The Aylesford Skull (21 page)

“Unless it has moved locations in the past two years,” said St. Ives, starting in on the second sixty elephants.

“No, sir, it has not. I would very much like to know the results of your endeavors. It would give me the greatest pleasure to learn that Narbondo has been knocked on the head.”

“We’re of a like mind,” St. Ives said, shaking Merton’s hand. He walked toward the door with twenty elephants to spare, preparing himself for the possible chase. George would find it curious, perhaps, that he was coming out alone, but if his curiosity gave him a moment’s pause, St. Ives would take advantage of it.

He heard the key turn in the lock behind him as soon as he was through the door, and the “On Holiday” sign-board clacked against the glass. There stood George, right enough, lounging in a shadowy doorway opposite, half shrouded by fog. St. Ives saw Hasbro step out of the byway onto the street, and in that instant St. Ives sprinted hard toward the relevant doorway, dodging around a carriage and nearly knocking over a crossing sweeper who offered to rid the path of horse manure. George was already afoot, however, dashing east along the river toward the Old Swan Pier, disappearing up a narrow, fogbound alley. St. Ives and Hasbro, running side by side now, dodging pedestrians, gained the mouth of the alley and saw the moving shadow just then cutting out of sight between two buildings. They followed warily, listening to their own footfalls on the cobbles until they arrived at the recess between the buildings.

“Easy does it,” a voice said, and they saw George’s face lit by a match that he touched to the bowl of his pipe, drawing the flame downward. He leaned against the sweating bricks of a building, in no particular hurry now. His face had been torn open, probably when he had been thrown from his horse, and was patched with a strip of bloodstained sticking plaster. Nothing in his demeanor suggested the pleasant bumpkin from the Queen’s Rest. He had been a consummate actor. “I was sent by the Doctor to parlay, gentlemen,” he said, “since you weren’t given to it on the road this morning.”

“Weren’t
given
to it?” St. Ives said, immediately angered. “It was more in the line of murder than a parlay.”

“But who did the murdering? Poor Badger’s dead after that caper in the tree, stupid sod, but it was you who knocked him straightaway off the back of the wagon.”

“He held a knife in his hand, which meant that he badly wanted to be knocked off the wagon. And if memory serves, it was you who ran him down, and it was Fred who pointed a pistol at us.”

“Meant for persuasion, not murder, but mayhaps you’re in the right of it. I’d have done something the same if the Badger had dropped onto the back of my wagon. You’re wondering what I’m doing now, though. I’ve got no knife in my hand.”

“Your misfortune, perhaps,” St. Ives said.

Hasbro put his hand under his coat and sidestepped two paces deeper into the passage so that George was between them, or near enough.

George whistled, and there were answering whistles from back the way they’d come, and from farther on into the gloom of the passageway. “I haven’t come alone, guv’nor,” he said. “I’m to deliver a message from the Doctor, and then go on my way. You’re to think on it.”

“Deliver it, then, and be gone.”

“The Doctor humbly offers the life of your son for the sum of fifty thousand sovereigns. No negotiation permitted. You have until tomorrow morning to come to a decision.”

“And if I do not?”

“You will, your honor. I know it to be true.”

“On what authority?”

George took the pipe out of his mouth and banged it against the edge of his fist, the coal falling out onto the ground, where it continued to glow. He slid the pipe into the pocket of his trousers, dusted his hands together, and then whistled again, twice, which meant, possibly, that he knew he was in dangerous waters, at the edge of the maelstrom, and that he wanted his friends to know the same. Again the answering whistles, twice each. St. Ives held very still, listening for approaching footfalls, but heard little beyond the distant traffic from Thames Street and shipping along the river.

“On the authority that you want your son safe. And that you’re not keen to make the wrong choice and then have to explain yourself to the missus. No, sir, you wouldn’t want that. I’m a married man myself, who had a son of my own, and I know. That would be middling hard, it would indeed.”

“Your wife would almost certainly be elated if I were to kill you where you stand.”

He shrugged. “That’s as may be. But I’m merely the messenger, sir, and my message is that little Eddie won’t be safe unless you agree to the Doctor’s terms.”

“In what way not safe? Say what’s in your mouth, sir, and keep my son’s name out of it.”

“Right. The Doctor said to tell you that he’s got a customer who wants one of the skulls, sir, that casts ghosts. This man will pay the same sum as the Doctor is asking of you. But the Customer, so-called, doesn’t care what little boy is the cat’s paw, if you follow me. It needn’t be your son. That’s what the Doctor put into my mouth to say.”

“The
Customer
,” St. Ives said, the word being suddenly loathsome to him. He stared at the man, contemplating his death, and George, seeing it in his eyes, looked furtive, ready to bolt. St. Ives felt a hand on his arm – Hasbro, who shook his head meaningfully. The moment passed, St. Ives forcing his anger downward, out of his mind. “Tell the Doctor,” he said at last, “that I’ll consider his offer. Tomorrow morning, do you say? How am I to assemble that sum this evening? The thing is impossible.”

“Eight o’clock sharp on the morrow. Corner of Thrawl Street and Brick Lane, Spitalfields. Bring a token sum – something serious, mind you – to put on the barrelhead.”

“I’ll have to see that my son is safe.”

“Agreed. There’ll be a man there who you won’t know, and others you won’t see. He’ll wear a red kerchief. Follow him, and he’ll tell you what you need to do. You’ll have time to find the rest of the nuggets, if you’re quick about it. Meanwhile, the lad’s safe, eating rashers and eggs. And he’ll
stay
safe – aye, and your little daughter, too, so says the Doctor – if you gather up the boy and go on your way, back to Kent, and out of the Doctor’s purview, so to say.”

