Anne Perry's Christmas Vigil (28 page)

A
few hours later Henry, Crow, and Squeaky set out again, this time to find Shadwell without Sadie's help—or presence to warn him. Bessie and Lucien were both asleep, and they did not disturb them. There was really no need.

It was a short journey back through the streets to where Sadie had left them, counted in paces through the all-enveloping fog. They returned the way they had come, and used the key to the door that led downward toward where she had said Shadow Man would be.

“What are you going to say to him, if he's there?” Crow asked.

Squeaky looked at Henry expectantly.

“A devil's deal,” Henry answered quietly. “But
one that will prove to Ash, and his friends, that Lucien did not kill Rosa.”

“Or Niccolo?” Crow asked. “Doesn't it matter about him?”

“No, not much,” Henry said, moving forward carefully on the slick stones. “I think we might find that Niccolo is still alive.”

“There was a lot of blood for one person,” Crow said unhappily. “If the second body wasn't Niccolo, who was it?”

“If I'm right, I'll explain. For now we haven't time for a lot of talking.” Henry led the way down the steps and along the stone corridor.

Squeaky looked at Crow and saw the anxiety in his face. They both hesitated.

Squeaky swore. “Come on! If we don't go with him, the damn fool will go alone. Anything could happen to him. Why do I always meet up with such idiots?” He hurried and nearly missed his step on the uneven surface. Crow strode behind him. There was no sound but the scraping of their boots on the stone and the steady dripping of water.

The words “a devil's deal” kept going around in Squeaky's head. What had Henry Rathbone
meant? He wanted to ask now, but it took all his concentration to keep up with Henry and Crow in these miserable winding passages.

Then suddenly he recognized a stairway up to their left, and in front of them a door with a brass handle.

“We're in the wrong place!” he said simply, catching Henry by the arm. “This is the room of that fearful little creature in the velvet coat.”

“I know,” Henry answered. “The man who knows exactly what happened to Rosa, I believe.”

“He killed her? Why? What did she …”

“No. He didn't kill her, but I think he knows who did.”

“Why didn't he tell us?” With every new turn of events Squeaky was beginning to feel worse and worse about this whole idea of coming back.

“Because he wants to take revenge himself on the man who did,” Henry answered quietly.

“Why?” Squeaky asked. “What's Rosa to him?”

“Doctor Crow?” Henry prompted.

“I think she's his daughter,” Crow answered gently.

“What? How d'you know that?” Squeaky was aghast.

“Do you remember Lucien saying that Rosa had unusual eyes?” Crow asked. “One hazel and one green?”

“Yes. What about it?”

“I asked someone else and they said the same thing …”

“So what does that matter?” Squeaky was growing impatient. “Are you saying that it wasn't Rosa who was dead, then? So who was it?”

“Yes, I think it was Rosa,” Crow replied.

“The color of your eyes is something that doesn't change with age, except perhaps to fade a bit,” Henry interrupted. “If you think back, you'll remember that Ash had odd eyes too. What do you think the chances are that they are closely related to each other?”

Squeaky let out his breath in a long sigh. “Yeah. I never saw that. So what's your devil's deal?”

Henry took a long, slow breath. “A Christian burial for Rosa, if Ash will admit that the second body was Niccolo, and that he killed him in revenge for his murdering Rosa.”

“Are you sure he did?” Squeaky asked.

“No, I just think so. It makes sense. Who else would?” Henry asked. “Perhaps he didn't mean to,
just lost his temper. Apparently he was violent. Maybe he was wild on withdrawal from cocaine. No one had seen him since her death.”

“You mean you believe Lucien that he didn't do it,” Squeaky concluded, not sure if he was pleased, frightened, disgusted, or maybe all three. He had not felt so confused in years, maybe not ever. He could not afford all this … feeling.

“Do you know of some reason I should not?” Henry said.

Squeaky swore vehemently and from the heart. “ 'Cause it's bloody stupid! It's dangerous,” he hissed. He wanted to shout at Henry, but he could not afford to make such a noise right outside Ash's rooms. “You can't go around just believing anything anyone wants to tell you! You could get taken—”

“I said ‘reason,' ” Henry corrected him gently. “Not fear.”

“Fear's a reason!” Squeaky was exasperated. “It's one of the best reasons I know. It's kept me alive, with my skin whole, for fifty bleedin' years!”

“And has it made you happy, Squeaky?”

“Yes!” He waved his hand in a gesture of denial. “No! Well—I'm alive, and you don't get very happy dead! What a question to ask!”

“You don't have to come and see Ash if you'd rather not,” Henry told him.

That was the final insult. “You trying to say you don't want me?” Squeaky demanded. This hurt, badly.

“Not at all.” Henry smiled and took Squeaky's arm. He turned to Crow. “Come, Dr. Crow, let us see if the poor man will accept our deal.”

Our deal? Ours? Squeaky was about to protest, then realized he really wanted to be included. He banged on the door and then threw it open.

The room inside was empty. Squeaky was crushed with disappointment.

“We'll wait,” Henry decided. “At least for a while.” He sat down on the filthy floor.

They had not long to sit. When Ash returned he was still wearing the absurd lavender coat. His face seemed even more gaunt, the white painted skin stretched over the bones of his skull. He used the stick to prod the ground, as if he were not certain that it was firm enough to hold his weight.

“Well!” he said with interest. “And what do you want this time? You found Lucien. And Sadie.” He said her name slowly, as if it hurt him.

“Indeed,” Henry replied. “But we did not find Rosa or Niccolo. I think you could help us with that.”

Squeaky looked at the terrible face, which was like a chalk mask. Crow was right; one of his eyes was hazel, the other quite definitely green. Perhaps Henry was right too that Rosa was this man's daughter. It made a sort of tragic sense.

