The House Of Smoke (16 page)

Once inside the carriage, I exhaled an enormous sigh of relief as the horses pulled away.

‘Did you get it?’ asked Alexander.

‘In there.’ I gestured to the sack.

He lifted it from the floor and undid the string. ‘Damnation!
Where
is it?’ he shook the sack. ‘It
isn’t
in here.’

I grabbed it from him. He was right – there was no jewellery. I lifted out the gun.
No tiara.
I began to panic.

‘It must have fallen out. We have to stop!’ My hand frantically searched the sack for a hole that it might have slipped through. Nothing. ‘Stop, I said!’

Alexander sat back and shook his head. ‘You have failed your first test, Simeon.’ His voice was cold with disappointment. ‘There was no theft. No royal tiara. The jewellery you saw in the house already belongs to the professor.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘You have been tricked, my friend. Fooled from the moment he asked for your help until this very second.’

Events flashed through my mind. I held open the sack. ‘But
I saw
Sirius place the jewellery in here.’

‘No, you didn’t.’ He leaned forward and grabbed it from me. ‘He made an exterior fold in the cloth, like this. Sirius slid the tiara into the fold and lifted the sack as he handed it to you, so you couldn’t look inside. As you lowered it and pulled the drawstring, he palmed the tiara and returned it to his jacket. You should have checked. You really should have checked.’

My mind filled with doubt. ‘And the revolver?’

‘Packed with dust, not gunpowder. Just in case you thought about using it on me and stealing the coach to make a getaway.’

‘I had
not
thought of that.’

‘Then be grateful for your lack of imagination. It would have been the death of you.’

‘And the posh nobs in the house, Lord and Lady Graftbury?’

‘Oh,
they
are genuine. But they are friends of the professor’s and like to play along with him.’

‘Bastards.’

‘He rewards them with the odd piece of stolen art and Sirius is not averse to fucking their daughter, so it works well for everyone.’

I sank into the corner of the cab and wished I could disappear. ‘What was this all about?’ I shrugged in despair. ‘Why was I ridiculed so elaborately?’

‘It is not ridicule; it is the making of you. The professor wishes to test your mental faculties and your progress, that is all. He wants to see if you are ready.’

‘For what?’

‘For whatever he has in mind.’ He smiled in a way that intimated he could say more but chose not to.

We settled into our seats and mulled over respective thoughts before the motions of the brougham and the darkness of night lured us into slumber.

It was exceptionally late and dangerously icy when we arrived back at the house. I stuck close to Alexander as we headed indoors, but he insisted he didn’t need my help. I bade him good night in the main hallway and went straight to bed but could not get another wink of sleep.

I had failed my test.

Failed it miserably and in the morning I would have to face the wrath of the professor. The thought was too much to bear.

After several restless hours, I got dressed and went downstairs to the kitchen. It was cloaked in darkness save the faint flicker of a fire in the range. I headed there to warm my hands and stir the embers. To one side, I saw a lamp and decided to light it and at least comfort myself with some bread and cheese.

‘Simeon? Is that you?’

Surrey was sat on the floor, cowering in the corner of the room.

‘What is wrong? Are you all right?’

She did not answer. From my light, I could see she was dressed as the raggedy boy I had first encountered in Manchester. The brightness of the lamp caused her to blink and shield her eyes as I approached.

I saw other things now. A tied sack on the floor. Her hands caked in dried blood. Red-stained gloves between her legs, as though dropped there. And a knife.

I went to the big, deep, oblong sink, put in a plug and ran water. ‘Come here – bring that blade and gloves.’

She didn’t move.

I returned, grabbed her by the wrist and hauled her to the sink. ‘You have to clean up.’ There were spatters of blood on her forehead and smears on her cheek, where she had wiped herself with a hand or forearm.

Surrey stood shaking. She stared blankly at the wall while I cleaned her up as best I could. I dipped her hands in the water, mopped her face with a cloth and dried her with a towel. But I had barely scratched the surface of what was necessary. ‘Surrey, there’s blood all over your waistcoat, your shirt and pants. Even your shoes.’

‘I’ll change and burn them.’ These were the first words she had spoken since saying my name. ‘Change and burn,’ she repeated as though drilling herself. ‘Change and burn.’