He paused a moment, something coming into his face as if he were considering, and in a low voice he said, “I believe it’s on the up and up – that the Doctor will do as he says.”

He whistled three times sharp, and then turned on his heel and walked past Hasbro, away down the passage, where he was quickly swallowed by the darkness and fog.

There were no answering whistles now – no need for them; the thing was done. Hasbro and St. Ives stood alone in the darkness for another moment, and then walked briskly up to Cannon Street, where they hailed a hansom cab, bound for Smithfield.

EIGHTEEN

THE ROOKERY

T
he street market lay near Tower Hill, a hundred stalls more or less – cobblers and tea dealers and meat sellers and dealers in household objects, stationery, dry goods, walking sticks, spectacles, fruits and vegetables, hot chestnuts, and general whatnot – the stalls thrown up on the instant along the street, the doors standing open in adjacent shops. Because of the fog the booths were already lit by gas lamps or candles, or with the bloody red light of heavily smoking grease lamps. Tonight there were crowds afoot, looking for bargains and buying night-time suppers to eat out of hand. There was the sound of organ music on the air and a general shouting. A hat was mysteriously knocked off an old gentleman’s head and snatched up by a boy of five or six, who ran off pell-mell through the crowds, carrying his prize. A man in a nearby stall shouted for someone to stop the boy, which Finn might easily have done as the thief raced past, but instead he watched in amusement as the boy disappeared in the murk down toward the river. He wasn’t surprised to hear the man in the stall commiserating with the irritated, hatless old gentleman, offering to sell him a replacement at half price, a hat very much like the one he had lost, although of superior make, a prime article, worth three times what he was asking. Then minutes from now the boy would return with the hat he had carried away, and the hat seller’s stock would be perpetually renewed. It was an old dodge, but the bare-headed gentleman could afford a few shillings for a hat, Finn thought, whereas the boy needed some part of those shillings for his supper, if he were to have any supper at all.

Finn had wandered through most of the markets in Greater London in his time, and had no particular regard for the organized markets of Covent Garden or Portobello Road. What he wanted tonight was the lowest sort, particularly a stall selling worn out clothing, of which there were many stalls to choose from, one of them lit by a single candle thrust into a cored-out turnip. He considered a shabby frock coat made of threadbare velvet that had once been dark green. It still sported three mother of pearl buttons and had the honor of being hung in the stall on an ill-fashioned tailor’s dummy contrived from sticks. The rest of the apparel that was recognizable as such was laid out on the street. Unrecognizable apparel was heaped up in piles and sold by the bundle.

Finn looked through the offerings, finding an elbowless shirt with frayed cuffs that would do, and an old balaclava that had perhaps been through a fire. There was a down-at-heel pair of shoes, middling small, but with the toe-ends conveniently lopped off or perhaps chewed off. He found a pair of leather trousers, out at the knees and precariously thin behind, and decided impulsively to buy the old frock coat, which was long enough for decorum if the trousers betrayed him. The coat reduced the overall effect of poverty just slightly, but wasn’t flash enough to put him at particular risk. He bought two other shirts that he could tie up into a four-armed bundle and use to hold the clothes he was wearing. Square Davey would keep them safe for him, although he would have to be quick getting them back to Billingsgate, for the evening was wearing on.

Finn paid for the goods, the owner of the stall being a boy not much older than he, undersized and underfed, with a wide, pimpled face.

“Ball crackers, six the penny?” the boy asked him in a low voice, raising his eyebrows. “You won’t find them this cheap till Guy Fawkes, I’ll warrant.”

“I’ll take a dozen,” Finn said, it seeming like a good idea for half-formed reasons, and left moments later with the clothing and a bag of crackers.

It was an hour later that he found himself in Spitalfields, carrying the balaclava, slouching up and down the byways and alleys, getting to know the place as best he could in the short time he had. Despite Davey’s warnings about the rookery, Finn found that he had no real fear of the place. It was true that the narrow streets were populated with thieves and prostitutes, but he had lived among down-and-out people before, known some right hard cases, and he knew how to keep to himself. It was also true that the face of the Crumpet dwelt in the back of his mind. Although the knife had come into Finn’s hand quick enough under the bridge that night, when he hadn’t time to think, he had done a lot of thinking since, and he didn’t relish using it in that way again. He was in a practical mood, and preferred running to fighting.

The fog was intermittent, although settling in now as if it meant to stay. He could scarcely be expected to find a man whom he couldn’t see for the fog, and so he hurried now. He found Smith’s Lodging House, which recommended itself only because of the even more hideous squalor of the lodgings on either side. He considered going in to ask about Sawyer, but he hadn’t the time now, and he went on past instead, studying the building and the street while the night was clear so that he would know it again if there were trouble.

An alley opened on his right, from which sounded the vicious barking and growling of dogs and the shouts of unseen men. He stepped into it, looking down its length and seeing beyond it a courtyard milling with people. Overhead, he was surprised to see a bridge, built of three-or-four-inch line and boards, held steady with lengths of taut rope that acted as stays, the line affixed to rooftops and the sides of buildings. He couldn’t make out where it led – or where it started, perhaps the same thing – but he liked the look of the bridge, standing high above the reek and turmoil of the street. He had been an acrobat in Duffy’s Circus, and a wirewalker for a time, and there was something in the bridge’s rigging that recalled those years to his mind.