The Humbug Murders (15 page)

“So it's where we start!”

I nodded, then thought it over. “No,” I declared at last. “It is not.”

“But why? It must be investigated. And if this is a place where all manner of sin may be sated, would it not be the logical place to seek Miss Annie Piper, the prostitute?”

“It will
all
be investigated. But not by you. I will question Dickens about the place and go there with him. It sounds like the ideal place for that rake Roger Colley to be hiding, and if I am correct, I will not see you subjected to his tender handling.”

“But this Annie woman, her friend Irene said she'd gained a great deal of interest. The Royal Quarter—”

“What part of ‘no' is challenging that brain of yours?”

Miss Owen drew in a deep breath, centered herself, and smiled pleasantly. Her words, however, did not match her calm and lovely demeanor. “I saw Sunderland's man murdered. I have, as Constable Crabapple deduced, seen my fair share of wretchedness, sickness, and even death in my time. I am no delicate flower for you to protect.”

“But you are my employee, are you not?” I asked.

Shuddering, her smile firmly in place, she said, “I am.”

“Then,” I said, rising and reaching for my coat, “do what you are told and stay here!”

I WAITED UNTIL
dusk before braving the so-called Royal Quarter. With Dickens at my side, I traversed the ankle-deep gum of rotting straw and sewage covering the slippery cobbled streets. We hurried through the warren of damp brickwork until we arrived at King's Hill Road. From there it was no more than a few hundred sodden steps through the polluted slush, a few turns down God-forsaken alleyways, before we emerged into a square surrounded by warehouses. No, they might have been called by such an innocuous term by day, but as the last crescent of dull December sunlight vanished behind the grimy edge of London, the warehouses transformed. Red lights flicked on in windows, the hollow bass of music erupted from somewhere and was carried on the icy wind through each building. Doors clanged open and the square filled with people.

“A playground for those with money to burn,” said Dickens, as we watched gentlemen shake hands with ruffians as if they were peers. “Behold, Scrooge, the Royal Quarter. From the stories I've heard over the years, this is where you'll find London's most depraved pleasure ‘palaces,' each indulging in a different order of expensive sin and debauchery. The finest of opium dens. The greatest underground fight clubs and whorehouses. Each palace named after a current or past member of the royal family . . . and, yet, who knows what suffering lies at their foundations.”

“It's business, Dickens,” I mumbled. “London is a city of speculators, obsessed with gambling and risk. And money.”

“Quite,” said Dickens as he lit up a cigarette. The smoke swirled through the air and melted into the settling smog. “Not the business of humanity. This, sir, is the devil's own playground. Ask anyone if you don't believe me. . . .”

We drifted from doorway to doorway, where wretched men—dressed in fine suits, scarves, and hats—grinned to reveal missing teeth and rotting sores. They brandished walking sticks like swords.

“Peppercorn Jack they calls me,” said the nearest, his breath quite possibly combustible. “Hazard a guess why? Don't strain your brain, I'll inform you presently. I'm the gent you call when you needs to spice things up!”

A man wearing the costume of an Indian swami vied for our attention. “You have a weighty aspect, my friend. A cloak of many worries, invisible to the eye, but not to mine, has been fitted upon your shoulders. Feel its weight? I can grant you blessed sleep—and such dreams! Elysium. Nirvana. Paradise. One pipe at a time.”

A little man wearing a coat of many colors hopped before us. “Ignore him! I can see you go a poppin', that's what I can do. Robin Roundabout, that's me. Oh the world poppin' with beautiful color. Bouncin' and flouncin'—”

I broke free of the lot while Dickens smirked. Another man peeled from the darkness of an alley. A young dandy. “No, no, no, sir. You have the bearing of one for whom only the best might do. Welcome to my emporium of exotic delights. Convention? Rules? Ridiculous! Cruel delight? I say nay! I have in my basement a child
with
child who is longing for your kisses.”

“You disgust me!” I snarled.

The dandy took my words in stride. “I make no one do anything against their will. My girls are pampered princesses. A virgin, perhaps? Rare, but if you have the coin . . . ?”

We rushed ahead. Behind us he called, “I have twins! Triplets!
Triplets
!”

We hurried along a less-traveled street, avoiding more Haymaker Hectors, though I sensed such pimps were within reach throughout this hellish place.

Smithson resided somewhere in the Quarter, according to Dickens' “contacts.” It made sense. A man of few or no morals would find the district a business bonanza, so no doubt he conducted his own dark undertakings from the depths of one of these palaces. There he could keep close watch on his enterprises and earnings. But how would we find the man? Where would we begin?

I spotted a young boy lurking within the shadows some way before us, crouching down behind an up-turned barrel. He stole furtive glances at a gaggle of prostitutes laughing together outside one of the palace doors. His clothes were torn and filthy, the brown cap covering his head was a few sizes too big and kept slipping down over his eyes. He'd be in want of money, there was no doubt.

“You there, boy,” I called. The boy looked up, startled, and caught my eye. His face was still bathed in shadow, and I could not make out his expression, but I guessed it was one of greed. “For a farthing, I have the name of a man: I need his location.”

The boy half-stood, then froze, his brown cap sliding farther down his face.

“Well?” I pressed. “What of it? Have we a deal?” I reached my hand out to shake his, and took a couple of steps towards him, when suddenly he bolted. Weaving in and out of the heaving bodies of adulterers and gamblers, the boy vanished.

“They fright so easily,” I noted.

“Even I myself find utterly petrifying your view on what can be considered a reasonable payment to a starving street urchin, Scrooge.”

“If I were not so indebted to your damned charitable organizations, Dickens, I would have offered him a penny,” I answered. “Put yourself to use and find Smithson.”

