Doktor Glass (27 page)

Thinking like that would lead to paranoia. Probably any and every street had its own secrets. Nothing on earth was as complex as the human heart, no matter what the scientists might say. Langton found this strangely comforting as he neared home. Then he thought of Sarah. Arthur Cavell had confirmed what Langton already knew: Redfers had taken his callers down to the basement room to sample the contents of the shelved jars. Arthur said he hadn’t touched her jar, but what of the other “clients”? How many men had communed with Sarah’s captured essence?

Langton forced himself to breathe deeply, to slow his racing heart. And by concentrating on his own body he realized for the first time that other steps echoed his own. He didn’t turn around; he didn’t look back. He kept his pace steady and listened to the footsteps behind him.

Almost in step with his own tread but different enough for Langton to notice. He unbuttoned his Ulster and slipped one hand inside to find the crosscut grip of the Webley. All the while, he looked for a good place to make his stand. It might be innocent, no more than somebody out for a late constitutional on a cold evening. Then again it might not.

The road branched ahead. A night tram cut across the junction, sparks trailing from its pantograph arms. The blue-white arcs showed tall black railings, chiaroscuro trees and shrubs. Langton leaped sideways through the garden gate left ajar. He crouched on the brick path with the Webley ready at his side.

The pursuing footsteps halted on the dark street. Silence. Langton heard his own breath, his beating heart. Had he imagined it?

No. The man turned and walked away, back the way he had come, his steps heavy but regular and unhurried. Langton inched forward
and risked peering around the gatepost. The man, bundled in drab colors, slid through successive pools of gaslight; in their glow, before the shadows swallowed him, the massive, stooped figure could almost be mistaken for Reefer Jake.

*  *  *

L
ANGTON CLIMBED THE
steps to his own house and looked back for a moment at the empty street. Fatigue and too much disturbing news could so easily distract the mind. They could lead to paranoia if not outright delusion. Langton knew he’d have to take care.

He tried his key in the lock but the front door didn’t move. Langton made sure he had the right key, tried again, then looked up at the dark windows before pressing the bell. He rang again. Panic made him hammer at the wood.

Then, from inside the house, a faint voice: “Who is it?”

“It’s me, Elsie. Are you all right?”

The sound of bolts drawn back. The click of the mortise lock. Then a wedge of yellow light as Elsie opened the door. “You said I should be careful, sir, so I made sure—”

“Are you safe? Has anything happened?” With one hand inside his coat, Langton checked the hall, the stairs, the open doors.

“Everything’s fine, sir.” Elsie closed and locked the door and stood with her back to it. “You said to lock the house up tight, so I did.”

Langton let out the breath he’d been holding. He felt more than a little ridiculous now. How easily that paranoia set in. “I’m sorry, Elsie. I’m just tired.”

“Would you like anything, sir? Something from the larder? I’m not as good as Cook, but—”

“Thank you, no. I’ll retire soon.”

“Well, good night, sir.”

“Good night, Elsie.” Langton opened the door to the living room, then turned back a moment. “Did Sergeant McBride call tonight?”

“No, sir. Not tonight.”

Langton thought he heard a note of regret in her voice. Perhaps he imagined it. Either way, it was really none of his business. He warmed himself at the dying fire and retrieved the small card from his waistcoat pocket, the card that Arthur Cavell had slipped into Langton’s hand as they stood in the hall of Abercrombie Square.

No name or address on the card, just a telephone number: Exchange five-seven. Although tempted to call it right at that moment, Langton knew he should wait; he didn’t want to tip the hand of the Jar Boys. Besides, perhaps McBride could discover the address that belonged to that number. Then Forbes Paterson and Langton could descend on Doktor Glass without warning.

Settling back in the leather armchair, Langton wondered if Professor Caldwell Chivers and Doktor Glass really were one and the same person. Although circumstances hinted at it, and the Professor’s name kept appearing in so many different areas and from the lips of different witnesses, Langton would need more than hints and suggestions. He’d need irrefutable evidence.

