The Affair of the Porcelain Dog (9 page)

Who was he that he actually
would
?

"Fuck me," I said.

"Fuck you in the arse, mate, half the East End saw him beatin' on yer."

"They fink I done it?"

Nate shushed me, glancing around as if expecting a bevy of blue-bottles to descend any moment.

"I didn't say nuffin'. I won't say nuffin'. But a wise man would disappear for a while, at least until they finds someone to hang for it. Don't yer fink?"

"I s'pose," I said. The day suddenly seemed much colder. I jammed my hands beneath my arms and tried to stomp the numbness from my feet.

"'Ere, take this," he said, slipping me a stack of coins. He smirked. "Last night were a good one."

"Every night's a good one when you look like this." I flicked the brim of his hat.

He smiled, but then his face went serious.

"D'yer have somewhere to go?" he asked.

Did I? God alone only knew. Goddard had given me a bed the night before and invited me back for lunch. If he really was behind the constable's murder, then he'd put me in this position and would bloody well owe me a place to hide until it all went away. And if he wasn't, maybe he could be convinced to offer me shelter for a night or two until I decided what to do. But I was expected for lunch, and I was quickly coming to the conclusion that whoever Cain Goddard was, he was not to be kept waiting.

I made it back to York Street as the Great Clock was striking one. With the prescience that would prove to be his hallmark, Collins opened the door even before I'd reached the top stair. Once again, he took my coat and hat and ushered me into the morning room.

"Mr. Adler," Goddard said as the manservant closed the doors behind me. He stood before the arched window on the opposite wall, light filtering around him through an artful arrangement of tall, leafy plants. "Right on time."

He crossed the polished wooden parquet with the subdued grace of a predator. He had forgone the formality of a jacket and waistcoat, but his linen shirt and crisp woolen trousers were expensive enough to make the point this was no mere academic.

"I trust that the events of the morning have been to your satisfaction," he said.

"I--ah--the eggs and coffee did go down a treat, sir, thank you, sir," I stammered.

Though my suspicions were growing regarding his role in the constable's murder, there was no profit in sharing them at that point. Cain Goddard held my fate in his hands. If my suspicions were correct, he was an incredibly dangerous individual. If I was wrong, he was still my only hope until the matter of the murdered constable was put to rest. Mentioning I'd suspected his guilt could make an enemy of him.

"Sit, please."

Knees shaking, I lowered myself onto a divan upholstered in olive-colored velvet. Goddard sat beside me and pressed a glass of sherry into my hand.

"It's a dangerous world." He tutted, shaking his head.

"Sir?"

"Drink," he commanded. I did. "I say, if an officer of the law can't even walk his beat without finding himself sliced up like a slaughterhouse pig..."

I choked. He glanced at me out of the corner of his eye. Sweet Christ, he
had
done it. He refilled my glass. I set it on the floor immediately, lest my shaking hands be the ruin of a piece of furniture worth more than my life.

"I've been giving it some thought," he said. "If a great ox of a constable can't walk the streets at night, what chance does a pretty young thing like you stand out there, hmm?"

I opened my mouth to speak. But it hadn't been an actual question, and he didn't pause for an answer.

"No, Ira--may I call you Ira?--your present circumstances simply will not do."

That
was God's own truth. I was in a right spot, and it was his doing. All the same, I knew a deal with the devil when I saw it coming. Unfortunately the devil never seemed to bother unless a person was in no position to refuse. The least I could do was to let him know the seriousness of my position in hopes of a better deal.

"It were bad enough," I said carefully, "wot 'appened to the constable wivout people sayin' it were me wot done it."

His smugness faltered--a tightening of the lips, a short, sharp inhalation, an almost imperceptible widening of the eyes--but he quickly recovered.

"How unexpected." He leaned down to gather up my sherry glass. He placed it back in my hand and closed my fingers around it. "And how undesirable. No matter," he continued. "You were here when the deed occurred. You have two witnesses to that effect."

