kiss...he was grateful that Raft had pulled away when he did. Another moment and he'd have had Raft right there on the floor of the office, open door be damned. It was getting harder to be in Raft's presence without touching him and once Freddie allowed himself to touch Raft, he couldn't stop. The inspector had begun to haunt his dreams as well, and for the last two or three nights Freddie awoke convinced that Raft had been lying beside him, touching him, kissing him, bringing his crisis upon him so powerfully that he'd nearly wept with the force of it. Or maybe that was just the loneliness. He had just rounded the corner of Fleet Street, heading south when he heard the cries, and turned instinctively to see what was the matter. An old man with severely bandy legs and the demeanour of a beggar was being hounded by three other men, all of them young and obviously fit. "Oi!" Freddie started off toward them. "What's this, then?" They predictably scattered and ran, escaping down a narrow lane between two buildings, and it occurred to Freddie that something might be amiss when he realised that the crippled man was running with them. He stopped, began to back away, and turned to make good his escape, but his way was barred by the crippled man, who had seemingly regained his health and was holding what looked to be a length of piping. Freddie reached to make the collar, but his wrists were grabbed and cinched behind him, tied with rope. The premonition of it rose like smoke behind 203
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his eyes, and he fought to stay upright on his feet, but they were too many and he was only one. They swarmed to cover him, striking out with feet and fists, until he went down under a flurry of blows. "You ought to know better, guv'nor!" The crippled man hit him across the back and shoulders with the pipe. "You and your dear Inspector Raft. You ought not to poke your noses in where you don't belong!" He raised one booted foot and stamped on Freddie's face, driving the hobnailed sole into the flesh and narrowly missing the constable's eyes. Freddie rolled from side to side, seeking escape from the endless assaults, but could make no headway. "You tell your inspector to leave off following Miss Tansy Royal, or he'll be hearing from us!" There were boots in his ribs, and savage blows rained down on him from all directions. He tasted blood, and a wave of dizziness threatened him then crested and washed over him as everything went black. Charters was busy with his accounts book when the bell over his front door clanged. He looked up, irritated at the intrusion and ready to do battle—but it was only the girl, her face set in something that looked a great deal like rage, and her blue eyes hard and pitiless. "What's this, then?" She came up to the counter and, reaching forward, swept everything off it with one skinny arm. "What the devil are you on about, Henry? I thought we had an understanding, you and me." "Stop that!" He came round to retrieve the ledger and she seized on him with both hands, slamming him back against the counter. Her strength was prodigious. He never ceased to marvel at it, nor did he cease to marvel at the violence and 204
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alacrity with which she conducted herself. "How dare you come in here?" She twisted her fists in his coat. "You've been doing a bit too much talking. I know you, Henry. You've got as many secrets as the next man and you'd best be keeping to your business." "Let go of me." He didn't understand how a girl—a slight, willowy girl who scarcely weighed six stone soaking wet, had the strength to sling him around like she did. It didn't add up...and that night last month, that one night when she'd come back here, drunk on gin and stinking like a common whore, he'd tried to throw her out, but she'd hauled him into the back of the shop and.... Put it in me...you take that floppy thing and you put it in my hole, you hear me? You'd better do it. "This is highly improper. Shame on you." "You were talking to that copper. I know. And now one of them is following me about and it is making me very, very nervous, do you know what I mean?" She took hold of a fold of his cheek and twisted it until the tears from his eyes. "If I find out that you were fucking about with the coppers, I swear, I will kill you." The absurdity of the situation struck him and he began to laugh. He laughed and laughed and then he shoved her away, spun round and reached under the counter. The blade was of a sort that collapsed into a folding handle and could be extended from the palm of the hand very quickly. It had been made by a blind machinist in Bucharest and Charters had obtained it from an old acquaintance, a doctor friend of his. 205
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"You will kill me? You?" He slashed at her, feinting, and she danced back out of the way but just barely. "You? Will kill me?" He caught a fold of her sleeve and wrapped it round her wrist so tight that her fingers turned pale. "You don't know who you're dealing with, little girl." He used her trapped wrist as leverage to turn her body towards him, angling her closer until the tip of the blade rested in the hollow of her throat. "I could kill you right this minute. Hm? How about that?" He pulled her behind the counter, out of sight of the large windows that fronted the shop. "I could cut your throat. I could cut out your lying little tongue so you never speak again." He raised the blade, caressing her cheek with cold steel. "How about I do that? Cut out your tongue and then turn you out into the street. I wonder what people would say? It wouldn't matter. What does a whore need to talk for? That's what you are, a whore." The bell over the door jingled and Tansy started, eyes rolling like a frightened animal. Charters clamped his free hand over her mouth. "Don't you talk, girl," he whispered. "Or I will kill you." He leant in and ran his tongue up her cheek. "Maybe I will kill you anyway." "From the Embankment to Highgate Cemetery, five miles." Raft's pencil trembled for a moment over the large London map he had laid on his desk. "Five miles by hansom cab or four-wheeler, top speed six miles per hour, not quite an hour to go from there to here." He drew a circle round Highgate Cemetery. "From Highgate...from Highgate...to the Embankment...give him an hour to find her and to locate a cab...a cab. Hm. Quite." He was alone in his office, and 206
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talking to himself. "Ivy Mulqueen. Lively Ivy, having it off with the solicitor she'd hired to drain the dregs of her late husband's will. A bandage on her thumb. Fan dance, eh? Fan dance. That's what I would call bounding up through society." Inspector Abernathy, whose office was across the corridor from Raft's, shouted at him to shut up; Raft ignored him. "Must have seen her on the stage. That's a bit of a surprise. No, he'd have gone in for that sort of thing. The upper classes and their slumming...found her wandering in Highgate cemetery and killed her there, took the body in a carriage to the Needle, dumped it. Why 'sinister'?" Raft was just about to leave for the evening when Constable Cholmondely rapped politely at his office door and handed in a message. He waited while Raft read it. "Henry Charters." Raft glanced up at Cholmondely. "The apothecary." "Is that so, sir?" Cholmondely smiled. "'Fraid I've been down in the cells all day, sir. I'm only just relaying the message." He fished in the pocket of his tunic and came out with a piece of toffee, which he stuffed into his mouth and began to vigorously chew. "All I know is, he tottered in here on his crabshells like he'd run into a fair bit of the sticky. He were working his mauleys like he were thinking of faking a flag." Raft blinked. "Sorry?" "Oh." Cholmondely worked the toffee into his cheek. "He were very upset, sir." "Er, Constable, why the, er..." 207
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"The cant, sir?" He drew himself up proudly. "From the East End, sir. I say there's no need for a man to be shy about his origins." "Quite right." "Any road, his shop were tossed. First I thought he'd the blue devils, he were that upset. Said someone came in and broke open all his boxes and bottles." "Right. Well, there goes a quiet night in." Raft realised Cholmondely was still standing in the doorway. "Thank you, Constable. You can cut along now." "Oh, and I meant to tell you, sir—that Blessington fellow was brought in about half an hour ago. He's down in the cells." "Did Constable Crook return?" "No, sir. Burley and Sujet brought Blessington in on Constable Crook's orders. They came in the maria with the prisoner. Burley said Crook wanted to walk back, sir." "Alright." Raft pocketed the message. "Thank you, Cholmondely." Charters was waiting for him when Raft stepped down from the cab. He peered at Raft through a pair of round, goldrimmed spectacles and didn't seem to like what he saw. "It's about time, Inspector. What we pay our taxes for, I don't know." Raft had heard this more times than he cared to count. "Sorry, Mr. Charters. I was detained on important business. You will no doubt have heard there is a murderer about." "That is nothing to me. What I want to know is why my shop has been subject to so shocking an attack and what the 208
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Metropolitan Police are going to do about it." He drew himself up. "Hm? What are you going to do about me, Inspector?" I know what I'd like to do about you. "Now then, Mr. Charters, perhaps you would care to show me the damage?" Charters led him to the far corner of the shop, and Raft saw at once that the shelves had all been pulled down and their boxes scattered, the contents strewn about the floor. He bent and sorted through the debris but saw nothing suggestive, not even a footprint. "Were you in the shop when this occurred?" "I was in the back, compounding some cosmetic preparations. That's where I do all my compounding, back there. I have been here all day long, since just after seven this morning. Indeed, I have not left this shop once, Inspector. Not once." "Right." "I heard a commotion and came out. Naturally I was horrified when I saw the damage. Who's going to pay for this lot, I don't know." Raft straightened up. "Surely your shop carries insurance, Mr. Charters?" Charters peered at Raft as if wishing all the torments of hell upon him. "Of course, but I don't see why I should—" "Right, I shall file this and I'll have my men make a thorough sweep of the area. Perhaps your...assailant might return, Mr. Charters. You never know." "A thorough sweep of the area?" Charters' mouth opened and closed in an almost comical manner. "A thorough 209
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sweep—of the area. Inspector, I have lost a great deal of valuable merchandise!" "Of course." Raft couldn't be certain by merely a cursory glance, but it appeared that the shelves had merely been tossed, with nothing taken. "Every single box of tansy and pennyroyal pills I had, all gone. Every one!" Charters threw a challenging stare at Raft. "I'd like to know where you think I'm to get it!" "I shall make a thorough sweep of the area," Raft repeated. "Are you quite certain nothing else is missing?" "Nothing else missing? As if that isn't enough?" Charters ran an agitated hand through his strawberry blond hair. "Nothing else missing?" Raft left him standing in his shop. He hailed a cab just round the corner and climbed in, gave the cabbie directions to his lodgings. Tansy and pennyroyal pills...Freddie had said they were for female complaints...what the devil did that mean? He closed his eyes and summoned up a mental picture of the box that Freddie had brought back to the Yard that day. Red box, small black lettering, LADY WIDGEON'S FEMALE PILLS...An Effectual Remedy For All Cases Where Nature Has Stopped From Any Cause Whatever. Raft's knowledge of such things was woefully inadequate but not surprising, considering. All cases where Nature has stopped...what did that mean? Philemon, leave your sister alone. She isn't feeling well. Why? What's the matter with her? She is feeling herself very much a lady today. A glimpse, then, of bloodied rags in a special pail beside the rest of the 210
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Monday washing, and the gritty residue of bicarbonate of soda...Philemon, leave your sister alone. It struck him like a hammer-blow and suddenly all traces of his fatigue were gone. Tansy and pennyroyal...Tansy Penelope Royal...Lady Widgeon's Female Pills... I met a lady in the meads, Full beautiful—a faery's child, Her hair was long, her foot was light, And her eyes were wild. Yes, that was it, wasn't it? That was almost certainly it...her eyes were wild...wild-eyed women turned loose upon the city...roaming at will...wild-eyed. Missing their eyes. "Why would she be missing her eyes? Eyes scribbled out. Don't look. Don't see." He nodded to himself. "Don't see. Yes, she is very much a lady." He could have tracked Jeremy Hoare down and asked him the girl's address, but Hoare had his own methods and Raft hated to distract him while he was on the scent. There was only one thing to do now. He rapped on the ceiling of the cab, leant out and directed the cabbie back to the Victoria Embankment. Raft found Sir Newton Babcock still in his office, bent studiously over a file folder, his great girth supported against the edge of the desk. For some long moments, Babcock appeared not to see him, and so Raft cleared his throat, rather more noisily than was necessary. "You've been stood there for five minutes, you can manage to stand there for a few seconds more." Babcock didn't even raise his eyes from the folder, and Raft took this as a very bad sign indeed. By the end of the interview, he supposed, he would most likely be directing omnibus traffic in the Piccadilly Circus. It couldn't be helped. Babcock would have the 211
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information Raft needed, and Raft intended to find out what his superior knew. "The charity ball," Raft began, once he had gained the older man's attention. "What about it?" Babcock grunted. "Have you come looking for your money back, Inspector?" He heaved his bulk up out of the chair and began a slow circuit around the office, his steps as ponderous as any circus elephant, and just as capable of devastation. He stopped before Raft, and gazed for some moments into the inspector's tiepin. "I'm afraid you'll be disappointed. No refunds. All monies go to the Retirement Fund, you know that." "I'm looking for a woman, sir. A—girl, to be precise." Babcock inspected him with an expression of faint disgust. "About bloody time," he said. "I'll tell you the truth, I was beginning to worry about you, Raft. Now, take my daughter Anderin—" "Respectfully, sir, I don't think I would make a good match for your daughter." It came out rather more cheekily than Raft had intended, and he cringed. "How dare you, Raft?" Babcock shook one fat fist. "I'll have your warrant card!" Raft pressed a hand to his forehead. "What I mean, sir... there was a young woman hired to help with the serving at the retirement ball. She gave her name as Tansy Penelope Royal. I've reason to believe that was an alias." "A serving girl?" "About..." Raft indicated a space next to his right shoulder. "Not very tall and with dark hair. It was curled or frizzled or 212
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whatever they call it, and she had blue eyes. There was something cheap about her." "Hmph. Serving girl. No doubt." Babcock appeared to be thinking. "I rather think you can do better than a serving girl, Raft, but if she's caught your fancy..." Babcock unlocked his desk drawer and took out a green ledger. He paged through it, murmuring faintly under his breath. "Here it is. The name given was Tansy Royal. There's no other name and we paid the girl with banknotes. Inspector Abernathy did manage to find her address, however. The girl lives in Dorset Street— yes, I believe you're familiar with it, Inspector. It does seem to be your sort of place." Raft bit back a caustic reply. "Thank you, sir." He turned to go. "Er, Raft, one other thing, if you've a moment..." "Yes, sir." "The woman at the monument. You do know who she is. Or should I say, was." "I do, sir." "Do you also know that she laid a complaint about you? It seems you gained entry to her house under false pretences. Said you were an undertaker?" "No, sir. I never said anything of the sort. The butler assumed I was the undertaker, and I saw no real need to disabuse him of that notion." "And your subsequent investigation caused you to suspect that Lord Baverstock was murdered?" Babcock's rosebud mouth drew up into a smirk. 213
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"Yes, sir." Raft's stomach contracted into a hard knot. "That is my theory, and I stand by it." Babcock shifted some items on his desk, studiously avoiding Raft's gaze. It was as if he were preparing himself for something—some monumental utterance whose purpose was to curtail once and for all the course of Raft's investigation. "Inspector Raft, you are to cease and desist any investigation into the manner of Lord Baverstock's death. Is that clear?" The hair at the nape of Raft's neck prickled. "But sir—" "It is not open for discussion, Inspector—and it is not a request. Dismissed." "Sir, I believe I understand why you wish me to stop, but really, Baverstock's body was buried before I'd a chance to bring my theories—" "You will immediately desist!" Babcock roared so loudly that the windowpanes rattled. "Are you clear? Do you hear me, Inspector? There is to be no more of this nonsense involving Lord and Lady Baverstock! Lord Baverstock is dead and he is in the ground. He committed suicide because he could no longer countenance his own...disgusting depravities. There is nothing, absolutely nothing to be gained by investigating it further, and I will not have you wasting time and money chasing something that is better left alone. " "Sir." It was a measure of Raft's exhaustion that he continued with it; he would have hardly bothered if he'd been in a normal frame of mind. "You cannot simply let this go." "That is enough. Do you hear me? Go find this serving girl of yours and get it out of your system." Babcock collapsed 214
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into his chair, his chest heaving and his fat face dangerously red. "Sir." "Raft, get out. If I see you again before the end of the week I'll have you stripped of all your privileges and demoted. Mention Lord Baverstock to me again and you'll be directing omnibus traffic in Charing Cross. Is that understood?" Raft forced himself to retire his opinion, at least for the moment. It was very difficult. "Quite, sir." Babcock leant back in his chair and sighed. "Dismissed. Go find your woman." It wasn't that Raft found himself a woman so much as a woman found him. A thorough and exhausting search of Dorset Street had failed to turn up Tansy Royal or anyone who knew her. He returned to his lodgings around midnight, undressed in the dark and fell into bed. He was awakened out of sleep by Mrs. Featherstonehaugh, bending over him and rolling him to and fro, hissing in his ear that a gentleman was here to see him. Hadn't he to get up and receive his visitor? "For God's sake!" Raft rolled over and opened one eye. "Who is it, at this time of night?" "Don't take that tone with me!" Mrs. Featherstonehaugh, ever resourceful and quite used by now to dealing with the inspector's vicissitudes, wrung one of his ears until he yelped. "A young man, very handsome. Says his name is Putterfly or Pistolby or something of that sort. You'd best see him." "Go away," Raft moaned. But he got up anyway and shrugged into his dressing gown, the better to receive John Ponsonby. 215
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The doctor made no preamble. "Freddie Crook is very badly hurt. I came here as soon as I found out." "Freddie?" Raft stared at him. "How did you know?" "His brother Armitage sent a messenger round to fetch me. Constable Crook is resting at his brother's house but I'm going over there now to see to him." He reached out to steady Raft, hold him upright. "You're shivering. Here." Ponsonby fetched a blanket from the sofa and wrapped it around Raft, who felt as if he'd been drenched in icy water. "What happened?" Raft asked, then... "What time is it?" "Just past one in the morning. He said he was lured into a laneway and attacked by several men." "Is he all right?" He'd have been all alone, Raft thought, and likely preoccupied with other matters, mulling things over, his mind elsewhere. They might have done anything to him, and what could he have done to defend himself? "Get into your clothes and come with me." Ponsonby gathered up Raft's hat and gloves. "There's a cab at the door." He had never felt so bad in his life—not even after falling off the roof of his cousin Robert's brand new carriage. He was lying—insofar as he could tell—in a nice bed, very comfortable, but he felt as though someone had tried to turn him inside out. Thank God for Armitage's wife Lucy, who at least had offered something for the pain, something that Freddie suspected was laudanum, but which at least eased the savage grip of his injuries. The only disadvantage was that it tended to make him astonishingly sleepy and to produce bizarre and varied dreams, not unlike the visions of 216
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Samuel Taylor Coleridge, with whose work Freddie had a nodding acquaintance. Thus far he'd dreamt he was riding in a large cigar with Raft and John Ponsonby, and Jeremy Hoare was standing on top of it, dressed in a footman's uniform and wearing a powdered wig. Then he was at St. Luke's Hospital, touring the ward with a tall man with a doctor's bag and carrying a stethoscope; instead of individual beds the patients were confined in cages. They howled and shouted at Freddie as he passed, and one man—a thin, haggard wraith with burning eyes—was catching and eating insects. He grinned at Freddie as the constable passed, and then it seemed that his grin followed Freddie. No matter where he went, the grin was there, attaching itself to the ceiling and the walls or appearing to flutter ahead of him like some grotesque butterfly. He wondered where Inspector Raft was, and if anyone had been sent to fetch him. His brother Armitage disliked visitors, and Freddie wondered what Armitage would say when Raft showed up unannounced. The door to Freddie's room clicked softly open and the tall figure of his brother stepped into the room. Armitage was wearing a simple shirt and a pair of dark tweed trousers as though they'd been tossed at him from a distance. "Awake, are you?" He hauled a chair over to Freddie's bed and sat down, looking at his younger brother with distaste. In looks, Armitage resembled Freddie only in the same way that a tree can be said to resemble a fine piece of furniture. He was tall, raw-boned and big through the shoulders, with the reddish complexion of a confirmed drinker. His big hands hung at his sides, swinging with the 217
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weight of his body, and his expression was one of barely suppressed cruelty. "I'm surprised you even bothered to drag yourself here. You never think of me except when you want something." "Please." It was difficult to speak through badly swollen lips. "Armitage, let's not do this. I should like us to be friends." "Would you?" The elder Crook got up from the chair. "You can piss off. The first bloody time I've heard a word from you in five years. I'm glad our mother isn't alive to see this." Freddie smiled as much as his injuries would allow. "I'm glad our mother isn't alive, period." Armitage clenched his big hands into fists and backed away. "I'd thrash you for a shilling." "Why don't you?" Freddie lunged at him, as far as his injuries would allow. "Get it out of your system." The door swished open and the downstairs maid peered in. "The doctor's here," she said, "to see Mr. Crook. Shall I show him up?" "Yes, Marion, do that. Perhaps he can figure out what's wrong with my dear little brother." Armitage went away and the figure of John Ponsonby took up position near the bed. "Dear me," Ponsonby murmured, "you don't do anything by halves, do you, Constable?" He took up Freddie's wrist to measure the young man's pulse. "It's me, Constable—John Ponsonby. Your brother sent for me. I expect he found my address in your notebook, police surgeon and all. Are you sure this isn't a ruse to get the five pounds I won from you at cards last week?" 218
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"Where is Ph—Inspector Raft? Is he here?" Freddie made to sit up. "He is waiting to see you, but I insist that you lie down. Please. I should like to make an examination of you." Raft waited till Ponsonby finished his examination and had retreated down the stairs, before venturing into the bedroom. The lamp had been turned down to a mere flicker in the darkness, and Raft was loath to tamper with it, in case Freddie was asleep. He drew near to the bed in which the young constable lay. He reached out to touch one of Freddie's hands, and cradled the limp fingers against his palm as he sank into a chair. He forced himself to look, to assess and catalogue the damage, random bruising on the face, and a nasty cut above one eye that had swollen and puffed to astonishing proportions. Raft sighed, drew the covers back from Freddie's naked torso. They had been at him with fists and feet. Raft traced the map of bruises with his gaze, not daring to touch Freddie for fear of causing him more pain than had already been endured. He saw what looked like puncture marks from hobnailed boots along the young man's sides, and further down his thighs. It was clear that more than one man had provoked and sustained this. Raft vowed that he would scour the bowels of London until he found them. Perhaps he wouldn't even allow them benefit of trial, he thought savagely. Perhaps he'd kill them all himself, with just his bare hands and perhaps a pair of hobnailed boots... "Sir. She...mm, gave me laudanum. Sleepy." "Shhh...don't try to talk." His eyes burnt like vitriol. "I came as soon as I heard. Ponsonby woke me and brought me 219
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over." He smiled gently. "Knightsbridge, Freddie? Your brother's done all right for himself. Perhaps you oughtn't to make Bermondsey jokes after all, hm?" It was difficult to keep up the light-hearted banter, but Raft tried his best. "I've been stupid, haven't I?" Freddie's grip tightened on Raft's fingers. "I didn't see them. I'd no idea they were there until it was too late." "Freddie..." Raft pressed his lips to the young man's palm, the one place on his body that remained undamaged. "So help me God, I'll find them. I'll find them and I'll deal with them, supposing I swing for it!" Freddie freed his hand, pressed his fingers against Raft's mouth. "Kiss me?" "Oh no, Freddie, I'll hurt you." "You'd never hurt me," Freddie said, and Raft damned himself for a blackguard. He bent and pressed his opened mouth against Freddie's parted lips, unprepared for the young man's hungry assault or his own eager response. "Thank you," Freddie murmured, sinking back against the pillows. A slight smile played about his lips, and Raft fancied that the laudanum was claiming him again. He left Freddie there and went out. Armitage Crook was waiting with John Ponsonby below. "Inspector Raft." The elder Crook looked like he'd been tasting something bad in Raft's absence. Raft perceived Ponsonby sitting near the fire, devouring the largest Chelsea bun that Raft had ever seen. At Raft's approach, the doctor looked up and mumbled something through a mouthful of pastry then buried his face in his teacup. "Thank you." Raft took the cup and saucer, but 220
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declined a Chelsea bun. His stomach felt as if some Yorkshire codger had used it for a round of ferret-legging. "Mr. Crook was telling me that Constable Crook—that is, his brother—might do better if he stayed here for the duration of his recovery." Ponsonby glanced across at Armitage Crook, now semi-recumbent on a chaise lounge and resentfully smoking a cigarette. "This is a most discreet household and Mrs. Crook has indicated her willingness to provide for most of Constable Crook's needs." Intellectually, Raft knew that Mrs. Crook was correct in this, but he feared to have Freddie languish under any protection but his own. "I expect you're right," he allowed reluctantly. He wondered how he might go about his daily duties, knowing that Freddie was the recuperative hostage of a drunken sot in a brownstone house in Knightsbridge. "Fear not, Inspector. We shall take good care of him." A young woman, beautiful and sleepy-eyed and clad in a fashionable lace wrapper, came down into the sitting room. "He shall be cared for as a much-beloved brother ought to be cared for. I shall see to it personally." Raft laid his teacup down and rose. "You are very kind, ma'am. Thank you for opening your home to Constable Crook. I'm sure that, with your careful kindness, he shall recover in no time at all." Ponsonby reached for his medical bag. "Mrs. Crook, your kindness is much appreciated." Armitage Crook stirred and stubbed out his cigarette. "You've been calling me Crook," he said, "and I've resisted correcting you. You both are operating under a 221
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misapprehension, Doctor. My brother's surname is Crook. Mine is Waddington." Ponsonby made a polite face. "I beg your pardon, Mr. Waddington. I naturally assumed you and Constable Crook were brothers by the happy accident of birth. Please, forgive me." The young doctor cast a quizzical look at Raft, who shrugged. Freddie must have changed his name. Raft wondered why but now was not the time for questions of that sort. "I suppose your brother wished to spare your family any embarrassment," Raft said. "A policeman's lot—as Messrs. Gilbert and Sullivan tell us—is not a happy one." He stood up to go. "Mrs. Waddington, thank you so much for your kindness." She smiled, her lovely heart-shaped face curving into a deliciously saucy grin. "Do come and visit Constable Crook," she said, "whenever you like." Waddington frowned. "Lucy." He hauled himself to his feet. "Gentlemen, I'll show you out." He waited until they were safely in the foyer before speaking. "My wife was something of a bluestocking before our marriage. I've been trying to rid her of her overly modern ideas, but I'm afraid I've not been as successful as I'd like." "Nonsense." Ponsonby wound his muffler round his neck. "Mrs. Waddington is the soul of feminine kindness and discretion." It was as if Ponsonby had insulted the woman to her face. "Get out of my house," Waddington growled. "And you'd best hope that my brother makes a rapid recovery. I've no fellow 222
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feeling for the little bastard. For all I care he can rot in the street." With that, he put up his enormous hands and shoved Raft and Ponsonby out onto the pavement, shutting the door behind them. Raft sprang at the house but Ponsonby restrained him. "Don't," the doctor said. "Constable Crook is sleeping. Let him rest. In a day or so I'll make arrangements to have him transferred to Guy's." He drew Raft in the direction of a waiting cab. "Come on. You need to sleep. Constable Crook is in good hands. That dear lady will make sure of it. As for that other idiot..." He glared at the house. "Perhaps a good laxative would do him a world of benefit." The cab let Raft off in front of his lodgings and he waved goodbye to Ponsonby. He was fishing about for his key when a shadow fell between him and the streetlamp. "Inspector Raft." The shadow belonged to an enormous man, seven foot tall if he was an inch, dressed in the clothing of a fisherman or sailor and carrying the biggest knife Raft had ever seen. "I want to talk to you." His accent was Greek or Turkish, which meant he'd probably come off a boat. Raft wondered what the devil he was doing here and especially at this hour. "Come to my office at Scotland Yard, man—when it's daylight." "I don't think that would be wise. I'd rather talk to you right now." "Piss off." Raft found the key and shoved it into the lock, but the knob didn't turn. "I've no time for this rubbish." 223
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The blade of the knife sliced through the fabric of his coat and into his shoulder, pinning him against the wooden door. The pain was excruciating, and he fought to stay alert. A gust of garlic washed over his face as the giant pressed close to speak into his ear: "Your constable was warned off, and now I'm warning you as well. Nine inches of Damascus steel, Inspector. Stop asking questions about Miss Tansy Royal, hm? And never mind Lord Baverstock or Lord Godalming. Next time the knife will go elsewhere besides your shoulder." He left Raft there, pinned against the door. The last thing Raft heard was his footsteps, dying away in the darkness as he faded like a shadow into the night. He came to himself in Mrs. Featherstonehaugh's kitchen, draped across two chairs in the manner of a disgraced explorer being carried off by hostile tribesmen. A squat iron kettle sat to the rear of the stove pouring steam into the air, while a fire crackled and popped agreeably from somewhere nearby. "Here, now." A smiling young girl with dark ringlets and a spotless white mob cap leant over him. "Stay as still as you can, Inspector. I'm going to clean your shoulder." "Liniment, girl!" Mrs. Featherstonehaugh's massive frame interposed itself between Raft and the maid, bearing a bowl of hot water and a sea sponge. "How the devil you get yourself into these sorts of difficulties, I don't know." She pressed the hot sponge to the wound in Raft's shoulder and the resulting bolt of searing pain made him shout. He writhed, twisting away, but the housekeeper caught and held him fast while the girl poured liniment into the cut. It burnt like molten lava and for a moment he fancied he slid out of himself, went 224
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away, swirling beyond the dim walls of Mrs. Featherstonehaugh's house and up into the darkened sky. The girl bound his shoulder tightly in clean linen and helped him to sit up. "You ought to have the doctor," she said. She helped him to put on his shirt and buttoned it for him. "He put the blade right through you, he did." "It will heal nicely." Raft's throat was sore from shouting, and his face was wet with his involuntary tears, but he struggled to reclaim his dignity nonetheless. "No need to worry." "No worries!" The girl scoffed. "Lucky for you Mr. Dragomir was coming home from his club just then, or you'd have been pinned on that door all night." Raft had a dim memory of being held against his Rumanian neighbour's tall, spare body while strong hands eased the blade from the wood. Don't touch it...please, leave it in. I must take the knife from your flesh. Dragomir's accent was rich and lustrous. I will be as quick as I can, but I must do this. Dragomir's eyes were the dark green of his native Transylvanian forests, and his pale, lean face bespoke a nobility of ancestry. He had lifted Raft into his arms and borne him into the house and Raft remembered thinking that the man's strength must have been prodigious. "Thank you. I'll go up." Raft stood, albeit a little shakily, and made his way towards the stairs. "Thank you both. I'll go up and rest now. I'll rest."