I went to get the hessian sack. ‘This will need dealing with as well.’

‘Don’t touch it!’ She looked angry. ‘Please,
don’t
, Simeon.’

‘I am trying to help you.’

‘I know you are. And you have. You helped a great deal.’ She put herself between me and the sack. ‘But leave me now. I am fine.’

‘I am not sure you are.’

‘Go!
Please
, just go.’

I dried my hands on the towel and looked at the bloody stains. ‘Make sure you burn this as well.’ I threw it down and headed to the door.

‘Simeon!’

I turned to her. ‘What?’

‘Don’t tell the professor you saw me. Whatever you do, don’t tell him. It would not be good for either of us to speak of this.’

The visit to Louise Masset’s cell left a profound and painful impression on me, one far deeper than Boardman’s splintered teeth and oafish fists had done.
Her
ordeal was
my
ordeal. I had glimpsed my own death. Felt the hangman’s clammy hand on my neck.

I spent the next hours wondering if my imagination, perhaps even my conscience, had conjured up the chilling vision of her. Had the ghost of an executed child killer really appeared to me? Was it possible that after being hanged, your spirit stayed trapped in the place where you ended your life? Were all cells and gallows haunted by the ghosts of those who had died there?

This was what awaited me – a form of purgatory. I would be killed and buried, but every night my restless soul would roam the death cell.

I had to escape. Had to use that inconsequential nail to break apart every brick of my damned cell and claim my freedom. Anger boiled inside me. Anger at my helplessness and at those responsible for my imprisonment.

My rage was curtailed by a visit from Huntley and a sandy-haired turnkey with a twitch in his left eye. ‘Routine cell search, Lynch. Stand up, place your hands on the wall – you know the drill.’

I did indeed. Huntley patted me down while his twitching accomplice walked the slim space between bunk and window. He shook out my mattress and checked my pot before declaring, ‘All in order, sir.’

‘Pleased to hear it. Now wait outside, while I talk to the prisoner.’

‘Sir, it is protocol that there are always two of us with prisoners—’

‘I know the protocol; now wait
outside
, I said.’

‘Yes, sir.’

The twitcher left. Huntley watched the door click shut then turned to me. ‘I need to speak in privacy, Lynch.’

I eyed him suspiciously. We had not talked since before my visit to chapel. ‘Talk away, Mr Huntley. As you can see, privacy is something I have an abundance of.’ I looked beyond him. My gaze fixed on the nail that nestled in the gap in the masonry and I wondered if he had been responsible for it coming my way.

‘I am part of a new breed of graduate officers,’ he said, ‘sent to old places like this to clean up the prison service. That means at times I am even less popular than you.’

‘Ha! People want to hang you, do they, Mr Huntley?’

‘Some would. Gaols like this are either being cleaned up or closed down. Newgate is rotten to the core. Built on bribery and corruption, it will be gone within half a decade. Probably sooner.’

‘A pity it won’t close in a few days.’

‘You will not be that fortunate. Still, as one of the officers supervising this unit, I have the means to make your life more comfortable.’

‘More comfortable? That sounds an impossible task to me.’ I waved a hand sarcastically across the cell. ‘As you can see, I already have all the luxuries a man could wish for – just look at that fine shit pot in the corner.’

‘The prison is overcrowded, so you cannot be moved. I understand this cell was a storeroom just six months ago, such is the pressure on the building.’

‘I weep for it. Poor building.’

‘Lynch, I am trying to be kind. I cannot relocate you, but I may be able to arrange some
company
in here for you, if you wish.’

‘I do
not
wish. I have never been with a whore and never will.’

‘Many of our female prisoners are also in need of comfort.’

‘No, thank you.’

‘I noticed from the record books that you have not yet been given access to the exercise yard. From now on, you will be regularly afforded that privilege. It is important for the mind that the body is exercised.’

‘And my soul, is that to be attended to as well?’

‘I was pleased to see that you went to chapel. I knew you were a Catholic but I thought you might find comfort there.’

‘Comfort in the crucifixion, the pain of Christ and the
nails
of the cross?’ I stressed the word to see if he reacted.

