Not Less Than Gods (10 page)

“You must have had remarkable luck in your time,” he said.

“I suppose so, sir,” said Bell-Fairfax, hastily toweling his face dry. He reached for the bottle of cologne, but Ludbridge stopped him with a gesture.

“Leave that; it’ll be better, with what we have to do. You served in China and off Africa too, and you haven’t a single scar that I can see. Yet I can’t think you’re a coward.”

“No, sir,” Bell-Fairfax replied a little coldly, reaching for his shirt. “Nor was it for want of trying. I’d have liked nothing better than to have given a limb or two in the service of the nation. But it was always the other fellow who wasn’t fast enough, you see.”

“The fellow you were fighting? Or the fellow serving next to you?”

“Both,” said Bell-Fairfax. “May I be told the nature of the challenge, sir?”

Ludbridge drew out his lucifer case once more. Holding his fingertip across the matches, he tapped it upside down and spilled out four little slips of pink paper. He handed one to Bell-Fairfax, who pulled up his braces and took it. He examined it curiously.

“It looks like a gummed label,” he said.

“It is a gummed label,” said Ludbridge. “I have four photographic portraits and a list in my pocket, as well. It contains the addresses of four individuals. We’re going in search of them. Your objective is to get close enough to each of the four to stick a gummed label on his back, without his knowledge.”

“That oughtn’t be difficult,” said Bell-Fairfax, turning the label in his fingers.

“Oughtn’t it?” Ludbridge collected the other three labels and handed them to Bell-Fairfax. “One of the parties involved has no idea he’ll be followed today. Two have been warned against some unspecified danger, and will be wary. One will not only have been warned, he will have been furnished with a description of his stalker. You are not to know which is which.”

They had been lurking, peering around the corner at the house in Bedford Square for half an hour without seeing anything more notable than a maid who came out to sweep the entryway. Bell-Fairfax put his hand in his pocket and drew out the photographic portrait, studying once again its subject: a well-dressed, florid man in middle age, with a long curved nose and a tight impatient mouth.

“This was taken with one of our own cameras,” Bell-Fairfax stated, glancing sidelong at the arched doorway.

“It would appear that way,” Ludbridge replied.

“By which one might infer that this man is one of our members.”

“A good guess.”

“And though the other three portraits appear to have been taken
by the same method, they have the appearance of being taken without the subjects’ knowledge. So that doesn’t necessarily—damn, it’s stopping!”

Bell-Fairfax was referring to a cab that had pulled up before the house. They heard the house door opening, and an irascible voice raised. The subject of the image came down the steps, closely attended by a valet and a maid, the one clutching the subject’s gloves and walking-stick, the other vainly offering a cup and saucer.

“No chance here, I shouldn’t think,” said Ludbridge. “The servants would raise a hue and cry.” Bell-Fairfax, closely watching the subject, did not reply. A last gulp of tea was taken, the gloves and stick snatched from the valet, and the subject hoisted himself into the cab. The valet leaned up and spoke to the cabman, who nodded and flicked his whip. The horse started forward, making a circuit around the central park.

“I should think you’ve failed,” said Ludbridge.

“I shouldn’t,” said Bell-Fairfax, never taking his gaze from the cab. As it swung about and started down toward Tavistock Mews, he ducked around the corner and flattened himself against a wall there; Ludbridge strolled after him.

“But your only chance now is following the cab, and you’ve no idea where it’s bound,” said Ludbridge.

“I beg your pardon,” said Bell-Fairfax, “I heard the valet quite clearly.”

“You never,” scoffed Ludbridge. Bell-Fairfax ignored him, waiting for the cab to come abreast of the mews and pass. The moment it had done so he started after it, striding at remarkable speed as it turned into Great Russell Street and then onto High Street. Ludbridge ran to catch up and trotted just behind Bell-Fairfax.

“You can’t really mean to course after him the whole way!” he said. Bell-Fairfax made an impatient gesture but never looked around, staring fixedly at the cab as it rolled along before him, around the corner into Greater St. Andrews Street, through Seven Dials all the way down into St. Martin’s Lane. By the time they reached Charing Cross, Ludbridge was out of breath and straining to keep up; as they rolled into Whitehall he cast a longing glance in the direction of Redking’s, thinking
of the bar. Bell-Fairfax continued on his long legs like an automaton, fists swinging, never slowing down, directly behind the cab.