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"What I don't understand," Mrs. Featherstonehaugh said, following him into the hallway, "was why anyone would do so mad a thing. Does he know you're a copper?" Raft closed the door and made his way into his bedroom, but was too weary to undress himself. He lay down on his bed fully clothed and tried to sleep but unconsciousness refused to come. Instead, his mind was full of strange and arcane images. Freddie's face on Dragomir's body, Jeremy Hoare lying dead behind Cleopatra's Needle, Lucy Waddington riding a broomstick like a fairytale witch while Armitage's house stomped about Kensington on chicken legs. When at last he fell asleep it was to dream of distant Rumanian mountains buried under the snow of centuries. [Back to Table of Contents]
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Seven The lunatic asylum at Bethlehem Hospital—more familiarly known as Bedlam—never failed to depress Raft to the utmost. During the course of his duties as a constable and later as a police inspector he had often had cause to visit the hospital. He always came away from these visits feeling rather more depressed than when he'd gone. There was just something about the dim, grey building and its dim, grey inhabitants that seemed to drain the life out of him, and instil in him a sense of overwhelming hopelessness. He had arisen early this morning, breakfasted upon an unusually excellent repast prepared by Mrs. Featherstonehaugh, and taken a cab to Bedlam upon Hoare's advice, hoping to find the reason behind the recent spate of murders featuring holes drilled into people's heads. He needed to understand why Blessington needed to drill holes into the skulls of his victims. Raft understood the theory behind the procedure but that didn't explain why the man was randomly choosing people off the streets and using them as experimental subjects. There had to be a reason why he was conducting his bizarre surgeries on the streets of London, something that had to do with the man's own internal needs. Clearly he was enacting some grotesque parody of medical treatment that had more to do with what was going on in his own mind than what was occurring in the minds of his putative patients. 227
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Raft had chosen Jeremy Hoare as his companion on this trip because of Hoare's innate appreciation for all that was strange and unusual, no matter where it might be found—and because Hoare had insisted that one of Bedlam's inmates had something useful to contribute to Raft's investigation. "Good morning to you, Inspector." Hoare climbed into the cab briskly, tucked his long legs against the seat. "I see by the way you hold yourself that you have suffered some injury." Hoare really reminded Inspector Raft of a very thin, very strange and exotic bird. Raft explained the wound to Hoare in as little detail as possible, fearing to excite the solicitor's native curiosity. "I am quite recovered. Mrs. Featherstonehaugh was most helpful." He had slept soundly, undisturbed by his usual phantoms, which surprised him. He had thought that his worry over Freddie and last night's strange encounter with the knife wielding Turk or whatever he was would have kept him awake till all hours. He might have dismissed the man with the knife as just another desperate lunatic looking for someone to torment except for the direct reference to Tansy Royal. That couldn't have been mere coincidence. It seemed like Miss Tansy Royal had a great many friends, many of them culled from the London underworld. "I didn't expect to sleep at all," Raft said, "considering how everything these days seems to be conspiring to keep me and everyone in London awake at night." "I fear that the body very often dictates to the mind, and there is very little that we mere mortals have to say about it." Hoare was in one of his expansive moods this morning, Raft 228
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thought. Doubtless it had something to do with the quarry they sought. The solicitor was practically quivering with anticipation. "You know, I often find that there's nothing like proper rest and adequate nourishment to prepare one for the work at hand. I completely understand why Ponsonby is constantly pestering me to eat, you know. He really is the most dreadful bully, always going on at me about my personal habits. He is so much worse than the average man on the street because one suspects that he really does know what he is talking about. How is your shoulder, by the way?" "Oh, it will heal, have no fear." Raft only just stopped himself from reaching under his coat to feel the bandage "The more I think about it, the more I am convinced that Tansy Royal is the key to this entire blackmail scheme. It falls to me now to find out exactly where she fits and what her role is." "John sent word by messenger that he would look in on Constable Crook later this morning. Your constable shall be exquisitely cared for, Inspector Raft. Ponsonby is a very good doctor." Hoare stiffened to attention. "Ah! We're here!" He leapt out of the cab with Raft hard on his heels, and it wasn't until Raft had ascended some several steps that he realised the cabbie was still waiting, with rather ill grace, for payment. "Ah..." Raft fumbled in his pockets, counted coins into his hand. "I think that should do it, cabbie. Thank you." Raft caught up with Hoare just inside the door. The solicitor was leaning against the wall, feigning nonchalance, but Raft could detect something rather uneasy in his air of studied carelessness, the way he flicked his walking stick rather nervously against first one shoulder, then the other. 229
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Nursing sisters hurried here and there, some balancing trays with medicines, and Raft saw a burly orderly go by with what appeared to be an oversized leather dog collar. "You know, it might not be amiss to begin our investigation on the ward," Raft said. "Perhaps an exploration of lunacy might be useful to us if we're to understand how Blessington's mind works." It wasn't the strangest course of action that Raft had ever undertaken to solve a case but it was certainly unusual. Sometimes, the most aberrant methods yielded the best results. "Don't you agree Mr. Hoare?" Hoare, gazing steadily before him, said nothing. "Mr. Hoare?" Raft touched the solicitor's arm. "Are you all right?" Hoare seemed to pull himself back from some precipice and straightened abruptly. "Raft! What are we standing here for? We have work! Observation, my dear chap. Observation is very often the best teacher." Raft followed as Hoare led the way down the dimly lit corridor, always keeping to the side and a little behind the solicitor, in an effective shadowing position. Raft had little experience in dealing directly with lunatics. Thankfully, his scope had been confined to flying visits and note taking. He wasn't sure how secure the locks and bars were in this place. He'd been here not five minutes and already his skin was beginning to crawl. Another five, and he'd run gibbering into the bright November morning. He wondered how Hoare could stand it. Quite apart from the stench, a cross between human faeces and an open sore, and the noise of men and women crammed alike into overcrowded cells, some silent while 230
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others shrieked and howled, there was the general air of helpless desperation that seemed to corrode his soul. Hoare stopped in front of an iron door that was bolted and padlocked from the outside. "Do you see that woman?" Raft standing on tiptoe to peer over Hoare's shoulder, saw the crouching figure of an elderly woman. Her iron-grey hair was matted with twigs and straw, and flowed unconfined over her narrow shoulders. Her feet were bare, and for clothing she wore only a shredded linen shift. Her hands and face were filthy, the fingernails grown long and savage. As she sat and watched the men through the doors small window, she rocked back and forth on her haunches, peering at them mutely, a creature entirely untamed. "Is she one of Blessington's victims?" Raft asked. He could see no marks on her and there was no sign that anyone had tried to drill into her skull. "No," Hoare replied. "She is my mother." The shock went through Raft like cold water poured on an open wound. He had known Jeremy Hoare for close to ten years and never in all that time had Hoare ever spoken about his family. But everyone had his secrets, and Raft supposed that Hoare was entitled to his privacy as much as the next man. Men of their sort—men like Raft and Hoare—had every reason in the world to be careful about who they were and how they lived their lives. Still, it came as a shock to Raft. Jeremy Hoare was strange and certainly unusual in his way, but Raft would have never imagined that Hoare's mother was an inmate of a lunatic asylum. Was there something in the blood, some hidden force of nature that bestowed madness 231
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upon some while leaving others entirely untouched? At any rate Hoare probably hadn't brought him here to gaze upon his mother's illness. The solicitor had been adamant that he had something very important to show Raft. "I know it was not your intention to have me interfere in your case, but I daresay you won't mind nearly as much when you see what I have to show you." "Whatever it is, I hope it can throw some light on the case at hand. I don't mind telling you Mr. Hoare, I would give my right arm about now if I could light upon some clue that would help me understand." He didn't like this place. It reminded him of something he had long since forgotten, a dim memory of waiting for something, waiting by himself in a narrow corridor, alone. Someone will come to fetch you, I promise. We would never expect you to wait too long. It simply isn't done. They walked some distance down a narrow corridor and were met by a silent, sombre young man dressed in the uniform of an asylum attendant. He nodded to Jeremy Hoare and directed them to follow him down a second corridor where a series of small cells, all of them sealed off with iron bars, waited. They stood by while an attendant unlocked the complicated series of bolts that would admit them to the cell. He wondered who they were going to see since Hoare had said nothing to him about what waited there in the darkness. Raft was prepared to see just about anything—especially after Hoare's shocking revelation. The door swung back and they stepped into an interior that was painted white, with a high window that admitted 232
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some small degree of light into the room. Someone had gone to the trouble of fixing curtains there, and Raft could easily discern the care that had gone into creating the delicate embroidery and ruffled edges. Just underneath the window was a writing desk with a selection of pens, a blotter, and an ink bottle; the chair adjacent was draped with a scrap of discarded velvet—probably to hide its worn and battered appearance. "Mr. Hoare." The woman on the bed rose gracefully and moved to where they were, reaching to shake Hoare's hand. "I am so grateful you have come. Your legal counsel was always most welcome to me in days gone by." She peered over Hoare's shoulder at Raft. "But who is this friend of yours?" She was a tall woman, neat and tidy, with black hair pulled up and coiled at the back of her head. She wore an apron, and her person gave the overall impression of intelligence coupled with an air of intense listening. "Inspector Philemon Raft, Scotland Yard, ma'am." She squeezed his hand warmly. "It is a pleasure to meet you, Inspector. When Mr. Hoare approached me last week, I was at first reluctant to meet with you. You must understand, I have not seen or spoken to my brother for many years." Raft, confused, glanced quizzically at Jeremy Hoare. "I am afraid, ma'am, I don't quite understand." "Have patience, Inspector," Hoare said. "All shall be revealed in time." Hoare gestured that the woman should sit down. "Madam, you are most gracious in agreeing to this visit. Inspector Raft and I are engaged in an investigation 233
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concerning a series of murders...and there is also the matter of blackmail." Raft turned to him. "You imagine the two are related?" "I do, Inspector." Hoare sat down and crossed his legs primly. "I'm very fortunate in being able to see what others do not." "Yes," Raft said sourly, "you are a veritable paragon of covert knowledge. I can't think how old Scotland Yard has ever managed to get on without you." Hoare ignored the jab. "Forgive me, Inspector. I fear my manners are not what they once were. Please allow me to introduce you to Lady Virginia Baverstock, the much beloved sister of the late Lord Baverstock. I thought she might be of some use to you, given the circumstances of Lord Baverstock's...passing." Raft's mouth opened and closed in what he feared was a most comical manner, and it was quite some time before he could recover himself enough to speak. "Lady Baverstock...? But Lord Baverstock's wife—" "Is also Lady Baverstock—or, was." She picked at the edging on her apron. "I was sorry to hear of her death. We were not friends. No, we were not even close. I feared she and my brother were a disastrous match, but my brother would not listen." "Did she kill him?" Raft fumbled in his pocket for his notebook. "In your opinion, of course." Lady Virginia shook her head. "I do not know, Inspector. I receive so little news of the outside world, shut up in here." 234
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She smiled thinly. "It was not always so. There was a time when I lived in the world as other people did." "Forgive me, madam." Raft felt compelled to interject. "But you yourself, if I may say, do not seem particularly mad." Hoare shot a look at the inspector. "She's not," he said, "and that's precisely why she's in here." "My family had great wealth, Inspector, and even greater influence. My brother and I both expected to inherit a significant sum when my father passed away. I had intended to spend my share in the pursuit of study and world travel." She indicated a display of postcards, mounted on the wall near the window. "I have...sympathetic friends. They travel a great deal and are kind enough to send me these...mementos." "Ma'am, I really do not understand how a woman such as yourself can be incarcerated here. Surely something can be done to free you." Hoare shot Raft a warning look but Raft ignored it. "When I was a young woman, Inspector, my parents sent my brother and me away to school. It isn't unusual, such things are often done. While I was at school I formed an...attachment to one of my tutors. We began meeting outside of school hours, after lessons." A blush stained the maiden-pale cheeks, and she fidgeted with some strands of hair that had come loose from the pins. "Before too much time had passed I realised myself in love. But the headmistress discovered our...liaison. I was sent home immediately and forbidden any further contact with my tutor. I attempted to correspond; my letters were intercepted." 235
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Raft could easily imagine the rest. "Ma'am, do not distress yourself." She waved it away. "My younger sister Amity appointed herself my protector, my...gaoler. She accompanied me everywhere; she spied on me. She believed my illness to be something sinister, even demonic. 'This sinister side of you' was how she phrased it. She has always been remarkably...unsympathetic." Raft schooled his features to blankness. The card that Hoare had found at Cleopatra's Needle—SINISTER. And a crude drawing of a woman with her eyes scribbled out. Had Tansy Royal dropped it? Why would she be carrying such a thing? It might be that Virginia Baverstock's share of the family fortune would be more accessible were she herself placed inextricably out of reach. Put out the light... The line from Othello rose in Raft's mind. And then put out the light. Was it possible that Tansy Royal had gone from making blackmail threats to making plans? "At Christmas I managed to get a letter out to my beloved, hidden among some other mail that my brother was taking to the post office. He was sympathetic to my cause; he professed to understand. But my younger sister spied on him as well, and she told our parents what I had done." Lady Virginia laughed mirthlessly, a noise like splintering glass. "They decreed that I ought to take a course of treatment." Raft felt as if he had swallowed a large stone. "Treatment." "Yes, Inspector Raft," she said, "an entirely new course of treatment, something that had never been tried before in these cases. I would be cured! I would no longer be subject to 236
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my own unnatural emotions. I would no longer want what I had always wanted." "An alienist." "Precisely, Inspector. Unfortunately, the treatment did not go as well as my parents hoped. There were...complications. What was intended to save me has instead damned me to a lifetime in this place. Today I am sane. Tomorrow, I may become a raving madwoman. There is never any way to tell or to predict these things in advance. Sometimes I am inconsolable with grief. At other times a violent rage overtakes me, and I tear my room apart and smash my own things. I have tried, Inspector, to leave this place and to go out into society. I have even taken the precaution of reserving a room for myself at one of the better private asylums in the city. There are many people like me in London, and not enough private asylums for us all. From time to time I am incarcerated here in Bedlam until more suitable quarters can be secured. So this is why you find me here today. In case you have not guessed, Inspector, my younger sister is the woman who calls herself Tansy Royal." Raft started up out of his chair. "Tansy Royal?" He glanced from Hoare to Lady Virginia and back again. "D'you mean to tell me that the same Tansy Royal who's been bedevilling the police force with this heinous blackmail scheme is your sister?" "Quite so, Inspector. She is the reason why I am incarcerated here. Even if I were able to live on my own, which I am not, my sister would make a point of reporting to the authorities that I am likely to be a danger to myself and 237
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others. The signatures of three doctors are required to keep me here and my sister has a great many doctors among her acquaintances. No doubt you have discovered the means by which she attracts so many highly-placed gentlemen. They're afraid of opposing her, especially since she is adept at collecting evidence of their...proclivities. "My sister is very good at ferreting out the weaknesses of others. By similar means does she enlist the help of lawyers and those who administrate the asylums. You must understand, my sister never appears in her own person; everything she does is accomplished through intermediaries. She is especially good at the sort of verisimilitude that blurs the lines between the social classes. She prefers to live in mean circumstances, rather than as her station demands. It allows her the thrill of the forbidden and angers my brother and me." She dropped her gaze, suddenly stricken. "Used to anger him. When he was alive." "But might not her true identity be recognized by some victim of hers?" Hoare steepled his fingers under his chin. "It seems your sister is going far to mark herself out from the family. Might this not be used against her? Perhaps she might find herself blackmailed, as she has blackmailed others." Lady Baverstock's smile had no warmth in it. "If you knew my sister as she was, Mr. Hoare...she has the ability to alter her appearance at will. Look—" She got up and went to a small chest near the opposite wall and brought out a bundle wrapped in blue silk. "Here is a photograph of my sister and I, when she was seventeen." 238
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The young women in the picture were about what Raft would expect. Their expressions were prim and abundantly proper, and their clothes and hair were neat. "Is this your sister, on the left?" "It is, Inspector." Raft handed the photograph to Hoare. "Quite remarkable a transformation, Mr. Hoare, wouldn't you agree?" Hoare examined the likeness. "It is as you say, Inspector. I would not have said this was the same girl. Indeed, the girl in this photograph is a stranger to me." He handed the photograph back to Lady Baverstock. "My sister has always been of a...wilful, ungovernable nature." She tucked the picture back into the bundle and fastened the silk around it. "Against the wishes of our father she took up with the groom's son. I need not tell you what sort of reaction that engendered." Hoare raised an eyebrow. "A scandal, no doubt." "What many do not know, Mr. Hoare, is that she married him." She smiled at the shocked expressions on the faces of the two men. "Oh yes. My father sent out a search party but by the time they found her it was too late. She had already married." Raft shifted forward in his chair. "But the marriage—" "Was annulled, Inspector. Quickly and quietly. My sister was brought home, apparently chastened by her experiences and newly meek, or so it seemed." Hoare sighed. "I take it this was not entirely so." Virginia Baverstock shook her head. 239
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"And yet," Raft said, "your father managed to keep all this out of the papers?" "With great difficulty. My sister seemed determined to destroy the family honour any way she could." And very nearly succeeded. Raft was sickened, but not surprised. "Ma'am, forgive me if this seems like an impertinent question but would you mind telling me precisely what your treatment entailed?" "Of course, Inspector." She loosened the dark knot of her hair and let it cascade around her shoulders. She came close to Raft and raised all the hair at both sides of her temples, exposing the skin. Time had done its best to erase the evidence, but Raft could still see the distinct imprint of the sharp-toothed trephine. She bent forward and showed him the nape of her neck. There was a third mark, similar to the other two, but Raft could see that in this case, the tool had sunk much deeper. He sat back in his chair, his whole being flooded with a sense of unreality. "The third wound," he said, "might have killed you." Lady Baverstock nodded slightly. "Yes, Inspector Raft, I believe that was the intention." She didn't have to say anything further. Raft understood that her love affair with her teacher had been of an unusual variety—the sort of liaison not easily tolerated in current society. Yes, he could see why it was easier for her family to keep her locked up. The potential for embarrassment— especially for an aristocratic family— was an overwhelming argument for her incarceration. 240
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"Lady Baverstock," Raft began, "do you remember the name of the doctor who performed your surgery?" "I remember his name was Blessington," she said, "and he had a most curious nickname." She walked a slow circuit around the room, her pace meditative. "All of his patients without exception called him the drinking man." "The drinking man?" It was him, the drinking man. "The drinking man." Hoare thought for a moment. "I'm afraid I don't understand." "He was always very cheerful. He kept an open bottle of sherry on his desk. From time to time he would invite his patients to partake with him. Thus, they called him the drinking man." She shrugged. "At least, Inspector Raft that was how it was told to me." "Madam, why would your sister need to blackmail people?" Raft was at a loss to explain it. "When I came upon her, she was serving food at a policeman's ball. Given that the three of you are members of a noble family..." "My sister has no need of money. As far as I know, she lives off the inheritance our father left her. What you must understand, Inspector, is that my sister has always been...perverse in her tastes. She enjoys tormenting people. To her such a thing is highly diverting. Therefore, if someone wanted her to do these things, and if my sister were willing, she could easily be persuaded. Mixing with many classes of people is a good method of finding victims and, as I have indicated, she very much enjoyed the company of the underclasses." 241
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"Do you mean to tell me that your sister is blackmailing people because it amuses her?" "Because it amuses her, Inspector, and because it allows her to strike out at people like myself. She has struggled against the constraints of society. I have told you how my sister intercepted my correspondence. She read my letters, Inspector. The evidence of my infatuation was right there, written in my own hand. I could hardly deny it, even if I wished to. My sister thinks of me and others like me as monsters, unnatural beings who will destroy the world or some such nonsense. I need not tell you, Inspector, that my sister in her youth was much beloved by all the boys who lived around us. She has always been able to sway men to her cause. I have no doubt that she has enlisted some small army of ruffians who run about doing her bidding." The wound in Raft's shoulder twinged. "Something must be done about this," he said. He rose to go and Hoare followed suit. "Your sister may have been indirectly responsible for the death of her own brother, Lord Baverstock. It is unconscionable, what she's doing. Have you any reason to believe that your sister may be working with someone else?" "You mean like a confederate?" Her hands went to the wounds on her head. "Anything at all is possible, Inspector Raft. My sister enjoys these sorts of games, but I have rarely known her to play alone. She is a perverse creature, Inspector. I recommend you find and detain her as soon as possible. There is no telling what she may do." She clenched her fists. "I do not have an address or even any real idea where my sister might be living. She...inhabits the 242
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underworld. There is something about darkness that appeals to her." Raft nodded. He knew all about the upper-class practice of slumming. "Madam, I give you my word. I shall do everything in my power to see that your sister is brought to justice." Raft took her hand in his for a moment. Her flesh was cool to the touch and slightly moist. She seemed nervous, but there was more to it than that. She was resigned to her awful fate and content to wait, caged like a dangerous animal, pacing round and round in this awful place like an ox forever treading out corn. It made Raft feel quite sad to think of it. He took his leave of her and walked with Jeremy Hoare back through the ringing corridors of Bedlam. Near the front door he was approached by a skinny, hot-eyed spectre in the rags and chains of the terminally insane. He clutched at Raft's sleeve, weeping. "All I want are lives," he said, "small lives, with blood in them! Is that too much to ask? Small lives, with a little blood, that would make me so happy. Why won't they listen to me?" Raft shrugged him off and followed Jeremy Hoare out of the asylum and into the chilly bitterness of the late November morning. Raft knew absolutely nothing about homosexual brothels and very little about that variety of male prostitute known as a 'renter' beyond what his profession required. He supposed he could have asked someone—Jeremy Hoare probably had ample information—but at some level he was embarrassed. Surely a policeman of his experience and years ought not to be such a naif about such things, but the truth was he'd never 243
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considered going outside the boundaries of what the law allowed—until he'd met Freddie Crook. Now it seemed as if he was wont to play by an entirely different set of rules, and this bothered him. He didn't like deceiving people and he knew that what he and Freddie were doing was astonishingly dangerous. If they were caught there would be no mercy, it would be the end of everything, and he and Freddie would end their days in Reading Gaol, climbing the treadmill for mile after dreary mile. About eleven that morning he found a group of renters standing on the pavements outside the Hotel Cosmopolitan, watching the parade of cabs and carriages that came and went, and occasionally hooting saucy greetings at gentlemen as they disembarked. As soon as they saw Raft they began whistling and posing, some of them beckoning to him as he crossed the street. "Here we go, gents, here's a fine one, such a fine one! Hello there, guv, what's your pleasure today, eh?" As he moved towards the hotel's huge marble pediment, a dark-haired man about twenty years of age detached himself from the group and ran after him. "Here." He caught hold of Raft's sleeve and tugged. "Here, you'd best be listening to me, right?" "I am not interested." Raft attempted to shake him off. "I am not here to procure your services." "You listen to me." The renter grabbed Raft's arm and swung him round. "Listen to me. You been talking to that Baverstock bitch. Haven't you? You tell that bitch she'd best be careful. There's some of us know the sorts of things that go on and we're not having it, you hear me?" He poked Raft 244
