Mr. Skimpole had spent much of his life trying to be good. Naturally he’d had his lapses and temptations, as a younger man in particular, but nowadays he strove for a pure and virtuous existence, a life of temperance, decency and moderation, free from sybaritism and excess. But he allowed himself a single luxury — once a day, every day, he smoked a cigar. Of course, there was nothing ordinary about his vice; these cigars belonged to an exclusive brand beloved of the connoisseur, imported at great expense from an obscure region of Turkey and sold only to a select few customers through a deliriously overpriced shop in the center of the city.
Skimpole took out his cigar and rubbed it beneath his nose, making a great show of smelling it. He had never entirely understood the necessity of this olfactory ritual but he always did it anyway, going through the motions for the benefit of any cigar experts who might coincidentally be watching. He pushed the thick brown tube gently into his mouth, felt it slide smoothly between his teeth and let out a small sigh of pleasure.
Moon and the Somnambulist sat opposite him at the edge of the bar observing his performance, their expressions pitched somewhere between amusement and distaste.
“Forgive me,” the albino murmured. “A small failing.” He savored the sensation of the smoke as it coiled its way down his throat, the rich, dry scent of it sinking deeper into his body, and he shuddered a little with joy. “The Innocenti problem. My sources suggest that she and her husband left the country two days ago, just after you caused that fracas in her parlor. We think they were bound for New York but I’m rather afraid we’ve lost them.”
“It was not my doing,” Moon said tightly. “She was exposed before I could act.”
Skimpole dabbed self-consciously at the corners of his eyes. “I gather there was some involvement from the Vigilance Committee.”
“Correct.”
“What’s your opinion? Do you think her warnings were real?”
“I ought not to. I should be able to dismiss her as a charlatan and a fraud. But there are questions. The things I saw… The Fly…”
“I consider myself a man open to the improbable,” Skimpole went on. “I don’t see how Bagshaw could have obtained the information she did without some kind of — how shall we say? — some supernatural advantage. Some etheric help.”
“I agree.”
Skimpole snorted. “I should say that the Vigilance Committee have a reputation. I’ve heard it suggested that if they can’t uncover their evidence by conventional means, they’re more than happy to fabricate it. Just last year they planted sheets of muslin on a psychic we believe was capable of producing genuine ectoplasm.”
“The veracity of the woman’s exposure is not in question,” said Moon. “But her warnings… bother me.”
Skimpole shifted uncomfortably in his chair and sucked on what was left of his cigar, teasing out those final precious few drags.
“She told me I was being used,” Moon continued. “Said something about a sleeper. Danger underground. In point of fact, Mr. Skimpole, she told me that you were just a pawn.”
The albino finished the last of his cigar and left the butt to smolder in the ashtray before him. “I know my place.”
“Something worries me.”
“Madame Innocenti?”
“There’s a connection we’re missing.”
“What do you intend to do? You should know that whatever you decide, you have the Directorate’s full support.” He smirked. “We’re not an agency entirely devoid of influence.”
“I need to see Barabbas again. He knows something, I’m sure of it.”
“That can be arranged.” Skimpole rose. “But move fast. We’re running out of time. If Madame Innocenti was right, we’ve only four days before whatever it is happens. Incidentally, you may like to know I’ve authorized the first payment to your account.” At this, he mentioned a remarkably generous sum — even today, all but the most highly rewarded of public servants would not baulk at so substantial a fee. “Naturally, your stay here and all related expenses are being paid for by my department. You may divide the money with your associate as you see fit.”
“Money?” Moon said contemptuously. “You think I’m doing this for money?”
Skimpole stared blankly at him, faintly offended. “No need to be uncivilized about it. If you must, think of the money as a bonus. A gift from a grateful government.”
Moon did not reply.
“Work fast. And keep me informed. I’m watching.” Skimpole gave a formal bow and left the room. The Somnambulist pulled a childish face behind his back.
