The Dickens Mirror (33 page)

Wait, wait, don’t panic
. Because maybe not. If he
took
the knife, got rid of it—hell, trotted out to the Thames and tossed it into the fog—there’d be no evidence that
he’d
anything to do with Battle’s murder. Why he’d want to stay … he wasn’t sure. Perhaps it
was because there really wasn’t anywhere to run. He might lose himself in what remained of London, sure. That might not be too difficult. Go as far south as he could manage. No one would come after him. Or he could brave the fog. Pack provisions and take the proverbial plunge and …

Oh, who are you fooling?
Black Dog gave him a playful nip in his right buttock.
You’re simply not that brave, my darling. Besides, you’re forgetting Kramer. Don’t want to get yourself fixed up right?

A good point. His eyes roamed the office, touching on the glasses, that whiskey. Battle said no one knew where he kept the bottle.
Oh no, Sergeant
—sidestepping the dead man’s splayed legs, he silently rehearsed what he might say to the desk sergeant once Battle’s body was discovered—
I didn’t see anyone go in after I left for my rooms and … what’s that, Sergeant?
He retrieved their fallen glasses from the floor.
No, I’m afraid not, Sergeant. We never did have that drink
.

Thankfully, the drawer in which Battle kept his whiskey was still open, and there was a rag there, too. Drying both glasses, Doyle seated them and then the bottle inside and shut the drawer until he heard the latch click. Standing in front of the desk’s knee-hole, Doyle stared down at the papers Battle had taken from their pigeonhole. Should he destroy them? No one would notice. Still … he fingered that forged letter of reference, thinking how ironic it was that the fictitious Brother James had declared Doyle to be
quite inventive; perhaps he would consider a career in letters
, and now he would be the last person to see Battle alive. Someone might come looking for these. And just who else might bother to square the date of a tattoo?

After carefully inspecting the papers for blood, he retied the
twine and then scooped up Battle’s keys. Slotting the papers back where they belonged, he relocked the cover. How many minutes gone now? Probably only five since killing Battle.
Time to go
. His eyes lingered on Battle’s keys. The pouch felt good, heavy in his hands, and he hefted it, listening to the muted tinkle of metal, appreciating the weight.
Still Kramer to deal with, the bodies to find
. Himself to make right. “And what the hell did you mean, they’re not in the morgue?” He glared at the dead man as if he expected Battle to come out with it already. “If
not
there, where?”

You’ll never know if you don’t move your baby backside
.

Yes, yes, all right, stop yer nagging
. Rolling up the pouch, he reached to douse the lamp. He was about to take another calculated risk.
I’ve got his keys
. They lived in the same dorm.
So … get to his rooms, light a candle or lamp
. Then no one would look in the office, not at first, and they’d have no reason to do so until morning anyway. If he was lucky, discovery was
hours
away.

Battle’s rooms were his next logical stop for another reason, too. Perhaps a clue as to where the bodies were?

But he told you
, Black Dog said.
Weren’t you listening?

“He only said where they weren’t.”

Yes, but he said it was too cold
.

“Show me a place in London that isn’t.”

Poppet, you’re being literal again. There are many ways of
telling
a story. There is what he said …

“And what he did,” Doyle said slowly.
The key. He kept touching it
. So the key must be for a very specific lock. Have to hope the answer was obvious, in plain sight somewhere in Battle’s rooms. Wasn’t that where things were best hidden? God, he hoped he was right. He really had no time to play detective.

Shoving his arms into his uniform coat, Doyle tucked Battle’s
pouch with its keys into a left inside pocket. Wrapping his hands around the hilt of his black knife, he worked it free, cupping the blade with the rag with which he’d dried their drinking glasses, wincing at the scrape of bone where the scalloped filework sawed at the underside of Battle’s rib cage. The body was already growing cold, the skin smooth as chilled candle wax. The lips of the cut sucked and pulled as the knife gave by degrees. When the tip finally slipped out with a moist smacking sound, there was no more than a trickle of thick, dark blood. Wiping the blade clean, he slid his knife into its leather sheath.

Then, after lighting his bull’s-eye and sliding the panel closed, he retrieved his helmet, doused the office’s oil lamp, and slipped out, carefully locking the door on the dead man he left behind.