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in the chest. "You tell her. She'd best watch herself. I'll be havin' her." He nodded, backing away. "I'll be havin' her for what she done. Oh, yes. She'd best watch herself if she knows what's good for her." "What do you mean?" Raft moved towards him but the renter took to his heels and ran, was swallowed up by the crowd. Was Lady Baverstock being threatened? Had she something to do with Lord Baverstock's dangerous taste for slumming? And what would a Peer's wife being doing with renters, anyway? A blond man, perhaps thirty years old, leant against the side of the building, watching the endless parade of people and carriages with an expression of bemused apathy. He was not quite as tall as Raft, slender and alarmingly pale, and he wore spectacles with blue-tinted lenses. "Help you with something?" Raft produced the garnet ring Breedlove had given him, expecting to be laughed at or rebuffed. "You'll want Robert. That's him over there by the door." A tall young god with laughing dark eyes and chiselled features approached Raft and asked to look at the ring. "Who gave you this?" "A young gentleman named Breedlove— Geoffrey Breedlove. Do you know him?" "I do." He turned to speak to the bespectacled blond man who was now hovering near a brougham with Lord Dent's coat of arms painted on the door. "Jack. Come here." The one named Jack wasn't as young at second glance as Raft had originally thought. Fine lines fanned out from the 245
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corners of his blue eyes, and an air of maturity put him at or near Raft's own age. He took a quick look at the jewel. "That's his ring. You'd best take him to see Geoffrey." "Right. This way, guv." Raft accompanied him into the lobby of the Hotel Cosmopolitan, which was thronged with tourists and Londoners alike. The bell on the reception desk was endlessly clanged by countless impatient palms, and bellboys and messengers made a steady traffic up and down the wide, carpeted stairs. He followed the renter into the lift and they stood silently side-by-side while it climbed several floors, letting them out at last on the seventh. A door near the end of the hallway opened and closed quietly and an elderly man with a van dyke and long dundrearies slipped out, glancing shamefacedly at Raft, and hurried down the stairs. "The Honourable Malcolm DeVries." The renter smirked at the old man's retreating back. "This way, Inspector." Raft started. "How do you know who I am?" "Oh, I read the newspapers. I've seen your picture in there." He tapped on a door and it swung back noiselessly. Geoffrey Breedlove was lying in bed, wearing nothing except a sheet and a smile, and smoking a cigarette. "Geoffrey, my love, I've brought the inspector to see you. How is old Malcolm?" "Couldn't get it to stand up." Breedlove exhaled a long plume of smoke. "So I smacked his arse and we called it fair. Hello, Inspector Raft. Didn't expect to see you so soon. Run along, Jack." The renter went away and Breedlove stood up. 246
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Raft instinctively turned his eyes away, but Breedlove merely laughed. "Don't be shy, Inspector. I don't bite— hard." "I believe you have some information." Raft handed him back the ring. "You indicated as much when you...invaded my rooms the other night. I should like to hear what it is." Breedlove threw on a handsome brocade dressing gown and sat down at a small table littered with correspondence and loose banknotes. Raft estimated there must have been at least a hundred pounds lying scattered about the top of the table. "You should like to hear what it is." He lit a fresh cigarette and tossed the spent vesta into the fireplace. "So you believe me—about lads being killed." "I do. Mind you, I have no reason to, but needs must when the devil drives." He smiled thinly. "Let us say I am willing to admit the possibility of what you say being in fact true." "What sort of evidence would you need to bring charges?" Breedlove sat back in his chair and drew on his cigarette lazily. "I would need reliable witnesses, willing to testify in open court." Breedlove started up but Raft continued. "And I would want to see the evidence with my own eyes." "You want me to take you there, to let you see it?" "Yes. I would require that." Breedlove tilted his head to one side. "You're a bit of a dark horse, Inspector. The rest of the Bill I figure I can understand. They do things by the book. You, on the other hand, you're different." He got up and moved to where Raft was standing. "Unusual, like." He circled Raft slowly and stood behind him, so close that their bodies were nearly touching. 247
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"You I can't figure at all." He spoke into Raft's left ear, and Raft imagined him perched there on his shoulder like a medieval devil. "You will see this thing completed to your satisfaction. Oh, yes. You aren't like the rest of them." Raft stepped away from him. "Yes, thank you for that, Mr. Breedlove. Now let us get to the point. Where and when?" "I'll come and fetch you. I assume you don't object to a late night?" "I don't object to a late night, Mr. Breedlove. In my line of work, they are very much a fact." He blinked. Breedlove was suddenly standing before him, but Raft hadn't seen him move. The renter's eyes were brown, with a gold star around each pupil. Raft had seen eyes like that before, somewhere, but it was a long time ago, and when he tried to fix on the memory, it dissolved and bled away. "I'll send word." Breedlove stripped off his dressing gown and dove onto the bed. "You can go, Inspector. You'll be hearing from me." "One more thing." Raft forced himself not to stare at Breedlove's naked body as the renter reclined luxuriously on the rumpled sheets. "What do you know about Lady Baverstock?" Breedlove sniggered and looked away. "What do I know about Lady Baverstock? I can tell you about her husband. I can tell you the sorts of nasty things he was doing." "Had Lady Baverstock been threatened by one of your...friends?" "Well, you see, Inspector, I can't say for certain." Breedlove got up. "There are some of my pals who take 248
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exception to the kind of nasty sport that men like Baverstock and Godalming are engaged in." He stood before Raft, completely nude and unashamed, his arms crossed on his chest. "And if one of my lads took a mind to send Her Ladyship a little message, I could hardly blame him." "Would this message take the form of a personal threat?" "I couldn't say for certain." "It is vital that you consider what I am going to say, Mr. Breedlove, and that you take it absolutely to heart." Raft's voice cracked like a whip. "Lady Baverstock is dead, and if I find that any of your 'lads' as you call them has been threatening her with anything, I shall take the whole bloody lot of you in as accessories to murder." "Wouldn't that be a shame?" Breedlove reached out and cupped Raft's face in one hand, squeezing cruelly. "You'd best take your leave, Inspector—before you make a big mistake." When Raft returned to Scotland Yard later that morning, Cedric Portal, the Yard's cryptographer, was waiting for him in his office. Portal was a tall, good-looking young man with dark, wavy hair and dark eyes and something rather Eastern about his features. Raft had heard rumours that Portal's mother was an Anglo-Indian, which would account for his dark good looks. He was a genius with codes of all types but, until very recently, he'd been employed as a bookkeeper in an obscure government office. No one was entirely sure how he'd ended up on the Embankment, but he'd quickly made himself invaluable to the men, not only in Raft's department, but across the entire force. 249
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"Inspector Raft, my condolences about what happened to Constable Crook. I heard the news. I do hope he will be all right?" Raft shook Portal's hand and directed him to take a seat. "Thank you—and yes, we have every hope of his recovery. I suppose there are plenty of people in London and elsewhere who are quite eager to beat up a policeman." He nodded at the small notebook in Portal's hand. "Something tells me that's for me." "It is, sir. Constable Crook asked me to go through it and see if I could make something of it. Er, excuse me, would you?" He fetched a pair of gold pince-nez out of his waistcoat and clipped them onto the bridge of his nose. "Getting shortsighted in my old age." "Pity," Raft said, "that twenty-five isn't what it used to be." Portal laughed. "Quite so, sir. Now then, this notebook. Constable Crook didn't tell me where he found it. It's not strictly necessary, not really and it doesn't affect my work in any case. But I can tell you it's a very simple code. Whoever wrote it was probably worried about his immediate surroundings—the people he worked with every day—so he didn't bother to use a really top-level code." Raft was intrigued. "What sort of a code did he use?" "The most common ones—well, the really simple ones— substitute the letters of the alphabet. You might use symbols or, if you weren't too particular about the security, you'd probably just switch out letters for numbers, or letters for other letters." "Sounds a bit time-consuming." 250
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Portal smiled. "The chap who owned this notebook didn't think so—or if he did, he considered it a worthwhile use of his time, that's certain." "So you've been able to read it." "Oh yes, sir—it's a simple transposition cipher. I'd no trouble reading it at all. Bit disappointing, really. Once in a while a chap likes to have something to sink his teeth into, know what I mean?" "Does it say who owns it? Is there a Doctor Blessington mentioned anywhere in it?" "Oh yes, sir, it's his notebook. Nothing surprising there. I think that's about what you expected." Portal took Raft through the contents of notebook, page by page. At first the writer had begun documenting the daily occurrences of the asylum, often with deadening regularity, what the patients ate, when they worked, the things they said, and even which windows had been left open or closed throughout the facility. It was almost as if he were trying to throw any would-be readers off the scent, for it wasn't until some thirty pages in that the notebook revealed anything close to Raft's suspicions. I have done precisely as he says but I fear Matron will be along shortly and so I must write as quickly as I can. She has some measure of respect for me but if she only knew that He is the true master of this art. "Who's this 'He' that the writer refers to?" Raft wondered. "Never mentions him by name, sir. I think that's part of it, really. Blessington talks about him quite a bit. He's forever going on about how clever this other fellow is, and how he 251
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can do all sorts of things that Blessington would like to do himself." Portal reached into his satchel and brought out a thick bundle of typescript pages. "I've written it all out for you, sir, start to finish." Raft was grateful, and oddly moved. He took the pages with something like reverence. "Thank you, thank you very much." "Happy to do it, sir." Portal grinned, sketched an awkward little bow, and was gone. He is the true master of this art. It was probably a reference to the trepanning procedure. Perhaps this second person was teaching Blessington how to perform the operation. Instead of just the one doctor, there were two. It was getting so you couldn't trust anybody anymore. Raft went down to the main desk and gathered as many constables as he could find and brought them upstairs for a briefing. He pulled out everything he had that identified Tansy Royal—including a very good sketch of her, done by a police artist—and told them to scour the East End until they found her. "She was hired to serve you food and drink at the policeman's ball, so I know a good many of you have seen her. Search everywhere you can think of. She has no known address so she might be anywhere." He shrugged. "Really, I wish I had more to give you. The girl is well-born, of a good family, but prefers the lower classes. You will be searching taverns and doss-houses as well as shops and churches, and do inquire at the employment agencies. Miss Tansy Royal, as she calls herself, is most often employed as a serving girl or a 252
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maid-of-all-work. She is actually the younger sister of the late Lord Baverstock." "Sir." A young constable named Rowbottom raised a hand. "Do we know of any other aliases?" Raft was impressed; it was an excellent question. "Regrettably, no. But if you come upon anything, Constable, take it down." He dismissed them. A message on his desk advised him that Pontius Doyle wanted to see him as soon as possible. Raft took the stairs down to the damp and echoing police mortuary and found Doyle sorting through a cardboard box of buttons. "Trouble finding one to match?" Raft asked. Doyle gazed at him blankly for a moment, then shrugged. "See that chap over by the wall?" he asked. He pointed to a thin, elderly man with a shock of silver hair. Raft indicated that he did indeed see him. "He had these in his stomach." "In his stomach?" There were easily a couple pounds of buttons in the box. "In his bleeding stomach—and I've spent an hour sorting through them." Doyle tossed the box aside with an expression of disgust. "I spent years at university, working my bollocks off, and for what? So I can sort through some old bastard's guts looking for buttons." Raft arranged his features in an appropriately sympathetic expression. "You wanted to see me?" "Bloody right I did. Come over here." Doyle led him through the tables to a slab at the back. The body of a woman lay on it, a sheet covering everything except her face. 253
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"Lady Baverstock." Doyle stripped off the sheet, baring her body to view. "Dead behind Cleopatra's Needle." "Yes, I remember." He remembered, too, that her death had effectively curtailed his investigation into Lord Baverstock's untimely demise. He'd strongly suspected Lady Baverstock of killing her husband to cover up the truth about his life, which must have been embarrassing for her. Her death had ended any opportunity he might have to question her. "Know how she died?" Doyle asked. Raft didn't. "Poison." He forced one large, blunt finger into the dead woman's mouth. "Her stomach was bright blue. There's only one thing does that—prussic acid, otherwise known as hydrogen cyanide. That's not all, though." He lifted the woman's left hand. "She'd a bandage on her hand—looked like something she did herself—but I've seen this sort of thing before. Take a look at her thumb." The top of Lady Baverstock's thumb was gone. All that was left was a flag of torn and rotting flesh. It was a singular injury. Raft had never seen anything like it. "What happened?" Doyle picked up a bone saw that was lying nearby. "Imagine this is a gun, Inspector—a revolver, to be sure. I am going to shoot someone with it, but I'm not used to holding a gun. In fact, this might be the very first time I've ever held one. I'm a bit worried that my hand might shake, so I make sure to hold the weapon tightly." He grasped the saw with his right hand and steadied it on the other side with his left. "What happens when you fire a gun, Inspector?" 254
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Raft made a regular practice of shooting at targets. He and several other inspectors from H Division often made a day of it. They'd go out into the country, probably on someone's familial estate, and spend the day shooting at clay pigeons with a variety of weapons. Raft wasn't the best shot in the world but he could hit his intended target at most reasonable distances. "If it's a revolver, the cylinder spins and gases are ejected along with the bullet. It's an amateur mistake, the sort of injury you usually see in someone not used to handling a gun. I'm shocked, quite frankly—she didn't seem the type to go fiddling about with guns." "Yes, well...as you say, hot gases." Doyle laid the bone saw down. "Hot gases under a significant amount of pressure—so much pressure, in fact, that it can tear through flesh." "Good God." He gazed at Lady Baverstock's naked and eviscerated body, lying on the slab. "She killed him?" He wasn't really asking. Doyle shrugged. "Not my call, sir. I figured I'd show you her thumb." "She had a bandage on her hand the day I was there. It didn't occur to me to ask...dammit." He'd been masquerading as an undertaker, working with a limited amount of time. "Her hand." He turned to go. "Just a moment, Inspector." Doyle beckoned to him. "There's one more thing." Raft's scalp prickled. Some instinct told him this was a significant finding. "Yes?" 255
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"Lady Baverstock was pregnant." Raft suddenly knew why Her Ladyship had appeared thick about the waist. "I see." "With a four month foetus." "Thank you, Doyle." Raft took the elevator back upstairs to his office and sat down at his desk. If Freddie Crook were here, they'd be having a cup of tea about now. But Freddie was wounded and lying in an unfamiliar bed in Knightsbridge. You've been calling me Crook and I've resisted correcting you. You both are operating under a misapprehension, Doctor. My brother's surname is Crook. Mine is Waddington. His intuition twanged but Raft ignored it. Perhaps Freddie's people disliked having a police constable in the family, or perhaps Freddie's mother had been widowed and then remarried. It wasn't unknown for children to have different fathers or a different mother. Why doesn't Ada look like me? Ada doesn't look like me at all. Did you get her from the foundling home He picked up the green glass paperweight and rolled it between his palms—then got up suddenly and went down to the cells. Blessington was lying asleep, his head cradled on his folded arms. Raft filled a bucket from the spigot at the end of the corridor. "Open it," he said to the sergeant on duty. "But quietly." He waited while the door swung back, and then he tossed the bucket of cold water into Blessington's sleeping face. The doctor sputtered and sat up, sleep-sodden and disoriented. Raft grabbed the front of his shirt and shook him 256
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like a rag. "What do you know? Tell me what you know about it!" "I don't...Inspector...you're Inspector Raft...please don't...I've no idea, really." He put his hands in front of his face and cowered away, but Raft would not be mollified. "Was it you? Did you do it? Was it you out there, picking innocent people off the streets and putting holes in their heads? Was it you who eased them down with laudanum, so you could carry out your filthy experiments?" Rage throbbed in Raft's temples and shivered down his spine, and there was a curious noise in his ears, a whistling like an audible thrill. "Were you lying to me the other day?" "I don't know what you're talking about!" The man was sobbing, weeping like a child. Raft let go of him, and Blessington retreated to the far end of his bunk to curl in upon himself. "I don't know what you're talking about. I've not hurt anybody. My wife's just died in childbirth. I need to go home and bury her! I need to bury my wife, don't you understand?" The image of her floated before Raft's inner eye. A young woman, not beautiful but comely enough, holding a dead child in her arms and smiling at something he couldn't see. "I asked you a question." "I don't know. Oh, dear God, I don't know. I don't know anything. I've not done anything, I swear to you. I swear it on the Bible, on the Holy Bible. I will. I'll swear it before Almighty God." "Did you kill them?" Raft roared. He backhanded Blessington savagely and the doctor fell to the floor. Raft 257
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hauled him upright and hit him again, and then he was hitting him over and over, with such force and savagery that it felt like someone else. He shoved Blessington back against the wall and kept on hitting him and couldn't stop. "Did you drill holes in their heads as part of an experiment? Is that why you were sacked from St. Luke's Hospital? Is it?" Blessington was insensible, his nose and mouth a river of blood, and the cell was at once full of other voices, other faces and there were hands pulling Raft away. "For God's sake, sir! Stop it! You're killing him. Stop it." Strong hands held Raft by the upper arms, held him still until the madness left him and he could breathe again. "Sir. Please." Raft blinked, was looking into bright blue eyes. "Cholmondely." "Sir." All the strength left him and he slumped to the floor. "Constable, I fear I am in error." "Understandable, sir, considering." He crouched beside Raft. "You looked like you were going to kill him." "I don't..." His hands were slippery with Blessington's blood. "I have no idea what I am doing, Constable. I wonder if you might help me to my office." "By all means, sir." Cholmondely steadied him as he stood up. "Right this way, sir. We'll get the lift. That'll save us the stairs." Raft waited till the constable had gone, then sat down at his desk and shook. He was resting with his eyes closed when 258
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he sensed someone standing in front of him. "Dear God. It can't possibly be you." "Of course it's me. I must apologise for the way I look, Phil. I've been poorly. I've been quite poorly these past few years." The man in the doorway was Douglas Manby-Smith. **** [Back to Table of Contents]
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Eight When Philemon Raft was at school, he was almost universally disliked by his school fellows, who sensed something uncanny in him and feared it. At eleven he had already attained much of his adult height. Even then he stood head and shoulders above most of his year and some of the upperclassmen. He spent a great deal of time alone and made a great many visits to the school library, reading not out of necessity, but for pleasure. Like most other boys at public school, Raft was the fag of not one older boy but four. The five of them shared rooms and, since Raft was the youngest of the group, it was his job to polish the other boys' boots, to make their beds in the morning, to see that their clothes were pressed and fit for chapel, and other things. His natural intelligence soon marked him out and most evenings saw him completing his homework and theirs, labouring for hours after lights-out. Mistakes resulted in vicious beatings out behind the kitchens, and were thus to be avoided; some part of him realised this, and realised, too, that his presence at the school was hardly welcomed but rather tolerated. Besides Douglas Manby-Smith, no one at Raft's school even liked him. Douglas Manby-Smith had been sent down from nearly every public school in England. "If I don't get on here," he reported, cheerfully, "Pater said he's going to send me up to Scotland. Wouldn't that be horrible? They're all savages, the Scots." He took a liking to the younger boy from the outset, and his good-natured high spirits sought and found an affable 260
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mirror in the quiet, thoughtful Raft—Dougie's protection and tacit friendship smoothed the way, and allowed Raft some small measure of peace. But it was his kindness that Raft remembered most, and it was this kindness that caused Raft to fall in love with him. "I can't believe it's actually you." Raft was reluctant to let go, but the office door was open and he was beginning to draw curious stares from policemen passing by. "Come, sit down and tell me everything. I'll make some tea, shall I?" "I wouldn't say no to a cup of tea, I can tell you that." Manby-Smith sat down carefully and drew his gloves off. His hands were mottled with dark bruises and similar bruising had darkened the skin of his neck and face. "I only just got in to London. I've been away, you see." "A holiday?" Raft collected the teapot from the shelf by the window. "All right for some, isn't it?" Manby-Smith smiled. "Yes, I've been to Rome. It's a lovely city. John Keats went there to die as well." An uncomfortable silence fell between them as Raft realised what Manby-Smith had said. "To die?" "Yes, you see, that's why I'm here." Manby-Smith fidgeted with his gloves, laying them on top of one another, stroking the fine leather, turning them over. "I haven't got much longer and I wanted..." He laughed softly, but his mirth was tinged with sorrow. "I wanted to see you." Raft nodded. "I am just going to fill the teapot, and I will be right back." He reached out and squeezed Manby-Smith's shoulder gently. "Please wait. I promise, I will be back directly." 261
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"Of course." Raft went down the hallway to the little room that served as a makeshift kitchen. The woodstove was going great guns and the kettle, always kept full, was whistling gently. He lifted it and poured boiling water over the tea leaves, and set the pot down on the table. He walked to the window and gazed out. It had begun to rain the cold, miserable rain of late November, and it fell remorselessly, splattering down onto the pavements. A young woman in the clothing of a prostitute was making her slow way up the street. Now and then she staggered, and reached out for something to steady her before continuing on her way. The thin, ragged shawl that she clutched around her shoulders couldn't have been very warm. Her dark hair, lank and greasy, was coming down from where it had been pinned under a crushed and battered hat. He watched her until she staggered around the corner and out of sight. Manby-Smith was sitting where Raft had left him, waiting patiently; he looked up and smiled when Raft stepped back into the office with the tea tray. "Very nice," he smirked, mocking gently. "You still know your place." "You know," Raft said, "you always were a bloody rotter." He poured for them both and handed Manby-Smith a cup. "It is good to see you, Dougie. Tell me everything. Where have you been? Who have you seen? What's happened since we saw each other last? I'm all ears." "I imagine you received the postcard." Raft blinked. "Postcard?" 262
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"Yes, and the photograph—the one with you and I. The eyes scratched out." He picked at an imaginary speck of dust on the leg of his trousers, and avoided Raft's gaze. "I debated for awhile what might work. The girl, you see—she urged me to try something a little more gruesome, you know, dead cats, a severed ear, that sort of thing." He raised his chin defiantly. "You can hate me if you like, Philly. I won't mind. The truth is, it's an expensive proposition, dying. It costs such an incredible amount of money, you can hardly imagine, chasing all over the place, looking for something that might— " his voice broke "—help." Raft laid his cup down. "You." How utterly bloody childish, and how unworthy of you. Manby-Smith mastered himself. "Yes. Yes, Phil, it was me. I was the one who sent you those messages. It was me." "But you're...Good God, Dougie! Do you mean to tell me that your fortunes are in such a state...?" "Quite so, old man." He smiled thinly. "My dear old pater had rather a gambling habit. There, I've said it. I dislike saying such things aloud but one must be honest above all else." He sipped his tea, set the cup aside. "When he died and the will was read, we discovered that he'd left us little else besides debts." "So you resorted to blackmail." Raft's face felt hot. "You decided to come back to London, pick a few likely subjects out of the crowd and bully or frighten or cajole them into giving you money." He must have misheard. This wasn't the Dougie Manby-Smith he knew. 263
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"I'm not as strong as you." Manby-Smith gazed out the window. "I've never had to make do, or do without. I'm not good at it, Philly. Pater died and then I became ill and there was never any money." His bruised hands clenched themselves into fists. "I'm not strong like you. I couldn't simply...get along. I didn't think they'd mind parting with a few bob, men like that." Raft was suddenly cold all over. "Men like that? Men like what? Like me? Is that what you mean?" "No, that isn't what I meant at all. I'm talking about men who could stand to part with it—men like Lord Baverstock, with more money than he knew what to do with. I never meant to hurt you." "You never meant to hurt me." There was no point in trying to understand. Raft would never understand. "But you—or your hired bangtail—thought it was all right to touch me up for whatever you could get." "I never told her to do that!" Manby-Smith clenched his fists, appealing to Raft with his eyes. "She did that all on her own." He shook his head slowly. "She met you at the policeman's ball that night, and thought you'd be an easy mark." "Is that what I am?" Raft leant over and looked into Manby-Smith's eyes. "An easy mark, someone to touch up for a few bob, a useful port in a storm." "Philly, I am sorry." Manby-Smith shrugged. "I don't know what else to tell you that will make this all right."