Ash stood motionless as a garish figurine.

“In order to give them a Christian burial,” Henry went on. “Or Rosa, at least. Perhaps Niccolo doesn't deserve one. They don't do that for men they hang.”

Ash smiled. It was sad and horrible. “He wasn't hanged. Not strong enough to lift him, you see.” He raised his hands, but stiffly, as if they would not go higher than his shoulders.

“How did you kill him?” Henry inquired as if it were no more than a matter of courteous interest.

Ash tapped his stick with his other hand. “Dagger in here,” he replied. “Very useful. Had a proper sword once. Haven't the balance to hold it anymore now. Dagger will do. He didn't even see me. Just killed my beautiful Rosa. I put the blade through his heart. I was surprised how much he bled.”

“He probably took a little while to die,” Crow observed. “People don't bleed much after they're dead.”

“Really?” Ash looked only mildly interested. “A Christian burial? Why?”

“Because I want something from you,” Henry replied. “Of course.”

“What?”

“That you tell people the truth, so Lucien is not blamed for either death.”

“And you'll bury Rosa, decently, like a Christian?”

“I will.”

“Where is she?” Henry said wearily.

Without speaking again Ash turned, leaning awkwardly on his stick, and led them out of the room. In the passage he started in the opposite direction from the one they had taken before. After a hundred feet or so they went into a small side room, cold and dry, where two bodies lay side by side on a table. One was a young woman, her long dark hair loose around her face, her hands folded as if totally at peace. Her eyes were closed. Even so, her features were a finer, almost beautiful echo of what Ash's might have been in his youth, before disease spoiled them.

Her dress was matted with blood where someone had stabbed her over and over.

The man, by contrast, bore only one wound, to the heart. His arms were by his sides.

They stood in a few moments' respectful silence. It was Crow who broke it.

“I'll carry her,” he said quietly. “Do you have a cloth of any kind to wrap around her?”

W
hen they were far beyond the hall and heading toward the way up, they came face-to-face with Sadie, and behind her Lucien and Bessie.

Henry stopped instantly, Squeaky, Crow, and Ash close on his heels. One glance at Henry's face was enough to show that he did not understand, but Squeaky did. It was all now horribly clear. Sadie had been so eager to help because she needed to see where they were keeping Lucien. Now she had gone back to collect him—for Shadwell! Always his servant, bought and paid for with the cocaine she could or would not live without.

Bessie had come as well, either with them or close after. Her ridiculous sense of loyalty would make her do that. Now they were all trapped. He
didn't even need to turn around to know that the way would be closed behind them.

Shadwell was there in the half-light, as Squeaky had known he would be. He did not even notice if he was tall or short, except that he wore a frock coat, like an undertaker. It was his face that dominated everything else, every thought and emotion. The lantern on the wall threw his left side into high relief, illuminating the bony nose and sunken cheekbones, the wide, cruel lips. The darker side was only half visible, the eye socket lost, the bones merely suggested, the mouth a shapeless slash on the skin.

There was an instant's utter silence, then Henry spoke.

“Mr. Shadwell, I presume?” he said quietly. His voice was absurdly polite, and shaking only a very little.

Shadwell remained motionless where he was. “And you, sir, must be Henry Rathbone.” His reply was almost gentle. As Sadie had said, it was a voice that crept inside the head and remained there.

“I am,” Henry agreed. “We would be obliged if you would allow us to pass. We are taking the body of Rosa in order to give her burial.”

“Ah, yes, Rosa.” The man let her name roll on his tongue. “What an unfortunate waste. She was hardly Sadie, but she was still worth something. By all means bury her. Put a Christian cross above her empty soul, if it gives you some sense of your own worthiness. It will fool neither God nor Satan.”

Squeaky gulped. He wished Ash had not had to hear that.

“All obsequies for the dead are to preserve our own humanity,” Henry answered him. “Reminders of who we are, and that we loved them. The present is woven out of the threads of the past.”

Shadwell inclined his head a little, allowing the light to shine on his face, making it look worse. “A silken rope to bind you,” he agreed. “I will let the good doctor go, taking Rosa. The rest of you stay. I dare say in time I shall find a use for you.”

“And Lucien,” Henry added.

“And Bessie!” Squeaky insisted. How could Henry forget her?

“You make a hard bargain,” Shadwell responded. “What do you think, Sadie? Could you teach this bony child to be a good whore?”

Squeaky looked at Sadie. Her face should have been beautiful, but now there was an ugliness inside her that soured it.

It was Lucien who moved. He stepped toward Shadwell, his head high, his arms held a little forward, still protecting his wound.

“I'll stay. I'll do whatever you need, even bring in men from my own society who want to come, if you let all these go, including Bessie. I'm of far more use to you than she'll ever be. She doesn't know or care how to please men. She has no art at all.” He stood a little straighter, his eyes never leaving Shadwell's. His face was yellowish gray in the sullen light.

Shadwell's eyes widened, like sunken pits in his skull. “You trust my word?” he asked incredulously.

Lucien tried to smile, and failed. He was shaking. “Of course not. I shall bring to you every greedy and twisted man who can pay you, for as long as I know they are safe, including Bessie.”

“Indeed. Or you'll do what? Are you threatening me?”

“Or I will kill myself,” Lucien said simply. “I am no use to you dead, but alive and willing, I can bring men—and more women as lush as Sadie.”

A look of anger and surprise filled Shadwell's terrible face.

Lucien had won the bargain, at least for the
moment. He knew it. His skin was ashen. He was entering a real hell: one that he understood intimately, could taste on his tongue and in his throat, and one that would never leave him.