Lost and Gone Forever (21 page)

L
eland Carlyle retreated to his club. Not the secret society, not the underground chambers of the Karstphanomen, but rather the gentlemen’s club he frequented while in the city. There he could rest and think, free from the concerns of family and business. He had nearly killed someone that morning, had gone to a coffeehouse specifically to murder a young woman, and the fact that he might even entertain such a notion shook him to his core.

He handed over his hat and coat and retired to the public room, where he took a seat by the fire. He sank into a wide leather chair, ordered a Scotch and soda, and closed his eyes, enjoying the feel of quiet privilege that he no longer felt he deserved.

He had always been able to rationalize the activities of the Karstphanomen. Murder was not the order of the day for that group of men. They championed justice. They taught murderers a valuable lesson about the cost of a human life. But today Carlyle had reduced himself to acting like a common killer.

He wondered when he had lost track of the line that separated the
civilized man from the predator. And he wondered when he had crossed that line.

More, he had hired mercenaries to act on behalf of the Karstphanomen. But he had done so at the bidding of the members, and so he didn’t feel personally responsible for that miscalculation. He realized they had done it from fear, from a sense of self-preservation. But he understood now that the Karstphanomen could not be personally responsible for murder or they were no better than the men they judged. What they had done flew in the face of everything they professed to believe in, everything they had set themselves against.

They had invited judgment upon themselves.

“Sir?”

Carlyle opened his eyes, a smile at the ready, thinking his drink had arrived. But the valet, Potter-Pirbright, was standing at the side of his chair with a look of concern draped over his normally receptive features. He was holding Carlyle’s hat and coat.

“What is it?”

“Your guests are causing a minor sensation, if you don’t mind my saying. It might be best to ask them to move along. Or perhaps the gentleman has an errand elsewhere.”

“I believe you’re mistaken,” Carlyle said. “I have no guests.”

“My apologies, sir.”

“No need. A mistake, that’s all.”

“Indeed.” But Potter-Pirbright didn’t move from the side of the chair.

“Was there something else?”

“They arrived at your heels, sir, and have not stirred from the front of this establishment since you entered.”

“I told you, they’re nothing to do with me.”

“As you say.”

“Then what is it, man?”

“They are disturbing some of the others, sir. In particular, the young lady wearing trousers has caused a bit of a stir with some of the older gentlemen of the club. Those of us in the younger generation are more open-minded, I’m sure.” (Potter-Pirbright was eighty years old if he was a day.) “If she would stop leering at everyone who enters, perhaps her presence would be more easily overlooked.”

“But I tell you, they’re not— Did you say the woman was wearing trousers?”

“Indeed, sir. And fetching trousers they are.”

Carlyle knew of only one woman who wore trousers in public. And if she had followed him here, to his club, perhaps she had followed him elsewhere. Carlyle stood, and Potter-Pirbright helped him on with his coat. He took his hat and, without a word to the valet, left the public room and went out by the front door. He paused and looked back at the club, the heavy oak doors and the marble columns of the porte cochere. He knew he would not be welcomed back.

He turned and looked up and down the street, but the Parkers were nowhere to be seen. He raised his hand and hailed a two-wheeler, hopping in as soon as it rolled to a stop. He gave the driver Claire’s address and settled back into the seat. He thought longingly of his Scotch and soda, which had surely been prepared already. What would they do with it? He snorted, a sad, abrupt sort of chuckle. The valet would probably drink it, congratulating himself all the while for having disgraced Carlyle. That sort was always looking for an opportunity at the expense of their betters.

If Mr and Mrs Parker had followed him to his club and seen him inside, perhaps they had turned their attention elsewhere. He had, after all, set them an impossible task. He had asked them to find and
kill Jack the Ripper. Who would blithely undertake such a thing? Unless they had planned all along to do away with Carlyle himself and keep that portion of their fee they had already collected. It made perfect sense.

If they had followed him to his club, perhaps they had followed him to his daughter’s home. Perhaps they thought she knew something or was an accomplice. He knew he wasn’t thinking straight, but he thought perhaps that was a good thing. It showed he wasn’t like them. He was a caring human being, a man who had stopped himself from committing violence. A good man.

Leland’s wife, Eleanor, was surrounded by servants at all times (and no doubt making them miserable), so he wasn’t unduly concerned about her.

