The Sin Eater (29 page)

He came down the last few stairs, and bent over her. As he pulled her to her feet, severe pain twisted through her injured foot, and Nell tumbled all the way down into complete unconsciousness.

B
enedict had intended to be back at the flat to see Nell before she set off for Holly Lodge, but on the way back from buying his newspaper he had looked in at a second-hand bookshop, where he had become absorbed in several books about Victorian street life. Among them was a dictionary of Victorian colloquialisms, titled ‘Slang, Cant and Flash Phrases', which he thought might be useful for his essay on Victorian crimes. It was battered and foxed, but it was full of what appeared to be genuine nineteenth-century jargon, and Benedict bartered happily with the bookseller, whose day would have been ruined if a customer paid up without challenge, then walked slowly back to the flat, thumbing through the pages.

It meant Nell had left when he got back, but Nina was there, still putting together her Silver Wedding dinner. She told Benedict she was disgustingly
behind schedule, and if he had nothing else to do, could he possibly lend a hand, because at this rate the duck à la Montmorency would not be ready for the clients' Golden Wedding, never mind the Silver one.

It was twelve o'clock before Nina finally bore the duck portions off, and Benedict switched on the laptop to work on his essay. Most of what he had written so far was still in note form, but he thought it was a fairly good outline of what he meant to do. As he started to type, he wondered how Nell was getting on at Holly Lodge and if she had found anything valuable.
Like tell-all diaries signed by Declan and dated c.1898?
his mind said cynically.

But he was not going to think about Declan. He was becoming convinced that the medical explanation was right, and that it was probably better to suffer from multiple personality disorder – and have proper pills to keep it in its place – than to suffer from some peculiar form of possession by a set of ghosts. Declan had existed, of course, and Benedict might some day track down the registration of his birth or death. But apart from finding Flossie Totteridge's name on the Title Deeds of Holly Lodge, there was nothing to indicate that anyone else in that wild tale had ever lived. And most likely Benedict had seen Flossie's name written down somewhere – probably in Holly Lodge that day of his parents' funeral – and it had lodged in his subconscious.

With last night's conversation with Nell still fresh in his mind, he set about describing the backdrop to the crimes he would be examining. How England in general and London in particular would have looked and sounded; how people would have talked. He reached for ‘Slang, Cant and Flash Phrases' again, and began delightedly typing in the colourful phrases from the 1880s and 1890s, wondering what the cracksmen and magsmen and dollymops would make of today's expressions. What would they think if they heard us saying it was a night when many stars were present? thought Benedict. Or talking about emailing on a BlackBerry, or texting somebody? He smiled, and worked on, enjoying the vivid language of the Victorian streets, and the famous rhyming slang, traces of which were still around today.

And the chaunters and the penny gaffs and mobsmen, Benedict . . .

Chaunters. Benedict had come across references to penny gaffs which seemed to have been low-class theatres, and also of mobsmen – well-dressed swindlers. But chaunters? He reached for the book again, but the expression was not listed. Then he must have seen it or heard it somewhere else. Research was magpie-ism and serendipity anyway. He typed another couple of paragraphs, but he was feeling as if something invisible had plucked lightly at strings in his mind, and as if his mind was still thrumming gently.

Chaunters. He would do a web search in a minute. It sounded as if it might be singing.

Singing, for sure, Benedict . . . They sang for money, the chaunters . . . The first time we heard them was down by the river, with the fog like diseased smoke so a man couldn't see his way. And we thought we were hearing the voices of the Sidhe who'd call to you from beneath the sea, but it was chaunters, inside a tavern, earning their supper . . .

‘Will you just sod off?' said Benedict out loud, and felt Declan's ruffle of amusement.

It's the truth I'm telling you
, said Declan.
And there was one night down by the river . . .
The silvery threads of thought stopped suddenly, and for the first time Benedict felt a hesitation and a withdrawal. Then Declan said,
Oh, what the hell, you know most of it already . . . Listen now, on the night we found Harold Bullfinch—

‘Who?' said Benedict, before he could stop himself.

