End of the Century (26 page)

So it was that Blank and Miss Bonaventure sat over cooling cups of tea, facing the clearly distraught Podmore.

“I read your
Apparitions and Thought-Transference
,” Blank began, without preamble, referring to a recent work on the topic of telepathy. He'd made it a habit to follow the examinations and findings of those who researched topics that touched on his dealings with Omega. He'd been disappointed, but not surprised, to find that Podmore's work had seemed to offer no insight.

Podmore seemed to brighten, if fractionally, at the mention of his book, eye's widening with surprise. “You…you did?”

Miss Bonaventure, too, regarded Blank with some surprise, giving him a sly look. Blank knew that she wondered about him and about his provenance. One day, and perhaps soon, he would have to tell her the truth.

“I'm afraid, if you'll excuse my being frank with you, no pun intended, I shared the view put forth by the reviewer in the
American Journal of Psychology
, and sadly not that found in the review for
Mind
.” Blank shrugged apologetically, while Podmore seemed to deflate. “That said, I've found your writings on Mesmerism and Animal Magnetism to be quite insightful.”

Podmore sat a little straighter, hearing that, and lifted his teacup as if in salute. “Well,” he said, nodding to the nearby desk, thickly carpeted with handwritten notes and folders, “perhaps you'll find my forthcoming
Studies in Psychical Research
more to your liking.”

Blank fixed him with a smile. “I shall certainly endeavor to try.” He sipped his tea, and then indicated the drawing of Podmore as Merlin on the wall. “That's quite an interesting piece, if you don't mind me saying, Mr. Podmore.”

Podmore turned to look at the framed picture, and a sudden look of pain stabbed across his face. Squinting in apparent agony, he turned away, but when he once more looked up to meet Blank's gaze he'd brought his features under control, and looked only somewhat distressed, as he'd done before, and not abjectly tortured.

“It's by Xenophon Brade, unless I'm mistaken,” Blank said, a question in the form of a statement.

Podmore nodded, his gaze vacant.

“I'm sure you're aware that Mr. Brade met with an unfortunate…accident, the night before last,” Miss Bonaventure said, setting her cup down on the table and folding her hands over her crossed knee. “And not far from here, it would appear.”

Podmore's first answer was only a sharp intake of breath, and then an absent nod of his head. “Y-yes,” he said at last, his voice sounding as though it were coming from far off. “I…I believe I read that…somewhere.”

Blank narrowed his eyes, studying Podmore's reaction. He got the impression that Podmore was well practiced at concealing his feelings and reactions but that something in his present circumstances was taxing his best efforts at concealment.

“You were acquainted with the young man, I take it?” Miss Bonaventure asked.

Behind his bushy mustache and beard, Podmore caught his lower lip between his teeth but a brief moment, as if biting back his initial impulse to respond. Then, marshalling his reserve, he said, “Yes, in a vague way. He was a member of the Fabian Society, and had attended some meetings of the SPR. And…”

He trailed off, and Blank leaned forward. “And?”

Podmore met Blank's gaze, and the detective saw something familiar in the other man's eyes. “And I believe I'd seen him once or twice in the town,” Podmore finally answered, his tone level and firm. “We spoke, on rare occasion, as I recall.”

Blank stood and crossed the floor to stand before the illustration of Podmore in the guise of Merlin, a flowing robe across his shoulders, a crooked staff in his hand. His face was seen in profile, nose prominent, beard bushy, while over his shoulder a sliver of moon lit the night sky.

“It's a bit like the work of Beardsley, wouldn't you say?” Blank said to Miss Bonaventure. She pursed her lips and shrugged in response. Blank nodded and looked back at the picture. “Yes, I can definitely see the influence of Beardsley.”