But he needed to look in on his daughter before he could think any further. It occurred to him that the Parkers had purposefully drawn him out of his club for some reason, but he didn’t care. If Claire was all right, then he hadn’t completely ruined his life yet. She was the best of him, and they couldn’t take her away. He wouldn’t let them.

C
laire Day ran through Guildhall to the library and spotted Fiona Kingsley talking to her father. Sunlight through the high windows illuminated a ghastly scene, with a dozen or more men and women on gurneys and a handful of doctors and nurses flitting about among them, bringing towels and water and instruments to their bedsides.

“Fiona! Dr Kingsley!” Claire bustled up to them, and the doctor set down a bone saw, wiped his hands on a rag tucked into his belt.

“Claire,” he said. “Really, you shouldn’t be in here. This isn’t something you ought to—”

“Where is my husband? Where’s Walter?”

“Ah, of course. He’s in the other room. But he’s sleeping right now.”

“I don’t care. Which room?”

“Father,” Fiona said, “you can’t keep her away from him after so long.” Fiona’s eyes looked red.

“Yes, yes, I see. If you can be quiet and let him sleep, I’ll show you in.”

“I’ll wake him if I damn well want to wake him.”

Kingsley’s eyebrows flew up, but he sighed and motioned for her to follow him. He led the way to the huge doors of the Print Room, and Claire averted her eyes as she passed a man who was lucky to have passed out. She looked away too late to avoid seeing the bones of his arm protruding from the flesh.

Kingsley pulled open a door and stuck his head in the room, then rushed inside. Claire and Fiona followed him. The room was empty.

“Where is he?”

“I don’t know,” Kingsley said. He turned around and shouted. “Pinch! Get in here!” To Claire he said, “Young Pinch was treating your husband.”

Kingsley didn’t wait for his assistant. He went to the doors at the other end of the room and though them, down a short passage to the art gallery. It, too, was empty, but a window at the far end of the room was standing open, a slight breeze blowing the curtains.

“He’s gone,” Kingsley said.

“And Nevil’s gone with him,” Fiona said.

Pinch trotted up behind them. “Well, he won’t get far with those ribs,” he said.

“You don’t know my husband,” Claire said. “And perhaps I don’t, either.”

S
low down, Nevil, would you?”

Hammersmith stopped and waited for Day to catch up to him. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking. Your leg?”

“No . . . Not at all . . . It’s only . . .” Day shook his head and held up a finger, asking for a minute. He leaned on his cane, and when he’d caught his breath he started again. “It’s hard to breathe with this plaster on.”

“We’re well away from Guildhall now,” Hammersmith said. “But where are we going?”

“I need to check on someone at Drapers’ Gardens. Just need to make sure she’s all right.”

“You mean Esther Paxton.”

“How did you know?”

“She’s back there in the library with the Plumm’s casualties. We’ve left her behind.”

Day turned and put a hand on his chest. “She was there?”

Hammersmith nodded.

“Is she well?”

“Not bad. The doctor moved her there so he could keep an eye on her injuries while he tended the others, but none of us knows who she is. I mean to say, who is she to you?”

“Until yesterday I thought she might represent a new life for me.”

“A new life? Is that where you’ve been the last year? Taking up with some woman while the rest of us were worried sick about you?”

“It’s not . . . Here, let’s get off the beaten track so we can talk.” Day hobbled down Mason’s Alley and ducked into the doorway of a restaurant. Hammersmith followed, and they stood out of sight of the main thoroughfare.

“Well?”

“Nevil, it’s not what you think. I was held prisoner for months. By the time he let me go, I thought maybe everyone had moved on without me.”

“You fool.”

“Yes, well, I am that. But Nevil, I couldn’t go back to my life as I knew it. And at first I didn’t even know my life. I didn’t remember who I was. It’s come back to me gradually, and more yesterday than ever before. But I can’t trust myself near anyone but you. And it’s because I didn’t try to kill you already, don’t you see? Esther wasn’t a part of my old life, and so I could be with her. At least, I thought I could. Only it didn’t work that way. He wouldn’t let me be.”

“None of that makes even the slightest bit of sense, you know.”

“Oh, I know.”

“Why don’t you try telling me again.”

“Let’s keep walking,” Day said. “But slowly. I’ll talk along the way.”

