The Pierced Heart: A Novel (25 page)

“Who are all these people?” asks Sam in an under-tone. “What the ’ell are they doin’ ’ere?”

“Getting in the bloody way, that’s what they’re doing. Thanks to the confounded
Daily News
, every Tom, Dick, and Harry in London thinks their missing wife or daughter’s been abducted by a bleeding vampire. That one there,” he continues, gesturing in the direction of a man at the edge of the group, with a leather case wedged between his feet, “claims his daughter disappeared two months ago in Whitby. Bloody
Whitby
, I ask you—must be nigh on three hundred miles!”

Charles looks across at the man. He must normally be handsome, but his face is pale and hollowed by anxiety. There is grey about his temples, and threads of silver in his beard. He looks up every few moments—every time a door opens, or there’s another burst of noise from the street.

“I told him to hook it,” continues the sergeant, “but he refuses to budge. Insists on seeing whoever’s in charge. He’ll have a bloody long wait, that’s all I can say.”

The sergeant is shaking his head, but Sam and Charles have both remembered where the Baron first came ashore, and are already moving towards the man, who starts up at once saying, “Is it Lucy? Have you found her?”

“Might be best if you came wiv us, sir,” answers Sam in a low voice. “There’s a room out the back ’ere.”

The man is paler now, if that were possible, but he picks up his bag and follows them into the room behind the desk. It’s where they keep the lost property, and the lanterns and flasks used by constables on night patrols. The shelves are stacked with umbrellas and briefcases and solitary gloves, and there’s a strong smell of stewed tea. Charles points the man to the only seat, and he sits down slowly, still clutching his bag.

Sam gets out his notebook. “The sergeant told us you reported your daughter missin’, sir.”

The man swallows. “I last saw her in Whitby. On the morning of April twentieth.”

“And you are?”

The man flushes a little now. “Alexander Causton. But I am not usually known by that name.”

Sam and Charles exchange a glance; no policeman likes an alias, and the man senses their disapproval. “It’s not what you assume,” he says quickly. “I have a stage
persona
, that is all. I am the theatrical illusionist Professor de Caus.”

Charles notes that definite article—not
an
illusionist, but
the
illusionist; this man clearly has some reputation, or at the very least pretensions to it, but Charles, for one, has never heard of him.

“And you live in Whitby?” continues Sam.

“I was born there, but I have not lived in this country for many years. I have worked on the Continent. First in Paris, and latterly in Vienna.”

And hence the slight stiffness in his speech, thinks Charles. The stiffness of a man who has not routinely spoken his mother tongue for a very long time.

“So you came back for an ’oliday? Visit the family?”

Causton hesitates. “My daughter has been unwell for some time. I consulted many doctors in Austria, but none was able to help—none could even say what ailed her. I thought a change of air and scenery might be of some benefit.”

He pauses, but his face has darkened now; this is clearly not the whole story, not by a long way.

“There was another reason, wasn’t there, Mr Causton?” presses Charles.

The illusionist looks up at him, and then away. “I had also arranged to meet an eminent scientist, who I discovered would be in England at this time. He assured me he could treat my daughter’s condition, and I was naïve enough—stupid enough—to believe him.”

The bitterness is savagely apparent now.

“And it’s this man you believe abducted your daughter?”

“I was away barely an hour, but when I returned the house was empty and she had gone. He left me a message saying he had taken her to Edinburgh for further treatment. He insisted that we had discussed it, that I had consented to it, but it was a wicked falsehood! I had agreed to nothing of the kind. He sought only to throw me off the scent.”

The man gets up and starts to pace the room. “I was such a fool—such a blind, gullible
fool
! He claimed the therapy he had pioneered required complete darkness—complete silence. That my presence would serve only to threaten its accomplishment—”

Charles’s heart sinks. “You allowed him to be alone with your daughter?”

Causton nods. “You must remember that he was a man of science—a man of
medicine
. And a member of the aristocracy in the country I now consider my home.”

Charles shakes his head. “I fear noble blood is no guarantee of rectitude, or not, at least, in the case of the Baron Von Reisenberg. I have proved that to my own cost.”

