Wild Boy and the Black Terror (27 page)

“I understand this is a delicate matter,” the jeweller said, in an appropriately delicate tone. “But please tell me, is this diamond Oberstein’s work? I cannot imagine anyone else cutting a stone with such skill.”

Wild Boy glanced at Lucien, who shook his head so firmly that his jowls wobbled. No one could know anything about that stone.

“Thank you,” Wild Boy said to the jeweller. “Thank you for doing this.”

The jeweller handed the tiara to one of the Gentlemen, and was led away.

Twenty minutes.

Wild Boy followed the Gentleman carrying the tiara, out of the ballroom, through the gallery and then up the Grand Staircase. The corridor on the first floor was as extravagant as the rooms below, with golden stucco squares on white wallpaper, like frames without paintings.

Two Gentlemen guarding a door snapped to attention. “Password,” one of them demanded.

The Gentleman with the tiara said, “Clarissa.”

The door was unlocked and one of the maids accepted the jewelled headpiece. Beyond her, Wild Boy glimpsed the Queen at a dresser, considering her own reflection in the mirror. A sad, lost look filled her eyes, which had sunken even deeper into her face. Was she was thinking about Marcus?

The Queen spotted Wild Boy in the looking glass, and her face changed in a way that only he would notice. Just a slight narrowing of her eyes and purse of her lips, but its meaning was clear.

Catch the killer or you are finished
.

The door closed and the lock turned. Wild Boy should have been reassured. The Queen was guarded in a room with no windows. But minute by minute his confidence was crumbling.

The plan was for the Queen to emerge at ten o’clock and descend to the ballroom to greet her guests. That gave the Gentlemen an hour to find the killer. If they failed, Her Majesty would appear in her tiara, presenting the killer with a target and the Gentlemen with their best chance of catching him. But Wild Boy knew that Lucien would never place the Queen in such danger. He wouldn’t even give her a choice. If they hadn’t caught the killer by ten o’clock, she would remain right there, in her room.

That meant they had one hour – and only one hour – to find the killer.

Downstairs, a rush of panic swept around the ballroom as the Gentlemen made their final preparations for the guests’ arrival. Some donned their disguises: the white coats and gloves of royal servants. Others rechecked windows and lights. They had turned the ballroom into a mini-fortress. If everything went as planned, the killer would
have
to enter the same way as the guests. Surely he would be seen.

But still, Wild Boy couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d missed something.

His heart sank deeper as the artist presented his sketches, unveiling them as if they were paintings at the Royal Academy. Neither ink drawing caught the likenesses of Dr Carew or Gideon. Hoping they might still help, Wild Boy asked one of the Gentlemen to show them around.

The Gentleman stared at the drawings. “What are these for?” he asked.

“To help spot the suspects.”

“I am not sure these will help.”

“Have you got a better idea?” Wild Boy snapped.

The man stepped back, his face turning as red as the ballroom walls. “No, I mean… You
have
seen the invitation to the ball, haven’t you?”

Wild Boy hadn’t thought to ask. “Why?”

The man brought a slip of card from his pocket and offered it with a shaky hand. “I thought you were aware,” he said.

Wild Boy didn’t want to take it. But he
had
to look.

The card slipped from Wild Boy’s hand. His legs felt so weak that he gripped the wall for support. Why hadn’t he known about this? Why hadn’t he asked?

“It’s a
masked
ball?” he said.

29

T
he ballroom walls swirled. The golden griffins darkened. Their wings spread and claws stretched as they changed into monstrous crows.

Wild Boy rubbed his eyes, and the room returned to normal. He stared at the invitation on the floor. He’d thought he was ready, thought he’d covered all the angles. But he’d overlooked the most important factor of the evening. How was he going to spot the killer at a masked ball?

The stitches in his head began to throb again. His breathing grew faster. He needed to escape this place, to get some air. He barged past several Gentlemen and rushed along the gallery and back to the palace entrance.