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"It didn't bother you that you—" Raft couldn't go on. He turned his back on Manby-Smith, pretended to be looking for something among his books. "The girl—Tansy Royal—she was perfect for what I had in mind. We'd collect, you see, and divide the profits evenly. I understood there was some difficulty with a legacy or an inheritance. She'd been having trouble getting hold of money, and she enjoyed it, or said she did. It was like theatre for her." "Like theatre?" Raft roared, turning back on him. "Like bloody theatre? Do you know how many lives you have possibly ruined with this ridiculous scheme? Do you know how many innocent men you might have driven to their graves? Good God, man!" It was true, he thought wildly. The upper classes were utterly mad, every single bloody one of them— mad, bad, and dangerous. The epitaph had originally been coined for Lord Byron but it fit, Raft thought. It fit every one of them. "I'm sorry." "You're sorry?" Raft shook his head. "Lord Baverstock. That was perhaps the worst of all. Some people think he topped himself because of this blackmail!" He swore, a long string of vicious oaths. "It stops. It stops right here and right now. God knows, you've got Lord Baverstock on your conscience, if nothing else." Manby-Smith wet his lips nervously. "I had nothing to do with Lord Baverstock. There was a club, a gentlemen's club, called the Iron Duke. The girl, she knew the barman there, and we had an arrangement. Lord Baverstock never 265
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frequented the place." He frowned. "Phil, I swear to you, on my...grave. I had no reason to trust her, nor she me. She wanted money that was her sole motivation." "Yet you did trust her." Raft folded his arms, his hands tightly gripping his elbows. "Knowing full well she could have sold you out in a trice! Why, in the name of God, would you consign your well-being to such a creature? She didn't need you, she was happy to play the role all on her own. And why choose me as your target? For God's sake, I never did anything to you!" "I didn't think." Manby-Smith kept his gaze fixed on the floor. "It seemed like a solution to my...difficulties. I had no money, and she...she liked it. At the time it seemed..." "Yes." A note of disgust crept into Raft's voice. "This is all you, Dougie. All you. Just like when we were at school and you decided that nicking pennies from the poor box was a rather safe undertaking. What was it? Oh, I remember. You and Lord Mayberly had a habit of sitting up late at night, gambling at cards." He walked to the window and stood gazing out, one hand worrying the back of his neck. "Not just your dear old Pater who had a gambling habit, is it?" There was no answer. Raft rounded on him viciously. "Well?" Manby-Smith's eyes were brimming with tears. "I had invested—a banking speculation in South America. It was a sure thing. We—I went in with three other gentlemen—we were supposed to triple our initial investment, but it didn't work out that way." "Tell me." Raft sat down behind his desk. "Tell me how you chose them. Tell me—" He rifled through his desk drawer and 266
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came out with the photograph, the postcard that he'd received. "Tell me how you could dare to make such a mockery." Drink to me only with thine eyes/And I will pledge with mine; Or leave a kiss within the cup/And I'll not ask for wine. "You knew. You knew what—you knew I'd remember it, and understand. How dare you?" His rage left him, drained away like dirty water. "How dare you?" Manby-Smith's eyes filled with tears. "I had to," he whispered. "There was a doctor in Naples. He said he could effect a cure. He promised!" He pressed his hands against his eyes. "He promised. She chose them, the girl did. She knew people, members of the upper classes, friends of her family. She said they all had secrets and she could get money out of them." "There was no reason for her to either trust you or need you." Raft picked up the green glass paperweight and rolled it between his palms. "This rubbish about the two of you teaming up to blackmail people doesn't wash. I don't think that's it at all, Dougie. I think Tansy Royal was the instigator and when you met up with her—wherever you met up with her—you decided she'd be useful to your purposes." Manby-Smith's pale face flushed deep scarlet. "I don't know what you're talking about." "Yes. I rather think you do. You see, Tansy Royal was interested in blackmailing members of the upper classes but you, Dougie, you were only interested in blackmailing me. Tell me everything," he said grimly, "and perhaps I won't prefer charges." 267
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If he managed it just right—perhaps slide across the bed so that one leg touched the floor, then the other could follow—he could ease himself down. He'd go down the back stairs and out the servants' entrance and nobody—not his brother Armitage or Lucy or any of the staff—would be the wiser. He moved his left leg until his heel touched the floor, and even that slight contact made him hiss with pain. It had to be done. Armitage didn't want him here, and John Ponsonby, he knew, would probably have him transferred to Guy's or somewhere less salutary. He managed to get out of bed by turning so that his back was facing the room and then easing himself down onto his knees. The effort cost him, and he rested for some time there, lying across the bed. Despite the laudanum he'd had hardly any sleep the night before, and Armitage had come home sometime early this morning, drunk and shouting. Where is he? Where is the little bugger? I'll pull his fucking arms off. There were footsteps along the upstairs hallway. Freddie grabbed his trousers and shoved them on, rammed his feet into his shoes. "Freddie!" Lucy Waddington stared at him, outraged. "What in God's name are you doing?" "You've been very good to me." Freddie treated her to his most winning smile. "But I'm afraid I can't be away from duty any longer. I must leave." "You'll do no such thing!" She caught the sleeve of his shirt and somehow got the unfastened cuff twisted round his wrist. "Get out of those things immediately and get into bed!" 268
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"No, you mustn't." Freddie wrenched the sleeve away, stumbling backward in his weakened state and landing painfully on the bed. "I simply must get dressed!" Lucy caught the front of his shirt in a violent grip, rather like an escapee from a bluestocking home for wayward girls. "You cannot leave. I forbid it. You are unwell. Now get back into bed." "Inspector Raft..." "Inspector Raft is a grown man." She fluffed his pillows with rather more vigour than was strictly necessary. "Back into bed with you. I insist." "Lucy, please." Freddie reclaimed ownership of his shirt, and righted himself, panting from the exertion. "Please. Inspector Raft cannot proceed with this investigation alone." "Dr. Ponsonby said you were to take complete bed rest." "Dr. Ponsonby is mistaken." Freddie wound his tie round his neck. "Could you help me with my coat?" "It's him, isn't it?" She held the coat while he slipped into it. "It's Armitage. What's he been saying to you?" "Nothing. He's been saying nothing." Get out of that bed, you little bastard! Don't think you'll be lying up here like a lady-in-waiting... "I cannot remain too long away from my duties. It wouldn't be appropriate." Lucy, seeing that he was not to be swayed, sighed and gave up the fight. "Have it your own way." She swept out of the room in a cloud of offended feminine dignity, banging the door shut as she went. Freddie collected his overcoat and hat and went down the back stairs, thinking to slip away quietly, but Lucy was waiting for him, wet-eyed and sniffling. She 269
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handed him a paper sack, suspiciously warm and smelling like breakfast. "The least I can do is to see you off with a full stomach." She dabbed at her eyes with her handkerchief. "I couldn't bear to think of you out there alone with no breakfast." Freddie sighed. "Lucy. Really, you are too kind." He leant down and allowed her to embrace him. She kissed both his cheeks and gazed into his eyes as if she might never see him again in this life. "Thank you so much. If you ever have need of anything—anything—contact me. Will you do that?" "Of course." Her bosom heaved through a series of sighs and she settled back gently onto her heels. "Goodbye, dear brother!" She stood in the open doorway and waved her handkerchief at him. Freddie stopped to cross at the corner and, glancing back, saw that she was still there, still waving, and still weeping. He hailed a cab and piled into it with relief. He'd entertained some idea of walking to the Victoria Embankment but it was a distance of some four miles and he doubted he could make it in his present condition. Besides, the ride would give him time to think. Freddie hadn't been idle while he'd been laid up, and when his mind wasn't clouded with laudanum, it was busy mulling over the case in hand. The men who'd attacked him had warned him off Tansy Royal—that told Freddie that she was more than merely a serving maid. Tansy Royal was mixed up in the blackmail scheme but it wasn't likely that she was working on her own. A single girl, acting in her own interest, 270
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would more likely go after wealthy married men, who could be fitted up for it. Why, then, had she targeted the members of the Iron Duke? Why had she gone after Lord Baverstock? Blackmail only worked if the targeted parties had something to feel guilty about, some secret—real or imagined—that could conceivably cause embarrassment or social ruin if discovered. The men who frequented the Iron Duke were all in violation of Labouchere's amendment to the Act of Parliament, and liable for criminal prosecution if they were caught—but the only way anyone could find out about the Duke was if they themselves were a member, or knew someone who was. Lord Baverstock, well, that one was easy, except His Lordship didn't frequent the Iron Duke. Freddie remembered the night he'd been there with Raft. The barman had been shot by another patron who accused him of "telling her everything." Perhaps the barman had been working with Tansy Royal to choose appropriate targets, and she had been slipping him a few bob for his trouble. There was nowhere safe, not really, not for men like him. The cab pulled up in front of the building. Freddie paid the driver and went inside. The desk sergeant greeted him warmly and asked after his health. The news of his savage beating would have travelled through the building—Freddie knew policemen, and he knew they were intractable gossips, every one of them—and he wasn't surprised at similar inquiries as he rode the lift up to Raft's office on the fifth floor. 271
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He was just about to go in when he saw that Raft wasn't alone. Freddie crept back along the corridor and pressed himself against the wall. "...could have asked me for help," Raft was saying, "and you know damned well I'd have given it. What the devil were you thinking, Dougie?" The other man's reply was muffled, and Freddie only made out the words illness and father; Raft was walking up and down, making the floor boards creak. "There is no shame in being ill. If you needed money you could have asked, damn you." Raft's voice dropped, and Freddie leant closer, ears straining. "Although I understand your upper-class sensibilities might find the idea distasteful." Raft sighed, and Freddie heard the sound of a chair being scraped back. He darted round the corner and hid in the broom closet. A tall, thin man with curly red hair moved past, walking with Raft, who accompanied him as far as the lift. "What will you do now?" Raft asked. "I shall go to Rome," the man said. "It really is the best place." Raft reached to shake his hand. "Good-bye, Dougie." He paused, seemingly at a loss for words. "Will you...if you feel well enough, that is...will you write me a line or two—from time to time?" "From time to time." The red-head nodded. "For as long as I can, Phil." The lift arrived and he stepped into it then sank slowly out of sight. Philemon Raft moved past the broom closet and stopped. "You can come out now, Constable." 272
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Freddie, shamefaced, struggled through a forest of mops. "Sorry, sir." Raft looked him up and down. "What the devil are you doing out of bed?" Freddie couldn't resist. "You'd like me in bed?" "I'd like you in my office, Constable. Off you go." Raft herded him in and shut the door behind them. He helped Freddie off with his coat and hung it on the hook. "You look bloody awful," he said. "Thank you, sir." Freddie took the paper sack out of his pocket. "Chelsea bun?" And, when Raft declined, "I noticed you had a visitor." "Yes." Raft sat down and rubbed his hands over his face. He felt about a hundred years old. "Yes, an old school chum of mine. Haven't seen him in years. We were...ah, we were close when we were at school. He...is quite ill and is dying, it seems. He made the most astonishing confession....just now..." His voice wavered, and fell silent. "Tansy Royal." Freddie took the lid off the teapot and peered inside. "I expect we'll be wanting another pot, sir?" Raft nodded miserably. "Please." He sought Freddie's gaze. "I should arrest him. I should, you know. It's him that did it. It's him that sent—" He drew a shaky breath. "He was dunning them for money—all of them from—the Iron Duke. Not Lord Baverstock, apparently." "No." "Of course, Baverstock didn't top himself. She did. His — wife did." He told Freddie about Lady Baverstock's thumb. "All of which should tie it up neatly except there's something too 273
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bloody pat about it." He reached toward Freddie but seemed afraid to actually touch him. "I missed you." Freddie, heedless of his injuries, pulled Raft into his arms and held him tightly, lifted the Inspector's face and kissed him. "You were all I could think about, lying there in that bed, in my brother's bloody house. I'm about ready for a proper welcome home." "A proper welcome home?" Raft couldn't help but smile. What Freddie was asking was illegal and immoral and could get them both into a great deal of trouble if anyone found out. He laid his hands on the young constable's shoulders, afraid to touch Freddie, worried that his touch might cause pain. "Are you sure this is what you want?" Freddie swayed toward him, suddenly shy. "This is what I have wanted, from the first moment I saw you." He touched Raft's mouth, long fingers gently brushing the tender flesh as he leant in and kissed Raft again. "You are all I have ever wanted. You are all I will ever want. Please. Take me home." Raft closed and locked his office door and they went out together. He hailed a cab on the Embankment, and they climbed in, suddenly as nervous with each other as a newlywed couple. Under cover of the cab's concealing doors, Inspector Raft reached for Freddie's hand and held it, warming the constable's cold fingers. It had been a while for Raft, and he wondered if he were up to the task. What did Freddie expect? What sorts of things would Freddie want him to do? Perhaps he wasn't what Freddie wanted at all. "You're thinking too much," Freddie said. "I know what you're thinking, Phil. You can stop thinking it right now. If I 274
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didn't want to be here, I wouldn't be here. I'm not a child. I'm perfectly capable of making up my own mind." "I don't want you to make a mistake." Raft watched the passing landscape awhile. "What we're doing is dangerous. We're policemen, Freddie. As I've said before..." "Phil." Freddie leant close, not quite nuzzling him. "You really ought to shut up." They were out of the cab and in the front door in what must have been record time. As luck would have it, Mrs. Featherstonehaugh had chosen that time to run some errands, and the house was completely empty from top to bottom. Raft struggled with the key, cursing aloud when it repeatedly refused to engage the lock. For several moments, they stood staring at one another, listening to the silence of the house, and wondering. Raft reached out and cupped Freddie's cheek, brushing his thumb gently over the constable's lower lip. "You are so beautiful, I hardly even know where to begin." "It's not so hard," Freddie said, reaching for Raft and pulling the inspector into his arms. "You simply have to take things a little at a time." He claimed Raft's mouth in a deep, scorching kiss. "Wait." Raft finally fumbled his key into the lock and pushed the door open. The keys fell from his hand as Freddie hauled Raft against him, then reached around him to shut the door. "Safe," Freddie murmured against Raft's neck. "We're safe now." 275
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They left their clothes in piles as they fell to the serious task of loving each other. Freddie stripped Raft mercilessly, then fell to his knees in front of him, his injuries and his pain forgotten, his cheek pressed against the inspector's flat belly. Raft's fingers found their way into Freddie's blond curls, and his hands slid down to press against Freddie's back. He folded slowly down, so that they were kneeling together and gazing at one another in something very like wonder. Freddie stroked Raft's cheek with the back of his fingers, and traced the wound in his shoulder. "Does it hurt?" "Mm." Raft bent his head to look at it. "Not too much." He smiled. "Not when you touch me, it doesn't." "Bed," Freddie grunted. "These damned floorboards are freezing cold." Raft eased them both up off the floor and guided Freddie to his bed. "Ridiculous," he murmured. "I'm as nervous as a bridegroom." They lay together for some time, looking and touching, kissing gently. There was—or seemed to be—all the time in the world. Freddie slipped his thumb into Raft's mouth, grunting softly when Raft's lips fastened onto it and began to suck. Raft's dark eyes traversed the pale expanse of Freddie's naked flesh, hands reaching to soothe the myriad hurts, the broken skin and bruises. Freddie's thumb slid out of his mouth and Raft bent to kiss each wound. "Good God." He pressed his lips to the centre of Freddie's chest. "What have they done to you?" They lay together on Raft's unmade bed, kissing, murmuring and exploring one another with eager hands and mouths. "Oh God." Raft 276
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groaned, and a savage thrill ran through him as Freddie licked and sucked a trail of fire from the middle of his chest to his cock. The tip of Freddie's tongue teased his cockhead and Raft grunted like an animal, the sheets bunched in his fists. His back arched as Freddie swallowed him whole, and he shuddered, very nearly spilling himself right then and there. His impending release tingled in the soles of his feet and the small of his back as a warm wave flushed upward from his belly, and he sobbed aloud when the constable began to suck him. He tried desperately to hold back but it had been too long since he had last shared intimate pleasures with another. Too soon he was there, falling endlessly over the edge into the dark well of his release. "Freddie... oh dear God, Freddie. You're going to kill me." He pulled Freddie close, and their mouths found each other, and he felt the warm swell of Freddie's cock against his belly. It was too soon for him, he knew, and yet his eagerness to please Freddie knew no reason. "What do you want?" He trailed a hand down the younger man's bare chest. "I want this to be right—for you." Freddie drew him close. "It will be." They kissed for a long time, languidly, unhurriedly; hands and mouths roaming over lust-damp flesh till Raft's cock rose again, hard and aching. Freddie's eyes darkened with desire. "I want you," he whispered, "to fuck me." Raft drew back a little bit. "Are you sure?" he asked. "I don't want to hurt you." Freddie made a small noise in the back of his throat. "I want you to." 277
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Raft reached into the bottom drawer of the small table next to his bed and took out a bottle of oil. He had purchased it in France some months before, never thinking that he would have the opportunity to use it. It had never occurred to him that Freddie would be the one for whom he would...crack the seal. Raft grinned to himself. That would make a lovely euphemism for the act itself. Freddie frowned at him. "You bastard," he panted, "stop smirking and get on with it." Raft opened the small bottle. The oil flowed over his hand, faintly warm and smelling like cinnamon. "You'll want to turn over," he told Freddie. "No." Freddie gripped his wrist. "I want it this way. I want to see you. I want to see you looking at me." He guided Raft's hand, spreading the oil liberally on his warm and waiting flesh. He shuddered and bit his bottom lip when the inspector's finger slid into him. Raft pushed in further, Freddie arched his back and hissed through his teeth. He reached for Raft's cock and caressed it, working the foreskin over the head, heightening Raft's arousal. Raft leant over him and they kissed, a heated dance of lips and tongues. Freddie wrapped his leg around the inspector's slender waist and held him there, the rising bulge of Raft's erection trapped between them. He reached between their bodies and guided the head of Raft's cock toward his entrance. The tip of Freddie's tongue slid out to wet his top lip, and his eyes closed as Raft pushed forward, into him. "Yes." Freddie reached out, and wrapped his arms around Raft's neck, holding him. Raft bent low and 278
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kissed him, and Freddie keened into his open mouth as his body rose in the bed. The world went away as they moved together, their naked bodies grinding down into a stark, primeval rhythm. Freddie's knees pressed hard against the inspector's ribs, driving him forward, urging him on. Raft braced himself with one hand and used the other—blood-warm and slick with oil—to stroke Freddie's swollen cock. "Yes." Freddie swallowed hard and opened passion-weighted eyes to gaze at Raft. "Yes," he said again, clearly and calmly. "Please don't stop." Raft angled his pelvis, changing the direction of his stroke—and Freddie was gone. His head rolled backward, his neck stretching out to the fullest possible extension with a wordless, ragged cry he surrendered to his release, throbbing his warm seed over his chest and belly. Oh God, Raft thought, it would be so easy for me to love you. He lay over Freddie gently, kissing him and murmuring as the young constable drifted down to sanity, and when their sated bodies finally separated, he rested at Freddie's side, and gazed at him with a sense of wonder, as if seeing him for the very first time. "I seem to spend my entire life looking for the place where I belong." It had begun to rain outside, and the rising wind hurled the raindrops against the windowpanes and shook the glass. "I know it probably sounds facetious, but I've spent years looking for...a mind like mine, some other soul who thinks about things the way I do." Raft lifted one of Freddie's hands and laced their fingers together. "I don't regard myself with undue sentiment—at least, I hope not—but I learned, very early on, never to say precisely what I was thinking, at 279
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least not aloud. There was always the chance that I would be—" He brought Freddie's hand to his mouth and kissed it "—grossly misunderstood." Raft lifted his head to look at Freddie, drowsing on his pillow. "Forgive me. I must be boring you to tears." "I know precisely what you mean." Freddie turned so that he was looking Raft in the face. "I remember being quite young—I couldn't have been much more than six—and we were playing with some cousins, Armitage and I. I felt as if I were somehow...outside myself, watching them...watching myself with them, and wondering if I were doing things the right way." He caressed Raft's cheek. "Growing up, I was constantly checking myself. You ought not say that or See how Armitage is doing it. Do it that way. I have always felt illequipped...as if everyone else knew how the game was played and I did not—and I would never know. It was a secret, and I wasn't allowed to know it." His beautiful face was momentarily sad. "I often wondered what I'd done—what sin I'd committed—to be shut out of the proceedings." He was silent for some moments, and there was only the sound of the wind roaring and the hissing progress of the rain. "I expect your landlady will be home soon." "Yes." Raft hesitated on the verge of saying something, but decided at the last minute to let it go. "Yes, I expect she shall. Perhaps we'd best get back to the Yard." But as he leant in to kiss Freddie, the heat between them flared into life, and they wrapped themselves around each other, bodies rocking together. Raft held Freddie against the bed, his cock trapped between them, his long spine flexing to bring them 280
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together and draw them apart, over and over and over. Freddie's closed eyelids flickered, and his fingers dug into Raft's shoulders as he lifted his hips, grinding himself against Raft's naked body. Their mouths came together, tongues meeting luxuriously in the aperture of their joined lips. They were aware of nothing but this as they groaned and rutted against one another, and the air was full of hot words and breathless exclamations. Raft wanted to wait, to see Freddie over the edge first, but a sudden flush of heat stole over his senses as his crisis burnt through him. Freddie shuddered and arched his back, and a strangled cry was wrung out of him as his body pulsed and throbbed. His climax was keen, sharpedged, almost painful, and seemed to go on forever. When it was over he lay wet and spent beneath Raft's supine body, his long limbs twitching through a series of powerful aftershocks. "We really ought to go back to work," he said. "Yes," Raft agreed, "we really should." He laughed breathlessly and reached for Freddie, pulling the young man into his arms. "This could get to be a habit," Raft mused. "I don't think the Yard allows time off for..." "Fucking?" Freddie wasn't quite smirking. "I was going to say sensual congress," Raft replied. "But if you're going to be lower class about it, I shall just have to adjust my vernacular. From now on we'll have no more of this delicate euphemism. I intend to have you for a bit of slap and tickle, Constable. I'm going to dawdle with your bollocks, and I'm putting you on notice right now that I shall have my mauleys all over your nancy. Mark my words, I shall be sauntering up your cock alley!" 281
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"By God, sir," Freddie laughed, "you don't half know your cant." He tousled Raft's hair affectionately. "Whatever did I do without you?" Raft was suddenly and inexplicably afraid. "Freddie." He reached for the constable and held on. "Don't let's lose each other. Promise?" Freddie turned Raft's hand and kissed the palm. "I promise." The question of Lady Baverstock's thumb—and her fourmonth foetus—gnawed at Raft and refused to let him go. Under many other circumstances, he'd be inclined to relegate it to the long list of contributing details he kept in the back of his head, but this was far too coincidental—the bandage, the mutilated digit. The day he'd been at her house, she hadn't even bothered to hide it. It was almost as if she intended him to see it—and the wound itself was of a type peculiar to amateurs, someone unused to shooting a gun. Why would Lady Baverstock need to shoot? For what reason was she practising? Had Breedlove's gang been threatening her, so that she felt it necessary to protect herself? In that case, why hadn't she contacted the police? Of course, given what the cemetery caretaker had told him, the late Lady Baverstock was of a social class not readily disposed to seek official help. Likely the former Ivy Mulqueen of Seven Dials knew enough to take care of matters in her own way. She might, Raft reasoned, have retained a gun for just that purpose and was learning how to shoot it—in which case the injured thumb was easily explained. 282
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It seemed that the further he went into this case, the more complicated it got, until there were so many separate threads leading to so many different places that he wondered if he would ever make head or tail of it. Douglas Manby-Smith had admitted to working with Tansy Royal, using the connections she unearthed for him to blackmail certain members of the upper classes. Raft was sitting at his desk and going through the mail, when Constable Rowbottom tapped at his office door "Right, yes, come in." There seemed to be an astonishing preponderance of advertisements for things Raft neither wanted or needed. Here was another: Mrs. Byrd, Female Physician, where can be obtained Dr. Wolfe's Female Renovating Pills, an effectual remedy for suppression, irregularity, and all cases where nature has stopped from any cause whatever. Sold only at Mrs. Byrd's, 72 Maiden Lane, London And now he was examining a badly printed handbill offering a cure for overindulgence "of the sort which occurs as a result of too much food or drink." A grimacing John Bull figure decorated the right hand side of the bill. He was holding his over-large stomach while a series of bubbles formed and burst around him. An arrow protruded from the back of his head and above it were the words A SURE CURE FOR THE DRINKING MAN. The drinking man... There'd been a placard in Henry Charters' shop with something like that, an advertisement for some kind of patent remedy. But Blessington was the drinking man, Virginia Baverstock had said as much. Raft didn't like to place speculation ahead of 283
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the facts but until now everything they had pointed at Blessington. What if Blessington wasn't the drinking man? "Sir, I've got news about that girl, the one we've been looking for." Raft looked up from his hand bill. "You have my full attention, Constable." "Henry Charters," Rowbottom said. "He sent a message that he'd seen her." The back of Raft's neck prickled. "Where?" "She came into his shop. He claims she was there to buy a cosmetic preparation." "How very civic-minded of Mr. Charters to let us know," Raft said sourly. "Rowbottom, could you fetch Constable Crook from the sergeants' room downstairs? Tell him it's vital that I see him immediately." "Right away, sir." Rowbottom vanished. Raft heard him clattering down the stairs. Within five minutes Freddie Crook presented himself in front of Raft, in another five they were headed out the door of Scotland Yard. "I rarely expect anything quite as a circular as this." Raft hailed a cab from the pavement in front of the Yard. "He thinks to allay suspicion—that's the only reason he's bothered contacting us." A cab stopped in front of them and Raft gave him the address of Charters' shop. "I don't understand," Freddie confessed, as their cab shuddered over the rough London streets. "Is Charters somehow linked with Tansy Royal? Do they even know each other? What's that got to do with this?" 284
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"Sometimes," Raft lit a cigarette, "I get this very peculiar feeling. It's hard to explain." "Yes, sir," Freddie grinned. "I get that feeling, too. It usually ends with me taking off my trousers." Raft ignored him. "Perhaps I'm wrong, but there is something very odd about that shop. Now, you said everything in there was dusty—that it looked like he hadn't had a proper customer in ages." "The only part of the shop that looked like it had any business was where he kept lady pills—things like tansy and pennyroyal tea. I suspect that's where the bulk of his business comes from, selling things like that." Raft clenched his fists and struck his forehead with them. "Idiot!" "Now hang on just a minute! " Freddie bristled. "There's no need to be like that." Raft smiled faintly. "Not you. I wasn't talking about you." He drew on his cigarette and flicked the ash into the street. "I should have seen it. I can't believe I didn't see it. All this time, it's been right there, right in front of me and I didn't see it." "See what, sir?" "Tansy Royal, Constable." What kind of a policeman was he? "The night of the policeman's ball she gave her name as Tansy Penelope Royal, an obviously false name. The herbs tansy and pennyroyal together form a potent abortifacient. Raft's expression was grim. "Tansy, tanacetum vulgar. Taken with pennyroyal it becomes the little flower that kills." 285
