The Affair of the Porcelain Dog (18 page)

"For a long time, I blamed Cain for my troubles," St. Andrews mused. "I know he still blames me. But perhaps it's time to put the past behind us."

"Who's Sinclair?" I interrupted. "I mean, who is he to you?"

St. Andrews blinked at me. I cocked an eyebrow.

"I'll answer your question, but first you'll tell me how you came up with that name," he said.

Wordlessly I handed over Nate's letter to Scotland Yard. St. Andrews frowned at the lavender ink, but as he took in the handwriting, and then the rough language, I saw the same understanding come over him that had come over me. He handed the letter to Lazarus, whose eyes widened as he read, but otherwise he hid his shock admirably.

"That letter was written by Nate Turnbull," I said. "Sinclair's assistant, his lover, and..."

"And?" St. Andrews asked.

"An old friend of mine."

"An old friend." He smiled ruefully. "I might say the same of Nick Sinclair."

Lazarus folded the letter and handed it back to me.

"He, Goddard, and I knew each other at Cambridge," St. Andrews said.

"So what does he want now?"

St. Andrews looked pensive. It was an uncomfortable expression on a face that preferred to arrange itself around an easy smile. He ran a hand through his hair.

"What he wants from Goddard, I can't say. From me, though, he wants silence," St. Andrews said. "That's what he's always wanted: silence about his misdeeds. For ten years he had it, too, as long as Zhi Sen had the porcelain dog."

"Why? What's inside the dog?"

His face went stony. "If I'm not going to tell you about Cambridge, Mr. Adler, I'm certainly not going to tell you that. But I will tell you that the statue houses a piece of evidence that, if released to the world, would send me, Goddard, and Sinclair to prison for a very long time."

"And now Sinclair has it," I said.

He nodded solemnly.

"In neutral hands, the evidence acted as a balance for our hostilities. It kept Goddard and Sinclair from going after one another once their business dealings went sour, and it kept me from blowing the whistle on their illegal activities."

"I'd hardly call Zhi Sen neutral," I said.

St. Andrews cocked his head. "I wasn't asked for my input, of course. But as far as the other two went, Zhi Sen seemed ideal. He, Goddard, and Sinclair were equal partners in a highly lucrative opium venture. And none of them were the type to allow friendship to get in the way of business."

This was news to me. I'd known Goddard and Zhi Sen were partners, but Goddard had never mentioned a third. If St. Andrews was telling the truth, something had gone wrong and Sinclair had been pushed out at some point. But what had prevented Goddard from simply asking Zhi Sen for the statue and using it against Sinclair--or against St. Andrews, for that matter? Unless Zhi Sen wasn't as good a friend as Goddard thought.

Unless Sinclair was holding something over Zhi Sen.

And what about Zhi Sen's daughter, Mrs. Wu? She'd taken the statue from me. One would expect her to have returned it to her father forthwith. But if she'd done that, the balance would have been restored. St. Andrews and I wouldn't have been having this conversation. She might have been working for Sinclair, though that seemed a stretch. But if Zhi Sen and Sinclair were conspiring behind Goddard's back, it was entirely possible they'd hired her to guard the statue. There was also the possibility she herself had some interest in the statue or its contents, though I couldn't fathom what it might be.

One thing was for certain, though: I was not about to loose Lazarus and his puppy on the daughter of Goddard's business partner until I had spoken to Goddard himself about it.

"Sinclair had access to a cheap opium supply," St. Andrews explained. "Zhi Sen's connections allowed them to import the drug to China as well as England. The whole operation was Goddard's idea. He brought everything together, made it work."

"Wait," I said. "Import the drug
to
China? Doesn't opium come
from
China?"

"A common misconception," St. Andrews said with a wave of his hand. "Opium comes from India and Afghanistan. The Chinese managed to ban it for more than a century, but the East India Company went to war with them, twice, so that people like Goddard would have the right to push the poison through their ports. A lot of people have made a lot of money in the intervening years, Cain Goddard not least of all."

"Why did Goddard and Sinclair part ways?" I asked.

"No idea."

"Where's Goddard getting his opium now?"

"You'd have to ask him that."

"What do you want from me?" I asked.

St. Andrews nodded toward the letter in my hand.

"You've already given me more than I expected. But you say Sinclair is your friend's lover. Any idea why he wasn't at Fitzroy Street last night?"

It was surreal to be discussing the case so nonchalantly with Goddard's nemesis. Didn't someone once say the enemy of an enemy is a friend? It made sense for Goddard and St. Andrews to combine forces against Sinclair, no matter how they felt about each other. But I wouldn't put it past Goddard to face prison with his head held high, if it meant St. Andrews would be there as well. One might argue I was doing this for Goddard's own good.

"Do you trust your operative?" I asked.

"With my life."

"Then I'd guess Sinclair and Nate are together somewhere. Also, Nate disappeared from the brothel sometime yesterday, and I have reason to believe that he didn't go willingly."

St. Andrews nodded and leaned back in his corner, his thick eyebrows beetling together over the bridge of his nose. He steepled his long fingers beneath his chin. "You think that your friend took it upon himself to put a stop to..."

"They were keeping those children in the basement," I said. "The children were gone when I arrived. It looks like someone got them out of there in a hurry. I found this."

I hesitated for a moment before handing the little doll across the bench to St. Andrews. He held it out to Lazarus, who shrank back into his corner, making a superstitious gesture with his hands.

"I also found Nate's watch under a pile of discarded clothing. It was his most prized possession."

"Your friend rescued them, perhaps?" St. Andrews suggested, laying the doll reverently on the bench between us.

"There was also a lot of blood."

"Ah."

