The House Of Smoke (14 page)

My eyes roamed the dank walls of the cell until I saw the perfect place. A small gap in the wall, between door frame and brickwork, where years of banging and vibration had taken their toll. A sliver of space, large enough to push the metal into, small enough to escape the eye.

It fitted perfectly.

For once, I wished away the rest of the day. Longed for night to come and for the lazy screws to lock us all down until daybreak and settle into their nocturnal habits of skiving and drinking.

And when the sun did finally set and the iciness of night crept across my floor, God was good to me. He blessed my little piece of hell on earth with enough moonlight to see what I was doing and I slid the point of that nail into the big lock on the leg irons.

Several hours later, I had undone it.

The chain lay loose at my feet and despite the locked door and barred window, I felt free. I stretched, luxuriating in the freedom of movement. I even smiled.

But I knew my happiness was a delusion. The door was not only locked, it was bolted from outside. I ran my fingers along the nail and cleaned it of dirt. I would have to take a turnkey by surprise to use it as a weapon on him. This would entail sitting on the floor by my bunk in a way that showed the leg irons but concealed that they were unlocked. Then I would pounce. Hold the nail to his throat, force him to undress and give me his uniform and keys. I would bind and gag him, then like the man who tried to kill me, I would calmly leave the cell and walk away.

I was fooling myself.

Gaolers never entered the cell alone. There were always at least two of them. I had nothing with which to tie them up and gag them. I could possibly rip the sheet on my mattress, but unless used immediately its destruction would soon be discovered.

My best chance of escape would be breaking through a wall or window during the cover of night and then surprising and overpowering whoever stood between me and the outside world before an alarm could be raised.

I studied the small moonlit window above my head, jumped and grabbed a bar. One-handed, I hung there, and used the nail to scrape inquisitively at the bricks beneath the iron that held me.

Keeping my balance while applying force to the nail was nigh on impossible. The actions cancelled each other out. I either pressed too hard and fell, or scraped too lightly and made not a jot of difference.

I was annoyed at how quickly I tired. How wasted my muscles had become. Yet I resolved not to be dispirited. The window would not easily yield but there were hundreds of bricks to try.

Alas, not this night.

Exhausted and angry, I returned the nail to its hiding place, snapped the leg irons back around my ankles and collapsed on my bunk.

The moon had shifted. It was the middle of the night. Another day had come and gone. I counted the time I had left.

Ten days.

Two hundred and forty hours before my execution.

Winter was fast approaching. The fat trees that in their summer greenness dappled light, now stood skeletal and black against the moody skies.

With sharp seasonal change came personal transformations. Emotionally, physically and mentally I was becoming a different person. Being well fed and well cared for enhanced my physique, while the lessons prescribed by the professor developed me in ways I had never imagined. I gave little thought to Moriarty’s benevolence, save considering it a stroke of good luck that he had been kind to me. Not for years would I realise that his motive was selfish.

Sadly, Elizabeth stuck steadfastly to her promise not to again cross that boundary between pupil and teacher. She took me on a broad cultural journey that encompassed not only her beloved Shelley but also Shakespeare and the etiquette of eating, drinking and speaking in the company of higher society. I learned how to waltz a little and to listen a lot. How to feign interest in the most boring of conversations and if pressed, how to diplomatically voice disapproval. She taught me to use dictionaries, write business letters and showed me how to conduct myself in meetings with professional people.

And I learned about tea.

Yes, tea, of all things. Those precious leaves turned out to be Elizabeth’s greatest love. To steal a step closer to her heart, I used my newfound social skills to seem enthralled by her tales of taking tea in the gardens at Vauxhall and Ranelagh, where apparently she liked to stroll of a summer afternoon. And I was nothing short of entranced by her disclosure that the custom of tipping had originated from overworked waiters placing boxes on tables marked T.I.P.S. – To Insure Prompt Service – and how they wouldn’t serve anyone until they heard the clank of a coin.

But these moments of closeness were rare. And never a lesson passed without me thinking about that kiss.
The mistake
as she hurtfully labelled it.

