Avery & Blake 02 - The Infidel Stain (21 page)

I could hardly say no, though my old wound made the act of kneeling somewhat painful. Threlfall went down on his knees too. I reflected that he must have to do this several times a day and felt almost sorry for him. Blake remained seated and looked pointedly out of the window.

His Lordship clasped his hands together and shut his eyes tightly.

‘Lord, show us a way out of the darkness. Give us light in the darkest places. Deliver us from our sins and our fears.’ He stopped. I waited. I was wretchedly grateful when he at last said, ‘Amen.’

‘You know,’ Lord Allington said softly, ‘from time to time I attend public hangings. They are horrible affairs. I hate them, everything about them, but I feel an obligation to attend. The crowds crow with pleasure. I look at those about to die and I think how terrible it must be to be so lost from God. I think of Christ at the end bearing the derision of the crowd – I know it is almost a sin to think of the two in the same breath, but I find myself praying that somewhere in themselves the condemned can find a way to ask the Father for some tiny drop of forgiveness. I long for it, I look for it. Their remorse. God’s mercy. But I fear their souls are irredeemably damned. Then I find myself having to examine my own conscience, asking myself, do I go for impure reasons? Is my conscience in some way falsely salved by the apparent contrast of my piety with their evil?’

He seemed to drift off into some reverie of his own. Then, ‘What do you say, Mr Blake, who believes in nothing?’ His voice was bitter.

‘I cannot answer for you, Your Lordship,’ Blake said.

‘What can you know of the scrutiny and agony of the soul?’ said Lord Allington.

There was another silence. Mr Threlfall looked around anxiously for some way out, but inspiration evaded him.

‘I think it best if we depart, Mr Threlfall,’ I said. ‘If we are needed His Lordship can send a message to the Oriental, or to Mr Blake’s premises. You have his card.’

In the hallway Lady Agnes waylaid Blake. Without preamble she took hold of his hand and pressed a paper into his palm. ‘Even the most determined impenitent may be saved,’ she said, staring into his eyes. He took it, looking back at her, and shook his head.

The blowy chill of Charles Street was a relief. Blake briefly inspected the religious tract Lady Agnes had given him – for that was what it
was – and dropped it into the gutter. I, meanwhile, tried to exorcize that last troubling image of Lord Allington.

‘Was Woundy truly your main suspect? I thought you doubted O’Toole. And what of Daniel Wedderburn? Should you not have mentioned his animus against his father to the police?’

‘I cannot give names to the coppers until I am sure,’ said Blake.

‘But what if it were Daniel and he were to kill again?’ I persisted.

‘It is still just a supposition; we have no proof.’

I plunged my hands into my pockets. At the bottom of one I found a twist of paper. It was the scrap that Matty Horner had given me the day before. I unfolded it. The black script was cramped but perfectly legible: ‘The LORD bless thee, and keep thee; the LORD make his face shine upon thee, and be gracious unto thee; the LORD lift up his countenance upon thee, and give thee peace.’

I handed it to Blake. He glanced at it, then pulled something from his own pockets.

‘What’s this?’ he said, and handed me a bunch of leafless twigs.

‘Where are they from?’

‘They were laid about the press and round Woundy’s body. Do you know the tree?’

I had not noticed them at all. I rolled the twigs about in my hands. The bark was a creamy grey and knobbly to the touch. It was too early for buds, so I peeled back the bark and scratched into the soft pith underneath.

‘I should say it was elder.’

He thought for a moment. ‘Are there not stories about elder? Country stories?’

‘When I was a child I was told the fairies made flutes from it, and it is good luck to have one by the doorway, it wards off the devil.’

‘Anything else? A Bible story perhaps?’

‘Not that I can recall.’ I held out the twigs to him and he slipped them back into his pocket. We walked on in silence to Berkeley Square, I dreading Blake’s verdict on Allington and at the same time impatient for it. It was not forthcoming. ‘On the matter of elder,’ I said at last, ‘it occurs to me that my nurse used to say Judas hanged
himself on an elder tree. Why did you not mention the twigs – and the other details – to His Lordship?’