Haven't you been paying attention to anything? Harold Bullfinch was the abortionist, the black-hearted villain who killed Romilly
. . .

Romilly. Romilly, who had red hair and who had run away from Kilglenn after Nicholas Sheehan seduced her in the old watchtower on the Moher Cliffs. How could I have forgotten Romilly? thought Benedict.

On the night we found Bullfinch's body, the chaunters were singing in the taverns by the river . . . And, oh God, Benedict, it was so cold and dank in those streets, and it was so lonely to stand outside the taverns . . . Wanting to go in and have a bit of cheer and the company of others . . . But we didn't dare do that, not till we had the jacket back
. . .

The river fog was everywhere. It muffles everything – you wouldn't know that, would you, for you've almost got rid of fog in your clean modern world. But when you walked through one of those old fogs you'd feel as if you'd fallen into another world altogether. And it was a frightening world, Benedict, you can't know how frightening it was
. . .

Declan and Colm could scarcely see their way after they left the cab and walked through the fog-shrouded streets to where they had left Harold Bullfinch's body.

‘But we have to do this,' Colm said. ‘If anyone finds your jacket they'll know who you are and half the police in London will be hunting you as a killer.'

‘I didn't kill Bullfinch,' said Declan, but he still felt strange and unconnected to the world, which he thought was because of falling down the river steps and knocking himself out. He was not, in fact, convinced that he was entirely conscious yet; walking at Colm's side, the world had an unreal quality, in which he could only remember fragments of what had been happening during the last few hours.

And then a sliver of very recent memory dropped into place, and he said, ‘Colm, you said you were at Holly Lodge all of today.'

‘I was. With that voracious harpy, Floss Totteridge.'

‘But I saw you,' said Declan. ‘You were out here. I saw you crossing the road on the corner of Clock Street.' He stopped and turned to face Colm. The fog swirled thickly around them, but a disc of blurred light from a street gas lamp touched Colm's face with colour.

‘I went to Bidder Lane,' said Colm, after a moment. ‘To the house where Romilly lived.'

‘Why?'

‘I thought there might be some of her things there. I wasn't going to leave them for that harridan to sell. But I didn't tell you, because I didn't want you to think I was a moonstruck simpleton.'

Declan did not say they had both always been a bit moonstruck by Romilly. He said, ‘Were there any of her things there?'

‘A rosary and a crucifix wrapped in a bit of silk.' Colm was walking on again, his hands dug deeply into his pockets, not looking at Declan. ‘I took those. Keepsakes.'

Before Declan could say anything else, he pointed to the open door of a tavern on the corner of Clock Street and Bidder Lane. The music Declan dimly remembered hearing earlier was still going on – the jangly piano and voices raised in blurred song. Someone must have thrown open the door, because the scents of smoke and ale and hot food reached them.

‘God, wouldn't you sell your soul to be able to go in there and be part of all that?' said Colm, echoing Declan's thoughts as he so often did.

‘I would. Like Fintan's Bar at home, where we'd be recognized and welcomed, and it'd be a grand evening. Colm, couldn't we go in . . . ?'

‘We could not. We have to rescue your jacket from the abortionist's corpse before anyone finds it.' Colm spoke sharply, but he put out a hand to Declan's shoulder as he said it. ‘Come on, now, we're almost at the river steps. If you pass out now, I'll throw you in the river.'

‘If I pass out I'll probably fall into the river without your help.'

The river steps were as dank and eerie as Declan remembered. Here was the ledge stretching out along the quayside wall; even with the fog swirling everywhere he could make out the circular hole with the brick surround. He pointed to it, wanting to delay the moment until they had to approach Bullfinch's body.

‘What would that be, d'you think?'

‘An overflow outlet of an old sewer, I should think. They'd have the – what is it called? – the effluence discharging into sewer pits inside there,' said Colm. ‘When it reached a certain level, it'd overflow and gush out into the river.'