Perhaps the Professor had a secret room just like Redfers had? Shelves of ceramic jars sealed tight. Copper lids sealed with wax glinting under electric light. The smell of dust and charged particles…

Sleep caught Langton. In that state of semiawareness, where he knew that he dreamed and could almost guide his thoughts, he floated above his own body. He saw the dwindling fire but felt no heat. The tall grandfather clock ticked. Then the room twisted on its axis and became his bedroom. A shape under the bedclothes. Not him.

Terror pulled at Langton. He willed himself to wake, but his dreaming body drifted closer to the shape under the blankets. It lay on its side. The covers rose and fell, inhale and exhale. A voice called his name.

Now an odor: white flowers. Sickly sweet. Cloying. Then morphine, sticky and dark and acrid. The aromas grew stronger as the dreaming
Langton reached the side of the bed. Despite himself, he saw his own hand reach out. He could feel the soft blanket in his grip. Slowly, so slowly, he pulled down the covers.

Langton reared up in the living room chair. His clenched fingers dug into the soft leather. His mouth opened as if in the middle of a scream but he heard no echoes, no sound of Elsie’s footsteps hurrying to see what had happened. In the grate, the fire had died to black ashes. The clock still ticked.

And in the opposite chair, with a black revolver resting across his muddied knees, sat Durham.

*  *  *

L
ANGTON DIDN
’
T MOVE
. His own Webley lay in the pocket of his Ulster in the hall. The heavy poker and brass coal tongs lay almost within reach on the tiled grate, but Langton knew he would never have the chance to use them. He sniffed the air; the mixture of stale smells took him back to the tunnels beneath the Pier Head.

“I was tempted to wake you,” Durham said, his deep voice slurred with fatigue, “but I remembered that you should never interrupt someone having a nightmare.”

“You’re thinking of sleepwalkers,” Langton said, surprised by his own calm voice.

Durham nodded. “My mistake. It’s unnerving to wake up staring into the barrel of a gun. I know.”

So many conflicting thoughts ran through Langton’s mind: How had Durham gained entry? How had he survived? What did he want with Langton?

Durham scratched at the bloodied scabs on his face and said, “Have you any liquor in the house?”

“In the sideboard.”

“Would you pour me a glass? Whatever you have.” Durham said. The barrel of the revolver eased around until its dark eye tracked Langton. “And please don’t do anything that might make me shoot you.”

With slow, careful movements, Langton rose from the chair and crossed to the sideboard. He opened the drawers and took out a bottle of Laphroaig whiskey and two glasses. He poured a small measure for himself and a larger one for Durham. His limbs felt as if they belonged to an automaton. He sensed the barrel of the revolver square in his back.

“Thank you.” Durham took the glass and drained half of it in one gulp, coughing a little. He waved Langton to the chair again.

Langton stood where he was. “Have you harmed Elsie?”

“Your maid? No, she’s sleeping soundly in her bed. Snoring like a corporal.”

Langton sat down and sipped the strong drink. His eyes took in every detail of Durham’s clothing, from the scuffed boots to the ragged, filthy trousers, dirty collarless shirt, and relatively clean jacket. He guessed that Durham had stolen that to replace the one he’d left at the Toxteth tunnel exit.

Durham’s dirty face with its collection of scrapes, scabs, and cuts bore testimony to his escape through the tunnels, and perhaps to worse ordeals since then; a clotted bandage enclosed the hand clasped around the whiskey glass.

“Who is Sarah?” Durham asked.

Langton froze. “My wife. Why?”

“You called her name in your sleep.”

Langton hesitated. “She passed away recently.”

Durham glanced at him and then back to the fire’s embers. “You are working on Kepler’s case. I need to know what you’ve found.”

“Why?”

“I have my reasons.”

“You know I can’t tell you,” Langton said.

Durham turned slightly to face Langton. The revolver remained on his knees. “I need to know, Inspector.”

Langton knew he was on delicate ground. He took a sip of whiskey. “How can I give valuable information to one of my main suspects?”

“I did not kill Abel.”

“You know who did?”

“I have some idea of it, yes.”

“Then tell me,” Langton said.

Durham stared at him for a moment as if weighing up options. Then he said, “Abel discovered a plot against the Span. The man behind that plot lured Abel to a meeting and then…Well, you know the result. I believe I know who did it.”

Doktor Glass?
Langton thought.
Or the Professor?
Aloud, he said, “I know you and Abel Kepler were sent here to investigate a possible plot. I even know who sent you: Major Fallows.”