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Freddie's mouth opened and closed, opened again. He looked like a badly operated marionette. "Tansy... pennyroyal...Charters was selling it in his shop." "Yes, Henry Charters." Raft's fists clenched. "I had convinced myself it was Blessington who was the one, that it was Blessington who was roaming about London cutting holes in people. The evidence was irrefutable! The diary you found at St. Luke's, and the fact that these were all former patients of his, pointed to Blessington." He gazed at Freddie, suddenly very frightened. "My God...I have accused an innocent man." "Sir, I wouldn't dismiss Blessington just yet." Freddie squeezed Raft's forearm. "Tansy Royal is a name, that's all. Mind you, the name could be mere coincidence but most people who change their names choose an alias that is personally meaningful." Raft turned, so that he was looking directly into Freddie's face. "Is that what you did?" "Sir, I don't—" Freddie faltered, then gave it up. "Yes." His voice was very quiet. "Yes, that's what I did." "Your family name is Waddington." Raft reached out and covered Freddie's hand with his. "And you're not really from Bermondsey." "No, sir, I'm not." Freddie couldn't look at him. "My father was George Gordon Waddington, Earl of Bolsover." He smiled, but there was no happiness in it. "When we were children, we were made to address him as My Lord, believe it or not." Freddie's expression was desperately miserable. "I never intended to lie to you, I swear I didn't. I've had no contact with my family for many years. When those ruffians attacked 286
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me, that was the first time in ages that I'd even clapped eyes on Armitage. We don't speak. He and I both prefer it that way. And I figured it would do my career no good if I had a reputation as the gentleman cop." "So a toff isn't hard enough to be a copper. Is that what you're saying?" "Am I hard, sir?" "Quite hard enough to get the job done." Raft chuckled at the unintended double entendre. "I'd say you were more than hard enough." He squeezed Freddie's arm. "We all have our secrets, Constable. It seems to be the way of things." Raft tossed his spent cigarette out of the cab. The cab shuddered to a halt in front of Charters' shop. "Here we are, Constable. The scene of the crime, I wonder?" Charters was waiting inside the shop. "I'd nothing to do with her, Inspector. I should like to state that outright." Charters drew himself up. "I don't know why these sorts of people keep coming into my shop." Raft seriously doubted this; he took out his notebook and pencil. "You say the girl had been here. Round about when, Mr. Charters?" "It's disgusting, a woman of that sort, loitering on the premises. One would think I were being personally targeted." "You say the girl had already been here. Round about when would that have been, Mr. Charters, exactly?" Raft hated repeating himself but Charters was perhaps the worst listener he'd ever met. "Earlier." Charters blinked at him owlishly. "Yes, she was here." He wasn't sure when, he couldn't be expected to 287
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remember such details. He had a business to run. Freddie made a slow circuit of the shop, examining the merchandise, the shelving and even the floor under his feet. Are you personally acquainted with the girl?" Raft asked. "Did she say where she would be going?" Raft asked. "Perhaps she might have given you some indication as to her intentions." He glanced round the shop. "Has she purchased items from you in the past?" "Hair colouring, henna, that sort of thing." Charters tugged at the hem of his waistcoat. "Nothing wrong with that. People ought to take better care of themselves, that's what I think. A little touch of this or that." His fingers made small motions in space. "It does one a power of good." Freddie turned from his contemplation of the 'drinking man' poster. "Do you use henna yourself, Mr. Charters?" He picked up a box of pennyroyal tablets and examined them. "To heighten your natural colour, perhaps." Charters touched the back of his own head carefully, as if afraid it might explode. "I might do." Clearly, the apothecary resented the question. "I am not as vain as some others, but yes, Constable, to answer your question. Yes, I do apply a little of the mixture now and then." He straightened his back and darted a glance from Freddie to Raft. "You won't be young forever, you know!" Raft scribbled something in his notebook. "I haven't been young for a very long time, Mr. Charters." "I think it's disgusting." Charters went behind the counter and began moving things about. "All day long they're out there." His face flushed slowly, dark blood diffusing into his 288
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cheeks and colouring the flabby flesh of his neck. "You lot do nothing about it, nothing. All day long and all night, too, out there, prancing up and down the pavements without so much as a by-your-leave." Raft looked up from his notebook. "Mr. Charters, whatever are you talking about?" The apothecary was trembling— violently, like one taken with a seizure—and his hands moved aimlessly among the items on the counter. "Them. All day long, all night long." Charters took out a handkerchief and mopped his sweating forehead. Perspiration ran down into his collar and wetted his waistcoat. "Prancing round on the pavements, showing themselves off. Who's got to look at it? Who has to be here all day, sometimes till seven at night when I manage to get things done, and there they are, out there, strutting round like they own the city! What we want in this day and age is a death of the senses...it is with the senses that we sin, the sense of sight, of smell, of taste. We must subjugate the senses. We must. Some girl gets herself in the family way, sets her claws into a man and then she's got him, hasn't she? She's got him and she can make him do whatever she wants. Oh yes, there's no stopping her then, the filthy little baggage." Raft gazed at Freddie. The constable mouthed, Is he all right? Raft shook his head. "Mr. Charters, I fear you are unwell. Perhaps you ought to sit down. Allow Constable Crook to fetch you a glass of water." "I don't want to sit down!" Charters slammed his fist on the counter. "What are you people doing about it? I don't know what I pay my taxes for! Them, out there, coupling and 289
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breeding like roaches, right under your noses and there's nothing you can do about it, except let them roam around at will...filth...disgusting filth...they've never worked a day in their lives, vermin!" His lips worked, and he turned aside and spat on the floor—spat again, with a loud exhalation. "I shall have to work even harder to get it out of my mouth. I shall have to. I must." He spun round and violently parted the curtain that separated the shop from the back room. Raft motioned to Freddie. "Constable, I believe we ought to leave Mr. Charters to himself." He hurried Freddie out of the shop. "That man." Raft began walking and Freddie followed. "The first victim we found in Charters' shop and now this...bizarre outburst, all over some girl who happened to come in and ask for something." "What are you thinking?" Freddie asked. "I'm thinking that Henry Charters is mixed up in this." Raft moved his arm to ease the pain in his shoulder. Mrs. Featherstonehaugh's dubious art had succeeded as well as could be expected, but the Turk's knife had done plenty of damage. "He has to be. Constable, I think I'm going to need to do this by myself." Freddie stopped short. "Oh, I don't think that's wise, sir. I don't think that's wise at all." "Constable, there is a killer on the loose—" "Right. So who's to say he won't kill you?" Freddie shook his head. "You really do take the most astonishing risks." "It's a necessary risk." Raft lit a cigarette, exhaled smoke into the cold night air. "The only way for me to find out about Henry Charters is to watch him." 290
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"And what about the killer, sir?" Freddie cast a look toward Charters' shop. "What if he takes exception to your presence and decides to do something about it?" "I have to find out," Raft said. "All this time, we've been chasing round London, trying to follow all these disparate threads back to the source. Thus far, we've accomplished nothing. I won't be arrogant and say that my hunches are always right, but there's something here, Constable. I feel it in my bones." "You feel it in your bones." Freddie rocked back on his heels. "In your bones, mind. Which might end up being broken—painfully, one at a time—while I'm off doing what, exactly?" He studied Raft for a moment. "You are stubborn to a fault. I don't condone this, but I know I haven't any choice." He gazed down the street, his expression voicing a bitterness he dared not speak aloud. "I will need all the luck I can muster," Raft said, "If I am to find the killer." He turned and looked back at Henry Charters' shop. Charters had emerged from the back room and was engaged in moving a large, mounted poster featuring the same John Bull figure Raft remembered from the morning mail: A SURE CURE FOR THE DRINKING MAN. "The drinking man." Raft's chest was suddenly tight. "The drinking man." [Back to Table of Contents]
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Nine The autumn chill had seeped into his bones until Raft felt deadened, cold and stiff, and still there was no movement in or out of the door. He cursed gently, and without any real feeling, as yet another dubious-looking specimen loitered on the pavement, blocking his view of the doorway. It was just past four in the afternoon and thus far today, Charters had done nothing much except remove the screens that covered his windows and move the drinking man poster closer to the door. The only customer had been a young woman about eighteen or twenty years of age, holding a small child by the hand and muttering something to herself. She was poorly dressed in a green velvet coat that had clearly seen better days and a dark, round hat, decorated with an arrangement of mashed flowers. Raft watched her through the window as she stood at the counter conversing with Charters. She pointed to something on the shelf behind him. The apothecary climbed up on a stepladder to retrieve the item and handed the box to the girl. From this distance, Raft couldn't see what the item was, but the girl tugged at her hair as she talked, so it might have been a cosmetic preparation. She paid Charters, who wrapped the box for her and watched as she took it away. Three young men, each dressed in the finery of the flash toff, whistled and clapped as the girl went past. "Bought yourself some whores' red, have you, Betty?"
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She made a rude gesture. "Piss off." Raft watched as she and her small companion turned the corner and disappeared into the growing darkness of late afternoon. "She likes a bit of the whores' red!" The wag in question postured behind her back, adopting an exaggerated walk. He saw Raft lounging on the pavement and whistled at him. "Oooh, look at this one! Perhaps you want some of the whores' red, do you, guv'nor?" A second man, shorter than the other two, leapt up and made a grab for Raft's cap. The inspector only just stepped back out of the way. "I don't want no whores' red!" He held onto his cap and backed up against the building. "I don't want nothing to do with whores." "I wonder if Betty's downstairs is coloured the same as her upstairs?" Laughing, the three men sauntered away. Raft breathed a sigh of relief. For the purpose of his investigation he had cast aside the trappings of a Yard man. He could not consider doing this while dressed in his usual dark suit and woollen overcoat, and so he was wearing a selection of ragged clothes that had been handed off to him by Jeremy Hoare. "I keep these things for...emergencies," Hoare had told him, although Raft wasn't sure what that meant, and decided not to ask. He figured it probably had something to do with Hoare's illegal avocation, and, come to think of it, the clothing did retain a rather fusty odour. Raft knew there were plenty of East End slop-shops who would willingly pay good money for useful garments, even if those garments had been taken from a corpse. 293
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He stuck his gloveless hands into his pockets and adopted a rolling walk, such as a drunken seaman might display, ambling his way along the pavement. He braced his back against the wall and slowly slid down it, to sit with his ragged coat puddled around his knees. The gin bottle was in his pocket, at the ready, and he pulled it out, took what passed for a long drink, the liquor barely touching his lips. He would need all his senses for this, and he knew too well that alcohol affected him like poison. The utmost in care must be taken. He couldn't afford to muck it up. Raft smiled grimly to himself. Either Charters would lead him to something useful, or he'd find himself on the wrong end of a private prosecution. It would be just like Charters to bring charges to bear on the slightest whiff of evidence—wrongful arrest, probably, or police harassment—or because he'd got his knickers in a twist. Charters appeared in the doorway again and began to sweep the doorstep and the pavements directly in front of the shop. He looked about him as he did this, seeming to survey the street as if waiting for something. Two men staggered out of the pub on the corner, leaning on each other for support, laughing hilariously at some private joke. Raft rolled onto one hip and regarded them blearily, rubbed a dirty hand across his unshaven face. "Spare us a drink?" The taller of the two wandered over to Raft and stood swaying over him for a moment. In the cold November damp, his breath steamed out of his mouth and nose and seemed to condense into the air. 294
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"Piss off," Raft growled, clutching his bottle to him. He didn't want trouble. If they insisted, he'd give them the bloody bottle and be done of it. To make a scene now would expose his position, and then any hope of subterfuge would have flown out the window. "Only wanted a tipple, guv'nor!" The man rejoined his companion, and Raft sighed with relief, sagged back against the wall. Long moments passed, and in the lengthening shadows, a woman brushed past him. Raft reached out and grabbed hold of the hem of her skirt. "Let go!" She was young, and just as poorly dressed as the other girl had been, with badly-dyed blond hair. She was wearing a low-cut gown that was probably some rich woman's cast-off finery. She was shivering and her lips and the tips of her fingers were blue with cold. "Please, miss." Raft coughed, a deep, racking sound that might have come from the bowels of the earth. "You seem like a nice girl, an honest girl." "I might be, but I ain't giving it away for free. You want it, you pay for it like all the rest." "I wonder if you might do me a favour." Raft coughed like a man on his deathbed. "My missus, she's not very well. No, she's not very well at all. I promised I'd bring her a little something." The girl rested her hand on her hip and looked down at him. "Oh right," she said. "Poorly, is she?" "I promised her." Raft dropped his head into his hands and sobbed brokenly. "My poor Mary. She's not long for this world. All she wanted, all she asked me for, she said 'Les, I 295
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just wants to look nice when me time comes'. That's what she said to me. And I promised her, I did! I promised." He held on to her skirt with two hands, wringing the fabric like wet laundry and sniffling in a most pitiable fashion. "Lord love a duck!" She yanked her skirt out of Raft's clutching hands and attempted to smooth the wrinkles out of it. "All right, all right. I'll do what I can for you. What do you want?" "She asked me to get her some of that stuff for your hair." Raft attempted to sit up, then slumped back against the wall in what he hoped was an appropriately drunken fashion. "I don't remember what it's called, but it's red, like. A real bright red. I saw a young girl buying some just now." He pointed toward Charters' shop. "In there." "Red, is it?" The girl laughed uproariously, slapping her knees. "You aren't half soused, are you? That's what they call whores' red! I ought to know. I uses it myself!" "Will you get me some?" Raft fumbled in his pocket, bringing out a handful of coins. He had no idea how much the stuff cost. "My missus will be so happy when she sees what I brought her." The girl's hand descended, palm upward. "All right then. Give it here." She counted the money quickly. "Hang on, you've given me too much." "God love you," Raft coughed, "keep the rest for yourself." He hawked up some mucus, turned and spat it on the ground behind him. "God love you," he wheezed, "God love you for a gentlewoman." 296
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"A gentlewoman?" She laughed. "Not bloody likely, but I'll take your money, any road." She went into the shop and spoke to Charters. Raft watched as the transaction was completed and the girl emerged onto the pavement. She handed him the wrapped parcel. "There you are, love. A nice box of whores' red for your missus." She grinned. "Going to have a bit of a knees-up when you get home, are you?" Raft gave her tuppence. "There you are." She stared at him and at the money, then dropped to her knees and reached for his fly. "You're far too generous, guv'nor!" "No!" Just in time Raft stopped her from undoing his trousers. "No, that's quite all right. Please take the money and...just take the money." She eyed him queerly. "You're not from round here, are you?" Raft's stomach knotted in fear. "No, I'm not." The girl nodded. "And I bet you haven't even got a missus, have you?" Blast and buggeration! "No, I'm afraid I haven't." She patted his shoulder. "It's all right, luvvie. I'm only too happy to do you a good turn." She drew back and regarded him fondly. "Don't do it, darling." "Sorry?" "You'd look rubbish as a redhead." She walked off, her heels clacking hard against the pavements. At one minute past six, Henry Charters locked up his shop and came outside; the apothecary was carrying a small, black 297
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leather case. Raft had remained where he was, lying on the pavement, seemingly insensible and reeking of drink. He didn't look up as Charters fastened his coat around his neck and set off down the street. Raft waited till the apothecary was far enough ahead and then he rolled to his feet and followed Charters into the London night. It was well past his usual time for leaving work and Freddie ought to have been gone by now, but he lingered downstairs in the police morgue. Pontius Doyle had already made an exception by keeping Lady Baverstock's body an extra day; tomorrow morning the body would be turned over to the family for burial. Freddie went over every inch of the woman's body carefully, combing her hair for the sorts of small fragments that might, if properly examined, yield an important clue. He examined the insides of her ears, her nostrils and her mouth, and scraped underneath her fingernails with a small wooden pick that he kept particularly for this purpose. It cost him a great deal in personal discomfort, but he set his own feeling aside. When he returned to his lodgings he would bathe, and scrub every inch of his body, and examine himself for residue from the day's work. In this way— by turning his whole mind to his task— he was able to continue. Whatever he found was deposited in small envelopes and appropriately labelled. The index finger of the left hand gave him pause. A small amount of some dark, greasy substance clung to his pick. He wiped it onto a piece of paper and examined it under the strongest light he could find. He wasn't entirely sure but it looked like gun grease to him. That wasn't suggestive in itself, but if 298
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Lady Baverstock had intended to mutilate her own thumb, she might have fiddled with the cylinder of the revolver. As the cylinder turned the expulsion of hot gases could have easily torn off the top of the digit. Yes, it was the sort of stupid error made by someone unused to shooting a gun, so she'd probably been learning. There were several self-styled firearms experts that Freddie could recall offhand who made their living teaching the upper classes the fundamentals of self-defence. It was a shame, he thought ruefully, that nobody ever told them that the most dangerous aspect of a gun was the fact that it could conceivably be used against them. "Good evening, Constable." The great bulk of Pontius Doyle moved gracefully between the tables. The young doctor was wearing his overcoat and had a long purple muffler wrapped around his neck. He was obviously leaving for the day. "I see you're looking at Lady Baverstock. Damned strange case there, I can tell you that. If a woman wants to do away with her husband, you think she'd use something like poison. Isn't that what they always do?" Doyle came and stood next to Freddie. It was like being shadowed by a colossus. "Use some on him, and save some for herself." Doyle scratched the late-day stubble that had sprung up on his cheeks and chin. "That's an odd case, that is." "What do you mean?" Freddie glanced over his shoulder at Doyle. "Perhaps she shot him, then killed herself. Isn't that the way it happened?" "You'd think so, wouldn't you?" Doyle turned toward a table at the far end of the room, gestured to Freddie that he 299
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should follow. He showed Freddie a beaker half full of some clear substance; two bullets rested at the bottom of the glass jar. "These are the bullets I took out of Lord Baverstock's head. They are from a .20 calibre air gun. It's the sort of gun you don't often see in this part of England—Birmingham, maybe, but they're all mad up there. Oh yes, they're mad for air rifles in Birmingham." Freddie failed to appreciate the sentiment. "Yes, and...?" "I shoot a fair bit, myself. Even joined a shooting club a few months back. We shoot all sorts of things, but there's a chap in my club who went to Germany on holiday and brought back an antique air rifle. Just beautiful, it was, and the most cunning thing you ever saw. As far as guns go this one could take the eye out of a fly with no trouble at all." Freddie's heart had sped up to double its normal rate and he felt decidedly faint at that moment. "What exactly are you saying, Doctor?" "Until I examined Lord Baverstock, I assumed he had been shot with a revolver. Then I opened up his head. The bullets I dug out of his brain had gone in so cleanly that they could never have been fired from an ordinary gun. These bullets have what you call a higher ballistic coefficient—what that means is that it cuts through the air a lot faster, can travel much more quickly than your average bullet and tends to penetrate more cleanly." Doyle fished one of the bullets out of the liquid and held it on his palm for Freddie to examine. "It's shaped different from your usual bullet—see there, it's nipped in the middle, like a lady's waist." 300
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There was a long silence in the morgue, during which Freddie could hear the swish and gurgle of the Thames below them. "Lady Baverstock didn't kill her husband." "No, Constable. Not with a revolver, at any rate." Doyle laid the beaker back on the shelf and pulled on his gloves. "Lord Baverstock was killed with an air rifle, probably from some distance away." "Then why in the name of God did she try to make it seem like she was the one who killed him?" Unless... "She was trying to shield someone else." But Freddie was talking to himself. Pontius Doyle had left for the night. He caught the lift upstairs and went immediately into the lavatory. Hanging his coat on the nearby hook, he rolled up his shirt sleeves and ran the water till it was steaming hot. He avoided his own gaze in the mirror as he soaped his hands, rubbing the lather well into the knuckles and palms and extending the soapy layer well beyond the wrists. He wiped his right hand over the left three times, clockwise, then anticlockwise. He repeated this same gesture with the opposite hand then he shook off the excess water, flicking his hands three times at the lavatory basin. He took a nail brush from the pocket of his coat and, starting with the left hand, brushed vigorously under each fingernail, paying special attention to the cuticles. Switching to the other hand, he repeated the procedure, then reached to turn off the taps. Left hand. You did it wrong. His left hand clenched itself into a fist. He took up the soap and began the procedure again, lathering the palms and then the knuckles, coating his wrists with soap and repeating the wiping gesture. He began 301
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working with the nail brush, scrubbing hard, desperate to finish before anyone else entered the room. There might be someone else about— other inspectors besides Raft had their offices on this floor. It wasn't inconceivable that someone would wander in and see him doing this, be moved to ask awkward questions. I don't know how you manage to get so filthy. He made himself smile while he was doing this work. It was important to make an outward show of compliance. He had learnt that early. Your brother would never be seen in those disgusting clothes. You really are revolting. It was important to smile, to pretend it didn't matter, and he'd be damned if he'd let her see how her exclamations hurt him. He ran both hands under the steaming hot water, held his arms there for as long as he could stand it, then flicked away the excess and shut the water off. He held his hands aloft in space until they were dry, then rolled his sleeves down and fastened his cuff buttons into place. Not clean. He smiled at his own reflection. Not even close. It would have to do. Freddie Crook stepped out of his cab in front of a boarding house quite near the notorious district known as the Seven Dials. He directed the cabbie to wait while he went inside and inquired of the landlady which was Tansy Royal's room. The door was locked but Freddie was a most resourceful policeman, and his methods, although not entirely within the purview of the Force, were effective. Early in his career, Freddie had the good fortune to meet one of the most experienced safe crackers in the business. The old man had instructed him in the fine art of lock-picking, and the set of picks Freddie had confiscated from him had come in handy 302
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more than once. In moments he had the door open and was standing inside a mean little room furnished with a bed, a chest of drawers, a small table and a lamp. The bed had not recently been slept in and a skin of dust lay over everything. "Find what you were looking for, guv'nor?" The landlady was short, dark and squat, with small, beady eyes that reminded Freddie of a rat. The house was dark and smelled horrible. The curtains in Tansy's room had last been washed when Jesus Christ was wearing short pants. "Er, quite. Yes, thank you." He stowed the wire away in his pocket. "When did you last see Miss Royal? Do you remember?" "I seen her last week, something like that." The woman was chewing something that Freddie couldn't readily identify; she worked it back and forth, shifting the piece in her mouth. "I'm not really sure." She held her hand out, palm up, as if expecting to receive something. "I'm a police constable." Freddie looked her up and down disdainfully. "If you are expecting some sort of gratuity, you are bound to be disappointed. You're lucky I don't close this place down. It's too filthy for human habitation." Good God, but the smell was overpowering! What the devil had she been doing in there? "I shall want to look round awhile." She grunted. "Oh, go to town, luvvie. I don't care." She waddled round the corner and Freddie heard the stairs creak as she descended to the lower floor. Freddie examined the sitting room, or what he supposed was the sitting room. The small space contained just about everything that Tansy Royal had owned in the world. The 303
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bed—narrow, and sagging badly from its iron frame—was pushed against the wall, and a creaking, rickety chest of drawers occupied the space where a night table would normally stand. A small oil lamp had been set atop the chest, but when Freddie lifted it to examine it there was scarcely a quarter-inch of oil left in the bottom. The drawers were mostly empty but he found a pair of stockings rolled into a ball and secreted at the back of the second one. A small bible with a worn cover lay where it had been tossed at the foot of the bed. There was a washstand near the window, with a basin and a cracked jug, both empty. Clearly, Miss Royal was taking her love of slumming a bit too far. A woman's coat hung on a hook behind the door, along with a knitted shawl that had clearly seen better days. Under the threadbare rug Freddie found an envelope, devoid of its contents with a Kensington postmark. He put this in his pocket. There was a small anteroom to the side, partitioned from the main room by dirty red curtain. The smell, when he pushed the curtain aside, was overwhelming. He fumbled in his pocket for his handkerchief and pressed it to his nose and mouth. "Hello? Is anyone in here?" His foot struck what at first seemed to be a pile of old clothes; the room was very dark and what light there was came from the gap left between the blind and the windowsill. Freddie reached across and pulled the blind up. The dead body of Tansy Royal lay at his feet. The girl's eyes and mouth had been smudged with some dark substance the colour and texture of coal dust and a piece of 304
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paper was pinned to the front of her dress. Freddie read the note at a glance: Now it will end. The dark stain around the eyes and mouth repulsed him, evoking the lurid note that had been found with Lady Baverstock's body that day, behind Cleopatra's Needle. Sinister He made sure to examine the body, taking careful note of its condition and looking for possible clues as to the cause of her death. There were no signs of violence, at least none that he could see. But when he examined her palms he discovered the same faint traces of red henna that had been found on the murder victims. There were no holes in her skull. There was, in fact absolutely nothing about the body of Tansy Royal to suggest that the death itself had been the result of anything other than natural causes. There were no marks on her throat that would indicate strangulation and the eyes were devoid of any telltale pinpoint bruises. There was absolutely nothing under her fingernails. Even the soles of her shoes were clean. She might have died in her sleep except for the dark smudges on the mouth and eyes, and the note. Freddie wondered if Raft's old friend Douglas Manby-Smith had done this—but Manby-Smith was supposedly quite ill, even dying, and maybe a dying man didn't have the energy to carry out such a disgusting masquerade. She had been dead about three days, judging by the amount of decomposition present in her tissues. The eyes had sunk a little in their sockets, dragging the flesh downward; the mouth as well was sunk and appeared compressed. The urinary bladder and the bowels had released their contents onto the floor, accounting for at least some of the smell. 305