I laughed. "I don't fink they'd take eiver of us at our word." I tipped the glass back quickly so I wouldn't have to look at his face, which I was certain was flushing with anger at my ungratefulness and temerity. "Well, y-your word is good, I'm sure, sir," I stammered. "But the police won't never take the word of no whore."

"Whore?" His mouth quirked to one side, as if the word somehow amused him. "Whore, my boy? You're my secretary, engaged here last night on business: facts to which I'll testify, should it come to that. But it won't."

"Your..."

"That was what I wanted to talk to you about last night before you fell asleep. I assume you'd have accepted, so, for all intents and purposes, as of last night you were no longer a whore, but my personal and confidential secretary."

I'm rarely speechless, which has often led to no end of misery. But though Goddard's proposition would have got me out of a world of trouble, I had no idea how to respond. I'd heard the word before, but I had no clue regarding the duties of a secretary--save it involved skills laughably out of my ken.

And the regular wearing of suits.

"I'll teach you what you need to know, yes," he said, warming to the subject. He brushed a drop of sherry from the corner of my mouth and touched his finger to his tongue. "You'll live here, of course. And take your meals here. And your clothing--"

"But..."

"And you won't have to worry about the police, not now or ever again. I am, you'll find, a most convenient ally."

"But..."

"And in return, all I ask is your exclusive companionship. Unless, of course, you prefer your current situation," he added.

"But--wot--why--"

He chuckled darkly, his eyes black, smoldering coals--the eyes of the devil himself. Yet, as he laid a warm hand on my thigh, my only thought was of delicious surrender. It would be so easy, and, what did I really have to lose?

"I have people in your world, Ira," he said. "But they serve me out of fear, or out of greed. Which means I can never trust them completely."

"Wot makes you fink you can trust me completely?" I asked.

He frowned, as if actually considering the question. Then he laughed. "You could, I suppose, rob me while I'm away, eh? Murder me in my sleep--or attempt to. But you're not stupid."

His hand on my thigh was solid and warm. Despite the fact Cain Goddard scared the living hell out of me, certain parts of my anatomy were rising to the occasion. I gasped as his fingers moved to the crease of my thigh. When he spoke again, his voice was smoky, his lips brushing against my right ear.

"Only a stupid man, Mr. Adler, would put himself in peril of life and limb for the fleeting comfort a few pawned trinkets would bring, when all he has to do to enjoy a lifetime of ease is simply reach out his hand to accept it."

"Call me Ira," I choked.

Of course I accepted. What else could I have done? If I'd gone back to the 'Chapel, I'd have been in a cell under Bow Street by nightfall. Goddard was offering to make it all go away--and to give me a home.

And such a home! I took in the book-lined walls of the morning room. I allowed myself to imagine, just for a moment, that it was mine. The few, tasteful pieces on the mantel above a blazing fire and the impossible softness of the cushions surrounding me--surely I'd wake soon from this dream?

"I'd be lying," Goddard said, clearing his throat, "if I said that my feelings for you hadn't played some small part in this scheme. Somehow, I find that I've grown quite fond of you, Ira. I trust that if your sentiments don't begin to grow in a similar direction within a reasonable period of time, you'll do the honorable thing."

∗ ∗ ∗

True to his word, Goddard had seen the matter of the constable's murder wrapped up within the week. I'd been free to return to the streets, but what the devil for? I frittered away the next two years with forceful fucking, expensive whisky, and the occasional burglary. I never gave a second thought to my old life, or to Goddard's exhortation to
do the honorable thing
. Little was I to know how quickly, and with what vengeance, both of these things would come screaming back into my life. But at that moment, I was in the very heart of Sodom and Gomorrah. I had money in my pocket and an old friend to meet. As the driver pulled up before 224 Piccadilly, I flipped him three and sixpence for the fare and a half-crown for his trouble.