From behind him came the startling crash of china hitting china, as Podmore slammed his cup back onto the saucer. Blank turned to see Podmore regarding him with flashing eyes. He'd clearly hit a nerve, as he'd suspected he might. He'd a collection of
The Yellow Book
in his own library and knew that the name Xenophon Brade had not appeared in the indicia until after Beardsley's own name had disappeared altogether. That, and the similarities of style, was highly suggestive of a rivalry of some kind on one side or the other.

“Xenophon hated Beardsley,” Podmore finally said, in his quiet, far-away voice. “Though he was several years Beardsley's senior, Xenophon always felt that his career was the one less developed, the one that lagged behind. He'd been incensed that Dent had hired Beardsley to illustrate his
Morte Darthur
and had jumped at the chance to begin illustrating
The Yellow Book
when Beardsley was dismissed.” Blank remembered the time well. When Oscar had been arrested, two years before, he'd been seen clutching a book with a
yellow cover, or so the newspapers reported. It was assumed to be a volume of
The Yellow Book
, and in the resulting furor, Beardsley had been sacked. He resisted the urge to lose himself in memory and concentrated on Podmore's words. “Xenophon was sure that this latest project of his would be the one to cement his popularity and finally bring him out of Beardsley's shadow and into the light, but then.…” He glanced towards the door, and Blank realized that the intersection where Brade had been slain lay in the same direction. Podmore trailed off and lifted his shoulders in a helpless shrug.

“What project was that?” Miss Bonaventure said, as Blank walked back across the room and leaned against the back of his empty chair.

Podmore shook his head. “I don't know, he'd never say. Only that it had suggested the idea for that”—he indicated the portrait of himself on the wall in Merlin's robe—“and nothing more.”

Blank laced the fingers of his hands together and carefully chose his next words. “You and Brade were friends, I take it.” He paused, and then said, “More, perhaps, than mere casual acquaintances?”

Podmore opened his mouth as if to speak, and then closed it, his lips disappearing entirely behind his thick mustache.

Blank nodded, knowingly. It had only been a matter of short weeks since Oscar had been released from prison, having spent two years in Reading gaol for the crime of giving himself in to the love that dared not speak its name. The word from Berlin was that the newly founded Scientific-Humanitarian Committee had begun to campaign for the abolition of legal penalties for homosexuals, but Blank did not allow himself the illusion of optimism.

“When did you see him last, Mr. Podmore?” Miss Bonaventure asked.

Podmore shifted his gaze from Blank to Miss Bonaventure. “Two days ago,” he finally answered, after a lengthy pause. “The morning before…the morning before he died. We were to dine together that night, here in my rooms, but…” His voice choked off, and when he continued, his words were strained. “But he never arrived.”

Miss Bonaventure leaned forward, evidently intent on asking another question, but Blank stayed her with a quick wave of his hand. “Thank you, Mr. Podmore,” he said, inclining his head to Podmore and offering his hand to Miss Bonaventure. She gave him a quizzical look, but took his hand and
rose to her feet. “I think we've troubled you enough for one evening. I thank you for your hospitality and for your fine tea.”

With Miss Bonaventure on his elbow, Blank made his way to the door. Podmore, lost in his own thoughts, followed after, absently.

At the door, Blank paused and glanced from Podmore to the framed penand-ink drawing on the wall. “It really is a good likeness, Mr. Podmore, and the work of a clear talent. You should be honored to have it.”

Podmore seemed to brighten fractionally, and something like a smile twitched beneath his full mustache, though his eyes remained pained and half-lidded. “Thank you,” he said, and then Blank and Miss Bonaventure left him with his pictures and books, his pains and his memories.

As Blank and Miss Bonaventure made their way back to York Place, she regarded him curiously. “You know, Blank, I think we might have discovered something if you'd let me question Podmore a bit more.”

Blank took a deep breath and sighed, before turning to face her. “No,” he said sadly, shaking his head. “We wouldn't have. Or rather, we would, but what we would have uncovered would not be germane to our investigations, I suspect. That Podmore was keeping something concealed, I have no doubt, but to expose him wouldn't benefit anyone.”

