Changeling

‘. . . messengers were sent all over the land to inquire after the dwarf’s name.’

German Popular Stories, Translated from the Kinder und Haus-Marchen, collected by M. M.

Grimm from oral tradition, 1823

Christian had stayed behind the curtain in the Chelsea house, leaving the rooms in darkness, so that he could watch Flynn Deverill without Flynn knowing.

It was almost two a.m. when Flynn abandoned his watch, dug his hands deeply into his jacket pockets and went back down the road, and Christian smiled to himself. Exactly as he had predicted. Flynn was going back to wherever he lived, and he would spend what was left of the night mulling over what he had seen and what had happened, and he would almost certainly draw the exact conclusions Christian wanted him to draw. It had amused him to lead Flynn through London’s streets, reaching Chelsea only when it suited Christian to do so.

He pulled the curtains tightly across and switched on lights, going quietly about the familiar rooms, packing things into boxes and suitcases. If he was to leave London for any length of time, it was vital to ensure that he left no trace of his identity behind.

It was not very likely that he would do so. Since his father’s death five years ago and his own arrival in London, he had striven for complete anonymity and he had succeeded. The practical side had been the most difficult, but he had overcome it by opening a bank account under the name of Mr Christopher James at a large branch of Barclays in West London. The money that the professor had left had been invested by a broker operating from Dublin, and all income was paid directly into the bank. Gas and electricity bills were dealt with by standing order, and if a repair was needed to the house, Christian wrote to a building contractor, posting the key by registered post, and leaving London while the work was done. As a security measure he always had all the locks changed by a different company after one of these jobs. Ready cash had come from the Soho organisation, so that he had seldom even needed to cash a cheque. He smiled briefly at the memory of the Greasepaint nights. He had enjoyed those; he had enjoyed the power he had wielded over the girls and the street musicians and the rent boys.

Everything had worked, as Christian had known it would, and all that anyone knew about the seldom-seen Mr James was that he led a quiet life, paid his bills scrupulously, and took no part at all in the pleasant little social events that local residents organised and attended. He had not even been labelled a recluse or an oddity; he was simply a lone gentleman who had a house here but who was away a good deal, probably on business, probably at some country cottage. Anonymous. London was full of such people. His neighbours would probably not even notice he had gone for longer than usual this time.

Leaving this house empty for such a long stretch worried him slightly, but he could not risk trying to sell it – a sale would mean solicitors and signing legal documents for which the useful Mr James’s name could not be invoked. He had spent some time considering whether it could be let. This was more feasible; he could write to the bank, instructing them to appoint an estate agent to find a suitable tenant, and it would give him an extra source of income; houses in this part of Chelsea were at a very high premium indeed. But after some thought he had rejected the idea; his father had died a relatively wealthy man, even by today’s standards, and the Soho ring had been profitable while it lasted. Christian did not actually need the money. And even if the bank were given a power of attorney there would still be legalities to deal with and presumably a deed to be signed for a lease arrangement.

It could not be done. It would lay down too many trails and too many clues to his identity and perhaps even to his whereabouts. He would leave the house as it was for the time being, and later he might arrange for one of those house-cleaning firms to come in once a month or so to keep the place aired, and tidy the garden. Payment could be made through the bank, and a doorkey sent with reasonable anonymity. At the back of his mind was also the thought that he might need the house as a bolthole at some future date. He did not foresee having to leave Ireland and Maise again, and he thought his plans were foolproof, but no plan was entirely foolproof, only a fool believed that. Yes, a bolthole in this part of London, where he was not known, would be a very good thing indeed.

As he locked the door and stacked the last suitcase into the car, he was smiling as he remembered Flynn Deverill. Had Flynn really not guessed that there would be spies within the camp; that there would be moles among the motley collection of people that the organisation had drawn in? Christian had known about Flynn’s visit to the Greasepaint from three separate sources – none of them had been the doorman or Bill the barman – and he had known that Flynn was planning to watch the meeting from a hiding place and then slip out to follow him. He had known from these spies as well, that the police had not taken Flynn’s statement about a masked intruder very seriously. Were you extravagant and rude with them, Flynn? he had thought in delight.

Even if the police started to cast about for the intruder, they would find no clues as to his identity. Christian had covered all his tracks and he was perfectly safe.

And now Flynn would follow him to Ireland; Christian knew this as surely as he knew the sun would rise tomorrow. Flynn’s imagination had been caught and fired – possibly his chivalry had been fired as well and certainly his sexual ardour had been aroused by Fael. He would have added up all the clues he had – clues that in some cases had been deliberately left out for him to find – and he would guess at the link with Christian’s father. He would come to Ireland and he would eventually come to Maise.