The Criterion was legendary: a lavish warren of themed rooms, each with its own cuisine. I'd passed by it many times when trade had taken me that way, but it had been beyond my means then. Now that it wasn't, of course, I wasn't allowed. The very idea was abhorrent to Goddard. Considering he was on the cusp of a long-overdue promotion, it simply wouldn't do for us to be seen in a place frequented by, well, men like us. But I stood just in front of the entrance. Inexplicably, Nate was inside. Tossing better judgment aside and a bit of silver to the doorman to turn a blind eye to my shabby clothes, I mounted the stairs and ducked through the door.

The high-ceilinged halls seemed to go on forever, each room more tempting than the last. When I wandered into the American Bar, with its tight-trousered waiters and the mouthwatering aroma of the high-quality beef sizzling away on the grill in the back, I almost surrendered and ordered a steak. Perhaps, I thought, pulling myself reluctantly away from a bar crowded with effete and fashionable men, Goddard could be convinced to take an early luncheon there one day when the place was deserted. He would find the clientele appalling, but he'd nothing against a well-cooked steak.

I eventually found Nate several doors down, in a small chamber with walls covered in gold leaf and hung with Oriental-style depictions of opium dens painted on silk. He still wore his dark hair longer than most, but now it was slicked back and clean. A pair of gold-rimmed spectacles balanced on his nose, and he was sporting the most extraordinary beard. Fine black hairs scissor-trimmed close to the skin and painstakingly shaped to accentuate the angles of his face--a face that now had the studied thinness of an aesthete rather than the hollowness of the street.

As I peered at him through the leaves of a potted palm, my curiosity burned. Someone was keeping him well. Nate always had cash, but would never squander it on restaurants, posh barbers or flash clothing. As often as not, half of what he pulled in a night found its way into other people's pockets--friends, dirty-faced children, and the crawling wretches so beaten down they'd lost the will to even put out their hand and beg. He couldn't turn down a soul. As striking as he was even on the cusp of thirty, it shouldn't have come as a surprise that he'd found a patron. But as long as I'd known him, he'd insisted on holding the reins. It didn't fit somehow.

The small room was cluttered with crowded tables. Nate, of course, had placed himself at the center of it all. While I watched, he sat at the edge of his inlaid chair with his legs crossed tightly, slathering a crumpet with caviar. He gave a devilish glance from beneath his long lashes before bolting the entire disgusting mess and dabbing delicately at his lips with a linen serviette.

As if sensing my presence, he looked up from the table crowded with caviar, oysters,
foie gras
, and champagne--and smiled.

I felt another pang of guilt. I really should have tried to send word once I'd settled in at York Street. Even as I was reveling in newfound luxury, wrapping my new identity around me like a fine cloak, the 'Chapel had never been more than a carriage ride away. But Nate would forgive me, wouldn't he? After all, he had been the one who had told me to leave. Which made it all the more curious that he was seeking me out now.

No matter. He was looking straight at me. Whatever he might think wouldn't be helped by my running away.

I tugged Goddard's ruby-headed tie-pin back into place and stepped into the doorway.

"Adler!" Nate called. He made an affected pass at his face with the serviette before waving it fetchingly.

We clasped hands over the table. Nate was doing a splendid job of pretending not to notice the disappointed faces that greeted my arrival. But then he'd had three decades to become inured to the effects of his charisma.

"Good to see you again, Nathaniel," I said.

"Wot's yer pleasure? Caviar? A bit of the bubbly? 'S French, you know."

I considered the spread of mismatched delicacies. He had clearly picked the dishes for his luncheon based on price. Whoever was keeping him indulged him, but wasn't bothering to school him in the finer things. And yet the staff smiled and nodded and filled our glasses as if it made no difference to them. His benefactor was wealthy enough, then, to buy the staff's tolerance. At the same time, whoever it was had not been brought up in wealth. Interesting.