"I don't know or care what Sinclair's role is regarding the children," I said. "But I want my friend back safely, and if Sinclair is our blackmailer, then I want him dead."

"That makes four of us, then, Mr. Adler," he said. "Including Cain."

The rest of our journey proceeded in silence--St. Andrews thoughtfully looking out the window. Lazarus was just sulking, though whether that was because my embrace had been for Goddard and not him, or because St. Andrews was showering me with information he'd withheld from his grouchier half, was anyone's guess. It didn't matter, though. I'd repaid their favor and now was going home to square things with Goddard. I settled back against the overstuffed cushion and closed my eyes.

I woke sometime later when the horse stumbled. Rubbing my eyes, I sat up. The road had grown considerably rougher beneath the wheels, and there was a familiar stink in the air. I pushed the shade back from the window, just as the driver pulled up to the curb before the clinic.

"You'll forgive me for leaving you off here, Mr. Adler," St. Andrews said. "I'm needed on urgent business elsewhere. After I signed the papers for your release at Bow Street, I took the liberty of sending word to Cain, informing him you were safe. When you return home, I'd appreciate it if you'd ask him to consider once again what I proposed."

"A truce?" I yawned.

"Yes, but also leaving the opium trade. He's aligned himself with some extraordinarily dangerous people, and these alliances are not as stable as he thinks they are. Cain may have come from humble beginnings, but he has more money now than he'll ever need, every penny wisely invested, if I know him."

And St. Andrews did know. From his expression, he knew him well.

"I'll see what I can do."

Lazarus sprang out of the carriage as soon as it stopped. He stood impatiently by the door.

"Thank you, Mr. Adler," St. Andrews said as I stepped out. "And Lazarus, old chap, do look after your shoulder. It's been giving him nothing but trouble lately," he explained.

Lazarus rubbed at his left shoulder self-consciously. The driver flicked the reins over the back of the dappled mare, and the carriage rolled away down Dorset Street. I watched it disappear into the midday traffic, and a long-suffering voice behind me asked, "Well? Are you coming?"

Inside the clinic, the air was heavy and hot. The paraffin lamp at the nurse's station gave just enough light for her to inspect the arm of a young woman who seemed to be the morning's only patient. The darkness seemed like an accident waiting to happen. But it was rather soothing in the face of the unremitting heat already seeping through the walls. Hell wouldn't really start to break loose until that night--when people had a chance to spread their pay around the pubs and gambling houses. The place would be bursting at the seams by dawn.

"I've been meaning to ask you about that shoulder, Tim," I said, following him through the gloom toward the back corridor.

"Shh. How has it been today?" he asked the nurse.

"About like this. Care to have a look?"

Lazarus angled the patient's arm into the light. The dressing was gray and tattered on its surface, but when he unwrapped it, the cloth below was clean. Beneath the dressing the wound showed no sign of infection.

"It's healing well," he said with a reassuring smile to the patient. "Good work, Nurse. Anything urgent that I should know about?"

"Nothing what can't wait."

"Thank you. Adler," he said, without giving me a second glance, "The surgery, if you please."

I waited until he disappeared through the doorway and came around to the nurse's side of the table. She looked me up and down, taking in St. Andrews's old coat, the rumpled silk robe, and my bare, dirty feet. That brought a smirk.

"Not sure as I should ask what you've been up to," she said.

"Whatever you're thinking, it's got to be more fun than what actually happened."

"I'm almost sorry to hear that."

The nurse unwound the rest of the bandage from the woman's arm and tossed it into a bin at her feet. She took a clean flannel from the pile on her table, dipped the corner into a bowl of carbolic, and dabbed at the wound.

"Any news about the porcelain dog?" I asked over the patient's sharp hiss of pain.

"Not a whisper."

"But you did mention it?"

She looked up. The lamp caught her face from the left, softening the curves and lines, bringing sharp contrast to her starched cap and cuffs.

"Nurse's honor, Ira, but it's only been a day. These things take time."

Time I didn't have--time enough for our blackmailer to land Goddard and St. Andrews in prison. Lazarus and myself as well, if the police were really diligent. She didn't know that--and didn't need to.

"Thank you," I said, making my way toward the surgery.

Compared to the waiting room, the surgery was almost cheerful. The walls and floors had been scrubbed that morning. The sweet, tarry odor of antiseptic hung in the air. The large window opposite the door had been carefully rubbed dry to allow in as much natural light as possible. When I entered, Lazarus was looking out onto the brick backside of the neighboring warehouse. While he'd been waiting for me, he had found a pair of trousers and a shirt in the charity box. They sat neatly folded on the stool by the door. On the floor beside the stool sat a pair of boots that looked my size, and socks I was hoping were not. The thoughtfulness of the gesture took me by surprise.

"Thanks," I said.

"Can't have you walking up the front steps of York Street looking like you just fled a whorehouse."

He didn't turn around, but continued to gaze out the window, massaging his bad shoulder with the opposite hand. It had been months before Lazarus had allowed me to see him without his shirt, and even longer for him to speak of the ugly rosette of flesh the bullet had left behind. He had eventually taught me to work out the knots in his back. Some part of me wanted to go to him and lay hands on that one spot near the bottom of his shoulder blade he never could quite reach on his own.

But he would never have allowed it.

With a vague noise of dissatisfaction, he stopped massaging the shoulder and turned. A small spot of red peeked out from beneath the edge of his waistcoat.

"Is that the bullet wound?" I demanded. "You came back from Afghanistan nine years ago. What on earth kind of wound still bleeds after nine years?"

"You really don't want to know."

He looked away while I slipped into the trousers and shirt. I laid St. Andrews's coat over the stool and folded the silk robe on top of it. I picked up the socks and looked at them dubiously.