Moon walked across the room to where a young woman sat alone, a glass of red wine half-drunk before her. The Somnambulist watched, unable to hide his surprise as his friend paused before the lady in question, exchanged some polite words with her, smiled, motioned her to her feet and brought her back across the room. When the stranger drew closer, he realized that he recognized her as Mrs. Erskine, agent of the Vigilance Committee — but made young, stripped of her disguise and dressed in clothes suited to a lady of elegance and youth.
“This is my friend, the Somnambulist,” Moon said, and his pretty companion curtseyed in greeting. Moon grinned. “I don’t believe,” he said, his hand reaching for the lady’s, “that you’ve met my sister.”
Skimpole left the hotel at a brisk, pedantic trot. Already late for an important meeting, he chose not to hail a cab but hurried through the city’s streets, half running along her crowded walkways and thoroughfares, darting in and out of shoals of pedestrians, pushing his way amongst swarms of indigenous urbanites. One might most naturally expect a government employee to head toward Whitehall or Westminster, but Skimpole turned toward the East End, careful at all times to ensure he was not followed, and headed instead for Limehouse and the Directorate.
SISTER
The Somnambulist scrawled hastily on the blackboard, then rubbed out the word and wrote again, even larger, bolder letters:
SISTER
Moon explained. “This is Charlotte.”
Miss Moon smiled as winningly as she was able. “I’m delighted to meet you.”
The Somnambulist frowned. He felt strangely as though he were in the midst of some elaborate practical joke and began to hope that his friend and the stranger would burst out laughing, slap him on the back and thank him for playing along. He sat patiently and waited for the punch line.
“Is he really a mute?” Charlotte asked, rather rudely.
“He’s never spoken to me. Nonetheless, it’s one of my fondest hopes that one day he shall. And I’ve little doubt that when he does he will astonish us all.”
She gave the Somnambulist a cursory glance and seemed unimpressed. “Not as handsome as his predecessor.”
“Believe me,” said Moon, sounding pained, “if you saw him now you would no longer call him that.”
“I suppose not.”
“The Somnambulist is a brilliant illusionist,” said Moon, doing his best not to sound patronizing. “Did you ever see the show?”
“Three times,” Charlotte said lightly. “Once as an old woman, once as a drunken Pole and once as a dwarf. That last was rather a challenge, I admit. It’s not joke taking three feet off your height for hours at a time.” She paused and chewed her lower lip awkwardly. “I’m sorry about what happened to the theatre.”
“Skimpole,” Moon said, as if that explained it all.
“He really doesn’t like you, does he?”
Moon looked away. “You never told me you were affiliated with the Committee.”
“You never told me what happened in Clapham. I had to read about it in the papers.”
“Must have slipped my mind.”
The silence was broken by the familiar tap of chalk on board. The Somnambulist had begun to feel left out.
DRINK
“Capital suggestion,” Moon exclaimed, in an abrupt and unexpected burst of jollity. “Charlotte?”
“Just a small one,” she said doubtfully. “Nothing too strong.”
But Moon was already out of earshot and racing hungrily over to the bar. As he gave his extensive, expensive order, he offered the bartender his sharkiest smile. “Make sure,” he grinned, “that you bill all this to Mr. Skimpole.”
Limehouse, unique amongst the districts of the city, does not belong to England. The curious smells which fill its streets are resolutely foreign in nature, its placards, signs and boardings are thick with hieroglyphics baffling to the uninitiated, and its people, whilst welcoming and well-mannered enough, are nonetheless alien and sallow-skinned to a man. If you’ve ever walked along its frantic, lurid streets, you will doubtless think of the place much as I do — as a piece of some exotic metropolis sliced from the Far East and set down wholesale amongst the boroughs of London, a vision of an impossible England where the Empire has fallen and the Orient is king.
Strange, then, to see Mr. Skimpole walk with such confidence and ease through those selfsame streets — his appearance quite as outre as ever, pince-nez perched upon his nose, his hair and skin bleached graveyard white. One might reasonably assume that he could not be more out of place amongst these multitudinous yellow faces, but they seemed happy to accept him as one of their own and he attracted no open curiosity, no inquisitive stares, no muffled laughter.