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Gagging, he stepped away from it, fumbling with the latch of a window. The sash gave and a gust of cold air rolled into the room. Freddie turned up the mattress of the bed and found nothing except an antiquated Sunday School paper and half a dead mouse. He shook out the pillows and the blankets, finding nothing. A battered wooden wardrobe stood against the wall, the door hanging open. Pushing aside the hanging coats and dresses he found only a piece of drawing paper pasted to the wall and featuring a crude drawing of a female figure, the eyes and mouth blacked out. SINISTER. "So it was you after all...it was you." She must have been following Lady Baverstock, possibly to intimidate her. It was unlikely that she'd played any direct part in the woman's murder, but the note found at the scene had most likely been hers. He wondered if her reaction to Lady Baverstock's murder had been shock or gratitude. "You were a nasty piece of work, my girl." Good God, Freddie thought, I'm talking to myself. He allowed that Philemon Raft's odd habits had begun to influence him. There was a small noise to the rear and Freddie turned quickly, his heart hammering in his throat. "Where's Mummy?" A little girl about four years old had come into the room. She was neatly dressed and her soft, blonde hair had been curled into ribbons. "Mummy won't talk to me. I keep asking her if I can have my tea now but she won't answer me." She reached for Freddie's hand and held on. "Please, sir, I'm awfully hungry." 306
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"But where's your daddy?" Freddie knelt down before her and gave her a reassuring hug. "Hasn't your daddy come for you?" The little girl gazed at him solemnly. "My daddy is a very important man. Mummy says he's too important to come and see me, but that we're going to see him very soon. Daddy was here. He and Mummy had an awful fight." There was a smear of dirt on the child's cheek. Freddie fetched out his handkerchief and cleaned it away. "Do you know your daddy's name?" This was little better than useless, he knew: most children her age would have known their fathers only as 'Daddy'. "He works in a shop." She nodded. "He's ever so important. I'm not to touch the bottles and boxes." Freddie's fingers tightened on the girl's waist. "Bottles and boxes?" His heart fluttered in his throat. "In my daddy's shop." Freddie waited with the girl while a woman was sent round from the Church of England Waifs and Strays Society. The woman took Freddie's name and his contact information before spiriting the girl away to a foundling home. A fleet of constables arrived from Scotland Yard in short order and loaded the body of Tansy Royal into an ambulance for transport to the police morgue. Constable Burley approached Freddie as he stood in the doorway smoking a cigarette. "You know, when the guv'nor asked us to have a look for this Royal bird, I never dreamed it would end like this." He attempted to suppress a shudder, failing miserably. "Who the devil marked up her eyes and mouth like that?" 307
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"I have a slight idea who might have done it," Freddie said. He sighed and rubbed his eyes. It seemed like days had passed since he and Raft had taken a cab to Henry Charters' shop. "Constable Crook, did he put holes in her head?" A very young constable with very shiny boots bobbed impatiently near Freddie's elbow. "I heard he put holes in their heads. Is that true?" Burley took the younger man by the elbow and hurried him away. "How many times have I told you? Don't be asking questions like that." The ambulance driver shouted that they were ready to go. With a departing wave, Burley climbed onto the back of the ambulance like some errant footman of old. Then it and he were gone. Freddie cornered the landlady in what passed for a sitting room and urged her to have a seat. "This is probably going to take a while so you might want to get comfortable." He was filled with outrage and disgust but he put his emotions aside. He very much wanted to take the woman's greedy, blinking face and smash it into the nearest wall but that wouldn't help Tansy Royal, who was past help by now anyway. He didn't understand how someone could live under the same roof and remain oblivious to a murder and the subsequent mutilation of the corpse. The woman had to be blind, deaf or stupid—or possibly all three. There was no way she could plead ignorance, not now. And what of the child, the innocent who had waited for three days in the room with her mother's dead body and who must have, at some point, cried for help—what of her? 308
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Perhaps the landlady, like so many others in the city, made it a practice to turn a blind eye, or maybe she felt it simply wasn't her responsibility. Or, Freddie reasoned, perhaps she was just a nasty old bitch who didn't give a tinker's cuss for anybody but herself. It always amazed him that people could go about their lives as if all was right with the world and God was indeed in his heaven. Had she known Tansy Royal very long, Freddie asked. No more than three months, the woman told him, and she was hardly ever in her room. "A right nice room, too, it is. I could have had a lot more than I was charging her for it, let me tell you! She got off easy. I let her have it on the cheap, I did. And that girl of hers, I let her stay, and all. This isn't a foundling home. I told her that, the day she came here to rent the place. I said, 'I don't normally take children' but she promised the child would be as quiet as a lamb and there was no need to worry. I did her a favour letting the two of them stay here. It's a nice room, and all." "The room is little better than a midden and you know it." Freddie fixed her with a look. "Was there any sort of pattern to Miss Royal's comings and goings? Did she ever have visitors to her room, gentlemen visitors?" "I don't allow that sort of thing." She drew a dirty grey handkerchief out of her bodice and mopped her sweating face with it. "This ain't no whorehouse." Something occurred to her. "There was a fellow who came to see her once. I'd gone to the shops and when I came back I found him in her rooms." 309
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"Oh?" Freddie fought to stifle the flutter of excitement in his breast. "Do you remember what he looked like?" "A gentleman, he were." She nodded. "Oh, he were dressed ever so nicely." "Did he give you a name?" "Better than that." Her smile was sly, a sidelong twisting of her mouth. She ferreted around in the pocket of her apron and brought out a piece of crumpled card. "I kept this. Never had a gentleman give me nothing before and I thought maybe if he were someone important it might be worth money." Of course you did. There was something printed on the card. Freddie turned it right side up. LORD REGINALD BAVERSTOCK. The woman obviously mistook Freddie's expression of surprise for one of inquiry. "And they were having a terrible row, him and her. Oh, the things he said to her!" "Such as?" He struggled to master himself. "Let me see if I remember..." She pressed a grimy finger to her cheek in an attempt at a coy gesture. "He said, 'You're nothing but a whore' and he said she'd not get another penny if he had anything to say about it." Freddie scribbled this information down. "Did he say anything else?" "Not to her, but as he was going he said, 'Tell my sister she knows where to find me if she's a mind to change her ways'. That was it. He stormed off in such a state, oh! You never saw the like. Said he was going to take the child to the workhouse." 310
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"Yes, the child." Freddie regarded her with disgust. "She has been with her mother's body since the death occurred. It's inconceivable that you heard nothing, and yet you allowed a four-year-old to remain in the room where her mother had been murdered. What in the name of God were you doing?" "I didn't hear her." She raised her shoulders and let them drop. "Honest, guv. I don't hear so well, me." She craned her neck to try and see what Freddie was writing. "You ain't going to take me in, are you, guv'nor? After I've helped you and all?" Freddie toyed with the notion of arresting the woman just on principle but decided that he didn't want to have to look at her greedy, piggish face ever again. He left her with a strong warning about the state of her rooms and advised her that there would be periodic checks made to see if the premises were within normal health and safety boundaries. He knew as soon as he said it that warning a woman like that was about as useful as singing underwater. Sometimes, he wondered why he even bothered. Henry Charters seemed to know where he was going. Twice now he had turned off onto side streets and once he'd slipped down an alley that led past a fish market and into a square. It was, Raft thought, as if he had an appointment with someone. Raft stayed close behind him, matching his pace to Charters' but never allowing his presence to be known. Charters lingered in front of the shop that sold ladies' gloves and hose, gazing at the window display. He passed the leather bag from hand to hand, bouncing on the balls of his 311
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feet. He seemed to be waiting for something or someone and Raft wondered if Charters' next victim had indeed been summoned by appointment. Raft faded back into a doorway and watched Charters for what seemed like an age but which was probably closer to five minutes. The sound of footsteps drew nearer, the cadence distorted by the fog that had fallen upon London like a filthy, dark curtain. The slim figure of a girl emerged from the darkness, and she approached Charters where he stood in front of the shop window. The fog had the queer effect of amplifying all sounds within the square, and Raft could hear her conversation as clearly as if she were standing next to him. "I came, just like you told me to." The girl fumbled in her reticule and brought out a roll of banknotes tied with dark ribbon. "It's all there. I counted it twice. Let me have it. You promised. You said that I could have it. You think I want to have another brat?" She fiddled with her stringy hair, twirling a strand round and round her finger, all the while looking at Charters expectantly. "You must be dreadfully tired," Charters said, his voice comforting and fatherly. "You've walked such an awfully long way tonight, Mary." He laid the leather case on the ground between his feet and took her hands in his, warming them. "Such an awfully long way, Mary. Perhaps you might like a little something to warm you up?" He swayed toward her, his posture one of barely concealed excitement. "Just a little something, nothing very much. I know you've a long way to go yet tonight." 312
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Raft couldn't be sure, but it almost looked like Charters was trembling. "Please, Mary." Charters' voice was barely audible. "Just a little, I promise." The girl looked about as if seeking an answer from the surrounding buildings. She glanced back at Charters, hesitated, then made up her mind. "All right," she said. "Just a little, yeah? I've got to get back. They'll be wondering where I am." Raft leaned out of his doorway as far as he dared, his eyes fixed on Charters and the girl. The apothecary reached into his pocket and came out with a small, flat brown bottle. He grinned at her and pulled the cork from it with his teeth, took a swig from the bottle, then offered it to her. A dead woman, a woman Raft had never seen before was standing in the doorway, smiling. It's him that did it. He did it, the drinking man. She was as tall as Raft, with long, dark red hair streaming round her shoulders. She was beautifully dressed, in a fine, dark coat with frogged closures and a Cossack hat to match. She reminded Raft of someone that he knew, or that he ought to know, someone he had known an age ago, in another time or place. You were young once, Inspector. I haven't been young for a very long time. The girl took a long drink from the bottle, blinked, and swayed forward into Charters' waiting embrace. He glanced around him to see if he had been observed, then picked up the girl and his leather case and ran around the corner. 313
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Raft came out of his doorway, hard on the apothecary's heels. Charters was making good time, especially considering he had the girl slung over his shoulder like a fatted calf. He ran past a livery stable, cut through an alley, and down four stone steps into an open yard bordered by warehouses that turned blank faces to the space below. He lowered the girl onto the ground and spread the leather case open. As Raft approached, he could see the gleam of metal from inside the case, and quickened his steps accordingly. Charters already had the trephine in his hands when Raft ran at him, his head down and his arms outstretched to catch Charters as the apothecary fell. Raft's hand merely grazed him and the inspector stumbled hard against a wrought iron fence. "God damn it!" The wound in his shoulder felt as though it had ripped wide open. "Come here!" He lunged at the apothecary. But Charters anticipated him, and with a snarl of surprise, sprang away from the girl, running out into the street. He dodged an omnibus full of late-day passengers, a knife grinder with a dancing monkey and a costermonger wheeling an empty cart. He darted through a deserted fish market, ran up a flight of stairs and into an empty building, Raft at his heels. The building comprised the upper portion of a deserted hay market, a vast, open space whose wooden floor was festooned with clumps of fallen straw. The straw effectively deadened the sound of Charters footsteps, so Raft had no way of knowing where the apothecary was. He reached into his pocket and took out his revolver, nestling the butt against his palm and cocking the lever in readiness. He did not want 314
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to shoot Charters, but if that was the only way of bringing the man in, then he would. As Raft saw it, this was a simple question of duty. "Charters! I want you to come out immediately." Raft walked a slow circuit of the upper floor, always keeping his back to a wall, his revolver held in front of him. "Charters, give yourself up man! You know this can't go on any longer." He stopped, stood absolutely still and listened, but there was no sound except his own breathing. "Charters, I know what you've been doing. This cannot go on. Come out now and I promise I will do what I can for you." This last was mere hyperbole. His intervention notwithstanding, Raft knew that the man would hang for what he'd done. There was no middle ground here. Obviously Charters realised this too. "You can forget it, Inspector. I'm not going to hang. You can write that down in your little book." Charters was nearby. Raft could track him by the sound of his voice. "I think I understand why you did it. It's not easy being brilliant if nobody knows about it." A page from Blessington's diary swam before Raft's inner vision: He is the true master. "You were the one who perfected the method, not that fool Blessington. He stole the idea from you, didn't he? And then he said he was the one." Raft waited, listening intently, but there was only silence. Then there was a sudden noise from the rafters and he swung round, his gun at the ready. It was only a nesting pigeon, disturbed by the shouted exchange. Raft allowed himself several deep breaths and waited for his heartbeat to slow. "Blessington made a fool of 315
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himself," Raft said. "He used your methods to operate on the patients in the asylum, and got himself in trouble. He made you look bad, didn't he?" Come on, you bastard, where are you? "It was all mine." Charters' voice came from behind Raft's left shoulder. The inspector staggered back a pace or two and his gun hand came up, but the apothecary was just as fast. He caught hold of Raft's wrist and forced his hand up and backward. The revolver fired two deafening reports. He had only four shots left now. "It was all mine. I invented it. I perfected the method, but those tired old fools, they wouldn't let me use it." Charters grabbed the front of Raft's coat and shoved him backward, forcing the inspector against the wall. "They wouldn't let me use it. They said it was barbaric and inhumane, but it could have helped so many." "You are a man of genius," Raft said. "They aren't clever enough to appreciate you, all those filthy people walking up and down all day in front of your shop, selling their flesh. You were right, Mr. Charters. We need a death of the senses. That's why you took young Driscoll's eyes, isn't it? And Mary Ratty's nose. And Dick Menchions' tongue." He took a breath, trying to gauge Charters' emotional state. He needed to keep the apothecary talking but if he pushed too hard, Charters would likely close up on him. "Especially him, he was the worst. He acted like he'd invented it, but it wasn't him at all, it was you, wasn't it? He was never as good at it as you are, but that's not surprising. It was your discovery, and he took all the credit for it." Say his name...Go on, tell me his name. 316
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Charters blinked at him as if Raft had spoken aloud. "Yes. It was him." "Who?" Charters was still holding the front of Raft's coat; the inspector closed his hands around the apothecary's wrists, and held on. "Who was it? Who stole your genius from you? Tell me, and I shall see to it that he is prosecuted to the full extent that the law allows." Outside the warehouse, it began to rain, a driving November rain that hammered on the windows and thundered on the wooden roof like the noise of a thousand footsteps. The smell of damp hay rose from the floor beneath their feet, a comforting stable scent, like placid barnyard animals. It was almost intimate, like a tryst here together in the dark. "You have suffered so much, haven't you? You ought to have been famous, but he took all that from you, didn't he?" Charters was weeping. He reeled away from Raft and covered his face with his hands. Say his name. Go on, tell me who he is. "Blessington," Charters sobbed—and fell abruptly silent. There was an open hatchway in the floor that lay between Raft and Charters. The inspector skirted it carefully as he moved toward the weeping man. "Thank you," Raft murmured. He reached into his pocket for his darbies, and in that instant Charters was on him, charging at him with a speed and agility Raft would never have expected. The edge of the hatchway loomed up in Raft's peripheral vision and he flailed, attempting to catch hold of something that might slow 317
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his passage, but his hand closed over a fold of Charters' trousers and they fell together, down into the darkness. [Back to Table of Contents]
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Ten There was nothing more to do now. The appropriate words had already been uttered and the coffin had been lowered down into the hole; the mourners drifted away from the grave, singly or in groups and he was alone with her—alone with her and with their stillborn son. At the final moment something had given way in her, and with the last vestiges of her strength she had pushed the child into the world, cold and blue and dead, the umbilical wrapped round its neck. He'd gone to stand beside her bed because she'd asked for him, but he'd no desire to see it. Look at him, isn't he perfect? He's absolutely perfect. The child's face was flattened by the ordeal of its birth, the lips pushed back against the teeth, the head cruelly misshapen. The slanted eyes and the full and bulging tongue confirmed his fears. It had been a mongoloid idiot. It was, he thought, a final kindness. Death in this case was a blessing. Blessington did not believe in God but clearly some providential hand had been at work here. They buried the child with its mother, lying in her arms. He left the cemetery alone, walking slowly past the vast and hoary monuments commemorating the dead of ages past. For his wife and infant son he had ordered a simple monument, a weeping angel with his wings outstretched. The sculptor had assured him it would be ready as soon as possible, that he would send men to install it in the cemetery. This pleased him. I shall be away, you see. I shan't be here to oversee it, and I should like to know that it has been correctly 319
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placed. He had given a donation to the cemetery's overseer, with the request that flowers should be planted round the grave—something beautiful and simple and ever-blooming, perhaps hydrangea or some other of the perennials. The overseer was very understanding. "Where shall I reach you, sir? I'm sure you will want final approval." "I shall be away. I shan't be here. Please, choose something for me. I am satisfied with that." His affairs, of course, had been tidied away and there remained nothing left to do. He had burnt his private journals and his correspondence, and severed all contact with anyone in London who knew him. The house had gone up on the market and he had left instruction with his solicitor to donate the profits to a charity of his choice. It didn't really matter. He left Highgate Cemetery, walking slowly up Swain's Lane, heading north toward Hampstead Heath. The wind had freshened and he turned up his coat collar around his neck. It would take no time at all to walk to Highgate Station and from there to get the train. He knew which train he wanted and he'd made sure to carry a copy of the timetable with him in his pocket. One could never trust such things to memory, especially now, when thought and memory so often blurred together and it was difficult to determine what was real and what had merely been imagined. He turned onto South Grove, heading west now. Yes, it had all been decided ahead of time. They had been students together at the medical school; they had shared rooms in an attitude of friendship or something very like it. Their rooms were small, not unlike the cells at Scotland Yard. The cells at 320
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Scotland Yard were small and damp with whitewashed walls and a smell of damp and ordure. There was always someone shouting, the sound of men crying in the night, wailing for their freedom while the constables on duty ignored them. He had wanted a cigarette and the young one sitting by the wall—what was his name?—had shared a smoke with him, had lit it for him, and they had pretended to talk. He had been beaten rather badly by the tall one, the slender man with burning dark eyes and something akin to madness in his gaze. Wasn't everybody mad, though, nowadays? When he had practiced at St. Luke's asylum, they had come to him, begging him for help. You can't simply...dammit, Blessington, they aren't animals! They would stay late in the classroom and the laboratory when they were at school together, and their shared confidences gave rise to what he privately thought of as his genius. When it came to it, though, it wasn't really his, because Henry had been the one who'd first proposed it, and at the time it seemed absurd, like something out of a yellowbacked novel, or some hideous penny dreadful. What, cut a hole to let the evil spirits out? Don't be absurd, it facilitates the blood flow. With blood flow restored, the brain resumes its normal function and the madness disappears. Surely, even you can see the possibilities. There was no need to put it that way, but Henry had always been like that. He'd always said things that didn't need to be said, and was cutting where kindness would have sufficed. He often joked that he "lacked the organs of 321
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decency." Good thing you and I are mates, Blessington old chum, eh? Imagine what sort of chap I'd be otherwise! At first they'd worked in silence, afraid to breathe a word of their convoluted theory to anyone at school. They practiced the technique on oranges and apples, and luscious melons obtained at great cost and difficulty from a fruit importer in the West End; only later did they graduate to cats and dogs and rabbits, and finally, when all other possibilities had been thoroughly wrung dry... You can't be serious. Good God, man! Rubbish. I found him wandering near Fleshmarket Close. The boy was Mongoloid, about nine years old and crying, a slimy effluent ran from his nose down the front of his jacket. We can alleviate the poor wretch's suffering. I won't do it. I want no part of this. He had put the boy in his own bed, and brought him some broth to drink and a chunk of bread. He would get up early and take the boy to the Church Society; someone would see to him. They'd have a laugh about it later, and Henry would say that he'd only meant to have a little joke. He turned right now at Merton Lane, pressing on against the wind. It was a wretched cold day, a day to be covered up with something warm, something that kept the heat in. Do you want... The Church of England minister was terribly young and unsure of himself. Should I ask them to delay lowering the coffin until after you've left the cemetery? No...no. I want...I would like... I would like to make sure she is put safely in the ground—but one couldn't say that. One really couldn't say something like that. You may lower 322
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the coffin as soon as the service is read. He would have to walk more quickly, it was getting on, and he couldn't miss his train. That would be disaster. Henry had stolen the boy out from under Blessington's nose, had gone ahead and operated on him anyway, putting him under with laudanum and drilling three holes in his skull. There was so much blood, far more blood than Blessington would have expected, which was ridiculous of him. He'd witnessed dozens of surgeries; of course there would be blood. There was always blood. The boy had lived three days, rolling around on the floor of their shared rooms and babbling nonsense. On the morning of the fourth day, Blessington awoke to find Henry already awake, sitting at the dining table and smoking a cigarette. I require your assistance in disposing of a body. They hired a carriage from a nearby livery stable and drove the body to the river, where, weighted down with heavy stones, it sank without a trace. What if someone comes looking for him? No one will come looking for him When they returned home, Henry had gone to his own room and locked the door. When he emerged it was late at night. Blessington was pretending to study by the fire. You can't ever tell anyone. You must swear to me. You cannot ever tell, or we are dead men. Do you hear me, Blessy? And he had abided by that promise, until the day he found Lady Baverstock wandering disconsolate near Cleopatra's Needle— not that it mattered now. Doubtless suspicion would fall on Henry Charters and perhaps that was as it should be. Even if the police knew that he'd done Lady Baverstock, it made no 323
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difference. They knew Blessington was a murderer, as surely as God did, and it was necessary that he be judged for it, condemned for it. The time had come. He made the final turning now; Highgate Station was dead ahead, and already he was imagining the click and chuff of trains pulling in and out, heading for other points within the city and beyond. It would be good to get out of the wind. It would be good to rest for a little while. It would be very good indeed. He gained the train platform at last and stood for some moments, gazing down the track. The telltale rumble of a train heralded its approach and he was ready. Doctor Blessington waited till the train was a mere twenty feet away. He set his face forward, put his hands into his pockets, and walked in front of it. The giant machine mowed him down remorselessly and reduced him to a smear of blood and gristle on the tracks. The hard wooden floor of the warehouse slammed into Philemon Raft's back, knocking the wind out of him. Henry Charters landed nearby and Raft grabbed for him, but Charters' fist slammed down across Raft's wrist, hard enough to make his eyes water. "Give it up, man," Raft panted, "you'll never get away. We'll hunt you the length and breadth of London. I'll get you for Lord Baverstock anyway. Hadn't you best confess and have done with it?" "No. I won't let you take me!" Charters rolled to his feet and started toward the far end of the building, but Raft, head down like an ox at the plough, charged him and knocked him 324
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over. The apothecary shrieked in fury, rolling this way and that in an effort to throw the inspector off him. Raft held fast. "In the name of Her Majesty the Queen, I arrest you for the wilful murder of —" Charters heaved his body upward and Raft rolled off. His revolver slipped from his grasp and Charters, seeing this, threw himself on the gun. In the blink of an eye Raft was there, long fingers digging cruelly into the apothecary's wrist, but Charters refused to yield. Raft slammed the man's hand back against a thick post, and Charters cried out. The gun dropped to the floor at his feet. When Raft bent to retrieve it, Charters raised his leg and drove his knee full into the inspector's face. The pain was blinding, and for a moment Raft staggered, the dark room reeling about him. He raised the gun, reversed it in his hand, and in one wild and desperate swing he knocked Henry Charters cold. "In the name of the Queen." Raft slumped to the straw and clutched his head in his hands while bright stars formed and revolved behind his eyelids. He reached under Charters' body and yanked his arms behind him, locking the darbies about his wrists. "And stay there." There were shouts and the wavering beam of a police bull's-eye pierced the darkness. "He's in here!" a familiar voice called—Cholmondely, if Raft wasn't mistaken. "Right here! Here he is." Cholmondely's tall form filled Raft's vision like one of Blake's angels and everything—the hay market, Cholmondely, and the unconscious form of Henry Charters— went away. 325
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Strictly speaking, Freddie supposed a policeman ought not to break into buildings owned by private citizens, but these were very desperate times and he had no compunction about using desperate measures. He gave the wire another tug and was pleased to hear the tumblers in the lock turning. With a quick look round, he let himself into Henry Charters' shop and lit a candle, shielding the small flame with his hand. He had some idea what he was looking for, but whether he'd find it here or elsewhere didn't really matter—he intended to find it. He knew that Tansy Royal was the youngest sister of Lord Baverstock. Her frequenting of Charters' shop possibly created a thread of connection between Charters and Lord Baverstock—or, in this case, Lord Baverstock's wife. Like Philemon Raft, Freddie Crook possessed more than the usual intelligence. He also had a prodigious imagination and the kind of mind that made what others often considered unprecedented leaps which, if not entirely logical, very often turned out to be true. If Tansy Royal's child had been fathered by Henry Charters, then Charters had reason to stay on the girl's good side, if only to prevent seduction charges being brought against him and, given that she was an accomplished blackmailer, to keep her from turning on him. Charters wasn't an established member of society but he did enjoy a certain mercantile interest and he'd be loath to see that destroyed. And perhaps her demands had escalated so that money was no longer enough. Having put her own sister away in an asylum, she might have therefore pressed Charters into heinous service in order to gain access to the family fortune. 326