In contrast to my cultured sessions with Elizabeth came the brutal tutelage dispensed by Michael Brannigan. Under his guidance, I graduated from the barehanded strangling of rabbits to the deadly despatching of chickens, pigs, cows and even bulls.

I learned that soft and silent art of choking. That sustained pressure across an airway can strangle the most massive of opponents, even if they have four legs and want to gouge you to death.

I even learned to
like
Brannigan. I admired his strength and expertise. He used his hands like a craftsman used a box of precious tools passed from father to son. Grips. Locks. Levers. His fingers were all those things and more. And his fighting brain was faster than any punch I had ever thrown. He fought like a chess player, anticipating his opponent’s next two moves. When we grappled in training, he was always several steps ahead of me.

At the end of our sessions, we often walked back to the house and talked of the fishing and shooting he’d done on Moriarty’s estate. He didn’t like cities, hated London and had visited both Paris and Rome, which he disliked even more ‘because of their peculiar ways’. Most of all he hated the Chinese. ‘Sneaky bastards. All of them,’ he insisted, without giving any justification to his condemnation.

On one such occasion, we were on our way back to the house when the professor came heading our way.

‘Michael, please pardon my interruption. I am hoping your lesson with Simeon is at a close because I am in urgent need of his assistance.’

‘All done, sir,’ answered Brannigan. ‘The lad’s put in a good day’s work but still has energy to do your bidding.’

‘Very good.’ He looked my way. ‘Walk with me to the courtyard, Simeon.’

I fell in step with him and he explained the reason for seeking me out. ‘Miss Breed has had to address a problem we have with some Chinese associates and has been delayed. It means she cannot complete a chore I banked on her performing.’

‘By Chinese, do you mean the Chans, sir?’

‘Who I mean is currently of no consequence to you.’

‘But they are your enemies, aren’t they, sir?’

‘Anyone who is not my closest of friends is, to a greater or lesser degree, my enemy. Now clear your mind and focus on the task.’

Moriarty walked me to where a carriage awaited. Inside was the handsome, one-legged man I had met in the orangery. ‘Please get in,’ urged the professor. ‘Alexander will instruct you en route.’

I stepped up into the carriage and was immediately taken with its smells of polished leather. Moriarty shut the door, tapped the leg of the coachman and the hansom pulled away with a jolt.

Once the horses gathered pace and settled into a rhythm, the young American reached for a cloth bag at his feet. His disability meant he had some difficulty lifting and swinging it towards me. ‘You will find everything you need in there.’

I took it and loosened the drawstring. Inside was a pristine revolver with a sleek steel barrel and polished wood stock. Also powder, fresh ammunition balls and a rolled parchment sealed in thick red wax.

‘It is a Remington,’ explained Alexander. ‘The professor and I brought several back from our last trip to New York. Do you know how to use such a firearm?’

I half-cocked it and levelled it at his head. ‘This is a normal cap and ball, with powder and metal enough to kill a man, is it not?’

He shrank back. ‘It is.’

‘Then I know how to use it.’

From behind raised hands he implored me, ‘In God’s name, be careful with that thing.’

‘I’ll be more than careful.’ I made the gun safe and returned it to the sack. ‘You can keep it. I have no intention of taking anyone’s life.’

His wall of hands came down. ‘You shouldn’t need to. It is precautionary, that’s all. We are going to an estate in Warwickshire, owned by some of your English gentry.’

‘Who?’

‘A Lord and Lady Graftbury.’

‘And why should we do that?’

‘Because, currently visiting them and their hideously rude and highly unlovable daughter Victoria, is a French aristocrat by the name of Thierry de Breton.’ He warmed to his story. ‘There is belief in the Graftbury household that monsieur may this very day ask for Victoria’s hand in marriage. Hence our special visit.’

‘And what am I to do – shoot him?’

‘Good heavens, no! You are to steal a particularly valuable item of jewellery, while the family is immersed in talk of marriage. It is called the King John tiara and is an exceptionally beautiful and rare headpiece made of countless pearls and finest gold. It is finished with a circle of blood-red rubies and a perfect diamond in the centrepiece. It seems your old King John was something of a master thief himself.’