Less than half an hour after leaving the hotel, the albino reached his destination, coming to a halt outside a dilapidated butcher’s shop. It was the kind of place which looked as though it had existed for years without customers, its windows cobwebbed and soot-streaked from neglect, filthy with the greasy rime of oil and what appeared to be dried blood. A bird was roasting on a spit in the window, its featherless cadaver turning slowly in the light, browning and crisping for passers-by to gawp at. Skimpole could not be entirely certain what species of fowl it had been in life — a duck, perhaps, or a chicken, or some other, nameless bird unique to the peoples of the East — but as he watched the thing revolve plumply behind the glass he thought unwillingly of Mrs. Puggsley and felt a momentary flicker of guilt. Struggling with his conscience, kicking against the tug of the past, he thrust the image from his mind and stepped inside. As he pushed open the front door a bell rang and a young Chinaman materialized, greeting him with a bow and the words, “a pleasure to see you again, sir.”
“Good day,” Skimpole said imperiously. He had never bothered to learn the name of his host or that of the young man’s father, who had owned and run this place before him. The albino saw no reason to defy tradition at this late stage. Sins of the father and all that.
He strode through the shop. Slabs of meat, salted and of indeterminate origin, hung on hooks behind the counter; something old and sour bubbled and boiled in a pot and the smell of blood was all-pervasive. Skimpole ignored it, too familiar with the place to allow himself to be unsettled by its magic-lantern menace, its storybook smoke and mirrors. “Is he here?” he asked.
“He’s waiting,” the Chinaman said, unfailingly placid and respectful.
Skimpole noticed a fluffy down on the man’s upper lip. “Trying a mustache?” he asked sarcastically.
The Chinaman blushed.
“Good luck,” Skimpole smirked. “Incidentally, is that a chicken in the window?”
The proprietor looked confused.
“Chicken,” Skimpole repeated, becoming irritated at the man’s apparent lack of comprehension. “Chick-en.” Still entertaining the long-standing misapprehension that his host had only the most tenuous grasp of English, the albino did his best to mime the actions of a chicken, flapping his arms like a bird and squawking.
The man did not seem to react, so Skimpole took his leave of him and walked through a door at the back of the shop. Incongruously, there was an elevator behind it. A Chinaman squeezed into a tight red uniform stood inside. He hauled back the metal grille when he saw Skimpole approach. “Morning, sah.”
“Good morning.”
“Noughth Level?”
“Thank you, yes.”
The man operated the controls and, with a nauseating heave, the lift lurched downwards, eventually reaching its destination with a creak and shudder.
“Noughth Level,” the man said in a toneless, mechanical voice.
“Thank you,” Skimpole snapped. “I can see that.” He stepped out into a well-furnished room, smart, modern, dominated by a vast and ostentatious circular table. This, then, was the Directorate.
A bulky, broad-shouldered man strode forward to meet him, four or five Orientals standing deferentially behind him.
“Skimpole!” There was a warmth to his voice which suggested he was pleased to see him, but the albino knew it to be feigned for courtesy’s sake — suspected that it also masked a lifetime of disdain, even loathing.
Without thinking, he deployed a sleek, professional smile. “Dedlock.”
They shook hands. Skimpole’s palm was damp and sticky from his exertions and Dedlock was far from successful in masking his discomfort.
“Forgive me,” Skimpole said, taking off his coat and passing it without a glance to a hovering lackey. “I had business at the hotel.”
“Ah.” Dedlock’s eyes glittered with undisguised inquisitiveness. “Mr. Moon?”
“That’s right,” Skimpole replied stiffly.
“Sit down, old man, and tell me all about it.” His curiosity had dissipated and Dedlock sounded bluff and jolly again, like a retired colonel proposing nothing more vexatious than a post-prandial round of gin rummy.
