The Affair of the Porcelain Dog (27 page)

"You've cost me my position, Mr. Adler," Collins said. "Twenty years of service without a reference to show for it. What am I to do now?"

Hysterical laughter bubbled up inside me. If he hadn't been slowly strangling me, I might have told him the names of a few gentlemen who would have paid handsomely to feel his impossibly muscled chest against their backs.

I struggled, but it was no use. He was stronger than a team of oxen, and I was going to die at his hands.

"It's nothing personal," he said gamely. "If it's any comfort, I always thought you were the best of the lot."

There was a roar as the roof of the warehouse collapsed. Flames shot up, raining down sparks and debris. Collins threw a hand up to shield his head. I ducked out of his grip and managed a long, sweet breath before those massive arms pulled me back and crushed my face into his chest. Something Zhi Sen had once said about momentum and acquiescence came back to me. Instead of pulling away, I charged forward into his chest, not stopping until I heard the crack of his tailbone against the railing. The manservant's height made him imposing, but also top-heavy. While I struggled to slip free, his feet scrambled for purchase on the wet concrete. When one of his hands reached for the railing, I gave a violent twist. There was a cry, and I looked up to see the manservant's boots disappearing over the edge of the railing.

I stood discharging the gun into the filthy water until red bubbles rose up through the water and the empty chambers of the revolver clicked past again and again.

"Mr. Adler!"

I swung the empty revolver toward the staircase. A man was running down from the warehouse. Fire still raged, but the smell of wet ash was creeping into the air. The firemen would soon have the blaze contained. The man reached the bottom of the staircase and started toward me. A few yards later he saw the gun and stopped.

"Mr. Adler?" Watkins said.

I lowered the revolver. My fingers were locked so tightly around the handle, I couldn't have holstered it if I'd wanted to. As Watkins bounded toward me, he gave a low whistle.

"Wot 'appened 'ere?"

"Best not to ask," I said with a shaky laugh.

There were five men dead--two in the canal and the other three clearly dispatched with prejudice.

"But you've got it all under control," he said.

I shoved the gun into my waistband. My eyes burned from the smoke. The struggle with Collins had wrenched my back. My feet were raw and bleeding stumps. There'd be a garland of bruises around my neck in the morning, and I would surely vomit the moment I was alone.

"Yeah," I said. "'S under control."

"Then wot about them poor blighters in the boat?"

The water was thick, scummy, and cold as fuck. I sank like a stone and spluttered to the surface some yards away. Daylight would show the canal to be the color of strong coffee. The smell would fell an ox. But Nate had died to get the brothel children this far. Mrs. Wu had been dragged off by a sadistic criminal. And now the children were drifting toward a rough, heavily trafficked river in a craft that would shatter into toothpicks at the first sign of resistance.

"All right, Mr. Adler?" Watkins called, his tone peevish.

He'd understood what I'd meant to do and had tried to stop me from jumping. I hadn't let him. After hurling the gun and Mrs. Wu's bag, I'd flung the coat at him and leaped. Goddard would have his hide. If Goddard survived. As I swam toward the little craft, Watkins paced back and forth along the walkway like a schoolboy outside the headmaster's office. Something brushed my foot. I shook off the image of Collins, bloated and pale, reaching up to grasp my ankle.

In the light of the burning warehouse, I could make out four small shapes huddled in the boat. God only knew where Mrs. Wu had been taking them when Lazarus and I interrupted. In any event, the man holding the mooring rope had dropped it when I shot him. Now the unlit boat was drifting toward the treacherous, crowded waters of the Thames.

"Jus' wave if you needs 'elp, then," Watkins called.

I wasn't a strong swimmer, but with some effort, I managed to flail my way to where the vessel had run up against a mass of debris in the center of the canal. As I hooked my arm over one side, I saw a black puddle of water gathering around the children's feet.

"Well," I panted. With my other hand, I gave my face a vigorous rub. "Shall we bring this pleasure cruise to an end?"

Towing a small boat across half a canal is more difficult than it sounds, but somehow, I managed without drowning anyone. There were four children--three boys and a very small girl who blinked at me with liquid black eyes that caught the fire. With Watkins's assistance, I hauled myself out of the water and looped the boat's soggy rope around the mooring post. My feet, which had been merely raw earlier, began throbbing. I was suddenly desperate to remove my boots. There'd be no getting them back on again, I realized.

"Wot's all this, then?" Watkins asked, eyeing the cargo warily.

"This," I said with a grimace, "is your good deed for the week. Perhaps even for the year."

My belongings lay in a heap at the foot of the staircase. The two bodies that had been there when I'd jumped were conspicuously absent. Rubbing his hands clean on his trousers, Watkins crouched beside the boat and one by one lifted the children onto the walkway with the gentleness of a father.

Our young passengers were frightened, begrimed, and surrounded by a miasma of opium and urine, but their skin was clear of bruises. More importantly, none looked back at me with that haunted, violated expression Nate had schooled his face not to show. The fact they'd been spared both violations only to ensure a higher selling price didn't lessen my relief. Nothing would erase from my mind the image of that basement cell where Nate had met his end in his ill-fated rescue attempt. Nor would anything make me stop wondering how many children had passed through there before.

"Well?" Watkins asked, his voice hard with protectiveness.

"They're very far from home," I said. "The less you know about why, the better."

I stripped off my shirt and wrung it out over the canal. I was about to give my trousers the same treatment, when I noticed Watkins performing the same quick inspection of the children I had. I settled for twisting the water out of my trouser legs as best as I could while still wearing them.

"Whatever happened before, they're safe now, thanks to you," I said, after Watkins turned back to me. "Take them to Stepney Clinic, and Nurse Brand will see they're cared for. Go immediately. Don't stop along the way, and speak of this to no one. If Dr. Goddard asks, they drowned in the river."