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Freddie had taken advantage of his previous visits to Charters' shop to familiarize himself with the location of doors and windows; up until now the apothecary's presence had prevented Freddie from giving the place anything more than a cursory glance. At the back of the shop, screened off by a curtain, was a small room outfitted with a divan, an examination table, and a cabinet full of medical instruments— including several wicked-looking toothed trephines in varying sizes. A nearby bookcase held several authoritative-looking titles, including Chadwick's Report on the Sanitary Condition of the Labouring Population of Great Britain and Alfred Beaumont Maddock's Practical Observations on Mental and Nervous Disorders—and, perhaps most notably, Dr. Abbey's famous tome, The Sexual System and Its Derangements. Freddie flipped the pages of the last title and hurriedly put it back. There were some things, he reasoned, that the male species was not meant to understand. Between volumes of some ancient medical journal and next to a copy of Burke's Peerage he found a curious ledger, bound in red leather and stamped with the title "Interests." The pages had been scored into narrow columns, and each column was headed with letters, quite possibly initials; under each there was a series of figures set out in pounds, shillings and pence. He tucked it into an inside pocket. If it was what Freddie thought it might be, Raft would be interested in seeing it. At the far end of the little room was a tall, slender door, barely large enough to admit a grown man. He tried the handle but the door was locked. A quick operation with his 327
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wire loop and he was through. He found himself in a small, high-ceilinged room that smelled of dust and mothballs. A carpet sweeper leaned against one wall, along with a broom and a mop and a wooden cabinet with glass doors stood beneath the room's only window. It contained row upon row of dolls, most of them completely nude. Freddie counted more than fifty of them in various sizes and aspects, all smiling placidly out of painted faces, some with their hands placed modestly across their genitals. It was an unnerving spectacle, to say the least, and he felt as if he'd happened upon an unforeseen audience, all of them eagerly awaiting his appearance. Freddie walked to and fro in the little room, tapping the floor with his boot heels and listening carefully. At a spot near the back the echo returned evidence of an object or objects beneath the boards. He cast about him for something to use as a prying bar and his gaze lit upon a set of birthing forceps hanging from a hook on the wall. It would have to do, and it did. In moments he was pulling away the floor boards and lifting out a long case made of gorgeous, hand-tooled leather, fastened with intricate loops and buckles. He hefted its weight as he laid it down to open it. Inside, an Anchutz air rifle. He liked being right. He took the air rifle with him and turned to go but suddenly the darkness was stabbed with the wavering beam from a bulls-eye lantern. "Constable Crook?" Freddie recognized the voice as belonging to Constable Burley. He was glad he'd left word with the desk sergeant earlier about where he was going. 328
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"Right here." "Inspector Raft said to come as soon as you can. He's arrested Henry Charters and he said there's something else he'd like for you to do." Raft hadn't made a lot of sense, but, as he'd assured Burley, he'd only just come round and his cognition was bound to recover sooner rather than later. Freddie nodded his assent. "Burley, would you be a good chap and take a message to the Yard? Tell them Inspector Raft and I shall be wanting their assistance in a matter of some delicacy." The constable nodded. "Anything I can do to help advance the cause of justice." "Splendid." Freddie scribbled something in his notebook, then tore out the page and handed it to Burley. "Here is the address. Off you go, and hurry, for the love of God. I fear if this goes wrong we shall all pay most dearly for it." "I don't think you're in suitable condition to go anywhere, Phil." Freddie glanced across the cab's dim interior. Raft's face was swollen, horribly misshapen, and his nose looked like it might be broken. "I'm sure this can wait." He remembered the little notebook he'd taken from Charters' shop. "Here. I found this hidden away. I seem to have a knack for finding hidden documents these days." He struck a vesta and held it over the pages so Raft could see. "I'm no expert but it looks like an accounts ledger to me." "Yes, I think you're right and if so, this could very well point to blackmail. We can't be certain, but I wouldn't mind seeing the expression on Charters' face when I show it to him." 329
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"He isn't going to simply confess." The vesta was burning his fingers and he tossed it away. "He's gone to enormous lengths to cover up what he's been doing, and with good reason. The main thing, I think, that links him to this is Cleveland Street. He held the lease, therefore he was quite possibly cognisant of the sort of thing going on there. He doesn't strike me as a stupid man, but a very, very canny one, a man who keeps his own interests in mind at all times." Raft's bloodied nose ached, and he reached up gingerly to touch it. "You hold onto that book for the time being. I think we'll need to take a good, long look at it later." "You're in pain." Freddie attempted to plead with him. "Let me go in your stead. You go home and rest." "No." Raft shook his head. "No, it can't. This has to be witnessed. He came to me especially. It's important. This may well be the key to the entire case. I can't—I must go." "Perhaps you might tell me where, exactly, we are going?" Raft attempted to laugh but it came out more as a cracked groaning. "He didn't say. The cabbie has the address. He left a message for me at the Yard and said he would be waiting for me. I only hope I'm not too late." His fists clenched. "God damn them. God damn them all, the bastards." "Sir?" "Lord Baverstock...Lord Godalming...they were all in on it. That's the reason why— God! Why hadn't I seen it before now? I have been as blind as a mole. I might as well have been burrowing in the dark for all the good it's done me, and the whole of London swimming in blood." Yes, there was blood, surely the blood of innocents, young men entrammeled 330
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by their looks alone and promised anything to make them come down on the train to London, where they were betrayed, inevitably, to their deaths. Their cab was passing through an exclusive area of Westminster, a neighbourhood consisting mostly of gentlemen's clubs and the mansions of the upper classes. They turned onto Tottenham Court Road and headed north towards Euston Road, then taking a left turn onto Cleveland and finally pulling level with the curb in front of an exclusive private residence. They got out and Raft reached to pay the driver. "No need, guv. It's been taken care of. Mr. Breedlove is waiting for you, through that door on the left and up the stairs." And before Raft could say anything, the cabbie whistled to the hack, slapped his reins, and was gone. They went into the building, passing through a main door and then through two others into a narrow anteroom. Geoffrey Breedlove was sitting at the foot of the stairs, impeccably turned out in a grey suit and topper, holding a walking stick. He stood up as Raft approached. "Who's this?" The renter jerked his chin towards Freddie. "I didn't say you could bring an escort." Freddie waved his warrant card before Breedlove's eyes. "Constable Crook, H Division." "Oh. Well, that's different then." They followed Breedlove as he started up the stairs. The corridor was relatively dark, lit only by the tiniest of gas jets, set at wide intervals. "I expect they've a crowd tonight. Old Skeffington's bill went through the House of Lords, so he'll be celebrating." He stopped on a landing. "Now, through that door is where it is. 331
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When you go in, you'll see what looks like a gentleman's club." Freddie snorted. "Gentleman's club." "At a desk in the corner there's an elderly gent reading a newspaper. You'll see men go up to him and hand him a little slip of paper. He reaches behind him and takes a key off the wall, right?" Raft felt in his pocket for his darbies. "Alright." "Don't get any ideas about grabbing him then and there. He'll just scarper—they all will—and you'll have wasted my bloody time." Breedlove leant close to them. "I know for a fact there's a group of lads come down from Norfolk just last evening. They've been keeping 'em here—fattening them up, like." Freddie turned away, disgusted. "Christ." "Some man will get a key and then I am going to go up to the desk and ask for entry to the viewing room. You understand me, Inspector?" Raft looked about ready to topple and Breedlove wondered if the Inspector was up for this. His face looked like someone had jumped on it. Raft's head was pounding and the room felt as though it might go spinning off into space. "Quite." Breedlove nodded. "Alright. Now we're to go in but if either of you gentlemen start to feel squeamish, keep it to yourself." The door opened onto a warm richly-panelled world of deep green carpets, leather chairs and Old Masters paintings. Raft stood with Freddie just inside the door and tried not to stare, all the while making a mental inventory of the esteemed personages he saw stationed around the room. 332
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There was Lord Apsey, fresh from his estate in Corfe, talking to Lord Nicol, his right arm in a sling after a nasty fall from a pony. Lord Higginson sat beside the Earl of Rochester, obviously enjoying a rare night away from the Countess. Near them the young Earl of Davenport was in deep conversation with Sir Midgely Funnell who appeared to be well in his cups. Good God, Raft thought, they are all in on it. He counted at least twenty members of the House of Lords and a good many other, lesser scions of the aristocracy scattered round the room. No wonder Baverstock and Godalming were being blackmailed. If the public knew that Their Lordships were participating in the sort of club that lured young men to their deaths, the scandal would resonate for at least a hundred years. It was murder. Premeditated, cold-blooded murder perpetrated on young men who'd been taught to bow and scrape before their betters. It was deliberate and calculated slaughter. Raft followed Breedlove to a tapestry sofa set next to a narrow door, directly across from the man at the desk, exactly as Breedlove had said he would be. They sat for a while and waited, drinking endless cups of coffee while Raft's face throbbed and swelled and his injured nose felt at least as large as his head. A steady parade of men came in and out of the narrow wooden door but none approached the desk, and Raft was ready to give up when a slender man with a beaky nose and the long, pale hands of an aesthete went up and requested a key. Breedlove waited till he had gone, then approached the desk himself, tipping his hat to the attendant and slipping him a guinea. He received a key, then cocked his 333
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head and beckoned Raft and Freddie forward. They followed him down another dim corridor, this one set about with many doors, each presumably leading to a private room. Breedlove led them into a small room to the right of the corridor, opening the door with the key. Inside there were chairs and couches and—unbelievably—a bed, dressed with fine linens and boasting silk coverlets and pillows. The floor was covered with a Persian rug of some inscrutable Oriental design, and there were fine paintings on the walls, and even a vase of fresh flowers standing on a table by the door. But what amazed Raft the most was that one entire wall of the room was a large window, looking down into another room, similarly equipped with bed and couches. "Good God," Freddie whispered, "what do we do now?" Breedlove gestured to the couch. "Welcome to the Snuff Box, gentlemen. You sit down and keep your mouth shut. This room's as far away as I could get, but you can still be heard. Keep the talk to a minimum if you know what I mean." He looked them both up and down and grinned. "And if you find yourselves getting a little excited by the proceedings, there's the bed. Have at it, only mind you let me watch." He sat down in a leather arm chair and lit a cigarette. "I wouldn't mind watching a couple of fine coppers like you go at it." "I'm afraid you won't get your wish," Raft snapped. "The penalties for gross indecency are quite clearly set out, as you well know." He sat down beside Freddie, his gaze fixed on the window. At first the beak-nosed man occupied the room alone but presently a door opened to the side and a young man entered. He was perhaps twenty years old, dark-haired and 334
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dark-eyed, wearing the clumsy boots of a labourer. He approached the tall man and they conversed for some moments. "Shame we can't hear what they're saying," Breedlove observed. "Of course, at this stage they're simply negotiating a price." He seated himself between Freddie and Raft. "Best take a long look, Inspector. Not sure I can ever get you in here again, things being the way they are." "You shall never need to get me in here again." Raft couldn't tear his eyes away from the window. This must have been what the old Roman games were, he thought, sitting in safety while someone else was done to death. God, what was the world coming to? Everything in him wanted to charge in there, stop the whole show, arrest every damned one of them but he couldn't do it, not yet, not while the tall man and his hapless victim were still fully clothed and merely talking. Evidence, he'd told Breedlove, evidence I can see with my own eyes and he'd meant it but he wondered, now, if he had the courage to simply sit and watch. "How do they..." His voice caught in his throat. He tried again. "How do they usually...I mean, he can't shoot a gun...do they...what...." Freddie was looking at him and there were no excuses Raft could make, no plea. "He will most likely cut his throat." Breedlove laced his fingers together and turned his hands the wrong way round, cracking his knuckles. "They like the spray of blood, these blokes. It enhances the experience, I suppose. All that hot, wet—" 335
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"Yes, Mr. Breedlove, we quite get the point." It was Freddie who spoke, Freddie who leant over and glared at Breedlove. "This is hardly a Sunday afternoon outing. We are here to obtain evidence." Breedlove smirked at him and reached into his pocket for his cigarettes. "Sure you are, love. That's what they all say." The two men in the room below had progressed to undressing one another. The younger man seemed shy, holding on to his clothes with both hands, reluctant to let his companion relieve him of his shirt. He kept walking backwards, seeking an escape, and Raft was reminded of small goat he had seen once at the zoo, which had been let into the lion's cage as part of a 'scientific demonstration'. The goat had walked round and round while the lion followed it, closing in on it and eventually backing it against the wall. "Mr. Breedlove, I will want a direct line of exit between this room and that one, down there." Raft nodded towards the two men below. "Right out that door, turn to the left and follow the stairs." Breedlove drew on his cigarette. "Mind you, he won't thank you for bursting in on him." "I don't care what he minds or doesn't mind." Raft's head pounded abominably and he felt as if he'd been awake for a week. "He'll be lucky he doesn't end up on the scaffold after this." "Who is he, anyway?" Freddie addressed the question to Breedlove. "Do you know him?"
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"Lord Brecklin. Lately of Shropshire, which is where I daresay he developed an appetite for the farm lads. Oh, there he goes." Brecklin manoeuvred the young man—now completely nude— towards the bed and laid him face-down. He parted the young man's legs and positioned himself between them, his erect cock in his hand. Raft couldn't hear anything, but he winced as Brecklin entered the man dry and began to thrust. "There he goes!" Breedlove cried. "Who'd have thought he had it in him, eh?" "When will he do it?" Raft felt sick. "Right before he finishes." It was Freddie who spoke, his voice flat and expressionless. "It's how they do it. Spilling the blood just as he spills his seed." He clasped his hands, rubbing the fingers in a curious rhythm. Breedlove smirked at Raft. "You'd best be hooking it, Inspector. Brecklin never lasts more than a minute or two, and I should know." Out the door, Raft thought, to the left and down the stairs. He moved faster than he would have thought possible, Freddie panting behind him, trying to keep up. His mind had mapped the approximate location of the room in reference to their own. Down the stairs, down the stairs, there will be another door, open the door...put out the light...and then put out the light.... He found the door and pushed on it and when it didn't open, he and Freddie put their shoulders to it and broke it down. They were already too late. The farm boy from Shropshire lay face down in a crimson pool. Raft laid two 337
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fingers against the side of his neck but knew it was no use. "Dead." Brecklin was nowhere to be seen. Freddie's mouth compressed into a hard line. He walked three or four steps and stopped, his body bent forward from the waist. He made a noise that might have been weeping, but it sounded altogether too inhuman. Raft went to him and put an arm round his shoulders. "Come on, Constable. We have everything we need." He strode into the main room of the club and positioned himself in the middle of the floor. "Stay exactly where you are. Every one of you is under arrest for conspiracy to commit murder." There was a general gasp that rippled round the room like an ocean wave. Elderly Lord FitzRoy struggled up out of his chair, his face brick-red, then abruptly tumbled back into it again, limbs flailing, a fine line of spittle forming at the edges of his lips. "By God, sir!" He gasped for breath. "By God, sir, I shall have your position for this. You cannot simply come in here." Lord Havisham—the same Lord Havisham who had threatened Raft in his office that day with a duelling pistol— pushed his way through a crowd of men. "You, sir." He pointed at Raft with a wavering finger. "I swore I would thrash you and I will, by God!" Raft pulled out his revolver, cocked it and pointed it at Havisham's face. "Not one more step, My Lord. I should hate to shoot you in front of all your friends." Havisham goggled. "You wouldn't dare." "Yes," Freddie said. "He would. Call them in, sir?" 338
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Raft nodded, albeit painfully. "Please do, Constable." He kept the revolver trained on the group of men until he heard footsteps— a great many footsteps— thundering up the stairs. The entrance door was flung open and Constable Burley, followed by some two dozen of Her Majesty's finest, appeared, truncheons and darbies at the ready. "Maria out front, sir." Burley regarded the group before him with a weather eye. "Although I daresay you'll be needing more than one." "Precisely so, Constable." Raft lowered the revolver. "Begin rounding them up, gentlemen, if you please. I think Their Lordships have had quite enough sport for one evening." He looked around for Freddie but the constable was nowhere to be seen. Raft descended the stairs and went out. Freddie was standing on the pavement, shivering. "Cold, are you?" "No, sir." Freddie turned anguished eyes to him. "They can't get away with it, can they, sir?" "No, Constable. They can't get away with it. There are far too many of them and it has been going on for much too long." Raft lit a cigarette and offered one to Freddie. "No, Constable, I expect the courts shall be kept busy for quite some time with this lot." He grinned and lit Freddie's cigarette for him. "I bet you never had this much fun when you were with Abberline." "No, sir." "Come along, then, Constable. I expect we've the unpleasant task of finding Sir Newton and relaying the news." "And then?" 339
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"And then I am going to bed." Raft walked with him to the corner, where he hailed a cab. "For a very, very long time." Philemon Raft was waiting for Freddie the next morning when the constable arrived bearing the air rifle, the morning papers and the odd ledger he'd found in Charters' shop. "Good God!" Freddie stopped in the doorway. Raft had a bandaged nose and two black eyes. "It looks worse than it did last night. What happened?" "You know what happened. Henry Charters' bloody knee is what happened. Doyle says my nose is probably broken." Freddie smiled. "You got him, though, didn't you? Charters?" "I did." Raft raised an eyebrow. "And I made the tea this morning." He fetched down two cups and poured for them both while Freddie got the biscuits tin out of the filing cabinet. "I must say, Constable, he nearly did me in, but I got him. The blackguard led me a merry chase, I can tell you that." "And that place in Cleveland Street." Freddie was trying to be cheerful, but Raft saw how the attempt cost him. There were deep shadows under Freddie's eyes, and his hands shook ever-so-slightly. Raft wondered if the constable had slept a wink the night before. "That was something." "Yes. Yes, it was something alright." The name of the place, Raft now knew, really was The Snuff Box; Breedlove hadn't been joking. Clearly it had been coined by some upper-class twit with a macabre sense of humour. "You're in the newspapers, you know." Freddie showed him the front page of the Pall Mall Gazette: YARD MAN IN HAYMARKET SKIRMISH. "They've written a big thing about 340
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you. See? Right next to the adverts: Teeth Extracted With Electricity! The Indian Pills Cure Wind. And the Standard has three columns about the brothel. They're saying you're the smartest man on the Force." "Yes, well..." Raft frowned. "Don't believe everything you read." Freddie laughed. "About you or the Indian Pills?" Raft felt his sore nose gingerly. "Anything." He took up the small book Freddie had found in Charters' shop. "I keep coming back to this—what is it, what is it for, why did Charters have it? Is it a record of blackmail, or is it merely the book in which he keeps his accounts?" "Why would he hide it, if it's just an accounts book?" Freddie offered Raft the biscuits. "I found that hidden away in the shop, next to a copy of Burke's Peerage. What sort of shopkeeper hides away his accounts book? It's not like he was doing a roaring business, so he'd hardly need to manipulate the figures for tax purposes. Most days there was hardly enough trade in and out of there to keep him going, for God's sake." "Money." Raft turned the pages slowly, examining each one in detail. "It always comes back to money. You know, if you are ever looking for motivation, you can count on three things time after time—money, sex and power." "Well, he wasn't blackmailing people for sex." The constable made a horrified face. "Can you imagine climbing into bed with that? Christ. I'd top myself. Power? Well, he certainly had power over the people he was blackmailing, 341
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that's for bloody well sure and you can bet there was money involved." "Here are the initials of those who'd paid him. You can see, here—" He turned the ledger for Freddie to look at. "L.B., that's Lord Baverstock." "Wait a minute." Freddie slurped his tea in a manner wholly unbecoming a member of the upper classes. "It might be Lady Baverstock." "Alright, it might be Lady Baverstock." Raft ran his finger down the columns. "Charters was collecting a lot of money from these people." Freddie shrugged. "Yes, well, considering how badly his business seemed to be doing, I suppose he had to make it up somewhere. How much could he have been making from a residential lease in Westminster?" He leaned over to peer at the page. "It's very odd, though. He doesn't seem to have any vices. What the devil was he spending it on?" Raft pointed to a set of initials on the facing page. "L.G. Remember Lord Godalming? He was at Charters' shop the night Lizzie Blunt was killed." "Looking for Charters. Shouting for him, in fact." Freddie touched the inscribed initials briefly. "And then—" "And then he topped himself." Raft remembered like it was yesterday, the screaming headlines, the crime set out in lurid type. It was a hard sort of thing to forget. "He's not the only one." Freddie tossed the stack of newspapers down on Raft's desk. "Blessington walked in front of a train at Highgate Station yesterday afternoon." Freddie hadn't been to visit the scene, but several of the other 342
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constables had and assured him it was sufficiently gory. "The brakeman saw him but couldn't stop in time. The train—" Here Freddie made a motion with one hand "—it ran right into him." He shook his head. "I wish..." "What?" Raft sipped his tea. Privately he remarked that Freddie seemed more sombre than usual this morning, as if his native good cheer had taken a beating. "I suppose it doesn't really matter in the end." Freddie morosely dunked a biscuit in his tea. "He'd have hung for it, anyway." "Who? Blessington?" Raft shook his head. "Blessington didn't do it." Freddie gazed at him. "But Blessington was the one—the diary I found at St. Luke's. He even got sacked for trying the procedure on the patients." "True enough, but in this case it was Charters." "No." Freddie looked puzzled. "Charters killed Lord Baverstock." "And Blessington killed Lady Baverstock." Raft swiftly filled in the gaps in Freddie's knowledge. "He admitted it to me when we were in the hay market together. Charters and Blessington had been at medical school together. It was Charters who developed the procedure. He taught it to Blessington, who then tried it on the patients at St. Luke's and got the sack for his trouble. Charters never graduated medical school—a mental problem interfered with his studies. He was sent down. "Charters was vain enough to believe that his method had the power to cure madness, and he set out to prove it. He'd 343
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always believed that Blessington had stolen his idea—robbed him of his genius, as it were—when Blessington was fired from St. Luke's for practicing trephination on the patients, Charters seized on the opportunity to make his old friend pay. He deliberately chose his victims from Blessington's former patients, knowing that the blame would fall on Blessington if the murders were discovered which, of course, they were. He made sure of it, by leaving the bodies in public places." Freddie shuddered. "That's remarkably cold-blooded." "Well...Charters didn't see it that way. He figured he was getting his own back on Blessington. He could make Blessington pay for this imagined slight, all the while staying safe and sound in his apothecary shop." "Oh!" Freddie leapt up and went to the door. "Speaking of which..." He retrieved the leather case from the corridor, laid it on Raft's desk and opened it. "I found this in the back room of Charters' shop, underneath the floorboards. It may be that this gun killed Lord Baverstock." He recounted his conversation with Pontius Doyle, and the strange-looking bullets that Doyle had retrieved from Baverstock's skull. "At first I wondered whether Lord Baverstock's wife mutilated her own thumb in an effort to cover up the real crime, but I could find no evidence to support that. When I examined her body I found gun grease under her fingernails—incidental, I know, but..." "She had already been threatened by some member of Breedlove's gang, and she was learning how to shoot a gun in order to defend herself. Hardly revolutionary or even that unusual, given her husband's taste for dangerous pastimes." 344
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Raft sighed. "Nothing ever ties up neatly, Constable. That sort of thing only happens in bad novels, where the hero saves the day and the criminals go grumbling off to gaol." "We thought she was covering up for him, for her husband." Freddie fingered the gun stock almost reverently. It was a beautiful piece of work and perhaps it was high time he learnt how to shoot properly. "I will confess, sir, I believed until the very last that Lady Baverstock killed her husband. It seemed to fit. She had every reason to despise him and perhaps she'd finally had enough." "You are correct in that she had no particular love for him, and no reason to consider his wishes or his feelings. I think whatever sympathy Lady Baverstock had once had for him had worn away long before he took up with renters." Raft paused for a moment, lost in thought. "The thumb, Lady Baverstock's thumb, bothered me. I felt there must be some reason for it." "There was." Freddie shrugged. "Just not the reason we thought." "Good Lord." Raft shook his head. "I think it safe to say the Baverstock clan has literally collapsed from the inside. The sister, Tansy—Amity Baverstock—was desperate to get her hands on her share of the family wealth but her brother was standing in her way. She and Charters were complicit and he was probably the father of her child." "Yes, the child." Freddie blinked away the memory of the small girl being led away by the woman from the Waifs and Strays Society. "Tansy Royal's child." 345
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"A child born out of wedlock? That would have definitely cut her off from the family fortunes. It's odd. I don't see her as the type to take up with Charters. What could he possibly have to offer her?" Freddie reached for a second biscuit. "Maybe it's more what she had to offer him. She wanted her brother out of the way, so she needed an assassin, someone who could be trusted, which meant he had to be firmly on her side. Hiring someone off the street was far too risky and there was always the chance he might expose her. She had already purchased Charters' loyalty with her body, and she likely knew about his blackmailing Godalming and Baverstock. It was a brilliant opportunity and she took it. He was already a blackmailer. She could have threatened to expose him. I'm telling you, she had him by the short hairs." Freddie reached for a second biscuit. "What about Manby-Smith?" "We will never know for sure. His story about wanting money for medical expenses might be true and it might not. It doesn't matter: for whatever reason, he wanted money, and he decided that I was a likely source. " Raft fingered the newspapers on his desk, his expression contemplative. "Dou—Mr. Manby-Smith and I were...old friends. There was much history between us. I suppose he figured I could be fitted up for it." If Raft had any other thoughts on the matter, he apparently wasn't up to speaking them aloud. There was a knock at the door and Constable Burley's head appeared. "Beggin' your pardon, Inspector, but Mr. Doyle requests your presence in the morgue." He nodded at Freddie. "You as well, Constable." 346
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They took the lift down to the basement and found Pontius Doyle just finishing the post-mortem examination of the woman Tansy Royal. A long incision in the shape of a Y split her body from pubis to clavicles, her internal organs had been removed and weighed and placed in various containers. Doyle greeted them with a grunt; his white apron was spotted with blood and organic waste. "Inspector. Lovely pair of shiners you've got. Souvenirs, are they?" "You might say that." Raft's hand wandered toward his nose. "She's got a few herself, and all." Raft leant forward like a hunting hound scenting a fox. "Oh?" "Right here." Doyle reached under the table and brought up a glass jar, in which floated a pale lump, mute and vaguely mammalian. "Three months or so, or I miss my guess." Raft's stomach churned. "She was pregnant. Again." The thing in the jar regarded him serenely from its floating world. "She was in his shop...she was there to procure an abortion?" He wasn't really asking, he already knew. Tansy Royal didn't seem the maternal type, and Raft couldn't imagine her willingly burdened with a second illegitimate child. "That's something else, too." Doyle beckoned Raft closer. "Bend down and take a sniff of her mouth." And, when Raft recoiled, "Go on, then, there's a good man! She can't hurt you. It's the live ones you've to watch out for." Raft closed his eyes and swayed toward the eviscerated body. A strong smell of mint rose from the dead girl's mouth. 347
