The Affair of the Porcelain Dog (25 page)

"Narrow Street," I told the driver. "Limehouse docks."

There turned out to be as many warehouses in the area as there were green carnations in Piccadilly. However the one Goddard meant was impossible to miss. It was smaller than its neighbors, but was sporting a fresh coat of white paint, and the door was painted bright red. There was new glass in the windows. Red scrolls with gold lettering hung on either side of the door. Behind the building, a wide canal joined the Limehouse Basin with the Thames. A row of red paper lanterns hung from the roof, rising one by one on the foul, fishy breeze.

A small crowd had gathered. I recognized several students from the Fighting Society as well as a few rough-knuckled men--bodyguards--who greeted me with a businesslike nod. There was a reporter leaning against a lamppost scribbling notes, and a photographer setting up his tripod. Goddard himself was attempting to find a comfortable position at the lectern in front of the building. He looked sharp in a black suit and topper, chin freshly shaven and mustache waxed. A subtle relief crossed his face as his eyes met mine, and giving the pile of notes upon the lectern a final pat, he abandoned his position to meet me.

"Thank you for coming, Mr. Adler," he said, addressing me with a handshake and the professional distance one would expect between a man and his secretary. Despite his formal words, his voice betrayed a nervousness few who hadn't been on intimate terms with the man would have comprehended. "I trust that you'll do your best to document this occasion accurately."

His eyes darted from side to side. He licked his lips. It wasn't simply the fruition of a long-cherished dream upsetting his nerves. He was no doubt trying to reconcile Zhi Sen's invaluable contributions to the Fighting Arts Society with the fact the man was double-dealing with our blackmailer. And there was me. I still wore my ring, but it was obvious my departure had left him as shaken as I had been with regard to the future we'd both thought secure.

"You can rely on me, Dr. Goddard," I said.

He searched my face. "Good, good," he finally said. He gave my back an avuncular pat, the most intimate gesture of affection he dared in public, and then directed his scrutiny to our surroundings.

Turning his back to the building, he surveyed the nearby ship works, the warehouses that lined the Limehouse basin, and the people milling about the docks. His attention finally came to rest on the black hansom parked on Narrow Street. I'd never before seen Goddard's horse this well turned out. The usual driver was in fresh livery and stood beside the carriage with a handkerchief, fussing over an imaginary spot of dust. My heart leaped momentarily into my throat when I thought I saw a familiar hulking profile in the shadows behind the carriage. But no sooner had my mind put the profile together with the name "Collins" than the illusion dispersed.

"Dr. Goddard," I said, "Did anyone accompany you here this evening?"

"No," he said.

He seemed to be evaluating the composition of the crowd now--perhaps making notes of who might cause problems, and which of his men would be in a position to solve those problems. Seemingly satisfied, he turned to me with a wry expression.

"Though I'm hoping someone might be persuaded to accompany me home tonight when it's all over."

I smiled in spite of myself, and was opening my mouth to say something clever, when Goddard cursed under his breath. I followed his gaze back to Narrow Street, where a dour-looking man was stepping out of a cab. He was perhaps fifteen years older than Goddard, with great, graying sideburns like whole legs of lamb, an uncharitable expression, and possibly the most unfashionable suit of clothing known to man.

"Who's that?" I asked.

"Behold, the chancellor and head of the Committee for the Promotion of Moral Virtue. He's a great promoter of the fighting arts. Thinks my club will provide another place for the deserving poor to learn discipline and develop character."

"And yet he refuses to promote the careers of deserving academics," I said. "Bollocks to his charity."

Goddard's shoulders sagged. No matter how many athletic clubs he built, no matter how much ill-gotten lucre he cached away, whatever had transpired between him, St. Andrews, and Sinclair back at Cambridge would always haunt his academic career.

"All the same," he said, "I suppose I should say a few words to the old hypocrite before we begin. Do wait for me afterward. Please."

I watched him trudge off toward the person who, in my opinion, least deserved his consideration before returning my attention to the shadows around Goddard's hansom. I could swear Collins had been standing there just minutes before. It might not have been him, of course. Goddard said no one had accompanied him, so Collins was either sacked or back at York Street, his dismissal imminent. Darkness was falling. There was every chance my eyes had misinterpreted the deepening shadows. And yet I couldn't shake the feeling the manservant was there, watching and waiting for his chance to avenge the humiliation he'd experienced at my hands.

"Evenin', Mr. Adler," said a voice to my left.

I jumped. A ginger-haired man in a short coat and cloth cap grinned at me. When I'd seen the man sparring with Goddard at the athletic club, I'd taken him to be one of Goddard's students from the university. His accent, though, was pure East End. Which meant in all likelihood, Goddard was grooming him for a position in his organization.

"Watkins," he said by way of introduction. "'Enry Watkins."

"You mustn't sneak up like that, Mr. Watkins," I said.

"Sorry, Mr. Adler."

His grin widened, but his eyes never stopped scanning the crowd. I wondered whether Goddard had asked him to look after me. The idea gave me a little
frisson
of excitement.

"It's a big night for the Fighting Society," I said.

"That it is, sir."

"A big night for Dr. Goddard."

"And for Mr. Zhi Sen, too, I'd imagine. They been workin' real 'ard."

"Indeed," I said.

We both turned our eyes forward as Goddard stepped up to the lectern. He cleared his throat.

"Friends," he began. He ran his fingers over his notes, but kept his eyes forward. The notes were for security. No doubt he'd memorized the speech a week in advance.

"Colleagues, members of the press. You see before you the culmination of a dream many years in the making: London's first school of the Oriental fighting arts. Starting next week, this school, which is equipped with the most modern equipment and facilities, will open itself to the young men of the city, regardless of background, who wish to develop themselves physically, morally, and spiritually through the application of ancient techniques. But before I go any further, allow me to introduce you to Mr. Zhi Sen, our instructor and a personal friend."

