The Prince of Eden (15 page)

It made no difference. With his eyes closed, Edward smiled.

The dream soared. These sudden discoveries, flashing upon him simultaneously, were quite sufl^icient to put a summary close to all thought. For all practical purposes, nothing mattered, not the death of William Pitch, the imprisonment of Charlotte Longford, the omnipres-

ence of his brother, James, the designation of bastard, not even that softest of memories, his beloved mother.

There! What was that? A soaring rose-colored cloud. By hurrying, he just reached out for it and was lifted, spiraling, into the heavens . ..

For three days, Daniel Spade released the classes an hour early and sent the children, all those old enough and wise enough in the ways of London, out onto the streets in search of Edward.

Thus far, the concerted effort had produced nothing. Word came back from every criminal stronghold of London that the Prince of Eden had not been seen, was indeed nowhere about.

Now on the morning of the fourth day, Daniel, sick with worry, called old John Murrey to his study, a large linen pantry converted to its present use. He could not cover his friend's absence much longer. Jane Locke had sent repeated messengers around, requesting Edward's support at the funeral service for William Pitch. The service had come and gone, and still the man was missing. Now on his desk was a scrawled message, spirited out of Newgate by one of Edward's friends, from Charlotte Longford. The day of punishment was drawing near. "Dear Edward, please help if you can," she begged, even the rough parchment seeming to bear the stench of the place. Then in the morning post, the letter from Lady Eden. Daniel could only guess at its contents.

Sunk with distress, Daniel was not at first aware of John Murrey standing before his desk. Then he caught the whiff of stables and looked up.

"John," he began, trying for a degree of calm in his voice which he did not feel. "I want you to take me again to the place where you last saw Mr. Eden. Will you do that?"

The old man shrugged as though to say it was useless. But he went out to bring the carriage around. Daniel remained a moment longer at his desk, not at all certain he was doing the right thing. But what alternative course was there? This had never happened before, was totally without precedent. To be sure, Edward had wandered, had vanished for days at a time, into the Holy Land of Bloomsbury, down to Gheapside, but he'd always let Daniel know, either by direct word, or messenger. This time? Four days gone and not a word from Edward.

Beyond the door he spied a volunteer just passing. He summoned her, a plain, hefty woman named Matilda Davis who had fled the steel-pen factory on Newhall Street for volunteer work in Daniel's Ragged School.

"I'm afraid I must ask you to take all the classes today—"

"No bother, sir."

"I'm having John lead me over the route again." He shook his head. "We must have missed something. He may be ill—"

"I quite understand, sir." Her gentle manner was pleasing, even when she softly suggested, "Not none of us could do very long without Mr. Eden, now could we, sir?"

"No," he said, and wondered if she fully understood the extent to which they all were dependent upon the man.

Outside in the corridor, he heard the children just filing down for prayers and breakfast. "You'd better hurry along, Matilda," he urged. "Are you sure you can—"

She waved a hasty farewell, then she was gone, her voice lovingly herding the children down the steps into the banqueting hall.

As the children's voices dwindled down into the vast recesses of the house, he straightened his desk. He tucked the two personal messages for Edward inside the drawer, then stood, preparing himself for the mysterious neighborhood a distance from the Embankment, the place where Edward was last seen alive.

The staircase was empty. Beyond the broad opened front door, he saw John Murrey patiently waiting beside the carriage. Behind him he heard the children's voices sweetly raised in a morning hymn; it set a mournful mood. As he hurried down the steps, out of the corner of his eye, he saw movement, a quick darting brown something which hid just out of sight to one side of the stone steps. He considered investigating, but decided against it. He'd wasted enough time.

Daniel crawled into the carriage and watched as John pulled himself laboriously up onto the high seat. With his concentration focused in one direction, Daniel was only partially aware of a small weight apparently settling on the rear of the carriage, as though someone had swung up onto the carriage rack.

As John was about to lay the whip lightly across the horses' backs, Daniel craned his neck about, and through the small oval window behind caught a quick glimpse of a small form clinging to the back of the carriage.