They sat opposite one another at the round table, Dedlock busying himself rustling a sheaf of official-looking papers, Skimpole reaching for a cigar and lighter only to return them reluctantly to his pocket when he remembered that he had already enjoyed his little piece of luxury for the day.
Dedlock had the meaty look of an ageing rugby player about him, the kind of man (and the albino knew this for a fact) who had excelled at games at school — one of those heroes of the playing field who possessed in spades that particularly English composite of brutishness and impeccable manners. An unsightly scar intersected the space between his nose and left ear, a relic from some long-ago conflict. It was so vividly colored and Dedlock took such perverse pleasure in displaying it that Skimpole had long suspected him of exaggerating its ferocity with greasepaint and make-up — a touch of vanity far from uncharacteristic of the man.
“Drink?” the scarred man asked.
Skimpole hauled out his pocket watch. “It’s a little early,” he said, in a voice which clearly indicated his willingness to be persuaded.
“This may take some time. Why not indulge yourself for once?”
The albino acquiesced. “Very well.”
Dedlock snapped his fingers and one of the Chinamen stepped forward. Dressed as a butcher, his face was a strikingly lurid shade of yellow, his hair styled into glossy black pigtails and he had tied about his waist a filthy apron spattered with gristle and blood. The man bent close to Dedlock and whispered obsequiously: “Yes, sah? How may I help?” Unlike the proprietor, he had a strong, all but unintelligible accent, speaking his halting, uncertain English as though he were saying each word for the first time.
“A whisky for me,” Dedlock said. “You know the way I like it.”
“Whis-kee?” the Chinaman repeated doubtfully.
Dedlock leant across the table toward Skimpole. “You?”
Thinking it unwise to commit himself to any more complicated order, the albino asked for the same.
The Oriental screwed up his face perplexedly. “Same?”
“That’s right.”
“Velly good, sah.” The Chinaman scurried away, but Dedlock stopped him before he reached the door. “Now, now, what do we ask?” he chided, as though he were addressing a small child still being trained in the niceties of the adult world.
The man looked horribly confused before understanding flooded across his face. He giggled. “Yes, yes. Mistah Simpole want ice? Ice?”
The albino was transparently amused. “No ice, thank you.”
“Incidentally,” Dedlock said, before the man could disappear, “I think we can dispense with the accent, don’t you?” Mr. Skimpole’s not likely to be impressed.”
Embarrassed, the Chinaman stood up straight, cleared his throat and spoke at once in an English accent so plummy and rich that it could only have emerged from one of our most prestigious public schools. “Terribly sorry, sir,” he said briskly. “Had no idea. Thought I was doing rather well, as it happens.”
Skimpole sniffed disparagingly. “I’m sure you could afford to be a little less theatrical,” Mr….?”
“Benjamin Mackenzie-Cooper, sir.”
“Well, then, Mackenzie-Cooper, at present, your delivery’s pure music hall. It’s corn, frankly, and silly with it. And your make-up… florid and overstated.” The man looked disappointed and Skimpole softened. “Still. It’s a promising start.”
Mackenzie-Cooper thanked him and left the room.
“New man?” Skimpole asked.
Dedlock nodded. “Eton and Oxford. Just come down from Oriel. Promising, don’t you think?”
“Oh, I think so,” Skimpole said (though of course he didn’t).
Dedlock adopted a curt, businesslike tone. “What news of Moon?”
“He’s proving a little recalcitrant. You know he and I have… history?”
“You have history with us all.”
Skimpole bristled.
“I gather the Bagshaw woman’s left the country. Dear, dear, poor Lister will be disappointed.”
“She knew something,” Skimpole protested. “One of our best leads and we’ve lost her.”
“Another mess, then?” Dedlock tutted. “I’ve warned you before about your obsession with Moon.”
“Edward Moon was not the man who exposed her. We believe it was a member of the Vigilance Committee. You know yourself they’ve shown no compunction about framing psychics in the past.”
“This committee member — do we have a name?”
“As I understand it, the woman was in disguise. I’ve no direct evidence but I believe her to be an associate of Moon’s — possibly more.”
