CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Philidor

IT WAS DUSK when he stood behind the trollop and thrust within her, exalting yet again in the superiority of his masculinity over the female form. This woman, initially emboldened with her coloured lips and taunting leer, was now dominated by him. And all it had taken were a few coins. Her addiction to the bottle compelled her to accept; like all of her type, she was using the one asset she possessed that men didn’t.

He had chosen this one for her sheer vulgarity. The pretty ones, he’d learnt, thought they could afford to be choosy, decline an offer or curl a lip in disgust at his demands. The ugly ones were more than desperate to keep gin running down their throats in order to fill the vacant spaces in their minds.

He pressed his fingers harder into the girl’s buttocks and heard her stifle a yelp. He smiled and thrust deeper still. She deserved this. A filthy harlot with a filthy habit who was beneath his notice under ordinary circumstances. He stared at the white skin of her buttocks over which pink sores were spattered. Elanor’s face, her unblemished skin, rose before him. He jolted with the memory, and his desire slackened. Elanor possessed something that pulled at his insides. She was the opposite of the slut in front of him now; the opposite of even his favourite at the Strand. Elanor was what he’d wanted at the very beginning. Before it had all become … like this.

He closed his eyes tightly and conjured up Elanor’s face clearly in his mind and as his desire rose again he gave a weak push and released. For a moment all was well as his nails cut further into the woman’s flesh and held her fixed in position. He felt her relax and sensed her impatience to be gone. He opened his eyes.

In repulsion he turned away as she went through her primitive ablutions. The alley in which they stood was dark, long and choked by refuse, with a few deep doorways along its walls. Surely more than one pair of eyes was watching them; nowhere was private in this city, and part of the thrill was hunting for his next conquest, then feeling desire rise as he was led down a dingy stairwell or cobbled alley. But now that he’d seen Elanor and been touched by her purity, the seduction of the chase seemed suddenly shameful.

The trollop rearranged her skirts and walked away without even a goodbye, limping slightly. He smiled at her discomfort – she would not forget him even though the gin would be down her throat in less than five minutes.

He stood in the middle of the alleyway and lit a cigar, content to let the unseen eyes watch him further, his exposed back like a challenge. But he knew the wretches who haunted these spots were not pickpockets or murderers: they were living skeletons who crawled into the gloom of doorways and corners to curl up and waste away in soft grey clouds of rags and sighs. Surely the Collector could not trace him here amongst such misery.

Philidor blew the smoke out slowly. A shiny black carriage rumbled past the mouth of the alley; a mongrel sniffed at manure; a group of young swells, dressed impeccably, sauntered across the street, passing around a bottle while they sang.

Money. He sucked deeply on his cigar and blew out smoke in a rush as he recollected his visit to the bank that afternoon; the tight face of the manager, the way he clasped his hands in front of him on the desk, looking at him, Philidor, the great magician, as if he were no more important than a street sweeper.

‘Upon further reading and assessment of the terms of your loan, Mr Philidor, we have invited you here to discuss some particulars that need further … clarification,’ the manager had said, through lips so pale they blended into the rest of his face. The man’s whiskers were impeccable, and his skin was translucent from a life spent safely within the stone walls and columns of the bank. He had clearly never known hunger, pain, misfortune, struggle or suffering – and now he was dangling all of these before Philidor as if his hands pulled the strings in a puppet show.

‘Yes?’ said Philidor, his voice low and relaxed. The manager had no idea of the strategist he was facing.

‘This gem, this ring that you have supplied as collateral for the loan – where did you say you purchased it?’

A trap. How amusing.

‘I did not say I purchased it, sir. It’s a family heirloom, passed down from my great-grandmother, to Mother, to me. I am an only child, sadly, with no use for a trinket when I could use the money to further my business.’

‘I see. And this business is a performance, so I understand.’

‘Of sorts – exclusive entertainment, shall we say.’ Philidor decided it was time to close the meeting. ‘I have provided the certificates of authentication, while you have had the diamond independently verified by your own jeweller. Is there something else you need, sir? I find myself pressed for time.’

The manager continued to hold Philidor’s gaze. His thumbs betrayed his cognition by pressing down in turns on each other’s nails, then rotating. Press. Circle. Press. Circle. ‘Yes, this is more of a … formality. I wanted to meet you myself. It is important to the bank that we know our customers well, you understand – for future business.’

‘I understand perfectly.’ Philidor stood up. ‘Good afternoon, sir, and thank you again. If you have any further queries, please do advise me.’

The manager rose and extended his hand to shake Philidor’s. ‘Just one more thing. By chance, one of our employees – our jeweller, in fact – has set out today for France and Hegau, to conduct some business with colleagues there.’ The manager held Philidor’s hand fast, fingertips pressing into the veins along the back. ‘All this travel costs us, regrettably, but it’s important we communicate with our friends on the continent.’

Philidor released himself from the handshake.

‘I even believe,’ the manager continued, ‘our fellow will visit the area in which your jeweller works – the one who valued the ring.’

‘How excellent – a lovely place,’ said Philidor smoothly, and donned his hat. ‘I hope he enjoys himself immensely.’

‘As do we.’ The pale lips stretched into a smile. ‘Have a good afternoon, sir.’

‘I intend on doing just that,’ said Philidor, as the manager shut the door behind him.

Walking down the steps to the street, he ran his finger over his nose and readjusted his hat. Pinetti would not win. The manager would not win. The Collector would not win. Marie would not win. For he, Philidor, was a magician. And the one act of which he was certain was his ability to disappear and reinvent himself if needed.