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"I don't understand." "Tansy and pennyroyal, Inspector. She probably took it as an abortifacient." "Then Charters would have prepared it for her." Raft's stomach churned. "A common medicinal preparation, but one she knew little about. So if Charters made it much too strong, she wouldn't know— until it was too late." "An overdose leaves the smell of mint in the victim's mouth. I've come across this sort of thing before. In her case, it was too late." Doyle shrugged. "I'll never understand what possesses people. I never will." Raft gazed at Tansy Royal's stiff and lifeless features. "'Cover her face, mine eyes dazzle'." He turned away. "'She died young'." Upstairs, he paused at his office door, one hand on the knob, his eyes gazing sightless into the middle distance. "Sir?" Freddie laid a hand on his arm. "Are you quite alright, sir?" "Sometimes I am so sick for home...so very sick for home..." Raft turned to look at him, and there was something in his eyes that Freddie had never seen before, a loneliness so acute that it was very nearly palpable. "I remember it so clearly, every detail so absolutely real..." Freddie reached round him to open the door. "Come in and sit for a little while, sir. It will be alright." Raft followed him mutely into the office and sat behind his desk, his features stiff with grief. **** 348
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Eleven The gallows had been prepared for Henry Charters and now stood, ponderous and black and ready, projecting out from a side door of the prison. Seeing it, Freddie Crook felt a kind of nervous shock, a sensation at once dumb and electric, and his body seemed suddenly to be full of gasps and little twitches. "They've made everything quite ready for him." It was four o'clock in the morning, and brutally cold, and Freddie's breath steamed out before him, rising into the chilly air like smoke. "Yes." Raft examined the younger officer keenly "Have you eaten anything? Had your breakfast?" Freddie shook his head. "No, sir. Some of the lads advised me against it. Said it's better to face it on an empty stomach." He clasped his hands together in an effort to stop their shaking. "I daresay you've seen it more than once, have you?" "Oh, yes." Raft offered Freddie a cigarette and lit one for himself. "I was seventeen the first time..." He could see it so clearly in his mind's eye: a woman, hanged for the poisoning death of six children who had been left in her care by a relative. She had killed them for their insurance money. "They didn't do the measurements properly. I suppose she hung there for a good twenty minutes, strangling and kicking." Raft's gaze was faraway, and Freddie wondered what the inspector was seeing. "It was so quiet—a really cold February morning—and you could hear everything. There were people 350
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talking, right up until they let the trap go and she fell through it. Then everyone went silent, almost as if they'd been struck dumb." He shook his head. "I'd never experienced anything like it. I went straight from there to a pub and tried to drink myself into a stupor. You can imagine how splendidly that worked out." He'd sat for hours at the bar; pouring cheap gin down his throat, becoming progressively sicker until he'd stumbled out and vomited in the street. He's telling me this to take my mind off things, Freddie thought, and he was grateful. "What happened to the woman?" he asked. "They didn't just leave her like that." "No. Her father and her brothers ran up and pulled on her legs. She died." Freddie shuddered. "Christ." "Christ wasn't anywhere near." There was something bitter in it. "Nor his great and esteemed Father. In fact, Constable, I saw no one in attendance that day besides that woman's family and the mob of eager Londoners assembled to watch her kick and die in agony." He couldn't meet Freddie's eyes. "People are like that." "I'm sorry." "What for?" "I'm sorry that..." He felt suddenly young and terribly stupid. "I'm sorry that you had to see that. I'm sorry that people disappoint you." He swayed close to Raft and leant against the inspector's side, his touch invisible in the early morning darkness. "I hope I won't ever disappoint you." They left their position by the prison wall and went down into the crowd, which was numerous, and made up of those 351
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habitues of the East End who always seemed to turn up at public executions. A great many people sauntered up and down, some of them forming groups, and talking amongst themselves about the details of the event to come. How was it done? Did the accused hang with his face this way or that? Was the rope already round his neck when he mounted the scaffold? Was it put on by the executioner? Would there be public prayer? Was Lord Winchester to attend? Lord Quigley? In which window might their Lordships be observed? Presently some workmen appeared and began knocking and hammering at the scaffold, and a great clattering was heard from inside it. A wooden ladder, hastily built and painted black was carried past on the shoulders of a stout young fellow, who disappeared into the prison through a small side door. Raft and Freddie Crook looked at this little ladder and then at each other, but neither man spoke. There was nothing to say. Freddie wondered why he and Raft had decided to attend so early. Surely, being policemen, they could have kept their beds till seven or half-past? "I always try and be here at the very first of it." Raft chafed his cold hands together in an effort to warm them. "I don't know why, I have always done." He hesitated. "I feel...this may sound very strange...I feel I owe it to them, to be here and to witness it." Freddie held his gaze for a long time. "I understand, sir." He reached across and squeezed Raft's arm. It was past seven now and the quarter hours rang out from the great courthouse clock across the way. The assembled crowd grew very quiet, and Freddie observed 352
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some of them turning to observe the clock, marking the passage of time. What was Charters doing now? Had his irons been removed? Was he cloistered with a clergyman, making his peace with God? At fifteen minutes to eight, large segments of the crowd began to turn and look toward the small door beyond which the scaffold lay. Surely he would appear at any moment; it wouldn't be long now, no sir, not long at all. "Sir." Freddie Crook felt strangled. "I don't know if I can do this." "You can," Raft said. He squeezed Freddie's shoulder. "You must." A wave of nausea gripped him. "I don't know," Freddie whispered. The clock struck eight, and suddenly those members of the crowd who had fallen silent roused themselves and began to shriek and groan in the most horrible fashion. Those nearest the door craned their necks to see inside and, as the bells tolled out the hour and the scaffold stood empty, some began to murmur that Charters had been granted a reprieve, that he had killed himself in prison, that some one of his former customers had crept into the cells and had done away with him. From the black prison door a man's head peered out, redhaired and shockingly distinct. This head rose up gradually, gaining in height, and a man in black appeared on the scaffold, followed by several dark and silent figures. Freddie could make out the executioner, and a Church of England vicar in ecclesiastical dress. 353
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Charters was dressed in a black suit and despite the chill his shirt was open. His arms had been tied in front of him, bound with rope. He opened and closed his hands in a helpless kind of way, turning his head from side to side and looking about him dully, as if seeing nothing of the crowd or the prison yard or the courthouse opposite. The executioner bent and spoke to him and Charters' body jerked as if he'd been struck. After a moment he nodded and went and placed himself under the beam from which the noose had been suspended. The executioner then took a black hood from his pocket and pulled it over Charters' face before placing the noose around his neck with the knot at the left side, just under his jaw. Freddie Crook's knees turned to water. Raft's hand was in his, holding so tightly that Freddie's fingers were crushed almost painfully together, and then the spring holding the trap was released and Henry Charters dropped through it, into emptiness. The world contracted to a discreet set of sensory impressions. The creaking of the rope as Charters' body swung in space, the presence of the crowd, the sudden flush of heat that boiled up from deep inside of him. Freddie Crook turned aside and vomited bile and water. The lavatory taps shuddered, running cold and then hot. Freddie Crook carefully unfastened his sleeve links and pushed the sleeves of his shirt above his elbows. The room was adequately heated but Freddie was shivering as if he'd just run naked in a freezing wind. He massaged the soap between his palms, scrubbing vigorously, forcing himself to concentrate on this act and nothing else. In his mind's eye, 354
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Charters was still climbing the scaffold, and the rope was being put around his neck, and then the trap was sprung and his mute body hung there, swinging like a pendulum weight. Freddie rinsed off the soap and lathered again, rubbing the white froth well above his wrists. The sound of running water filled the little room but it wasn't enough and Charters was forever climbing and the rope was going round his neck again and again and again— "Freddie." Philemon Raft reached for Freddie's hands and held them. His kindly eyes were suspiciously damp. "You haven't got to do this." "It's on my hands." He drew a shaking breath. "I can't get it off my hands. Phil, it will never come off. The blood will never—" "Shhh. Here, under the tap." Raft rinsed Freddie's hands under the stream of water. "Dry off, now." His voice was infinitely gentle, and Freddie was grateful. This habit of his was perhaps his deepest secret, the thing that no one, not even his intimates, knew about. His brother Armitage had come upon him once, scrubbing his hands under the faucet in the servants' kitchen. Where's Frederic? Is he not coming in to tea? Their mother insisted that all the family be present, as if it were some great affair of state or something. Armitage took it upon himself to set her right: He's scrubbing himself in the servants' quarters. If he doesn't soon stop he'll have no skin left.
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"I don't—I mean, I don't always—it's just that—" He had to explain it, so Raft wouldn't think badly of him. It was necessary to explain what he was doing. "I know." Raft reached for his hands and held on to them. "I understand." He reached over and locked the door, then took Freddie into his arms. He didn't ask for explanation, nor did he offer any reproach, but merely stood there silently, holding Freddie, giving him such comfort as was his to offer. Raft sent Freddie home after Charters' hanging and told him to rest. He himself would spend the day tidying up the remnants of the case and writing the appropriate reports. He had made plans to have supper out with Freddie this evening. After the morning's harrowing events, he figured he owed the constable something more than a pat on the back and a hot cup of tea. Freddie had acquitted himself admirably during the course of their investigation—indeed, Raft, who had never wanted a constable, could no longer imagine a world without Freddie Crook in it. He had just poured himself a fresh cup of Darjeeling when he heard the lift gears disengage and the doors open. The footsteps moved down the corridor past Abernathy's office, and then Geoffrey Breedlove was standing in Raft's doorway, hat in hand. "I wonder if I might have a word with you, Inspector Raft." "Of course. You look like a man with a great deal on his mind." Raft ushered him into a chair and offered tea, which the renter declined. "I wanted to say thank you." Breedlove turned his hat round and round, his fingers tracing the brim. "You didn't 356
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have to take me at my word—about the brothel—but you did. I'm not used to that." Raft sat back and regarded him with interest. "I was only doing my job. It's why people pay their taxes, you know." He leant his elbows on the desk and steepled his fingers under his chin. "You do pay your taxes, don't you, Mr. Breedlove?" "Course I do." Breedlove coughed. "Most times. Any road, I'm grateful. Me and the lads are very grateful for what you did." "Your gratitude is not necessary—but it is welcome." "Right, then. That's all I came to say." Breedlove stood up. "One more thing, Mr. Breedlove, before you scarper." Raft came round the desk. "I have been wanting to ask you about the severed head that appeared in the sewing basket of Lady Godalming's house maid." Breedlove met his gaze unashamedly. "I told you. He was one of ours." "Did you kill him?" The renter laughed in disbelief. "No, I bloody well didn't kill him. He died in The Snuff Box, just like the one you saw the other night. He was already dead! Some of the lads thought it might be best to send a message and we did." He rammed his hat on his head angrily. "Interfering with a corpse is a criminal offence." Raft narrowed his eyes. "I could have you arrested." "I didn't do it! If you're interested, it was Lord Havisham what did him. He cut—" To Raft's shock and dismay, he dropped his head and sobbed. "He cut his throat with a razor. You tell your police surgeon to look for it. Look at his neck 357
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and you'll see the cuts." Breedlove mastered himself with difficulty. "He was my friend—and that bastard cut him open like he was nothing." Raft patted his shoulder awkwardly. "Of course. Er, thank you, Mr. Breedlove. You'll remain in London, won't you? Just in case I might want to question you further? The lift is just that way, or you can get the stairs down. Mind how you go, there's a good man." Raft shut the door and stood against it, just in case the renter should decide to return. "Inspector!" The door rattled violently and Raft leapt away from it. "Are you in there?" "Yes." He yanked it open. Pontius Doyle stood on the threshold. "What is it, Doyle?" "It's about that head you dropped off to me, the one the maid found in the basket." "Right." "Bled to death, Inspector. I've identified specific razor cuts on the neck. I think he might have been one of the lads from your case." "Thank you, Doyle." The surgeon tipped an imaginary hat and went away. Inspector Raft went back to his tea, but it was cold and he'd somehow managed to drop ashes in the cup. He took it to the lavatory and poured it down the sink. "I still don't understand." Freddie was resplendent in white tie and cutaway coat. The rubies in his sleeve links caught the light as he moved to pick up his glass. "Henry Charters, Tansy Royal and an air rifle...you don't think you're stretching it a bit?" 358
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"Not at all." Raft was similarly dressed, but instead of black his topcoat was a dark, charcoal gray, and his shirt studs were mother-of-pearl. He looked up as a waiter appeared with their meals, fish for Freddie, and good British beef for Raft. Even the potatoes seemed regal. "Tansy Royal knew Henry Charters—well, that's rather an understatement. He was most likely the father of at least one of her illegitimate children, so it's not wildly unreasonable to assume that she was blackmailing him. Having him shoot her brother—well, perhaps the lady named her price." The strains of a Strauss waltz floated in from next door, where a wedding party was beginning its celebration. The young bride danced past in the arms of her father and Raft was momentarily wistful. She was blonde and pretty, smiling as if she expected to be this happy for the rest of her life. Raft doubted it would be so. Freddie tried his fish, washed it down with a swallow of white wine. "From Blessington to Henry Charters to Lord Baverstock and his wife—" "And her mutilated thumb." "Yes. That was rather...grotesque, shooting lessons or no." Freddie gazed across the table at Raft. "Who do you suppose she was covering up for?" "Tansy Royal—rather, Amity Baverstock—had Charters kill her brother, probably in revenge for Lord Baverstock cutting her off without a shilling. Lady Baverstock—that is to say, the Mistress Baverstock—" "I do so smile at that term." Freddie grinned. "So delightfully medieval, really." 359
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"Lady Baverstock— "Lively Ivy"— was already in it up to her neck. She was having it off with her solicitor, and she was pregnant with his illegitimate child, and while she wasn't directly involved with the brothel murders, she must have known something was happening. She knew enough that Geoffrey Breedlove's lads saw fit to threaten her, so she sought to protect herself by learning how to shoot a gun. Lord Baverstock was one thing, but there was his rotten little sister, Amity—Tansy Royal—who was dunning him for money. The whole thing would come out. Everyone would know about Tansy: who she was, what had happened to her. The Baverstock clan had already suffered sufficient humiliation— one would think Lady Baverstock would have had sense enough not to yield to temptation with her solicitor." Raft dug into his beef with great eagerness. He was starving, and the meal in front of him smelled delicious. "I suppose some would say that Ivy Baverstock got what she deserved, that there is some sort of poetical justice to her death, especially when one considers that she was murdered while on a rendezvous with her illicit lover." "Don't talk with your mouth full." Freddie pointed his knife at Raft's plate. "You'll choke." "Yes, mother." "It's a bit of a tangled web, isn't it?" Freddie helped himself to a hot roll from the basket and spread a thick layer of butter on its every available surface. "On the one hand you have Blessington, who practised trepanning at St. Luke's and who seemed to be our man." Freddie bit into the roll, chewed and swallowed, then reached for his wine glass. "On the other 360
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there is Henry Charters, apothecary and failed doctor, purveyor of abortifacients to desperate women...it's no surprise he killed Lord Baverstock. After the sorts of things he'd been doing, something as clean and relatively simple as shooting Baverstock from a distance must have seemed a right piece of work." He shook his head. "I wonder, sometimes." "What about?" "People. Their motivations. Why they do the things they do. I don't know." He clasped his hands together under his chin. The music in the next room changed to a gavotte. Two ladies emerged from the salon, dabbing at their faces with handkerchiefs. "Manby-Smith I can understand. It can't be easy..." He saw Raft's expression and changed the subject. "Charters, experimenting on those people...Lord and Lady Baverstock...Tansy Royal." "Constable." Raft leant across the table and laid his hand on Freddie's wrist. "The one thing I've learnt—the one thing that never changes—is that most people will do as much as they think they can get away with." "So you're saying I shouldn't get personally involved." Raft shrugged. "Hard not to get involved, really. Just don't... At the end of the day, learn to leave it behind." "Right." "Now, then." Raft nodded toward Freddie's plate. "Eat up, my boy." He grinned in an especially lascivious manner. "I've got plans for you." Mrs. Featherstonehaugh had the good sense to be visiting her sister in Wales, who had come down with an utterly 361
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ridiculous case of the shingles and was bedridden. Raft thus had the run of the place. He led Freddie Crook up the stairs and locked the door behind them. Before leaving her post for the day, the maid had seen to the fire, leaving it nicely banked up for the night, the glowing embers casting a pleasant warmth around the inspector's rooms. He shrugged out of his overcoat and tossed it across the back of the settee, turned to Freddie and slid the constable's own coat off his shoulders before leaning in to claim his mouth. Their bodies swayed together, hands clasped and fingers interlaced as they tasted each other with warm lips and eager tongues and shed their clothing piece by piece. They lay naked on Raft's bed, kissing and caressing. Now and then some little noise of pleasure escaped into the still night air, but otherwise the flat was silent, and the quiet of the rooms drew in around them, safe and warm. Freddie grunted as Raft's tongue found the hollow of his throat, sliding wetly down to caress the centre of his chest before lingering for some time on each of his nipples, suckling till the tender points stood upright and rigid. His long fingers drifted into the inspector's dark hair, tugging gently, smoothing the back of Raft's neck as he murmured tender inanities. Raft bent low and drew Freddie's cock into his mouth and held it there, allowing the heat from his mouth to warm the constable's flesh. Freddie writhed and shuddered beneath him, and begged Raft for his satisfaction. But Raft merely held the impatient constable in his mouth, now and then rubbing the underside of the young man's swollen member with his tongue. He did this for several long moments while 362
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pulses of shuddering pleasure built in Freddie's groin and behind his shuttered eyelids. And then Raft took a little bottle of oil and, spreading it upon his fingers, reached to slide his index finger into Freddie's entrance. Freddie groaned, a desperate, ragged sound that throbbed in Raft's belly and his cock. "Please," he whispered, "you're killing me." "I shouldn't want to do that." Raft smiled wickedly. A second finger joined the first. "I haven't had my fun yet." "Mmmm..." Freddie pushed forward, desperately seeking the friction he craved, then pushed back onto Raft's fingers. "I might not last that long." They kissed, Raft sucking Freddie's tongue into his mouth while his fingers slid in and out of the constable's entrance. Raft was hard as iron, desire pulsed dangerously behind his eyes and in the pit of his stomach. He wanted to spread Freddie's legs and enter him, wanted to fuck the constable until they both saw stars. Tender caresses could come later. Just now, urgent need overrode everything else. "Please." Freddie reached for him. "Please." Raft positioned himself at Freddie's entrance and pushed into him, forcing himself to go slowly as his cock moved past the tight ring of muscle. His arms shuddered, threatening to collapse him down on top of Freddie, and his release trembled in the small of his back. Freddie's mouth was open, the tip of his tongue barely touching his upper lip. The sight of it moved Raft nearly to tears. Freddie's legs closed around his waist as Raft sank into the young man's body. All at once he understood the depth of trust that Freddie placed in him simply by inviting him to complete this act, and he was 363
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powerfully affected. He reached for Freddie and kissed him as their bodies moved together, each straining toward his peak while their hands and mouths caressed each other. Freddie arched his back, pushing his body off the bed and cried out his release. Philemon Raft pushed into him, feeling Freddie's internal muscles contracting around him, holding him, and he groaned and spilled himself in long, shuddering bursts. He folded down onto Freddie, eyes closed, and smiled as the younger man's arms went round him. Freddie kissed his cheek, his forehead and murmured sweetness against Raft's sweat-damp hair. "What now?" Raft asked, once the carnal madness had passed. It had begun to snow outside, but he lay in Freddie's arms, warm and safe and comforted. "Mmmm, I don't know," Freddie said. "How about we do it again?" Raft turned to look at him. "Not what I meant but yes...eventually." "Oh, I'd forgotten." Freddie picked up Raft's hand and kissed the palm. "Takes a bit longer for you older chaps, doesn't it? Ah, the vagaries of age." "In that case, we're done for the evening, Constable Crook. You can see yourself out, can't you?" Raft sighed blissfully. "This changes everything, you realise. We're no longer just two coppers who happen to work together—nor are we just friends. There's...more." "Phil, must you dissect everything?" Freddie asked. "I might point out that there is a certain virtue in letting things unfold naturally." 364
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"Naturally." "Yes." Freddie ran his tongue along the point of the inspector's shoulder. "What about now?" "Not yet." "How about now?" Raft shut him up by the simple expedient of kissing him, and later, as the snow piled up outside the house they made love again, and lay together couched in the warm solitude of pleasure. "Everything is better when you are by my side," Raft said, and drifted into slumber. That night he dreamt of ancient mountains and the cool green spires of some forgotten city, and felt very much at peace. [Back to Table of Contents]
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About the Author J.S./JOANNE SOPER-COOK was born in outport Newfoundland, received a B.A., B.Ed and M.A. from Memorial University, and lives in St. John's, Newfoundland, with her husband Paul and her dogs Lola and Sheppy. She is the author of six previous books, including the critically-acclaimed novel Waterborne and the short story collection, The Opium Lady. Soper-Cook has also worked as an editor at the Newfoundland and Labrador provincial legislature and has taught English Literature at Memorial University of Newfoundland. When she isn't writing, she conducts her own forensic experiments as research for her mystery novels, namely the Inspector Raft series and the Heartache Cafe series. [Back to Table of Contents]
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MLR Press Authors Featuring a roll call of some of the best writers of gay erotica and mysteries today! M. Jules Aedin Maura Anderson Victor J. Banis Jeanne Barrack Laura Baumbach Alex Beecroft Sarah Black Ally Blue J.P. Bowie Michael Breyette P.A. Brown Brenda Bryce Jade Buchanan James Buchanan Charlie Cochrane Jamie Craig Kirby Crow Dick D. Ethan Day Jason Edding Angela Fiddler Dakota Flint S.J. Frost Kimberly Gardner 367
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Roland Graeme Storm Grant Amber Green LB Gregg Wayne Gunn David Juhren Samantha Kane Kiernan Kelly J.L. Langley Josh Lanyon Clare London William Maltese Gary Martine Z.A. Maxfield Patric Michael AKM Miles Jet Mykles Willa Okati L. Picaro Neil Plakcy Jordan Castillo Price Luisa Prieto Rick R. Reed A.M. Riley George Seaton Jardonn Smith Caro Soles JoAnne Soper-Cook Richard Stevenson 368
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Clare Thompson Marhsall Thornton Lex Valentine Haley Walsh Stevie Woods Check out titles, both available and forthcoming, at www.mlrpress.com [Back to Table of Contents]
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the trevor project The Trevor Project operates the only nationwide, aroundthe-clock crisis and suicide prevention helpline for lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender and questioning youth. Every day, The Trevor Project saves lives though its free and confidential helpline, its website and its educational services. If you or a friend are feeling lost or alone call The Trevor Helpline. If you or a friend are feeling lost, alone, confused or in crisis, please call The Trevor Helpline. You'll be able to speak confidentially with a trained counselor 24/7. The Trevor Helpline: 866-488-7386 On the Web: www.thetrevorproject.org/ the gay men's domestic violence project Founded in 1994, The Gay Men's Domestic Violence Project is a grassroots, non-profit organization founded by a gay male survivor of domestic violence and developed through the strength, contributions and participation of the community. The Gay Men's Domestic Violence Project supports victims and survivors through education, advocacy and direct services. Understanding that the serious public health issue of domestic violence is not gender specific, we serve men in relationships with men, regardless of how they identify, and stand ready to assist them in navigating through abusive relationships. GMDVP Helpline: 800.832.1901 On the Web: gmdvp.org/ 370
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the gay & lesbian alliance against defamation/glaad en espanol The Gay & Lesbian Alliance Against Defamation (glaad) is dedicated to promoting and ensuring fair, accurate and inclusive representation of people and events in the media as a means of eliminating homophobia and discrimination based on gender identity and sexual orientation. On the Web: www.glaad.org/ glaad en espanol: www.glaad.org/espanol/bienvenido.php servicemembers legal defense network Servicemembers Legal Defense Network is a nonpartisan, nonprofit, legal services, watchdog and policy organization dedicated to ending discrimination against and harassment of military personnel affected by "Don't Ask, Don't Tell" (dadt).The sldn provides free, confidential legal services to all those impacted by dadt and related discrimination. Since 1993, its inhouse legal team has responded to more than 9,000 requests for assistance. In Congress, it leads the fight to repeal dadt and replace it with a law that ensures equal treatment for every servicemember, regardless of sexual orientation. In the courts, it works to challenge the constitutionality of dadt. sldn Call: (202) 328-3244 PO Box 65301 or (202) 328-FAIR Washington DC 20035-5301 e-mail:
[email protected] On the Web: sldn.org/ the glbt national help center The glbt National Help Center is a nonprofit, tax-exempt organization that is dedicated to meeting the needs of the 371
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gay, lesbian, bisexual and transgender community and those questioning their sexual orientation and gender identity. It is an outgrowth of the Gay & Lesbian National Hotline, which began in 1996 and now is a primary program of The glbt National Help Center. It offers several different programs including two national hotlines that help members of the glbt community talk about the important issues that they are facing in their lives. It helps end the isolation that many people feel, by providing a safe environment on the phone or via the internet to discuss issues that people can't talk about anywhere else. The glbt National Help Center also helps other organizations build the infrastructure they need to provide strong support to our community at the local level. National Hotline: 1-888-THE-GLNH (1-888-843-4564) National Youth Talkline 1-800-246-PRIDE (1-800-2467743) On the Web: www.glnh.org/ e-mail:
[email protected] **** If you're a GLBT and questioning student heading off to university, should know that there are resources on campus for you. Here's just a sample: US LOCAL GLBT COLLEGE CAMPUS ORGANIZATIONS dv-8.com/resources/us/local/campus.html GLBT Scholarship Resources tinyurl.com/6fx9v6 Syracuse University lgbt.syr.edu/ Texas A&M glbt.tamu.edu/ Tulane University www.oma.tulane.edu/LGBT/Default.htm 372
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University of Alaska www.uaf.edu/agla/ University of California, Davis lgbtrc.ucdavis.edu/ University of California, San Francisco lgbt.ucsf.edu/ University of Colorado www.colorado.edu/glbtrc/ University of Florida www.dso.ufl.edu/multicultural/lgbt/ University of Hawaiyi, Manoa manoa.hawaii.edu/lgbt/ University of Utah www.sa.utah.edu/lgbt/ University of Virginia www.virginia.edu/deanofstudents/lgbt/ Vanderbilt University www.vanderbilt.edu/lgbtqi/
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