Through the Looking Glass

SLITHERING OUT THE
back way, Black Dog on his heels, was almost too easy. Only a few steps took him out of Battle’s office, around a corner, and into a rear stairwell. He spared only a single backward glance. Orange light glimmered at the far end of the hall, and there might have been a muffled voice or two. He met no one. At the back door, he hesitated and looked at the basement stairs that led to the morgue. Why take Battle’s word that the bodies
weren’t
there?

“You can go round this all night,” he murmured. “You’ve got a plan. Stick to it. If you find nothing in his rooms, then you go look.” And if he still found nothing?

Cross that bridge when and if
. He let himself out, wincing a little as the door creaked. The police dormitory was across an enclosed courtyard. To the left, an arched cloister marked the entrance into the police stables, and through the muffling mantle of snow, Doyle caught the snort and nicker of the station’s remaining horse. No other sound save the whistle of wind scouring the roof, the dull patter of falling snow, and the chuff of Black Dog’s
breath. Ahead, he saw gauzy light from candles and oil lamps seeping through thin draperies in several rooms. Now and then, shadowy silhouettes drifted across individual windows. The only fairly bright light was a splash of orange spilling through a window to his far right from the desk sergeant’s lantern in the station at his back. Under his coat and attached to his belt, his own dark bull’s-eye was warm against his belly. While the courtyard was trammeled, there didn’t look to be fresh prints.

He started across the yard. The dormitory had three entrances: right, left, center. His own rooms were on the second floor and on the right. He realized with a start that he’d no idea where Battle’s were, other than a vague recollection of them being somewhere on the first floor because all senior staff were assigned to the lower floors.
You idiot
. He skidded to a halt so quickly he felt his boots try to fly out from underneath on a thick layer of compressed ice and snow. He’d have to go back. Or abandon this plan altogether; simply go to his own rooms, throw what belongings he wanted into a sack. Or … 
Think, think
. He stood, snow salting his coat and helmet …

Keys, my dear
.

“Right. His key.” In order to precisely know, though, he would have to read the number. Couldn’t risk lighting up the courtyard with his bull’s-eye. Shuffling sideways, he edged as close to that wedge of orange light, and now the shadow of a man’s head and shoulders, as he dared. Leaning forward, he brushed a quick gaze up toward the window. The sergeant was facing away. Good. After another look across the empty courtyard, he tugged his right glove off with his teeth and dug out his own room key, which he kept on a ribbon pinned to his trouser pocket. Running an index finger over warm iron, he felt along its length, from the
rounded and very thick bow and down the shank to a notched collar. Nothing.
I know it’s here
. Flipping the key, he repeated the process, carefully dragging his fingertip from the throating just below the collar … 
Got it
. He felt his heart kick as his finger ran over a tiny plaque upon which there was a minute engraving:
2-2-1-b
. Which was correct: second floor, room 21, right side of the hall.

Returning his key to his pocket, he withdrew Battle’s pouch. In the light, the iron and brass keys inside gave off an almost nacreous glow. Finger-walking the many loops, he found the inspector’s room key, then felt for the room number:
4-2-1-b
.

Fourth floor?
Odd
. He could’ve sworn Battle’s room was on the first. In fact, he knew that the station wasn’t at full capacity, and only the first three floors of the dorm were occupied. He double-checked by angling the key into the light. No mistake. Battle lived on the fourth floor, in number twenty-one. The
b
signified that he occupied the rooms on the right side of the hall. All this meant that Battle had virtually the run of the fourth floor, if he chose. Doyle massaged the engraved numbers with the ball of his thumb.
Very strange
.

To his right, the orange glow wrinkled. Startled, he tossed an instinctive look and then had to clap his hand over his mouth to keep in the scream.

The desk sergeant was there, another lantern in hand, peering out into the snow. Doyle was sure
he
wasn’t visible. Even if he had been … what stood there, framed in orange light, couldn’t possibly see him.

Because the sergeant’s face was blank. Completely. Totally. No eyes, no nose, which made that frill of wiry ginger whiskers all the more ghastly, because there was also no mouth or chin.
The sergeant’s face was as flat as unformed clay.