They walked east toward Drapers’ Gardens while Day filled Hammersmith in on everything that had happened to him in the past few weeks. When they reached the gardens, Day pointed out the shrubbery where he had slept during his first few days of
freedom. A minute or two later, they arrived at Esther Paxton’s shop and Day dug out his key. He opened the door and Hammersmith followed him in. The furniture had been righted since Day had last seen the place and the broken glass swept up.

“The neighbors must have pitched in,” he said.

“Neighbors?”

“This was practically demolished.”

“It still doesn’t look like much.”

“I have a room upstairs. She was very good to me. Here, sit down—watch there’s no glass there—and I’ll tell you the rest. Tea?”

“Please. Unless you plan to poison me.”

“Why would I do that?”

“I have no idea. You’re acting odd. Talking about killing people.”

“If I were planning to kill you, I certainly wouldn’t use poison. In the past you’ve proved immune to the stuff.”

“Immune or not, I don’t much care for it.”

“Fine. I won’t poison you. Give me a minute.”

Day climbed the stairs and Hammersmith went to the window. He watched people passing by, children running to join their friends, women paying social calls on one another or heading out for the day’s shopping trip. The beat constable hove into view down the street, and Hammersmith glanced at the stairs before slipping out the front door. He left the door open and raised his hand, hailing the constable, who strolled over to him.

“Help you?”

“I’m hoping you can do something for me. Is there a telephone nearby?”

“Got my call box next street over.”

“Is there any chance you’d be willing to ring Guildhall?”

“’Fraid it’s meant for official police business, sir. If you’re looking for a telephone for yourself, I can direct you to—”

“No time. I need a doctor here right away.”

The constable perked up and turned his gaze on the open front door of Paxton’s Drapery. “Someone hurt? Not that same woman got roughed up yesterday?”

“No, no, nothing like that.” Hammersmith stopped and scowled at the constable for a moment, trying to figure out how to explain that his friend had become a raving madman, without seeming to be disrespectful of Day or raising any alarms. At last he reached into his pocket and pulled out a half crown, which he held up so that the constable could see it. “Just this once, maybe you could break the rules?”

The constable nodded slowly, then reached out and took the money. “Guildhall, you say?”

“Yes.” Hammersmith breathed a sigh of relief that he’d run into a reasonably corrupt policeman. “The doctor’s name is Kingsley. Give him this address and tell him to drop everything and get right over here. It’s about Day.”

“Today?”

“No. Inspector Day.”

“Inspector Day? Has he been found?”

“Oh, um, well, yes, actually he has. But he needs help.”

The constable handed the half crown back to Hammersmith. “You keep this, then. Day was always good to me. Keep your eye on him and I’ll fetch that doctor.”

With that, the constable turned and hurried away. Hammersmith put his half crown back in his pocket and went back inside, quietly shutting the door. He crossed to the sofa and sat, and in another
minute Day reappeared, holding two teacups by their handles in one hand.

“Here we are,” he said. “Were you outside just now?”

“Took the air a bit.”

“Hmm. It is stuffy. Here, I don’t seem to have any milk.”

“It’s all right. Just fine as is.”

“Good. I put an extra dollop of poison in yours, though, so don’t take the wrong cup.”

“Right.” Hammersmith managed a wan smile and took the offered cup. He stared at it dubiously, then blew across the steaming surface and took a sip. “Funny,” he said. “I hardly taste it.”

H
atty was feeling a great deal of pressure. Now that Inspector Day had been found, she took it for granted that Mr Hammersmith would finally assume the proper duties of a detective and would begin to investigate other cases. Which was all well and good, but Hatty was afraid it would mean the end of her freedom. Would Hammersmith allow her to keep investigating cases on her own? More likely, she would be relegated to a clerk’s position at the agency, and she didn’t think she could bear that.

She had helped move Mr Day and some of the other victims of the Plumm’s collapse to the hall and had seen to their comfort as well as she was able, but as soon as she’d had the opportunity she’d slipped away. Even if she never got a chance to investigate another case, she wanted to finish the one she’d started, she wanted to find Joseph Hargreave and prove, if only to herself, that she was capable of the work.

Success begat success. Perhaps Mr Hammersmith would see how good she was and allow her to help in some manner more substantial than just taking notes and filing paperwork. He was a good man, Mr Hammersmith, and she clung to the hope that he might be a
progressive employer. But she couldn’t prove herself unless she solved the case. She had to move quickly.

