Beneath London (25 page)

“She’s mute, sir.”

“Don’t you believe it, Mr. Shadwell. She’s merely willful. She’s also evidently terrified and believes herself to be among people who mean to harm her. We do not mean to harm her. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir. I treated her kindly. Indeed I did.”

“You were asked to enact the roll of the Metropolitan Police while in Aylesford. You were to have the girl’s best interests in mind – a great help to her adoptive family, deep sympathy for all and sundry. That called for a measure of subtlety and a pleasant demeanor. What went awry?”

“That oaf Bingham set off the Laswell woman’s man, by name of Kraken. He attempted to murder the both of us with a rifle, which put paid to the police ruse, and we had to turn to more persuasive methods.”

“That was unfortunate. The police
ruse
, as you refer to it, should have been simple to carry out. Did Clara witness these persuasive methods?”

“We kept her well clear of it.”

“Did you indeed? You and I seem to be surrounded by incompetent men on all sides: the fool Lewis, the oaf Bingham. Perhaps we need a thorough turnout, a house-cleaning. What do you think of that, sir?” Shadwell apparently didn’t think much of it, for there was a long silence before Klingheimer continued. “You’ll recall that I expressed my doubts about Mr. Bingham several weeks ago. You insisted that you could
keep him on the straight and narrow
. Those were your very words, I believe.”

“This man Kraken is unhinged, Mr. Klingheimer. The two of them fell out when Bingham lost his patience.”

“Mr. Bingham’s patience was not his own to lose. His patience belonged to me, since I was his employer. I assume that you dealt with the oaf Bingham yourself, as I asked you to?”

“He’s dead.”

“And the Laswell woman?”

“Dead, too.”

“And their ghosts won’t blow back into London on the whirlwind now that you’ve sown the seeds of the storm in Aylesford? There were no witnesses to their deaths, I mean to say?”

“No, sir,” Shadwell said without hesitation. “I hid the bodies in the woods.”

“You’re lying somewhere, Mr. Shadwell. Perhaps everywhere. I’m quite aware of it. But you no doubt believe that it is in your best interests to lie, and certainly it’s sensible for a man to do what is in his best interests when he’s sure of himself. By that same token, a man who is sure of himself must be strong enough to carry the weight of his own self opinion. It is unfortunate that this business in Aylesford was mishandled, but there’s nothing ruinous in it if you’ve put it right – as you claim to have done. That said, I’ll thank you to speak to Mr. Lewis this very day. Once again I’ll ask you to practice subtlety, Mr. Shadwell, if you have any of that commodity about your person. Simply remind Mr. Lewis of his duty and of the necessity of thinking before he acts. Tell Mr. Lewis to send young Jenkins to me post-haste if there is any news at all, but, as ever, advise Mr. Lewis not to tell Jenkins anything of our affairs. And remember that we do not want Mr. Lewis to fall into a state of desperation. We want him to remain malleable. Do you understand me? Do not remove his appendages nor threaten violence against his wife. Mr. Lewis’s spirit is on the wane, I fear.”

“Yes, Mr. Klingheimer,” Shadwell said. “I’ve been two days without an hour of sleep, however, and…”

“Sleep is very like death, Mr. Shadwell. I myself make a practice of shunning it if ever I can. I’ll thank you to seek out Mr. Lewis at once. Then by all means sleep if the fit is upon you. And one thing more: Alice St. Ives and her entourage have gone to ground at the Half Toad in Smithfield. Send Penny and Smythe to the inn in the guise of commercial travelers. They’re to keep their eyes and ears open but are to remain out of the way – not speaking unless spoken to. Mrs. St. Ives and Frobisher’s nephew are no doubt in a dangerous state of mind. Make certain that Penny and Smythe understand this. In short, if St. Ives finds his way out of the pit, then he will surely contact his wife. When he does, I must know of it. If he does not, then he has not found his way out of the pit, and you must descend once again with the dwarf to seek him out.”

After a moment there was the sound of the door shutting, and silence reigned. Finn heard Mr. Klingheimer’s footfalls and a chair scraping upon the floorboards. Finn contemplated what Klingheimer had said about the Professor – why he might want the Professor’s head. Why, in fact, had he any interest at all in the Professor, who was apparently dead or lost underground.

There was the sound of a blackbird trilling – Beaumont’s signal – and Finn was tempted to climb back down and join him. But Clara occupied a room right above him now. She was alone, mourning her poor mother, starving herself, with no idea that she had a friend nearby. He made up his mind and climbed quickly upward to the very top of the ladder. From there he looked downward and saw Beaumont far below, looking back up at him. His life was in the dwarf’s hands. So be it. He waved at him by way of greeting. Beaumont waved back and then disappeared. If he meant to play Finn false, then Finn would soon find out.

He slipped the latch on the fourth-floor gate and pushed it open, entering a long hallway with several doors. At the far end stood the stairs that Beaumont had spoken of. He listened hard at the first door he came to, but there wasn’t a sound, either from within the room or from roundabout him. He had an aversion to spying, but he set it aside and peered through the keyhole. There was a lamp burning in the room, and although he didn’t see Clara, he saw her strangely soled shoes on the carpet near the foot of the bed.

“Clara!” he said, but keeping his voice low.

Clara’s stockinged feet appeared as she swung herself off the bed and stood up. She remained quite still, however, and said nothing.

“It’s Finn. I’ve come for you.” His heart swelled as he said this, and he was glad when she hurried forward now and knelt at the door. She gave out a great sigh, and he heard the sound of her weeping.