Durham stared at him.

Langton continued, “Fallows admitted to me that he works for one of Her Majesty’s confidential agencies. I don’t know whether you and Kepler were agents or mercenaries.”

“We’ve been called both at different times.”

“So…”

Durham finished his drink. “You’re well informed, Inspector. Fallows arranged for us to work on the Span. We heard plenty of rumors about a Boer conspiracy but saw little hard evidence. Obviously Abel dug deeper than I did. His reward was death and mutilation.”

Langton leaned forward. “Do you know what he found?”

“Why should I tell you? Why should I trust you?”

“A good question but one that you’ve already answered. Why else would you break into my house and question me? You could have killed me in my sleep.”

“True. But perhaps I needed information before I killed you…”

Langton glanced down at the revolver. His heart beat a little faster. “I suppose I must take that chance.”

Durham smiled and held out his glass for a refill. When Langton returned with another measure, Durham said, “I know only that Abel
discovered an address off the Dock Road, some warehouse he thought belonged to the plotters. It looks as if he was right.”

“You don’t know the address?”

“I’d hoped to find it from the same pub contacts that Abel did, but you chased me off the camp before I had the chance.”

Langton remembered the tunnels, the smell and the translucent cockroaches. “I’m amazed that you survived.”

Durham stared at him. “I’ve endured worse.”

Langton realized then that Kepler hadn’t been the only agent with experience of the Transvaal. Something in Durham’s eyes spoke of the same horrors. “You thought the Boers threatened the Span?”

“At the start, yes,” Durham said.

“And now?”

“I’m not sure. It could still be Brother Boer, playing a complicated game of double-bluff, but that doesn’t smell right. Someone else wants the Span destroyed. There’s another hand at work behind this.”

With what motive?
Langton wondered. At least the Boers had their own reasons, misguided though they might be.

Could he believe anything that Durham told him? The agent might be playing his own complicated game for God knew what motive. Langton considered all he knew about Durham, Kepler, and Fallows. “I don’t understand; why didn’t you just contact Major Fallows? Or tell me the truth instead of fleeing?”

“Because I don’t know who I can trust,” Durham said. “Somebody knew about Abel and me and decided to silence us. That address off the Dock Road was a trap—they expected both of us to go. If I had, you’d be looking for my face, too.”

Durham echoed what Langton had sensed: the hand of a clever, deranged puppeteer at work behind the façade; someone who knew more than the police and victims. “Do you know Doktor Glass?”

Durham gave him a sharp look. “I know him, yes. Most people in the camp have heard rumors.”

“Is he your plotter? Is he the one behind all this?”

Instead of answering directly, Durham said, “Me and Abel were staked out like goats in a clearing, waiting for the tiger. We were bait. Or a useful distraction.”

“Would Fallows really do that to you?”

Durham rubbed his forehead. “I don’t know. Maybe. If he thought he had to.”

Even as Langton saw his moment to pounce, it had passed. Durham looked at him from eyes red from fatigue or fever or both. “As soon as I heard about the tattooed body in Albert Dock, I knew. Abel hadn’t come back to our digs the night before. And then you appeared.”

And you ran,
Langton thought.
Perhaps I would have done the same.
“Come back to the station with me. I’ll keep you from Fallows if that’s what you wish, at least until we discover whose side he’s on. You have my word.”

Durham smiled. “Words are easily given.”

“I don’t lie.”

The smile slipped. Durham stared at Langton and said, “I almost believe you, Inspector. But if I walk into a police station I’ll come out the other side in a box. Fallows isn’t the only one with a secret network.”

Langton thought of the information leaking from his office, and of Reefer Jake. Headquarters, the one place in Liverpool that should be safe, offered no guarantees.

Durham got to his feet in one quick movement and made for the door. The revolver hung at his side.

“Wait,” Langton said, rising from his chair. “Who is Doktor Glass? Tell me.”

Durham hesitated, then shook his head.

“I believe I know,” Langton said.

“I don’t think you know any more than I do,” Durham said as he
opened the door to the hall. “When I’m sure, you can collect the Doktor’s faceless body from the Mersey. And maybe Fallows’s, too.”