Causton stares at him. “I have not uttered his name—how did you—” He stops, and when he speaks again his voice trembles between fear and hope. “So you
know
about him? But in that case you must know where he is—you must know what he’s done with my Lucy—”

Sam holds up a hand. “It’s early days, sir. Let’s just say we do know this man ’as been in London for some weeks, and we ’ave reason to believe your daughter might still be wiv ’im. And if she is, there’s a chance we can find ’er and bring ’er ’ome.”

“I will do anything—God knows what that villain has done to her—”

Charles and Sam are silent; neither is about to reveal what they found in that apartment, or what Charles deduced had happened there.

“One question, Mr Causton,” says Charles. “It is more than seven weeks since your daughter disappeared—what have you been doing in that time?”

“I went first to Edinburgh—I left Whitby that very afternoon, not staying even to pack. I scoured the city looking for them, but there was no trace.”

Charles nods slowly; that would have taken, what—a week, two? Causton looks at him, evidently divining his thought. “After that I returned to Whitby. I consulted the police, but as soon as they heard that my daughter was of age and the Baron unmarried they claimed
they were unable to assist me. But it is unthinkable that she would have left with him of her own accord—
unthinkable
.”

There’s something in his voice that suggests to Charles that Causton is trying to convince himself as much as them. And something in all of this that still doesn’t quite add up.

“So why did you come to London? Why did you think he might have brought your daughter here?”

“I could think of nowhere else—no other plausible alternative. I knew he might easily conceal her in a city of this size, and so I bought a ticket and boarded a train. That was three weeks ago. Ever since then I have been walking the streets for hours every day, looking for any trace of her—starting at every fair-haired girl I glimpse. I have enquired at hotels, I have been to the Home Office, but everywhere I have met with refusal—no-one has been prepared to give me any information whatsoever. And then, this morning, I saw that newspaper.”

Sam glances up from his notebook, and Causton bridles. “I am well aware that that uncivil fellow at the desk thinks me insane, but as soon as I saw that report, I knew—there was no possibility of coincidence. And that is why I refused to leave here. That is why I insisted on seeing someone in authority. Someone like
you
.”

Charles frowns. What “coincidence” can the man mean? All the victims were young women, and one of them, at least, was fair-haired, but surely the resemblance ends there? This Lucy, whatever else she might have been, was no whore.

Causton looks from one to the other. “You do not know of what I speak?”

“No, sir,” says Sam, nonplussed. “Afraid we don’t.”

“No-one has informed you about what happened in Whitby? I should have thought, in the circumstances—”

“Mr Causton,” says Charles, glancing at his pocket-watch, “we have no time to waste. This man already has several hours’ start on us. If you have anything to say that might help us, then say so, and quickly.”

“Very well. Soon after our arrival in England, Lucy was befriended by the daughter of a lawyer in the town. This girl—Miss Holman—suffered from some kind of wasting sickness that left her pale of skin
and weak in limb. I think it was one reason why they were so drawn to each other. But within a few weeks Miss Holman sickened suddenly and died, leaving Lucy inconsolable. I did not discover what took place thereafter until I returned from Edinburgh, but it seems the very morning Lucy disappeared Miss Holman’s father received word that his poor daughter’s grave had been desecrated—her body had been exhumed and the most appalling defacements inflicted on her helpless remains.”

“Jesus Christ,” mutters Sam, under his breath. “Not a bloody novver one.”

Causton nods. “I am afraid so. The heart had been cut from the chest cavity, and the head removed. Days later, they had still not been able to discover it. And so you see, now, why I had to come.”

Sam snaps his notebook shut. “Wait ’ere, would you, Mr Causton?” he says, beckoning to Charles.

Out in the front office the two of them almost collide with a man with heavy eyebrows and strongly chiselled cheekbones, wearing a coat thickly encrusted with braid. Charles recognises him at once: Richard Mayne, one of the two Joint Commissioners of the Metropolitan Police and the man personally responsible for the policing of the Exhibition. No wonder Rowlandson was not to be disturbed. And no wonder, when they are admitted, that the Inspector is in a less-than-affable mood. But as he listens to what they found in the Albany, and what they have since found out, his anger subsides and the policeman in him quickly subvenes.