“You needn’t speak unless you choose to, Clara,” Finn said to the keyhole. “I’ve got but a moment and then I have to hide myself. We’ve a friend in the house, or at least I believe so. If they come for me in the next minute, then I’m betrayed, and I’ll be of no help to you. If they do not come for me, then be aware that there’s a bearded dwarf named Beaumont in the house who is a right good man. We must trust him. Professor St. Ives and Alice and Hasbro are in London, and I mean to get their help if I can’t win the both of us free. You are not alone, I mean to say. We need a key and a way out of this place, but I’ll find both. I followed your coach from Aylesford on old Ned Ludd, and I’ll not return to Aylesford without you. I’ve promised Mother Laswell as much.”

“Mother is alive?” Clara asked.

“That she is,” Finn said, happy to hear her voice, which he had never heard before. Not once. It was a beautiful voice, he thought. “I came across Mother along the stream, and untied her.” He realized now that Clara had begun to weep again, and the sound silenced him.

“I knew you would come,” she said at last. The conviction in her voice made him happier than he had ever been. It was momentary, however, for a door shut hard, perhaps in another hallway on this very floor. Clara apparently heard it, too, for she said, “
Run
, Finn.”

Finn ran quietly, down the hallway and back through the gate, which he closed before dropping down the ladder, sliding rather than putting his feet on the rungs, and slowing himself with his hands, which quickly grew hot. He dropped like a stone past Mr. Klingheimer’s room; there was nothing to be gained by creeping past. Within moments he landed in the cellar. He looked upward, but saw no signs of pursuit and heard no hue and cry.

He thought about Clara, whose weeping had been happiness. She knew now that there was help at hand. She had spoken to him without hesitation, which meant something to be sure. He was glad to be here, a willing prisoner in this house, although when it came to him that he was glad that Clara was here also, he dismissed the idea as shabby, and for a moment he was confounded by such feelings.

When he pushed past Doctor Narbondo’s cabinet, he looked into it and saw that the green mushrooms were glowing brightly, generating their own light. Narbondo reclined among them as if on a divan, so that the open box looked like a curiosity from one of Mr. Uffner’s freak shows at Piccadilly Hall. His mouth was closed, but green bile leaked from the corners of it into his beard, which glowed faintly, as did his hair. His eyes were open now, and no longer as dull as they had been. He stared into the infinite, however, and Finn wondered whether his mind was at work or was empty. He was paralytic, to be sure. Finn held a finger as close as he dared to Narbondo’s face and moved it back and forth. For a moment the man seemed not to see it, but then he blinked, and his eyes shifted toward the moving finger. Finn dropped his hand and retreated into the storeroom again, wishing that he hadn’t called attention to himself.

A real weariness was descending upon him, his long nap having been a temporary respite, and he made his way past the shadowy furniture and through his own humble door, which he secured behind him, determined to eat one of Mr. Klingheimer’s plum puddings and to pack his creel with another before falling asleep.

NINETEEN

A
lice St. Ives sat at a table in the public room of the Half Toad Inn, Lambert Court, Smithfield, a wood fire burning in the grate, the night wind moaning beneath the eaves. The room was wainscoted in old oak, with gas-light sconces on the walls and heavily framed paintings of ships at sea. On the right-hand side of the hearth hung two etchings of old Smithfield, rendered by Hogarth a century and a half ago. Despite these homey trappings, however, there was an uneasiness in the air, or so it seemed to Alice, who had scarcely touched the glass of port sitting in front of her. She was thinking of her husband, as she had been doing almost without pause all day – where he might be, whether injured, his tenacious spirit and strength of mind. She had made an effort to shun all thoughts of his possible death: there was no reason whatsoever to assume that he was dead.

She was aware, however, that she was forcibly keeping the idea at bay, and she wondered how long her defenses would prevail. She assured herself that he had found his way out of more difficult straits a dozen times. She sipped from her glass of port now and gazed through it at the flames in the hearth.

She had seen the catastrophe on the river quite clearly, thank God. Langdon had been far down into the pit, Gilbert, poor man, not nearly so far along. She was convinced that the explosion that had precipitated the collapse had occurred near the surface, where the stone ceiling of the cavern was relatively thin. It was possible, entirely possible, that Langdon had been far enough beyond it to have survived, in which case there was no reason to suppose that he was… to come to any conclusion at all.

She regarded Miss Bracken for a moment, who sat alone at a table playing a game of Patience and cheating with abandon. Alice recalled her breathless question at the time of the collapse: “Where is my Gilbert?” There had been nothing calculating in her tone, merely heartfelt dismay. Alice thought again of the theft of the spoons, wondering whether Miss Bracken was like the crow on her astonishing hat, compelled to pick up and hoard shiny objects. Miss Bracken had been a victim of nerves this afternoon and looked destroyed now, but she seemed less grief-stricken than wary of Tubby – afraid, perhaps, that he would put her out into the windy night. It seemed unlikely, for Tubby’s mind and heart were taken up with the loss of his uncle and for the unhappiness between them. Tubby was currently upstairs, overseeing the removal of Gilbert’s bags from the room that Gilbert no longer required, and which had just recently been booked by two men who now sat near the fire drinking wine and waiting for the room to be tidied.

Uncannily, a newsprint broadside proclaiming the death of Gilbert Frobisher and the “famous natural scientist and explorer Langdon St. Ives” had been hawked along the embankment and elsewhere in the city within a few hours of the collapse, complete with an illustration of the sink-hole and a discussion of the explosive miasma that had almost certainly been ignited by the burning lantern. The theory was sensible – more sensible, no doubt, than Alice’s suspicion of the lurking man and an infernal device – but it did nothing to restore her husband to her, and she wondered why the flash of the explosion hadn’t apparently occurred in the vicinity of the lantern.