"Wait up!" he shouted to John. In some irritation he climbed out of the door and strode around to the rear. "What in the—" Slowly he shook his head at the sight of a young girl clinging to the back of the carriage, her head down, ostrich-fashion, as though if she didn't see, she wouldn't be seen.

At the sound of his voice she slowly lifted her head. He did not recognize her at first. The last time he'd seen her, she'd been covered

with filth, her hair hanging matted over her face, obscuring her features. Then he remembered her, the child, Elizabeth, that Edward had brought to him after his night in Newgate. She was washed and scrubbed now, and wearing a plain brown muslin dress, less a child than perhaps he had originally assessed her to be. Though her face was still pale, she stared defiantly back at him.

"Elizabeth," he scolded. "What are you doing? Breakfast has commenced. I hope you realize you're quite late—"

He extended a hand to help her, but she drew quickly back and renewed her grip on her precarious perch, made doubly precarious, he noticed now, by her mutilated hand, which could not grip at all.

The sight of the hand and the fright in her eyes caused him to alter his approach. By now John Murrey had joined him, his wrinkled face a complex expression of puzzlement and anger. "Get down with you," the old man shouted, as though the carriage were his domain and the sight of ruflSans clinging to it offended him.

But the girl held her position just beyond their reach, and a moment later climbed even higher, wriggling like a monkey almost to the top. John Murrey's anger clearly vaulted. Now he extended his whip upward until the tip was touching her leg. "You heard me," he shouted, hoarsely. "Climb down or I'll climb up and pull you down.'*

Behind them on the pavement, Daniel was aware of several curious passers-by. The old man's shouts were attracting considerable attention. "That's enough, John," he counseled quietly. "Let me try."

Cursing, John Murrey turned away and dragged his whip through his fingers as though he were most eager to use it on the stowaway.

Daniel stepped close to the rear of the carriage until he was looking straight up. "Elizabeth," he begged, keeping his voice low and soothing. "You must come down. Classes will be starting—"

"Don't want to go to no classes," she muttered sullenly. "I want to go with you."

"Elizabeth, please," he begged softly. "I can't take you with me—"

"Why not?" she demanded.

"Where I'm going is not—"•

"I know where you're going," she replied. She ceased talking and tried to renew her grip on the high upper railing. Suddenly her foot slipped. As the mutilated hand reached out for support and failed, she fell halfway down the rear of the carriage, a scraping descent which stirred a collective "Ah" from the crowd.

Before Daniel could protest, two men in corduroy jackets rushed forward and grabbed her legs and pulled her down to the pavement, their rough faces delighted with their accomplishment.

She gave a little scream and tried quickly to get to her feet again, but both men held her pinned. "That's enough," Daniel ordered, stepping forward. "Leave her alone."

"Only showin' you how to git cherries out of the tree. Guv," one man grinned.

"You can't let a piece like that go orderin' you about," the other agreed.

"I said leave her alone," Daniel repeated. Hurriedly he reached down and lifted the girl to her feet. He took her sternly by the arm and led her around to the carriage door. More to get her off the street than anything, he shoved her inside, then crawled in after her.

A few moments later as the carriage started forward, he saw a look of pleasure on her face, as though she had set a goal for herself and achieved it.

"You're going again to try to find Mr. Eden. But you've not had much luck, have you?"

"Do you think you know where he is, Elizabeth?"

"I may," she said vaguely.

He regarded her searchingly for a moment, then formed his own opinion. She knew no more than he did.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Spade," she murmured. "I didn't mean to cause no trouble. It's just that—we must find him." She leaned still closer, her young face almost sunk with earnestness. "He may need us," she concluded with devastating simplicity.

So engrossed was he in the girl's attitude and manner that Daniel was not at first aware of the carriage rolling to a halt. Not until he heard John Murrey's voice shouting down at him, "This is it, sir, this is the spot," did he look up.