“We have to go after ’im, sir,” concludes Sam. “This Von Reisenberg—’e already ’as nearly ’alf a day’s start on us.”

“Well, in that case, Wheeler, he’ll have been on the boat-train hours ago, and bound for the Continent long before we can apprehend him.”

“Not necessarily, sir,” says Charles. “The steward at the Albany said he asked about the steamers, but
not
about the trains. If he has a young woman with him, he may not want to run the risk of going by railway. He’ll want privacy—”

“Which means ’e could be going by road,” interrupts Sam. “We could still catch ’im at Folkestone, if we take the boat-train. There’s one that goes on the hour. That gives us forty minutes—we could still catch it.”

Rowlandson sighs. “Very well. What you found in those apartments is enough cause for an arrest. But you wire me from Folkestone before proceeding to the Continent, Wheeler—do I make myself clear? I do
not
want to run the risk of a diplomatic incident, and certainly not with the damn French.”

“Understood, sir.”

“In the meantime I will have a search made of the area about the Albany. We may yet be able to find that child; let us hope what we do
not
find is the headless corpse of the unfortunate Miss Causton. I will also wire to Whitby. But I will be most surprised if the local constabulary can assist us in any meaningful respect. They no doubt dismissed the whole episode as a malicious prank.”

“And O’Riordan, sir?” asks Charles. “What did he have to say?”

Rowlandson’s brow sets. “That scoundrel? He claimed he never spoke to that ‘source’ of his. Says an envelope was left for him at the
Daily News
. No name, no address.”

“And did he show the letter to you?” asks Charles. “Do you have it?”

“No, Maddox, I do not. He
claims
he burned it. Needless to say I have no intention of leaving the matter there, but you will have to leave that aspect of the investigation to me, for I need you to accompany Wheeler here. You have met this Von Reisenberg—you know what he looks like, and how he is likely to behave. Your expenses will be reimbursed, you need have no fear of that.”

Downstairs, Sam sends a constable out onto the street to hail a hansom, and then they return to Causton, who rises from his chair at once at the sight of them.

“We have very little time, Mr Causton,” says Charles, “we will be setting off in a few moments—”

“You go in pursuit of him? Let me come with you—please—”

“I’m afraid that won’t be possible, sir,” says Sam quickly. “But you can rest assured—”

But before he can even finish Causton is upon him, clutching him by the arms, his fingers digging into his flesh. “You don’t understand—you must let me come with you—she is
my daughter
—”

“There’s no need for that, sir,” intervenes Charles, pushing himself between them in some alarm. “You can trust us to do our duty—”

“But don’t you see?” cries Causton, his eyes wild. “Finding her is
my
duty—I must go with you—how else will I—how else—”

And then just as suddenly as his anger flared he has turned away, and they watch as his body is racked with sobs.

Charles goes towards him and places a hand on his shoulder. “Mr Causton, I am not, as you perhaps believe, a police officer. I was once, but now I function in a personal capacity, offering my services as what you might call a ‘private’ detective. If you wish, I can do the same in this case—pursue this man on your behalf and attempt to retrieve your daughter and bring her home. My duty, in that case, would be first and foremost to
you
.”

Causton turns, wiping his eyes. “I would pay anything—sacrifice anything—”

Charles takes his notebook from his pocket, scribbles a few words, and then tears away the sheet. “There is no time now, but if you go to this address my uncle will tell you anything more you require to know. And if you need to communicate with me, you may do so through him. I will send a message to him now to tell him about your case, and I will ensure that he is kept apprised of my whereabouts.”

Causton takes the paper like a rope thrown to a drowning man. He tries to speak but his emotion wells over and he turns away. Charles touches him lightly once more on the shoulder, and then he and Sam are gone.

Within half an hour their hansom is pulling up at London Bridge station; Sam goes for the tickets and Charles makes his way to a platform billowing with gritty smoke and thronged with passengers for the Folkestone train. Businessmen, families, farmers, labourers, clerks; but no-one even remotely resembling the Baron Von Reisenberg.