The three obvious places for Hargreave to be hiding were his cottage, his place of employment, and his flat in the city. She had ticked those off in the past few days, but there was one more place to check before she hit a dead end. Plumm’s kept small apartments behind the store for certain employees, in order to keep their commute short and keep them on the job longer each day. One had been reserved for the floor manager’s use. It seemed to her that it would be hard to hide for very long in a flat behind a department store, but she was desperate and therefore willing to turn over any rock available to her.

The street in front of Plumm’s was quiet, people passing by and stopping to stare at the magnificent wreckage. But nobody was going in or coming out. The injured had been moved, and the staff had been dismissed. The police had secured the main doors, but windows had been broken out at the front and sides of the building, and no attempt had been made to board them up again. There was nothing left worth stealing. Tomorrow workers would come and begin tearing everything out, hauling away the rubble. Hatty wondered if they would rebuild or give up and sell the lot. Would anybody still be willing to shop there, knowing what had happened?

She skirted the main building and went around to Coleman Street, where there was a door set into a recess. She knocked on it, and when there was no answer, she knocked harder so that her knuckles tingled. She heard no sound from within. She looked all round, then tried the knob. To her surprise, the door was unlocked, and she opened it and went inside.

She was facing a long passage with doors on either side and a staircase that led up the right-hand wall. All was quiet. The staff had been temporarily relocated. She walked to the first door and
opened it without knocking. The small room was furnished with a table, a chair, a bed, and a lamp. All of it looked cheap to Hatty; none of it looked like the sorts of things that were actually sold by Plumm’s. The table held a small collection of toiletries and cosmetics, and there was a cardboard wardrobe standing in the corner next to the bed. Inside hung three identical white blouses and three identical black skirts. She left that room and went to the next, where she found similar furnishings and similar clothing hanging in another cardboard wardrobe. Hatty decided that the female staff of the store must be housed on the ground floor, and she went back to the staircase and climbed up.

There was a locked door at the landing of the first floor up, so she kept going. When she reached the next floor, she paused and listened, glad that her loss of hearing had been temporary. She wondered what she would do if she found Joseph Hargreave and he was dead. She had seen dead bodies before, but she didn’t care to see another one if she could help it.

The door at the far end of the hallway swung slowly open, an invitation, and her breath caught in her throat.

“Hello? Is someone there?”

Hatty heard nothing but the return echo of her own voice, and so she crept forward until she was just outside the room. There was no light inside and no one emerged into the passage.

“Mr Hargreave?”

“Please come in.” The voice was soft and low with a pleasant rumbling quality. “Forgive me for not standing. I’m a bit indisposed.”

“Mr Hargreave, is that you?”

“No, indeed,” the man inside the room said. “But come in. I’d like to talk with you. You may leave the door open behind you if that puts you at ease.”

“No need. If you aren’t Mr Hargreave, I’ll be on my way.”

She turned to go, but the voice called out to her again.

“Which one are you? I’m afraid I get you all mixed up, one with the others.”

“What do you mean?” Hatty did not turn toward the door, but nor did she continue down the hallway. She stood, tense and ready to run, with her back to the dark room.

“I know you’re not Eugenia Merrilow. She’s quite distinct in my mind. You’re either Fiona Kingsley or Hatty Pitt. You two are rather similar to each other, if you don’t mind my saying, and I haven’t bothered to pinpoint which of you is which.”

Now Hatty turned and faced the man she couldn’t see. He was somewhere far back in the room, and she felt confident she had enough of a head start if he came after her. “How do you know us?”

“Oh, our friend Nevil Hammersmith likes to surround himself with pretty little females of the species, doesn’t he?”

“I don’t know.”

“Why do you think that is?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know much. You might at least venture a guess. I’m going to do just that and guess that you are Hatty Pitt. Ah, by the change in your posture I see that I’m right. Very good to meet you, Hatty Pitt. Please, don’t be so rude. Come here where I can see you better. You’re silhouetted in the light and I can only see your form.”

“I think I’m fine where I am.”

“Shall I sweeten the pot for you, then?” Hatty heard the creaking wood of a chair as someone shifted his weight and then a muffled cry of pain. “Did you hear that, Hatty Pitt? That was Joseph Hargreave. Just the man you wanted to see.”

“Mr Hargreave?”

“Oh, he can’t answer you. Cat’s got his tongue. Or something’s got it, but he certainly doesn’t.”