“A friend?”
“Perhaps.”
Mackenzie-Cooper returned with their drinks, set them discreetly down upon the table and vanished. Skimpole took a demure sip of his whisky; Dedlock swallowed half of his in the first gulp. It was the albino who spoke first.
“Moon seems to have struck up a friendship with a man called Thomas Cribb.”
“Can’t place him. Is he affiliated?”
“He appears to be an independent. I suspect their association’s rather set the cat amongst the pigeons with the Somnambulist.”
Dedlock grinned. “Oh yes? Has he spoken yet?”
The albino shook his head and Dedlock brayed a laugh — a callous sound, devoid of any genuine mirth.
“And you?” Skimpole broached the subject carefully. “Any movement?”
“The Okhrana have been busy,” Dedlock said flatly, as though he were describing nothing more thrilling than team tactics to his favorite center forward. “They’ve been getting reckless of late. Something’s got their agents excited. We suspect they’ve got wind of the conspiracy. Perhaps they have access to an Innocenti of their own.”
Skimpole drummed his fingers thoughtfully on the table. “Agents?” he said. “By which I take you to mean anarchists?”
“Oh, I do hope not. I’ve had enough of men making a nuisance of themselves up on the Embankment to last me a lifetime. I had to scrape the last one off the pavement myself. Little bits of him got stuck between the cobbles. Besides, it isn’t who they send we need to worry about.”
“No?”
“We know who they are. We can track their movements as soon as they enter the city. Our biggest problems are the sleepers.”
“Sleepers?”
“The Russians have seeded agents in this country, dormant for many years. I do wish you’d read the files.”
Skimpole ignored the rebuke. “Do the Okhrana know of our involvement?”
Dedlock looked away. “It seems likely.”
“How did that happen?”
Dedlock muttered something about a mistake.
“Then we may be in trouble.”
“I know,” he replied, and there was a moment’s bleak silence. A heartbeat later, Dedlock continued cheerfully, as though nothing had been said at all. “Incidentally, the Bagshaw woman — did Moon the anything out of her before the end?”
“Just a few words, though I’m sure he doesn’t understand their worth. She talked about the plot, told Moon he was being used — as if he didn’t know that already.”
Dedlock began to clear away his papers. “Anything more?”
Skimpole took another sip of his whisky, a larger one this time, and felt a giddy, honeyed surge of pleasure at the taste of it. “She said we have ten days. We have four of them left.”
Dedlock grimaced.
“Something else…”
“What?”
“Danger,” he said. “Danger underground.”
Trying his best to ignore the frenzied recitation echoing down the corridor, Meyrick Owsley tapped on the door of a killer’s cell, as politely and discreetly as a delivery boy calling at some fine country house, bearing a telegram, perhaps, a wedding gift or an expensive bouquet. Barabbas’s voice drifted from inside, ravaged and diseased, riddled with immorality. “Meyrick?”
Owsley’s face was blank and expressionless, a tragedian’s mask. “I’m here, sir.”
“Am I forgiven?”
“Quite forgiven, sir.”
A pause, a snuffling noise, then: “Thank Christ.” Owsley heard what might have been a sob. “It was just a spat, wasn’t it? Just a nonsense?”
“That’s right, sir. A spat, sir. It meant nothing.”
A grateful sigh. “Good.”
“Sir?”
No reply (although his neighbor had begun again his favorite psalm).
“You have visitors.”
A sudden stirring, a pacing, a shuffling sound, then Barabbas appeared at the tiny aperture of the cell, his bloated, toad-like face segmented by its bars. “Edward?” His breath was fetid and rank.
“He’s here with me,” Owsley said calmly. “He wants to speak to you. Stand back, sir. I’m letting him through.”
On hearing the iron rattle of keys, the mocking creak of the door, Barabbas fell to the floor and cowered in a corner of his tiny world. Somebody stepped inside, the door clanged shut and when the prisoner looked up he saw that not one but two figures stood before him in the gloom.
“Edward?” he murmured again.