‘Effluence being a polite word for a load of shit?'

‘When was I ever polite?' Colm had turned away from the sewer tunnel, and was looking down the steps. ‘He's still there,' he said, in an expressionless voice. ‘Isn't that a terrible thing for a man's body to lie sodden and dead by itself. But your jacket's there as well, that's one mercy. Are you ready to sprint down those steps and snatch it up? We'll have to be fast, because we don't want to be recognized and we don't know who might be watching.'

‘Watching, where from?' said Declan, looking about him.

‘Anywhere. Those warehouses, barges on the river. Will you do the sprint, or will I?'

‘I'll do it,' said Declan, and thought:
I don't need to look at what's under the jacket. I don't even need to think about it.
Before he could change his mind, he was down the steps, snatching up the jacket, and racing back up again.

‘Good,' said Colm, softly. ‘Very good indeed.'

‘What now?'

‘Back to the lodging. We'll get a cab again.'

‘Can we afford it?'

‘Your man down there can,' said Colm.

‘We're still using his money?'

‘He doesn't need it,' said Colm.

They spent an uncomfortable night in the narrow lodging house. Colm appeared to sleep, but Declan lay wakeful, watching the shadows dance on the ceiling, seeing them form into the outline of a twisted hunched figure lying on river steps. I didn't do it, he thought. I didn't kill him – I'd know if I had. But every time this denial formed, trailing it like an unquiet spectre, was the question: can you be sure?

There were four other lodgers eating breakfast when they went downstairs next morning. There had been no introductions, but they had all shared meals during the last few days, and they had nodded in offhand friendship. Declan thought the men looked down on them; he thought they regarded himself and Colm as innocents, unschooled lambs who might be ripe for fleecing. Colm had said this was rubbish, and he and Declan were as good as anyone in London.

But this morning, as they sat down at the long scrubbed table, with the platters of bread and margarine and jugs of strong tea, there was no doubt that the other lodgers were looking at them.

It was one of the older men who passed them a morning newspaper – they saw it was a local publication, covering this part of North London.

‘Bad affair that,' he said, and his eyes seemed to rest on Declan and Colm with curiosity.

They read the story together.

BRUTAL MURDER OF MAN IN CANNING TOWN.

The body of a middle-aged man was last night found on the river steps near the old Bidder Lane sewer. The man, whose name police have not yet released, is believed to have died during the early evening. Readers will recall how thick fog covered most of Canning Town last night – a circumstance which appears to have aided the killer in his grim work.

The victim's injuries are described as savage, and reports of a young man with dark hair, seen wandering the area at the time, have already been passed to the police by local residents. One person, living just off Clock Street, thought the young man had an Irish accent, although this has not been corroborated.

Any persons who may have information as to the possible identity of such a man, are most earnestly requested to give details to their local police station or patrolling constable.

This paper feels it is a tragic day when an honest citizen of our town cannot walk abroad without dying at the hands of what appears to be a crazed murderer. People living in the area are warned not to go out alone after dark.

Editor's Note: The Bidder Lane outlet – which runs almost parallel with Bidder Lane and the intersection of Clock Street – is one of London's older sewer tunnels. Created as part of Joseph Bazalgette's sewer network in the Sixties, it fell into disuse more than ten years ago.

‘Shocking,' said Declan, passing back the paper, managing to speak normally. ‘Aren't there some evil people in London?'

‘No worse than in Galway, though,' said Colm. ‘Have we milk on the table this morning? Would you pass it over, please?'

They were able to finish their breakfasts in relative calm, although Declan thought afterwards that bread and raspberry jam would forever afterwards taste of fear.

Back in their room, Colm said, ‘We have to leave this house.'

‘They're suspicious of us, aren't they? “An Irish accent” the paper said.'

‘We aren't the only Irish in London, for pity's sake,' said Colm, angrily, but he was already putting their few things together. ‘But we'll settle up our account here so no one can remember us for non-payers, and then we'll be off as soon as we can.'