Outside, the snow fell harder, hissing against the forecourt lamps. Wild Boy stepped from under the porch and in seconds his hair was covered in a thin layer of white. His teeth chattered from the cold, but he didn’t care. He was glad to feel something other than painful guilt and heavy responsibility.

He was in charge of this case – in charge of the Gentlemen – and yet he had never felt so alone. He tried to remember Marcus’s advice, but this time the words didn’t come.

“The snow is turning black,” a voice said.

Lucien sheltered under the porch, smoking a cigar.

They stood in silence, watching the snow settle around the forecourt. Clusters of polluted flakes were swept by the wind, like flocks of starlings swirling among the white. Through the blizzard, a carriage light came closer.

“The first guests,” Lucien said. “Are you ready?”

Wild Boy didn’t feel ready, didn’t feel anything other than panic. It was as if the cold had got through his skin, turning his insides to ice. “What if the killer doesn’t come?” he said.

“He will.”

“How can you know?”

“Me? Training, instinct. Thirty years of it. For you it is just natural. This is what you do best.”

Lucien tossed his cigar, a fiery arc that hit the snow and fizzled out. “There is something you should see.”

Wild Boy didn’t want to go. Whatever Lucien wanted to show him, he was certain it was another problem. But then he saw something he’d never seen before. Lucien smiled. It looked unnatural, a little forced, but it was definitely a smile.

“You should come,” Lucien said.

Instead of turning towards the ballroom, Lucien led him in the other direction, along a corridor lined with marble statues of Greek gods. He banged on a door at the end.

A moment passed. The door opened.

It was another lavishly decorated chamber, with green satin drapes on the walls. A fire blazed in the hearth, and the windows were steamy rather than frosty. The blast of warmth disorientated Wild Boy so that at first he didn’t recognize what he saw.

There were three men. Two were physicians, with leather bags and medical equipment on a table. The third man lay on a chaise longue beside the fire.

“Marcus!” Wild Boy said.

He rushed to his guardian and crouched by his side. In the firelight, Marcus’s face was as pale and waxy as a corpse, aside from the black veins that bulged from his skin. Some of the bloodlines had branched into smaller veins, and branched again. The darkness was spreading.

Wild Boy took his hand. He could feel Marcus’s pulse going triple speed. He wished more than ever that Clarissa were here. She would want to see him.

“Her Majesty insisted he was brought here rather than a hospital,” Lucien explained. “These physicians are the finest in the world.”

Wild Boy looked at the two men hopefully, but he knew they had no way of curing Marcus. Only the killer had the cure.

“His condition has deteriorated,” one of the physicians said. “His heart is struggling to take the strain of the horrors he is experiencing.”

“Lucien has explained your situation,” the other doctor said. “You hope to catch the killer, to get the cure. But you do not necessarily
need
the cure, you realize?”

The physician took an instrument from his bag, a steel plunger and glass vial. A bronze needle jutted from the top, capped with a cork. “Do you know what this is?”

“A syringe?” Wild Boy said.

“Precisely. You said the killer had already taken a cure, which was how he survived in Lady Bentick’s dining room. That means the cure is still in his blood. If you can catch him, all we need is a sample of that blood – take it from his neck. From that, we can develop a cure of our own.”

Wild Boy could hardly believe this. It felt like fire rising inside him. “You could do that? In time to…”

He was unable to finish the sentence, but the doctors understood.
In time to save Marcus
.

“We hope so,” one of them replied. “That is as much as we can say. More importantly, we would have a cure in case this madman succeeds in spreading his poison over the city.”

It was enough for Wild Boy. Hope. Fresh hope. He squeezed Marcus’s hand tighter, making a silent promise. One way or the other he would catch the killer tonight.

Lucien rubbed steam from the window. Outside, a carriage rode through the marble arch and into the forecourt of Buckingham Palace. The ball was about to begin.

“There is one more problem,” Lucien said. He turned to Wild Boy. “Our plan relies on you detecting the killer, which means you must be there among the ball. So what the Devil are you going to wear?”

30