‘Is that so?’ I said uninterestedly.

‘
Johnny
used to break up sets of jewellery that his soldiers looted and have new pieces made. The most stunning of which were the tiaras he gave to his three most pleasing mistresses. This particular one, the one we’re after, is the last in open circulation.’

I stared at the bag at my feet. ‘So what is expected of me, and this pistol? Am I to barge in through the servants’ quarters, waving it like some idiot highwayman of old, shouting “Your money or your life!”?’

Alexander smiled. ‘
No
. They can keep their money, and if you are smart, also their lives. As I have just explained, there is only one thing that needs to be stolen. And you will have good help in doing so.’

‘From whom and how?’

‘None other than Monsieur de Breton. Otherwise known to you as Mr Sirius Gunn.’ He raised an eyebrow at the revelation. ‘Like a loyal hound, our good friend has been
nuzzling
Lady Victoria for almost a year. Now is his time. You will knock on the front door and say you have come directly from his home in London, where a French messenger delivered those sealed papers for his immediate attention.’ He gestured towards the sack. ‘They inform him of his father’s illness and the need to return as soon as possible to the French estate. Sirius will ask the lord for a moment to compose both himself and a reply. You will be shown to a study where, once privacy has been assured, Sirius will pass you the tiara. You will put it in the messenger’s sack and leave.’

‘And that is all?’

‘It is.’

‘So why the weapon?’

‘The simplest of plans often births the most complex of disasters. It is better to be prepared for such an eventuality.’

It seemed I had no alternative but to do what was asked of me. The choice of using or not using the weapon would ultimately be mine. Besides, the caper might present the opportunity I had hoped for. I could steal the jewels and then run for the hills.

‘I am just wondering,’ I asked, ‘if you also have no option but to do as the professor says?’

‘There is always an option.’ His head turned to the window and the blur of the passing night. ‘If you wish me to stop the carriage so that you may run, I can do so.’

‘And then what?’

He shrugged. ‘I could buy you a minute or two under the pretence you told me you needed to relieve yourself. Then I would have to raise the alarm, or else the coachman would do it, and of course you would be hunted down and found.’

My eyes fell on his leg. ‘Would you run, if you could?’

‘No. I have no desire to. The professor looks after me. Bestows on me a lifestyle and a manner of respect I have not found elsewhere.’

‘And in return, you handle things like this for him?’

‘Like this and other very different tasks. I am a qualified lawyer, but no practice in New York or London craves a cripple as counsel. As a result, the professor benefits from the services of a professional who not only knows the law here and in America but is happy to help him break it.’

‘So, do you have the tattoo?’

‘Tattoo?’ He looked at me suspiciously. ‘To which tattoo do you refer?’

‘You know of what I speak.’ I put my hand to my bicep, the place where I saw Brannigan’s. ‘The triangle. The droplet of blood.’

He looked angry. ‘If you know of that, then you realise I do not. Cannot. So
why
do you ask?’ He put a hand on his stump. ‘Is it to belittle me? To mock my affliction?’

‘No. I meant no offence.’

‘Then I conclude that while you know of the symbol you do not understand what it represents. Is that the case?’

‘I saw it on Brannigan’s arm. He said it represents some brotherhood and he almost killed me when I made light of it.’

He fought back a laugh. ‘Did he, indeed? Well, I suppose that would be appropriate, given all the circumstances.’

‘Circumstances?’

His lightness of mood disappeared. ‘You should take your clues from both the triangle and the blood. I have said enough. Now back to the matter in hand – the one with which we are both charged. Are you willing to participate in this venture? Or, would you prefer me to stop the horses, so you may make an excuse about the weakness of your bladder and run for the hills?’

There was a hanging this morning. One conducted by James Billington, Johncock’s favourite to execute me.

Louise Masset
– that was her name.
Child killer
– that was her epithet.

Murder is probably all she will ever be remembered for. Not as a bonny baby held and cooed over in the arms of her mother. Nor as a sweet child, big eyes full of hope and dreams. Not even as a romantic teenager, hoping to land herself a kind man who would take her as his wife and raise a family with her. But solely as the child killer she became.