“I’m here.” The voice was strong, compassionate, but with a hint of unworthy pleasure at seeing him reduced to such a condition.
“Edward? Who is this?”
Moon stepped forward. “You remember my sister?”
“Charlotte?” he breathed. “My but you’ve changed. When we last met you were still a girl. Barely out of school. But you’re a woman now.”
Charlotte stared at him, fascinated, repulsed.
“Please forgive the mess,” the prisoner said, slouching back against the wall. “Try to ignore the smell. I had no idea you were coming.”
“What have you done to yourself?” Charlotte asked, curiosity winning out over disgust.
“You’ve grown, haven’t you?” said Barabbas, ignoring the question. “Swollen in all the right places. Ripened and budded.” His tongue darted lasciviously in and out of his mouth and he winked. “You feel safe with me, don’t you?”
With admirable self-restraint, Charlotte replied, “I feel sorry for you.”
“Barabbas,” Moon began, then stopped himself, exasperated. “Do I have to call you that? Charlotte — she… We knew you by another name.”
“Like poor Edgar’s, my name is lost.”
Moon sighed, reached into his pocket and pulled out a small padded box. “I brought you something.”
“A bribe,” Barabbas muttered sulkily.
“A gift,” Moon said firmly. “Here,” and he held out the box. “Take it.”
The killer shuffled his behemoth frame across the floor, grabbed at the box and tore it open. “A tiepin?” he said once he’d examined its contents. “For me?”
“It was very dear. Gold-plated. Thought you’d like it.”
“You were right.” Barabbas stared avariciously at the thing. “Oh yes, you were quite right. You’ll have to excuse me whilst I put it with my collection.” He slithered back across the room and added the gift to his stash of precious things. “Thank you,” he said, then added: “I shall wear it the day I die.”
“They may not let you. They have strict rules here about that sort of thing.”
“I’m sure Meyrick can make the necessary arrangements. He’s awfully good at organizing these things.”
“I’ve been meaning to ask — how did you and Owsley meet?”
“He came to me, sought me out, to offer his services — said he’d been transformed by what I’d done. He’s — dare I say it? — an admirer of mine.” Barabbas glanced suspiciously at his guests. “Surely you’re not jealous?”
“I wouldn’t trust a man like that.”
“You trusted me,” Barabbas snapped. “Now what do you want?”
“We need to talk.”
A sneer stretched itself across his suety face. “I knew you’d come back.”
“You spoke of a plot against the city, of a guiding hand behind the murders. You knew about the fire at the theatre.”
“You want to ask me how I came to know such things?”
“If it’s no trouble,” Moon said lightly.
“Magic,” Barabbas replied, and laughed.
Moon tried not to rise to the bait. “When was the last time you saw the albino?”
Loathing clouded the prisoner’s face. “Not for an age. You still blame him?”
“I blame him for your corruption, yes.”
Barabbas sounded thoughtful, like a dictionary editor searching for the perfect, the Platonic, definition of a word. “I don’t think ‘corruption’ is right. He bored me by the end. But I had been introduced to a new world — one above morality, where all experience and sensation were mine for the taking. I drank deep, explored the outer reaches of transgression. The only truly sinful act left to me was murder. What I did in that room in Cleveland Street, Edward, it was the high-water mark of my existence — nothing before or since has measured up. It was the death of my old self, the birth of Barabbas.”
“That’s history,” Moon insisted. “I came to talk about the future.”
“You may have a future. I do not. Nonetheless I have some small compensation.”
“What?”
Barabbas whispered: “In the end I was glad it was you who caught me.”
Moon sighed. “You were a worthy opponent. The last worthy opponent. Ever since, I’ve been beset by minnows. Unpersuasive confidence men, murderers who can’t shoot straight, would-be bank robbers who burrow into sewers.”
Barabbas grinned. “I heard about him.”
“I wish I could remember his name,” Moons said, allowing himself to become distracted. “I don’t suppose you…?”
Barabbas gave a desultory inclination of his head. “You saw Mrs. Bagshaw?”