Before he could speak, she was out of the carriage, standing absolutely motionless on the pavement as though listening. He followed after her and looked about at the disreputable lane. Nothing stirred, not even the trees in the stillness of morning. On either side of the street were faded old Elizabethan mansions. Many of the windows appeared to be coated by a black paste, composed of ancient soot and dampness, and every gray and crumbling exterior wore an aspect of gloom. Growing around these ancient relics was nature gone awry, swift-climbing tentacles of green vines that in some cases scaled the gray stones to the top of the towers, here and there the outline of a dead garden, jasmine and roses strangling each other, lilac bushes unattended, grown to trees.

There was all this, and nothing more, no sight or sound of life save for the whimpering horses who stamped lightly at the pavement as though sensing the death about them.

Discouraged, Daniel made an aimless trip up and down on the pavement. He looked back at Elizabeth, who continued to stand, unmoving, in the same spot into which she'd alighted from the carriage.

Then without warning, she was running toward Number Two, a particularly large gray mansion, its front terrace cluttered with fallen statuary.

"Wait," he shouted after her, feeling a need to stay close beside her. But she would not wait and ran nimbly across the broken terrain, her feet devouring the territory as though it were familiar and she knew precisely where she was going.

Still a distance behind her, he saw her climb the steps and pound frantically on the boarded front door. "There's nothing there, Elizabeth," he called after her. "Can't you see?"

But as he was climbing the steps, he saw two of the boards give, slide to one side as though they were attached to a panel. And just beyond the door, standing in the gloomy interior, he saw an apparition of a man, a dwarf with a hunchback, his withered frame encased in a ragged black cape, his voice now raucously protesting Elizabeth's intrusion. "Wait up, you baggage," he shouted, flailing his short arms uselessly, "this here's a gintlemen's place—"

But Elizabeth would not be deterred. As she slipped from sight into the dark interior, Daniel increased his step, thinking perhaps that he should have brought help with him, of a different kind, something more substantial than a frail girl.

Now as Daniel slipped through the narrow opening, the dwarf seemed to be suffering extreme distress. He danced from one side to the other, a macabre jig on stumpy legs, still protesting the intrusion. As he focused on Daniel, he changed his approach, grew quite apologetic. "No harm, sir. My name's St. Peter and I run a respectable place. Such nobs as you can see for yourself."

Daniel stepped forward into the gloom, scarcely altered by two wall torches. There was a hideous stench to the place. Following the direction of the dwarf, Daniel ventured forward through the hall until he stood looking out over a vast room, one of the most incredible sights he'd ever seen, barren of all furnishings save for coffinlike bunks and perhaps as many as seventy-five men lying about in somnambulent states, inert figures, not quite corpses for there was faint movement now and then as a heavy head lifted, then turned away in apathy.

As he stared, he was then aware of Elizabeth, moving determinedly down the rows of coffinlike bunks. In her hand she held a candle and before each bunk she thrust the flame forward, clearly and closely examining each addict.

Still Daniel continued to stare, almost frozen in his abhorrence of the waste before him. And a few moments later when Elizabeth returned, her face lost in shadows of defeat, he felt a peculiar relief. "Come," he whispered, taking her arm. "We'll not find him here."

But the dwarf stepped forward and stretched out his hand, childishly-plump, and with a half-bow, he whispered, "Is it a gintleman you're looking for?" Without waiting for a reply, he went on, mindlessly grinning, "If so, this here is only the first layer." The pudgy hand pointed toward the crumbling stairs. "The gintlemen gits put upstairs," he beamed. "Don't rightly know their names, don't mind to know, but-"

Before he could finish, Elizabeth was taking the stairs two at a time. Daniel looked back into the enormous room filled with silent faces, then started heavily up the stairs after Elizabeth, where he now heard a series of doors being opened, then shut.

At the top of the landing he looked in both directions. She was no place in sight. The corridor was dark and airless, and lining the walls were bales of straw. "Elizabeth?" he called.

His voice echoed emptily about the walls. He looked back. Apparently the dwarf had elected to remain behind. But Daniel saw him, standing in the hall below, grinning up, bobbing his head as though he approved of the search. "In the rear room. Guv," he called up. "There's a gintleman there, a vargin who took to it right enow. Another gintleman brung him, paid his bill, then left. Check on that one and see if it's yourn gintleman."