He didn’t.

‘We all carry a cross of sorts, Lynch.’

‘Do we really? Then please tell me what is your cross, Mr Huntley.’

‘I believe it is to serve inside institutions like this and extend humanity to men like you.’

‘Humanity? Let’s not dress this up to appear better than it is. Execution is no grander than murder in the name of the Crown.’

‘It is the will of the people.’

‘In my experience, the will of the people is determined by whoever pays them or whatever gin or strong ale they’ve been drinking.’

‘There is truth in that.’ Huntley smiled and knocked on the door for it to be opened.

‘Which are you?’ I asked.

‘What do you mean?’ He looked at me quizzically.

‘Friend or foe, Mr Huntley? Which one are you?’

‘I am just doing my duty, Lynch. Just doing my duty.’ He knocked on the door for it to be opened.

I retired to bed immediately after leaving Surrey in the kitchen, but still could not sleep. I lay on my back in the blackness of the room and remembered the fear on her face, the blood on her hands and that mysterious sack on the floor.

What jewels or goods had it contained that were worth spilling blood for?

Most probably killing for. Why had she been so anxious that I did not talk about seeing her? Was it because she wasn’t supposed to have been seen by anyone? Or was it simply because she was ashamed of the state she was in?

A bigger question came to mind. Had I just experienced a glimpse of what would be my own future? Killing to order. Murder at Moriarty’s behest. And all the anguish that went with it.

I was still struggling for answers when a servant knocked on my door and informed me that my morning session with Mr Brannigan had been cancelled. Instead, I was to join the professor in the orangery as soon as possible.

As I entered that cold glass room, I saw him sitting by a frosted window overlooking the snow-covered lawn. He was in only his shirtsleeves and seemed oblivious to the chill. A copy of a newspaper called the
New York Times
was spread on his table. Next to it was a silver coffee pot, the long spout arched gracefully like the neck of a swan, and a white cup.

I approached his table. ‘Good morning, sir.’

He looked up. ‘Good morning, Simeon. Come and sit. I have ordered eggs and ham for us both. A breakfast I grew fond of while in New York.’ He folded up his paper and put it to one side. ‘My mother was American, God bless her soul, and when my father was away on business, she would sometimes instruct the kitchen to cook up meals that reminded her of home.’

‘Like ham and eggs, sir?’

‘And waffles, and grits, and apple pie.’ His eyes softened with nostalgia then in a blink hardened again as he asked, ‘What did you make of your performance at Lord Graftbury’s yesterday?’

‘Not a great deal, sir. I know that I failed. Most miserably.’

‘You did. But the odds were somewhat unfair. Let me see, there was Alex, myself, Lord and Lady Graftbury, their pug of a daughter, and Sirius; that’s six against one. Oh, and of course the butler, Giles; that’s seven. Furthermore, we all knew exactly what you were going to do and when you were going to do it.’

I felt heartened by his words. ‘I take some comfort from that observation.’

‘You should. But only a little. To survive in life, you will often face greater odds and opponents with more knowledge of a situation than you have. The lesson, Simeon, is to always check that what
appears
to be so, really
is
so.’

‘I will, sir. I will.’

‘Remember, Truth is not a friend, he is a deceitful enemy.’

‘I will.’

A maid arrived and put down plates laden with heavy slabs of tangy, salted gammon and huge, fried duck eggs. Moriarty punctured one of the deep yellow yolks and watched with satisfaction as it flooded his plate. ‘Eat,’ he urged. ‘We will continue our discussion when you are nourished.’

I was grateful for the chance to do so because I had missed two meals yesterday. So good was the smell and taste of the food that it was a struggle to remember my manners and not to wolf it all down.

Despite my efforts at self-restraint, I finished long before Moriarty did.

He picked up his napkin, wiped his mouth and put the egg-yellowed square of cotton to one side. ‘It is time for us to speak openly. About you and about why I have brought you here.’

‘I am eager to know, sir.’

‘I am sure you are. You were chosen, Simeon, by me and by no one else. I saw you box as a young workhouse boy and noticed a spark of innate savagery in you. I even won some good money on your fists. As a result, I made enquiries and my men traced you to your last abode in Manchester.’