“You knew?”
“Of course.”
“She’s a fraud,” Charlotte said sternly.
“Ah, but then you would say that, as a loyal devotee of the Vigilance Committee. I’d expect nothing less. I must say, Edward, that you ignore the Madame’s warnings at your peril.”
“What aren’t you telling me?”
“It’s close now,” the killer said quietly. “Four days. The disappearances start soon.”
“You know, don’t you?” Moon sounded as though he hadn’t quite believed it before. “You really know what’s going on?”
Barabbas laughed. “Lean closer,” he said, and Moon scrambled across to where he lay. The fat man spoke quickly. “Naturally, I was approached. They needed someone like me. P’raps I should be flattered. They’ve great plans for us all, Edward. They’re engineers. They want to change the world.”
He was interrupted by the ostentatious rattle of a key in the lock. The door swung open and Owsley appeared at the mouth of the cell. “Time’s up. Visiting hours are over.”
“Visiting hours?” Barabbas protested.
Owsley ignored his master and favored Moon with a glacial stare. “You have to go.”
“I’m not finished.”
“Leave at once or I shall alert the prison authorities.”
Quickly, Barabbas rummaged around in his stash of beauty for a few moments and pulled out a slim book. “You brought me a present,” he said, at which Owsley shot Moon a look of barely controlled fury. “I’d like you to take this in return.”
Moon was surprised. “What is it?”
“The Lyrical Ballads by Samuel Taylor Coleridge and William Wordsworth.” He sounded like a provincial schoolmaster introducing the poetry of the last century to a class wary and suspicious of verse. “It’s been my most constant companion here. A beacon in this abyss. It opened my eyes, Edward. As I hope it will open yours.”
“Thank you.”
“Edward?” Barabbas tapped the book’s cover. “Ask him. Ask the poet.”
“Poet?” Moon snapped. “What poet?”
Barabbas giggled, then pointed toward one of the names on the front of his book, chuckling to himself as if this were the punch line to a joke of which only he knew the beginning.
“Coleridge?” Moon snapped. “Why should I be interested in Coleridge? The man’s been dead for sixty years.”
This time Barabbas’s smile was positively demonic. “Oh, Edward,” he cooed. “You have so much to look forward to.”
With that, he lurched toward Charlotte and planted a slobbering kiss on her cheek. She writhed away in disgust and the prisoner transferred his attentions to the conjuror, who did not pull away but allowed the captive to kiss him on that secret, intimate space behind the ear just between flesh and hair. The killer whispered something, and for a moment both men seemed unutterably distraught, their sorrow lacerating, acute, grief beyond words. Charlotte even found herself wondering whether they might not be about to fall into one another’s arms.
It was Owsley, of course, who broke the spell. “You have to go,” he insisted. Later, Edward was to remark that the man had sounded almost scared.
Barabbas wailed in anguish at their departure but the Moons filed out in sober silence.
Once the door was safely locked behind them and the monster returned to the blackness of his cell, Owsley, sounding smug and not a little officious, said: “Thank you for your cooperation. I trust you shan’t be troubling us again.”
Edward Moon began to complain but Owsley strode away, the plait of hair dangling limply at the rear of his egg-bald scalp flapping absurdly as he walked.
Charlotte and her brother were relieved to leave Newgate behind them and start back toward the hotel. They walked for some time before either of them spoke.
“He wasn’t how you expected?” the brother asked.
“I knew he’d changed. I know what he did. I thought I’d see something evil. But I felt sorry for him. And you? Have you forgiven him?”
“There’s nothing to forgive,” Moon replied tonelessly.
“You were friends.”
“It’s not him I blame.”
“He has to bear some responsibility.”
No reply.
“I’m sorry,” Charlotte said. “Crass of me.”
Still nothing.
“Have you… have you tried appealing to his better nature? Called him by his old name?”
“You heard what he said.”
“Seems Skimpole’s washed his hands of him.”
“Of course. He can’t be seen to be responsible for aberrations like that.”