Miss Bonaventure cocked her eyebrow at him, quizzically.

“What we
did
learn from Podmore, and what
is
germane,” he continued, “is that Brade was on his way to Podmore's rooms that evening and never arrived. Whatever else he is keeping hidden, I am convinced that Podmore is sincere when he says that he did not see Brade that evening. The most likely conclusion, then, giving the proximity of the murder to Podmore's rooms, is that the murderer interrupted Brade en route.”

With a slight nod, Miss Bonaventure said, “Fair enough. So we shall eliminate further questioning of Podmore from our agenda.” She paused, thoughtfully. “Still, I find myself curious about this mystery project of Brade's that Podmore mentions. Could that have any bearing on the case, do you suppose?”

Blank considered it. “It certainly seems possible. Shall we dig a little deeper into the matter in the morning?”

“Certainly,” Miss Bonaventure said, stifling a yawn with her hand. “But in the meantime, I could use a meal, a bath, and a bed, in that order.”

“I can stand you to dinner,” Blank said, “but for the rest of your list, I'm afraid you're on your own.”

Miss Bonaventure said with a smile, “Don't worry, Blank. I know that in your bath, as well as in your bed, there's only room for one.”

Blank managed a game smile in response. Since they'd known one another, Miss Bonaventure was quite right to point out that he'd been consistently and exclusively solitary in his habits, bordering on the monastic, at least as regarded matters domestic. That he'd had a life before they met, and a long one at that, was a factor that she seemed not to consider, and Blank was in no mood, at the moment, to disabuse her misconceptions.

IN MOVIES AND BOOKS
, Alice had always come across characters who went from stinking drunk to stone-cold sober in a matter of moments when faced with life-threatening crises. That kind of thing might happen, she supposed, but only if they weren't really that drunk to start with. For her part, having twice found herself in serious peril while three sheets to the wind, she didn't find that she got sober any faster. It just made being drunk that much more of a pain in the ass.

Stillman Waters was dragging Alice through the streets of London with the white dogs following close behind. They didn't bark like regular dogs, Alice noticed, but sounded instead like a bunch of migrating birds. But their fangs, dyed red or not, still looked damned sharp. And they seemed to have a serious mad on for Alice and the old man.

“Where are we going?” Alice panted, breathless.

They rounded a corner, and Stillman stopped to point his weird-looking pistol back the way they'd come, leaning against the wall and sighting along the barrel. He pulled the trigger and instead of a bang there was a little popping sound, like a paintball gun firing or a damp firework petering out, and something shot out of the barrel and struck the foreleg of the nearest of the dogs.

The dog was trying to dislodge the raven that had sunk its claws into its
back and was now busily engaged in attempting—unsuccessfully, as luck would have it—to peck the dog's eyes out with its beak. The other four dogs were surging forward, each fending off a raven or two of its own.

Stillman fired his strange pistol again, and this next shot kicked up little bits of shrapnel from the pavement just in front of another dog's paws. Whatever the gun was firing wasn't bullets, but it was getting the job done.

“What
is
that?”

“Webley Hotspur fletcher,” Stillman said, matter-of-factly. “Flechette pistol.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a slender sliverlike dart. “Not exactly standard issue, you understand.”

Alice took the dart out of his hand and looked at it. It looked something like an overfed sewing needle with little ridges on one end.

“Oh, for the love of…” Stillman pulled back around the corner, slamming up flat against the wall.

Alice peeked around, to see what had given Stillman such a stricken look.

There was a tall, slender figure approaching, following the dogs. He was more than a block away, and in the faint light of the streetlamps it was hard to make out too much in the way of detail, but the guy looked to be completely bald and wore big wraparound sunglasses.

“Friend of
yours
?” Alice asked, pulling her head back around the corner.