At the Privy Gardens Ludbridge developed an agonizing stitch in his side, but he kept up the chase into Parliament Street. By the time the cab reached New Palace Yard he had to stop, gasping, staring in unbelief as Bell-Fairfax kept straight on after the cab. But it was slowing and stopping at last; Ludbridge sucked in breath and sprinted to see the outcome.

The subject of the pursuit emerged from the cab and turned back a moment, reaching in for his stick. Bell-Fairfax came from behind the cab and passed him, touching him lightly on the back as he did so. As the subject straightened up with his stick in his hand, Ludbridge saw clearly the pink gummed label on the back of his coat. Bell-Fairfax, meanwhile, had doubled back and walked toward the subject at a leisurely pace. He smiled, tipping his hat, as he passed him. The subject acknowledged him with an absent nod and went into the House of Commons.

“You young bastard,” said Ludbridge, wheezing painfully.

“I should judge that he was
not
the one who had been furnished with my description,” said Bell-Fairfax cheerfully.

“You’re not even sweating, are you? Back to the club; I’ll need a brandy before the next one. And you might want to change your suit. The next one’s in Whitechapel.”

In rough clothing they had requisitioned from Costuming, Ludbridge and Bell-Fairfax walked up Aldgate High Street toward Whitechapel. It was mid-morning, with bright cold sunlight in abundance; and yet the streets opening off from side to side seemed to fade back into impenetrable smoky gloom. A more than customary layer of coal-soot had lacquered the cheap lodging houses, the derelict factories and ancient timber-framed shop fronts.

Bell-Fairfax turned down Goulston Street, looking from the photographic
image in his hand to each building in turn. At last he stopped before one with perhaps a slight claim to respectability, in that some effort had been made to sweep and water the front step.

“This is where he lives,” he murmured.

“So it is,” said Ludbridge. “What will you do now, I wonder? It’s half past ten in the morning. He may still be abed in there; then again, perhaps he isn’t. He may be blissfully unaware you’re standing out here in plain sight, or he may be watching you and studying
your
portrait. How will you know?”

Bell-Fairfax tucked the picture into his pocket. “I shall ask,” he said brightly. He went to the door and pulled on the bell. Its handle came off in his hand. He set it carefully on the door’s lintel, a second before the door opened a crack.

A gaunt female peered out, and then up, at Bell-Fairfax. Her iron-gray hair stuck out from under her cap all round, like a wiry halo. “Hallo, missus,” said Edward, in quite passable Cockney. “Looking for my mate Bob. He says he dosses down here. Little fellow, turned out regular foppish, nice set of viskers? Vould he be in?”

The old dame’s eyes glittered. She licked her dry lips and said, “Oh, yes? No, no, he ain’t in. Gone down the Ten Bells. Corner of Red Lion and Church. Right at Wentworth, left at the next corner, straight on to Church. You’ll find him there now, if you make haste.”

“Much obliged, missus,” said Bell-Fairfax, touching his hat brim. She closed the door and he stepped down with an air of triumph. “And I proceed to the Ten Bells.”

“You do,” said Ludbridge, falling into step beside him as he strode away. “I wonder how often you’ll have the assistance of voluble landladies?”

Bell-Fairfax shrugged. They marched on, passing now and then the denizens of Whitechapel who staggered along in mid-morning intoxication or sprawled in the alleys sleeping off the previous night’s gin. And here were a ragged couple, in violent quarrel: the male drove home his argument by clouting the female soundly. She clutched her
jaw and wept. Bell-Fairfax halted, turned on his heel; Ludbridge blocked him.

“Let it alone,” he said quietly. “She wouldn’t thank you, and you’d have to kill him to make him give over.”

“Small loss to anyone,” said Bell-Fairfax, glaring at the man. Ludbridge raised his eyebrows.

“Do you think so? You may be right; but, after all, what would it accomplish? She’d only find another such tomorrow. In any case, men beat their wives as often in Belgravia as here. If you were to wring the neck of every brute who deserved it, you’d be obliged to reduce the population by a third. Your duty is to change the world itself, not to mete out justice. Put your strength to better use.”

Bell-Fairfax pressed his lips together and walked on.