There was a light shower of applause as Zhi Sen joined Goddard at the lectern. He'd been to the tailor recently--the quality of his suit rivaled Goddard's. His long, thin beard had been combed until it shone, and his hair had been slicked back with Massacar oil. Ah, the sweet rewards of treachery!

While Goddard told the story of how they met, I examined the old man's every move, expression, and gesture for a clue of how far his betrayal had gone. But Zhi Sen's round face was as impenetrable as ever.

"It was during that fateful voyage," Goddard continued, "that I resolved to master the art of unarmed combat, and to bring it back to London, so that my countrymen might benefit from what I had learned..."

Zhi Sen's daughter was nowhere to be seen. She hadn't any reason to be present, I supposed. Still, with the way she kept turning up when least expected, it wouldn't have surprised me a bit to find her lurking about. I wondered whether Lazarus was having any luck with his promise to find her.

The sun had now fully set behind us, though the eastern sky retained a faint residual glow. The canal was steeped in shadow. Only the sound of water lapping against the concrete dock behind the warehouse gave any indication of its presence. The shadows had descended over the building as well, obscuring its planes and angles, darkening the windows, and turning the bright white paint to gray. The clouds, which held in the heat of the day so oppressively, now seemed to release it. The air remained as poisonous as ever, but darkness was at least bringing some relief from the heat.

Beside me, Watkins yawned surreptitiously into his sleeve. Like Goddard, he was built for action rather than indolence. When the shadows to the left of the warehouse shifted, my muscles tensed in readiness. But Watkins relaxed--as if the possibility of trouble had finally brought a purpose to the evening.

"Anyone supposed to be back there?" I murmured.

He shook his head. As Goddard droned on about international friendship, I craned my head to get a better look. There were at least two people behind the building--though between the shadows and their dark clothing, one could have discounted their presence as a trick of the lanterns. It was clear Watkins wasn't about to make that mistake. From the furtive movements, he had obviously deduced the people were not part of the decorating committee.

As had I.

I opened my mouth to speak, but with a jerk of his chin, Watkins caught the attention of a pair standing off to the side of the lectern. There was a quick exchange of gestures, and one of the men jogged around the side of the building to investigate. The other whispered into Goddard's ear. Goddard frowned, but continued speaking.

"Over the past decade, the liberalization of trade between Great Britain and China has resulted in unprecedented opportunity for both Her Majesty's subjects and those of the Empress. Let this humble school, therefore, stand as a symbol..."

The scout was taking too long to return. Warning prickled at the back of my neck. Watkins sensed my intention almost before I did.

"Now, you let us 'andle it, Mr. Adler," he said in a low voice. "Dr. Goddard said you was to be protected at all costs. 'S prolly nuffin'," he added, though he didn't sound convinced.

"Of course you're right," I said.

But I bolted the moment he glanced away.

I hadn't gone five steps when the right side of the building exploded.

Goddard was thrown forward into the lectern. I ran toward him but was wrestled to the ground by a burly kid.

"Get off me!" I cried as the orderly crowd erupted in chaos. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a few of Goddard's men spring into action, but they were too few and too far between. People surged away from the building. Others, blind with panic, ran toward it.

"Dr. Goddard said we's to keep you safe, Mr. Adler," the young man panted into my ear. "Jus' come quiet-like an' it'll all be over soon."

Feet pounded the ground near my face, kicking up dirt. I spat out a mouthful of grit. The young man continued to hold me, but bent over to protect us both from the crowd. I twisted loose and threw myself backward into him. There was a satisfying, wet crunch as the back of my head hit his face. I rolled free, only to have a more familiar pair of hands lay hold of my shoulders.

"Come, now," Watkins said, voice straining to stay above the din. "We's 'ere to 'elp."

"Then help me up," I growled.

In response, he put his knee to the middle of my back. All around us, people ran past as charred debris rained from the sky.

"Not until you promise--"

"I promise your life won't be worth a farthing if you don't unhand me."

"Dr. Goddard telled us--"

Watkins didn't have a chance to finish before I snaked an arm behind my back, grabbed a handful between his legs, and gave a twist his grandchildren would feel. I threw him off and scrambled to my feet. I searched the crowd frantically. The lectern was crawling with Goddard's men, but Goddard himself was nowhere to be seen. I had to find him. He needed me. Somewhere behind me, Watkins's colleague was moaning, his face a mess of blood and teeth. It was his own damned fault. If he complained, I'd send him a bouquet of whatever flower signified
serves you sodding well right.

The bells of a fire wagon sounded in the distance. Footsteps rang out along the docks. Unless I wanted to be pressed into firefighting service, it was time to leave. A flaming piece of paper floated past, landed near my feet, and curled to ash. I turned toward the lectern, but Goddard was gone. So were his men. On the street, a horse pawed the ground impatiently. There was the sharp crack of a driving whip. I looked over in time to see Goddard's hansom pull away, two men leaping onto the running boards on either side.

"Wait!" I cried.

I couldn't see Goddard's head in the back window. He must have been lying across the seat. Was he that badly injured?

Panic squeezed my chest. It couldn't end like this--not with him lying injured with only his employees for comfort. Not with him wondering if I still cared. A lump rose in my throat. My eyes burned and the street blurred.

His physician had been summoned, I told myself. By the time he arrived home, Eileen would already be serving up tea and sandwiches to Goddard's inner circle, and to the best medical personnel money could buy.

But Cain deserved more than that. Our disagreements didn't matter now. The future would take care of itself in time. If the worst happened...dear God...if it came to that, he couldn't...I wouldn't let him...not alone. Not when I loved him. And I did love him, I realized. If I could do nothing else for him, I could let him know it.