“Do you think he knows something?”
“I’m sure of it.”
“What was the significance of the book? Seemed a pretty rum sort of gift.”
“I think he’s given us a clue. Where it will lead, I’m not sure.”
“May I see?”
Moon passed her the book and Charlotte flicked it open. “There’s an inscription,” she said. “ ‘To my dear Gillman, with profound gratitude and love.’ It’s signed ‘STC’.”
“Good grief,” murmured Moon. “Must be his own copy. Worth a small fortune.”
“What does that mean? Why’s he given it to you?”
“If only Owsley hadn’t interrupted. I’m sure he was about to tell us something significant. He said he was approached. Mentioned disappearances. ‘Ask the poet,’ he said… Why doesn’t any of this make sense?”
“Edward,” Charlotte said ruefully, “if you can’t make sense of it, I’m not sure anyone can.”
“I’m glad you’ve come back,” Moon said, then added tentatively: “Will you stay?”
“You know I can’t.”
Before he could reply they reached the hotel where an old friend stood waiting.
“Mr. Moon!”
The conjuror managed a polite smile. He gestured toward the uninvited guest. “Charlotte. This is Speight. A friend from the theatre. A former tenant, you might say.”
“Pleased to meet you.”
The tramp blinked and tried a bleary bow. “Pleasure’s all mine.” He took Charlotte’s hand, kissed it, and the lady, unlike in her encounter with the Fiend of Newgate, had the good graces not to flinch.
She noticed a heavy wooden placard propped up raggedly beside him.
SURELY I AM COMING SOON
REVELATION 22:20
“What brings you here?” Moon asked, as politely as he was able, discreetly reaching for his wallet.
“I came to thank you,” Speight interrupted. “There’s not many men as would have tolerated me the way you did.”
Moon looked surprised. “It was my pleasure.”
“I’m going away now.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I’m needed. The suits have come for me.”
“You mean you’ve found a home? Someone who’ll take care of you?”
Speight thought for a moment. “Yes,” he said, sounding surprised at his own answer. “S’pose I have.”
“Well, it’s been good seeing you again…” Moon began and made for the entrance of the hotel.
“I’ve come to give you this.” Speight reached for the board and thrust it toward him. “Here. It’s yours.”
“What?” Moon asked, but it was too late. Speight had pushed the placard into his hands and walked away.
“Thank you,” he shouted again. “Thank you!”
Moon shook his head in bemusement. “What the devil will I do with this?”
“I like your friends,” Charlotte said playfully as they walked inside. “They’re… unusual.”
They went directly to Moon’s suite where Mrs. Grossmith was waiting for them, her gangly beau by her side.
“There’s a visitor here to see you,” she said. “He’s been waiting for almost an hour.”
“I’ve just seen him,” Moon said briskly. “Mr. Speight, yes?”
Mrs. Grossmith sniffed. “I wouldn’t let that one in if he tried. No, this is quite another class of gentleman. The inspector.”
Moon turned to his sister. “What were you saying about my friends?” he asked, and, as if on cue, Merryweather barreled into the room, accompanied by peals of laughter, the kind one usually hears only upon feeding pennies into seaside mannequins. The Somnambulist strolled beside him; both men had half-empty glasses of milk in their hands.
“Well, well,” the inspector said, once the handshakes and introductions were over, “this is an improvement on your old lodgings and no mistake.”
“I loathe it,” Moon said evenly.
“What’s that sign you’re carrying? Looks familiar.”
“I doubt it’s important.” Moon propped the placard up beside the door. “So, is this purely a social call?”
“No such luck,” the inspector said ruefully. “You remember the Honeyman case?”
“Of course.”
“Seems I owe you an apology. You were right, Mr. Moon, and I was wrong. It’s not quite as finished as I’d thought.”
Moon was suddenly alert. “What’s happened?”
“The boy’s mother…”
“Tell me.”
Merryweather cleared his throat. “It’s Mrs. Honeyman,” he said. “She’s disappeared.”