The Ten Bells loomed out of the haze at last, uninviting premises with windows smoked very nearly opaque. Stepping across the threshold, Ludbridge blinked as his eyes sought to adjust to the gloom. Lamps burned sullenly along the wall behind the bar, affording only enough light to make out that the place was tiny and shabby. Not by any means enough light for Ludbridge to have spotted the half-brick that came sailing out of the shadows, and it had broken his nose but for Bell-Fairfax snatching it out of midair.

Ludbridge caught a glimpse of some three or four grinning shadows, coming forward with clubs in their fists, before he was grabbed and dragged backward through the door by Bell-Fairfax. “I’ve led us into a trap—,” Bell-Fairfax muttered in disgust. Ludbridge, who did not need to be told so much, took to his heels down Church Street, with Bell-Fairfax following closely. They rounded the corner onto Brick Lane and kept running, back toward Whitechapel Road.

“I think your mate Bob was waiting for you,” Ludbridge said, panting as he ran.

“He wasn’t in there,” said Bell-Fairfax.

“How the devil could you tell?”

“They were all older men, and taller,” said Bell-Fairfax, slowing his pace. He looked over his shoulder and, satisfied that they were not
pursued, stopped to let Ludbridge catch his breath. As they walked briskly on, he added: “My fault, sir. Clearly, this was the one who knew to look for me. I ought to have been more circumspect.”

“I’d say so, yes,” said Ludbridge.

They came into Whitechapel Road once more and headed back toward Aldgate. “And shall you give it up for a bad job, and slink back to Whitehall defeated?” Ludbridge inquired jovially.

“No, sir,” said Bell-Fairfax. “I will get him.”

“Really? When your quarry has clearly put the word out against you? ‘Here, mates, keep your eyes open for a gent what’s all of seven feet tall if he’s an inch, likely to come asking for me’? I should expect half the East End is aware of you now,” said Ludbridge. “You’ll be lucky if those chaps from Spitalfields haven’t decided to—”

He became aware that Bell-Fairfax had stiffened beside him, halting for a split second as they made their way through the crowds along the high street. He glanced over to follow his companion’s cold fixed stare, and saw that Bell-Fairfax was watching a slight figure some few yards ahead of them. A young man, nattily dressed, sauntered along the pavement. From time to time he veered close to another pedestrian, jostling each gentleman or lady as though by accident, generally absolving himself with a polite murmur and a tip of the hat. It required very sharp eyes indeed (and Ludbridge had them, in daylight) to note the handkerchiefs, watches and other oddments that leaped from the jostled parties to the jostler, apparently without the agency of human fingers.

Bell-Fairfax moved forward swiftly, closing the gap until he walked a mere yard behind his quarry. He worked his way through the crowd to one side as he paced the dapper gentleman, to view him sidelong. His hand slid into his own pocket. He fell back, edged to the right, and moved in once more. Ludbridge caught the flash of the pink label as it was drawn forth, and then, with a feather-touch, Bell-Fairfax had set it on the dapper gentleman’s back. Bell-Fairfax then dodged forward, between his quarry and a well-dressed woman toward whom his quarry had been sidling, and thrust her roughly to one side.

“Mind your feet, can’t you?” he snarled at his quarry, and tipped his hat to the lady. “Very sorry, ma’am.”

The woman, recovering herself, moved off on a new trajectory through the crowd. The dapper gentleman looked indignant; he turned around, spotted Ludbridge, and at once his expression changed to one of chagrin. He shrugged and vanished in the throng as though he had been a wisp of fog.

Bell-Fairfax, meanwhile, sidestepped back to join Ludbridge. He was scowling.

“Cut that one a little fine, didn’t you?” said Ludbridge.

“May I ask why there is a common thief among our ranks?”

“Because he’s not a common thief,” said Ludbridge, steering them back toward Aldgate. “He’s an exceedingly uncommon thief, as you must have noticed. Remarkably talented. It sometimes happens that the Society has a use for his talents. Allowing him to ply his trade is a necessary evil, I’m afraid—keeps his skills in trim. Your righteous wrath is commendable, but consider the greater good, Bell-Fairfax.”

Bell-Fairfax exhaled sharply. He thrust the portrait into his pocket and drew out the next one, studying it.

“Ah,” he said. “This one’s at Gravesend.”

Rosherville Gardens was generally reached by excursion steamer, though it was nowadays a little more fashionable to go there by railway. Smart and exclusive as the steam locomotive might be, Ludbridge and Bell-Fairfax discovered that it could not be said to be a swifter mode of transport, on account of frequent stops.