“I don't know who you are or what your game is, love,” Stillman said, his mouth drawn into a tight, thin line. “But I'll not leave anyone to
his
tender mercies.” With a minute jerk of his head, he indicated the guy approaching around the corner. “So come along; you're coming with me.”

Stillman grabbed Alice's hand and took off running.

Alice kept up as best she could, tugged along behind like a skier fallen behind a boat and skipping across the water, arms and legs flailing.

“What are those things, anyway?” Alice asked.

“Gabriel Hounds,” Stillman answered, then he shook his head. “Doesn't matter.” He stood at the intersection, looking left and right.

“Looking for something?”

“We could use a big bunch of water. Slows them down a bit.”

Alice pointed through the nearest buildings, at the dark ribbon of the Thames. “Isn't that enough for you?”

Stillman shook his head. “It slows them down. It doesn't stop them. They'd still catch up.” He looked around again, looking like someone who'd already realized what the correct answer was, but was still afraid to admit it.

Stillman looked at Alice and narrowed his ice-chip eyes.

“Listen, love, can you keep a secret?”

Alice was still for a long moment before it occurred to her to answer. She heard the migrating-birds baying of the dogs growing closer. Then she nodded, vigorously. “Yes. Yes. Yes, I can keep a secret.”

Stillman bit his lower lip, resisting the answer still.

“All right,” he said, and started moving again, dragging Alice behind. “You're coming home with me, then. But listen. Don't touch
anything
. Got it?”

The Tower of London was just up ahead. Alice and Stillman were across the street and a short way up. The dogs were out of sight but couldn't be far behind them. In the middle of the sidewalk was an old metal railing, surrounding what appeared to be steps leading underground. There was a rusted iron chain strung across the gate.

Stillman lifted the chain and hustled Alice beneath, then followed.

“Come on, in here.”

It was dark as the pit down there, and smelled twice as bad. “What
is
this?”

“Victorian public convenience,” Stillman said, and hurried deeper into the narrow room. There were stalls along the left wall, a kind of trough along the other. Stillman kicked one of the stalls open. It took Alice a second to recognize the blackened stump of porcelain within. This was a men's room.

Stillman dragged her into the stall behind him.

“Um, seriously?” Alice sneered. “The dogs are bad enough, but if it means getting groped in a grungy old toilet, I'd just as soon take my chances.”

Stillman flashed her a smile that glinted in the moonlight filtering through the grates overhead. “I already told you, love. You're just not my type.”

With that, Stillman slammed the stall door shut and lashed out his foot, kicking at a brick above the toilet. With a rusty groan, the whole section of wall swung inwards, toilet and all.

As gloomy and dark as it was in the underground restroom, seemingly abandoned for decades, it was pitch black in the space beyond the wall. Alice found herself dragged bodily through the gap, and then, when the wall swung back into place, was surrounded by an inky darkness.

Alice wasn't sure if her eyes were growing accustomed to the gloom, or if lights were coming on somewhere in the distance. But the ink black darkness was slowly tinged with gray, and shapes and forms gradually resolved out of the shadows.

“What…?” Alice began, but found herself silenced when Stillman slapped a hand over her mouth.

“Shhh,” he hissed. In the gray twilight she could see him point at his ear. “Listen.”

Somewhere above them the sound of migrating birds grew louder, and louder, and louder. Then, just when it seemed that they could grow no louder, the sounds began to fade, gradually at first and then faster and faster. It was like some slow motion Doppler effect, like an ambulance driving by very, very slowly.

“I think we shook them,” Stillman said, lowering his hand from her mouth. “If the dogs didn't enter the loo, then
he
probably didn't either. Which means we're safe. For now.”

“Where are we?” Alice said in a harsh whisper. “Who are you? What's going on?”

Stillman smiled.

“You said you could keep a secret, right?”

The space behind the wall turned out to be a landing at the top of a long flight of steps. At the bottom of the steps was a door. And behind the door?