I don’t see this
. But he couldn’t look away.
This isn’t real. This is Kramer. This can’t be
.

Above and from inside came a burr of sound that Doyle recognized, belatedly, as laughter. Transfixed, he watched the desk sergeant’s shoulders convulse and that clay-blank of a face rock back. There was a flash of tin at his throat, and Doyle realized that he—it—was
laughing. It’s laughing, but it’s got no mouth, no eyes, how can it …

Steady, darling, steady.
Black Dog nuzzled his ear.
This is Kramer and his drug, nothing more nor less … unless it’s not
.

“Whatsat mean?” Without waiting for Black Dog to reply, he wheeled about, lurching away from the light. In another minute, he was across the courtyard and into the dormitory. Slivers fired under many of the doors, and he heard the occasional rumble of conversation. But he didn’t stop, and for all sorts of reasons, he prayed to God he wouldn’t meet anyone either.

A BALL OF
cool air sighed past as he pushed into 421b, which was at the very end of a long hall. Pulling the door shut, he stood a moment as the darkness, thick as wool, settled. The room was still and chilly but not frigid. Battle’s rooms were a corner suite that faced a narrow, blank-walled alley. If the suite’s layout was similar to his own rooms, he now stood in the parlor. That meant the windows were to his right. Dead ahead would be a second door leading into Battle’s bedroom.

Turning to his left, he cautiously unbuttoned his coat. Warm
air, smelling of singed tin from his bull’s-eye, wafted out, and he was absurdly grateful.
You’re real; I smell that
. Still facing left to avoid the windows, he unbuckled the lantern, then slid the panel aside a half inch, enough that light dashed out in a bright ribbon. Sweeping right but keeping the angle low, he picked out only spare furnishings: a table and two chairs, a mahogany writing desk with a great many drawers, and a standing wardrobe. No pictures on the walls, no decorations, nothing personal on the table, and the desk was immaculate. To his extreme right, very dark, thick curtains were drawn tightly over the room’s windows. He felt his shoulders relax. Certainly not in danger of anyone seeing in.

Crossing to the desk, he played his light over the surface. The stained quill nib was dry. Of course, the pen drawer was locked. Take a look inside? He chewed his mustache. Might be papers, case notes, some clue where the bodies were. Yes, but best to look around first, and wasn’t he there to light a lamp?
Steady, Doyle; don’t get distracted
. Straightening, he looked up and across the room and into Battle’s bedroom.

Someone was there, watching him.

“Guh!”
His scream might have been louder if his throat hadn’t frozen. He jumped, and across the room, he saw light dancing a fantastic jig. Then he realized: he’d been frightened by his own reflection in Battle’s bedroom mirror.

Touch on edge, aren’t we?
Black Dog glided into view, which was to say that the reflection of its eyes, red as hellfire, glistered in the mirror by Doyle’s reflection.

He knew better than to look down on
this
side of that mirror. Black Dog would not be there. (Was it progress that the hound was in the mirror? Probably not. Christ, he needed a proper drink.) He
stood there a full ten seconds waiting for his heart to slow. Across the room—in Battle’s bedroom—the other Doyle stood with a hand over his chest and a wild look on his face as a huge black death hound with bloodred eyes showed its fangs in a grin. What a damned bad place for a mirror. He couldn’t paw through the man’s desk with someone, even his own reflection, looking on. Swallowing, he took up his lantern and crossed to close the door. At the threshold, he could see the whole of Battle’s bedroom. The inspector’s bed, neatly made, was tucked below two windows. A bedside commode squatted nearby. An odd placement for both because of the cold spilling through the windows, even with the shades drawn. Two floors below, he’d moved his bed to an inside wall for warmth. But along Battle’s inside wall, there was a large standing wardrobe, a mat with another set of shoes and boots, and a hefty shaving stand with a basin and picture.

What a bizarre arrangement. Doyle stood there a good few seconds, sorting it out, then crossed to the wardrobe and pulled open the doors. Inside were trousers, a few suit jackets, two vests. Ties on hooks. No mirror, though. If Battle wanted to check his tie, he either had to step back to his shaving stand or cross all the way to the far wall and that mirror. So why not move the mirror alongside the wardrobe? There was plenty of room.