‘I told you, I am not ready to say everything that’s in my head. I need to have more than suspicions. Clients often lose heart if the facts become too complicated or unpleasant. Given Lord Allington’s mood, I would rather keep things simple.’

I had to admit this was not unwise counsel.

‘Where are we going now?’

‘To find Woundy’s tailshop, 26 Charlotte Street.’

‘Miss Tess Thrashington? Do you think that wise?’

Blake spat into the gutter, somehow managing to imbue his expectoration with disdain. ‘And I thought India had all but stamped the prudishness out of you.’

‘What will His Lordship say?’

‘Does His Lordship have any notions of who might have murdered Eldred Woundy? And can you suggest another place likely to yield the kind of secrets that might get a man killed?’

‘No,’ I answered sheepishly. ‘Are we certain it truly belonged to Woundy?’

‘His publications advertised it. And if he did have an interest in it, better we get there before they’ve had time to scarper or come up with a story.’

He set off, his limping gait reminding me of my own uneven deportment. We hobbled together past the elegant curve of Regent’s Street’s fine shops, then along the congested cacophony of Oxford Street – my head ringing, my senses once again overwhelmed. At the end of that busy thoroughfare, the road divided into a dozen dark and smelly alleys yielding glimpses of a grimmer, more dangerous London, the famous St Giles Rookery. We turned left, skirting around it, threading our way up through a web of quieter lanes until we arrived at Charlotte Street, a comfortable-enough enclave of plain-fronted brick houses dating from the last century, with a coffee house on a corner. Number 26 did not draw attention to itself. A set of railings ran close to the yellow-brown brick, a pair of steps setting it back from the road. The windows were heavily curtained and hung with thick lace, the front door was painted black
and there was a discreet brass plaque with the legend ‘26’ upon it. Blake gave a double rap on the lion-faced knocker. When there was no response he rapped again more loudly. A large, well-turned-out doorman stuck his head round the door.

‘Be off with you,’ he said combatively.

‘We need to come in.’ Blake was insistent.

‘By appointment and introduction only.’

‘We’ve information for Madam. She needs to hear it. It concerns her partner. We’ve been sent. It’s urgent and if you don’t let us in she’s sure to be angry. All kinds of consequences.’

The doorman hesitated.

‘Your funeral,’ said Blake.

‘I’ll ask her. Round the back. Five knocks.’

The back of 26 Charlotte Street was not nearly as salubrious as the front. We rapped our five raps and the footman put his head round the door with a gruff, ‘Who sent you?’

Blake told him Eldred Woundy. He denied having heard the name. Blake told him he should ask Madam. The door was shut, then after a few minutes he appeared again and told us to follow. The servants’ quarters were as dingy as one might have expected, but when we crossed into a long hall the furnishings became luxurious and fashionable: polished floors, thick rugs, shining brass door handles, damask wallpapers. From beyond one door came a series of alarming cries. From another two pretty young women emerged in almost translucent peignoirs. They gave us a bored look and took to the stairs. Blake was all set to follow them when a woman in a midnight-blue silk dress appeared in the hall.

‘Not there. In here,’ she said shortly, pointing a finger at us and then redirecting it sharply towards a door on our left. ‘For all I know you’re some cheap journalist looking for a tall tale. If that’s it, then it’ll be the worse for you.’ And she disappeared.

We followed her in. It was a charming room. There was a lively fire in the grate, pretty sprigged wallpaper, a yellow settle upon which she sat, two small tables covered in fine lace cloths, two wooden chairs and a daybed upholstered in velvet. She picked up a box from one of the tables and took from it a cigar which she
proceeded to light with a phosphorous match. I had never seen a woman smoke.

‘I know you,’ she said, pointing at Blake as she took a long draw. At first sight she might have seemed a prime example of respectable matronhood. Her dress was of the best embroidered silk, and around the neck was pinned a piece of very fine lace. Its artful arrangement, however, only drew attention to the large expanse of generous bosom displayed beneath. Her face was heavily powdered and rouged, and her lips were painted.