Hatty felt a creeping warmth along her scalp and her throat. She knew where Mr Hargreave’s tongue was.

“Did you know Joseph Hargreave and his brother were members of a secret society that tortures people like me?”

“Of course not.”

“It’s true. I can tell you, this is a man who needed his tongue out, and more besides.”

“That’s horrid.”

“Hatty Pitt, you and I have something in common, did you know that?”

“What have you done to Mr Hargreave?”

“I asked you a question. You can’t answer with a totally unrelated question of your own. That’s not playing by the rules of proper conversation, now is it?”

She raised her voice, calling out to the other man in the room. “I’m going to bring the police, Mr Hargreave. Please just wait a few minutes and I’ll be right back.”

“Tut, tut, Hatty Pitt. If you leave here before we finish our conversation, I will kill Mr Hargreave outright long before you return with the constabulary.”

“What do you want from me?”

“An answer, to start. Do you know what we have in common?”

“No.”

“We have both saved Nevil Hammersmith’s life at different times. Isn’t that interesting? I stopped his bleeding to death once when there was no one else to do it.”

“Why would you do that? You seem ghastly.”

“Hurtful of you to say. I did it because I had no reason not to. I
didn’t wish Nevil Hammersmith any harm at the time. Of course I changed my mind some time later and tried to drop a great gob of glass on him, but you saved him from that. According to Oriental custom, we now share an obligation to Nevil Hammersmith’s well-being.”

“You’re Mr Oberon, aren’t you?”

“It’s what I’ve been calling myself.”

“You took Mr Hargreave’s place.”

“Hatty Pitt, I have spent the past weeks pretending to be someone I am not while occupying this shithole of a flat and that stupid wee cottage by the sea with only this dolt for company. He’s a terrible conversationalist, owing in part to the fact of his missing tongue. But he wasn’t of much use even before he lost that. If it isn’t too much to ask, I’d like to have a civil chat with a nice young lady.”

“‘Come into my parlor, said the spider to the fly.’”

“Did you call me a spider, Hatty Pitt? Are you afraid of spiders? No need to be. Spiders rid the world of filthy vermin. Do you think you’re filthy vermin? Is that why you’re afraid to converse with me? And would you place Mr Hargreave in mortal danger simply because you’re afraid? You seem like a brave girl to me. You wouldn’t do that to Mr Hargreave.”

“You’d kill us both anyway as soon as you got your hands on me.”

“Hmm. You know, you’re probably right.”

Hatty gasped and took a step backward, but something in her refused to let her leave. The man inside the room was clearly some sort of monster. But she did not want to be cowed by anyone, not man or woman or the Devil himself. “I’m not afraid of you.”

“Well, perhaps you should be, after all. I sometimes have the best of intentions, but then my nature gets the better of me anyway. I’ll tell you what: I promise not to touch you once you are inside this room. To be quite honest, I could use some assistance. But if you
back away any farther, I shall rush at you no matter what the cost to myself, and then I will touch you a great many times and in ways I do not think you will appreciate.”

“You may threaten me all you like, but there are people who know where I am. I told Eugenia where I was going.”

“Are you lying to me, Hatty Pitt?”

“No. No, I’m not lying to you.”

“I believe you. So you see, you’re doubly safe. You have Eugenia Merrilow’s knowledge of your whereabouts and you have my word that I will not touch you.”

“Your word isn’t worth anything to me.”

“Oh, but it should be worth something at least,” Mr Oberon said. “I almost never break my word.”

“You won’t hurt me?”

“I said I wouldn’t touch you and I won’t.”

“And you won’t hurt Mr Hargreave, either?”

“Oh, I’ve said no such thing. I’ve harmed your Mr Hargreave on a near constant basis these past weeks, both here in his flat and at his cottage. It was the only thing to keep me occupied, really. I’ve been so very bored.”

“You won’t harm him any more than you already have, then?”

“Oh, I’d hate to promise you a thing like that.”

“You must or our conversation has ended.”

Mr Oberon laughed and she heard the clapping of hands. “Delightful. So very brave. Yes, Hatty Pitt. Come and sit with me and I promise I shall leave Mr Hargreave alone for the time being.”

Hatty considered for a moment, then breathed deeply and stepped across the threshold into the room.

“Wonderful,” Mr Oberon said. “Now please, call me Jack.”