Then Dickens nudged me and nodded towards the gilded warehouse door of one of the palaces. A man of oriental appearance, his silken black hair gleaming and reaching down beyond an impossibly tall top hat, approached the door with a woman on his arm.

“Shen Kai-Rui,” I mumbled.

Dickens nodded, and added, “See the girl?”

I stared, incredulous. It was Nellie Pearl, the actress!

Shen knocked sharply at the door with the brass head of his cane, before turning to Nellie. Some soundless communication passed between the two before they grabbed each other and kissed with full abandon, hands fumbling in deep, dark places. The door opened and Shen presented his hand, the ring finger adorned with the very same type of heavy gold and ruby ring that I had seen on Fezziwig's corpse. Just as they entered, Nellie turned her face out towards the square, scanning the crowd. I frowned.

“See the scar running from her upper lip to her left cheek?” I asked Dickens.

“Nellie Pearl has no such scar,” he said.

The woman—so like Nellie she could have been her twin—vanished into the building with Shen Kai-Rui. An impersonator? How odd. Yet she carried herself in the same distinctive way as Nellie did and wore a burgundy gown with gold partridge pin identical to the one Nellie usually wore in public. Even the imposter's hair, tumbling from a holly-appointed hat, was impeccably styled to resemble Nellie's lovely ringlets.

“What connection can there be between the Chinaman and this Smithson?” I asked Dickens. “This
is
Smithson's dominion, after all.”

“Potentially thousands,” he answered, dropping his cigarette to the ground and grinding it into the slush with the sole of his boot. “Or maybe he just prefers whores. There's a crowd of boys who might have a story to tell; let's start there. This time offer them more than a farthing.”

They looked like rats and crows, plotting together, suspicious. Some were sitting on ledges of windows, others hunched over the slimy cobbles throwing hand-made dice. As we approached, the oldest of the boys, yet no older than fourteen, saw us and immediately stood up, squaring his shoulders and spinning a chain in his hand. He was followed by five or six others, while the rest maintained their positions, scowling.

We froze, but they continued to move towards us until they were flanking us like a pack of dogs. The clanking of the leader's chains sent ghostly shivers through me. One of the smaller boys behind him produced a short knife and began stabbing at the dirt. The fact that Dickens still hadn't lit up another cigarette betrayed that he too felt some nervousness.

“Lost, gentlemen?” asked the boy, his snub nose twisted in a mocking sneer. “Cor, what a jolly fine scarf you're wearing, sir. Silk, is it?” His own tatty top hat was resting on his head so lightly that I got the sense that if he had lurched forward to thrash me with the chain, the hat would not have joined him.

“Looking for Smithson,” I said. “I'll make it worth your time.”

The moment I mentioned Smithson's name the young scavengers and predators exchanged wary looks.

“And what is it you wanna know about Mr. Smifson, sir?” asked the lad in the top hat.

Dickens brushed by me, subtlety signaling me to let him do the talking. “We've been told he's the man to see if you want one of those pretty rings . . . and the delights that come with them.”

A greedy grin etched itself upon the lad's grubby face. “ 'Ow do we know you ain't the filth?”

“Because we have money to spend tonight,” I said. “And much more where that came from. You have a sense of that, I'm sure, as you haven't tried to part us from our gold. A long-term investment is how you're seeing us. Tell me if I'm wrong.”

“Well, why didn't you say?” The leader laughed. “Always keen to aid a 'spectable gentleman, so we are! The name's Mr. Dawkins, but my chaps here call me the
Artful
Dodger, on account of my bein' an
artist
, you see.”

The boys all laughed.

“And as you see, sir,” the Artful Dodger continued. “As I'm sure you've noticed, I'm one of the very finest of Englishmen, just the very sort of business acquaintance you're looking for. Let me show you around. Come on, come on, don't dally!”

He and his mates suddenly transformed into cheery tour guides. The boy beamed and tucked his chain in his back pocket, the smaller boys towards the back hopped up and surged forward, all keen to get a look at us and to ask for change.

“Now just so you know,” said the Dodger, “Mr. Smifson, then, he ain't no social butterfly. More like a spider in his web.”

“Yeah, you see him, it's 'cause you're not long for this world,” added one of his boys.

“Tell you what, let's find out what's your fancy, then we might set you up wiv a prince or a duke of the 'ouse. Cor, you might even get to see a king. But Smifson—”

“Why should we trust that you know anything?” Dickens asked.

Taking that as a challenge, the lads took turns introducing us to the various vice pits in the quarter, each in exchange for their own farthing until I felt, with grudging annoyance, my purse becoming quite light.

Hopping from building to building, climbing drainpipes, and scaling slatted roofs, they pointed out the gin houses, the opium dens, whorehouses, and fight pits. I could hear the scratching of Dickens' pen as we hurried along underneath them, struggling to keep up.

“This 'ere palace,” said Dodger, pointing at a building as we passed, “is known as The Eighth, on account of Henry, of course, with all his wives. Eat like a proper fat man in there, you can, succulent foods they say, no ‘bags o' mystery' sausages here, no sir! And all the bare-breasted maids you can fink of! And this one we call De Quincey's on account of a certain tome he wrote, you see, literary gentlemen as you surely are . . .”

“
Confessions of an English Opium Eater
,” Dickens supplied.

“Right you are, guv!” Dodger knocked twice on a side door attached to the wooden building. Just as he reached for the handle, it swung open.

“Humperdink!” I exclaimed.

The fat constable stood at the doorway, gaping. His face was red, his eyes glassy.

“Just making inquiries, Mr. Scrooge,” he offered, glancing between me and Dickens with a terrified look. “Better be on me way, nothing to report.” He waddled off in haste, glancing back once before he vanished round a corner.