‘You might,’ said Blake. ‘I’ve been around.’

‘I mean, one of my gentlemen had need of you.’

‘It’s possible, Miss …’

‘You can call me the Governess.’ She exhaled and smiled, the red curve of her lips looking almost devilish. ‘Now, what do you fancy, a light birching?’ She called out and a statuesque girl with shining black skin and a short fuzz of black hair, dressed only in a petticoat, came in. ‘Ebony Kate can do something in the flogging line for your pretty young friend.’ Her eyes flickered over me and I prayed to God I was not blushing. ‘If you have the money, I can have you whipped, fustigated, scourged, needle-pricked, half hanged, furze-brushed, stinging-nettled, curry-combed, phlebotomized and tortured to your heart’s delight. Or perhaps you’d like to see the thrashing machine?’

‘Oh no, madam, we are not here for that,’ I protested.

‘Really? Never tried it, I’ll bet. It’s remarkable what deep desires are dredged up if you are willing to dig deep enough. But if you’d rather,’ she yawned, ‘we can provide something more in the milk-and-water line.’

Blake shook his head. He said he had news to trade for the answer to a question, and warned she would not like the news, though she would be glad to know it. At once her amusement was extinguished. She dismissed the girl and became stony.

‘Don’t bargain with me, mister,’ she said.

‘You should know that Eldred Woundy—’ he began.

‘Never heard of him,’ she said.

‘… is dead. Captain Avery here and I found his body early this
morning. On his press. He had been murdered. It will be everywhere by tomorrow.’

She sat quite still and struggled to show nothing, but she took a great breath and with her fingers she squeezed her cigar in half. The two pieces fell on to the carpet where the lit end smouldered until I stamped upon it.

‘Why would you come to me with this?’ she said, her jaw clenched.

Blake said that we were looking into the murders of two of Woundy’s printing associates and that Renton O’Toole had been telling anyone who would listen of Woundy’s association with the place.

‘Renton O’Toole!’ she said scornfully. ‘That bastard. Do not say that you listened to him! I tell you, I own this place. Eldred Woundy had nothing to do with it.’

Blake answered that the coppers would be coming sooner or later, whether it was true or not.

‘And what do you expect in return for tipping me the wink? A backhander? A free tumble? They’ll never shut me down. My clients are too important. You’d be amazed who comes here.’

‘You think they’ll stick by you if you’re tied to a gruesome murder that’s reported in every paper in the land? Who might have had it in for Woundy?’

‘Anyone who had dealings with him.’ She managed a hard laugh.

‘Anyone he blackmailed for coming here?’

She shook her head. ‘Don’t try me. We never did that.’

‘Whoever did for him has killed two other men in the same way, printers who worked for him in the bawdy-and-blackmail line. Nat Wedderburn and Matthew Blundell, they were called. They printed advertisements for this place.’

‘Didn’t know them.’

‘Butchered on their presses. Killer has a taste for it, I’d say. Just like your clients.’

‘Look. Most of my clients wouldn’t hurt a fly. They come here for punishment.’

‘And the others? Come on! The coppers will give it to you all right – they’ll be scouring your customers. Your business will be dead in
a week; and if whoever did it does come through here, you may be next.’

She moved the ends of her painted lips upwards. I would not have gone so far as to call it a smile.

‘Don’t try and frighten me,’ she said. ‘I’m not giving up my customers’ names. Won’t do it. Anyway, we never put the moves on them. We live on returning custom, we’d be out of business in a moment. I know Eldred got up to some things in his other lines, but we didn’t play that one here. I swear it.’

‘Then you’re going to have to come up with something else for me.’

‘I don’t know about the rest, he kept it all apart. You’re trying my patience.’

He gazed at her.

‘Did they hurt him?’ she said.

Blake nodded.

‘Any idea who did it?’ She rubbed at her eye.