His eyebrows drew together at this, but he grimly nodded. Even if he eventually did tell Goddard the truth, Goddard had more to worry about right now than some incidental property of Acton's. And the delay would give Pearl time to remove the children to a safe location.

"Wot 'bout you?" Watkins asked.

"I'm going to find the man responsible for bringing them here, and put a bullet in his brain."

He nodded.

"You'd better take this, then." He handed me his own pistol. "Yours is spent."

I thanked him and tucked it into my waistband. I hobbled over to the staircase to retrieve my things. I pulled on the tweed coat and slung Mrs. Wu's bag over my shoulder. The little rag doll was still in the coat pocket. I'd return it to its owner at the nearest opportunity, but first it had one last job to do. I made to tuck Sinclair's pistol into the other pocket when I remembered its owner.

"One more thing, Mr. Watkins," I called.

He looked up from the little boy whose tunic he was straightening.

"There's another...er...one in the shadows a few yards to the west. Dr. Goddard would prefer it not remain there."

"Understood, Mr. Adler," Watkins called back. "Good luck to you."

I considered the empty revolver in my hand then pitched it into the canal. As I made my slow, painful way up the staircase, I watched Watkins stride toward Sinclair's body, to deliver it to his final destination. If Goddard made it through the night, and if I made it back to Goddard, I would see that Watkins received a handsome reward.

The staircase ended some yards from the ruined warehouse. The fire brigade had cleared all the idlers from the area and had settled down for a long, laborious night. Amid the crackling wood and firemen's cries, I heard a faint splash from the canal behind me as Watkins sent Sinclair to his watery grave. How many of Goddard's men would meet the same fate? I hoped Watkins would not be among them.

I skirted along the edge of the property until I came to Narrow Street. Somewhere in the darkness a clock struck ten. The burst of energy that had carried me through the last three hours suddenly dissolved, leaving me exhausted in body and mind, and my nerves shot to hell. I forced my throbbing feet to continue until I reached a well-traveled section of Commercial Road, and then I slumped against a lamppost and hailed a cab. The first driver slowed until he got a good look at me, and nearly ran me down in his effort to get away. The second didn't bother to slow. When a third cab rattled by--one wheel larger than the other and the left door hanging by one hinge--I tottered off the curb into its path.

"Ye gods, what a stink!" the driver cried by way of greeting.

"Take me where I need to go," I said, "and this is yours."

The driver gaped at the sovereign in my hand.

"Or you can choose this."

I flashed my pistol, but the driver was too busy scrambling down to open the door to take offense. The seat was ripped, the stuffing compressed to nothing. I sank down onto it gratefully, and the half-doors clicked shut in front of my knees.

"Well, then, sir." The driver grinned, eyes fixed firmly on the dosh. He could skive off for the rest of the week and still come out on top. "Where to?"

York Street was the obvious answer. Cain had been lying there for some time already, waiting for me. My chest clenched at the thought. I wanted nothing so much as to crawl into bed with him and take him in my arms--or to sit at his bedside if he was too injured for that. I imagined holding his warm, dry hand between my own while he slept. After everything he had done for me, I could at least tell him honestly and confidently that his affections were returned in full. The corners of my eyes burned at the thought. How useless I was, if this was the only thing I could do! And what an utter bastard I was for having taken this long to even consider the question!

On the other hand, even if I couldn't put Cain Goddard back together again, perhaps I still had a role to play. Southeast of York Street lay St. James's. An hour ago Lazarus had gone armed with nothing but courage and an ancient pistol to rescue Mrs. Wu and take back his name. Our blackmailer was dead, and Goddard was under the supervision of the finest medical minds in London. And though Lazarus would sooner have died than admitted it, he couldn't handle Acton by himself. It was settled, then.

"The East India Officers' Club," I said, "St. James's Square."

∗ ∗ ∗

Like many gentlemen's clubs, the white three-story building from which Edward Acton directed his own criminal network maintained a number of rooms for its members' temporary lodging. It was no surprise to find the front door attended even at that late hour. But nothing could have surprised the weasel-faced doorman more than finding me on his doorstep.

Except, perhaps, the stench I brought with me.

"Edward Acton," I said without preamble.

A long moment passed during which the only sound was the drip-drip-drip of brown canal water onto scrubbed steps. So offensive was my presence the man had been struck dumb. Then his lip curled.

"I cannot imagine any contingency that would force Dr. Acton to interact with the likes of you," he said, stepping behind the door.

He was an over-pomaded little prick in his forties, with arms and legs like pencils and a neck that might that might have snapped in a strong wind. At the same instant he moved to close the door, I shoved it back hard. He hit the wall behind with a satisfying thud and slid to the floor.

"You will take me to him now," I said, as he skittered backward, "If he asks, you'll say it's about this."

I brandished the little rag doll. In the haste of his retreat, the doorman bumped into the wall. Remembering his dignity, he slowly rose along it, never taking his eyes from the doll.

"You've seen its like before," I said as I advanced. "How many times?"

He knew all about Acton's vile trade--it was written on his face. I kicked the door shut behind me and drew the pistol.

"You'll take me to him, by God, or you'll wish the constables had got here first."

He fixed me with a black scowl, but glancing from the gun to the doll, he reluctantly signaled for me to follow down the narrow corridor. A fire was blazing in the visitors' hall, though the room was empty. We turned at the end of the corridor. He stopped before the last door on the left, but rapped so ineffectually I was forced to push him aside and put my shoulder to it.

The door burst open. I caught a glimpse of an old man behind his desk before a foot swept my legs from under me and a set of hands threw me to the ground.

"Mr...Adler, is it?" a voice asked.