As he swung the car out towards the west-bound motorway, Rossani’s spirit was filling him up once more, and the evil, erratic mind was in the ascendant.

O never go walking at Beltane at dusk

In company of one whom you know not to trust;

Rossani’s a-prowl and he’s looking for fools;

He’ll cut out your heart and he’ll weave it to gold.

He’ll grind down your bones and he’ll shred up your soul.

O Flynn, thought Christian Roscius, the dark exultant power surging through him; O Flynn, you’re walking into the company of one you should never trust! You’re walking into Rossani’s lair, Flynn, and even though you think you’ve guessed Rossani’s identity, you don’t know the half!

The hatred he had so long felt against the dazzling, successful Flynn scalded through his entire body, leaving him gasping and half-blinded. He was the son of my father’s heart! thought Christian, bitterly. My father stamped Flynn with his own likeness; he made Flynn free in a world that should have been mine! I should have been the one who was welcomed and made much of in the house in Chelsea: guided and sponsored and protected by James Roscius! I should have been the one at Fael Miller’s side on Cauldron’s glittering opening night; the one she smiled at with that blend of interest and sexual awareness!

The agony of jealousy tore through him again, so that for a moment his hands clenched about the steering wheel, and the unwinding ribbon of road wavered before his vision.

Because for all Flynn’s cleverness, it would be Christian himself who would have the final victory. Flynn was walking into Rossani’s lair, and once he was there, the balance would be redressed.

Gilly was a bit startled to find Flynn Deverill on her doorstep and receive the abrupt, off-hand invitation to supper. She was even more startled when he said, ‘This isn’t a ploy to get you into bed, Gilly – not that you aren’t enormously beddable, you understand. All that red hair – the pre-Raphaelite look, very sexy. But I have a thing on my mind just now, and I can’t spare the energy for seducing anyone.’

‘I need an ally,’ said Flynn. ‘There’s a plot going on – at least, I think there is – and I have to uncover it. I don’t want to do it, but I think I have to.’

‘Is it to do with Tod Miller’s murder? And his daughter’s disappearance?’

‘Oh. And there’s a plot.’ Gilly tried the word out, which seemed a bit melodramatic on the face of it, but not when you heard it coming from this extremely melodramatic young man. ‘Why d’you want me as an ally?’ she demanded.

‘Because I need someone inside the company and I don’t want the likes of Julius or the little fowl,’ said Flynn impatiently, as if this ought to be obvious. ‘I want someone who knows what’s been going on inside the Harlequin – someone who really understands about the oddness of everything. Mia’s disappearance just before the first night, and then her death and Tod’s death.’

He paused and a slight frown creased his brow. Gilly looked at him and thought: That’s the motive. He doesn’t want to admit it – he might not even know it – but that’s what’s really driving him. Fael.

Flynn said, ‘I’ve reviewed all the others, and I think you’re the person I want. I think you’re a lady who can be trusted. I’d like Danilo in on it as well because he’s another one you could trust, isn’t he? Would he come out to supper, do you think?’

‘He’s got a new flat in Parkhill Road. Hang on, I’ve got the number somewhere – yes, here it is.’

Flynn wrote down the number, and then said, ‘I’m not wanting to seduce Danilo either, I’d better say that as well, hadn’t I? I haven’t the taste for that. Should I say it to him direct, do you think, or would he be offended?’

‘No, I’m not sure myself,’ said Flynn, and gave Gilly the sudden, blinding smile that threw a good deal of light on the indiscretions of some very surprising ladies indeed. I bet you’ve created some havoc in your time, thought Gilly, appraising Flynn with a shrewd professional eye.

‘Good, so can I. Will we say Luigi’s just off St Martin’s Lane – you know where I mean?’

‘I do. And we will say Luigi’s indeed,’ said Gilly, swept along by the moment and the company.

‘So you see,’ said Flynn, seated opposite Gilly and Danilo in Luigi’s, and eating fresh pasta with industrious pleasure, ‘I’m pretty sure the man I followed from the Greasepaint is the same one I caught in the Harlequin’s cellars.’

‘And he went into Professor Roscius’s old house last night?’ said Danilo, carefully. He and Gilly exchanged looks, the same thing in both their minds. Do we admit to knowing about the Shadow and the Greasepaint meetings?

‘He did,’ said Flynn, reaching for the pepper mill. ‘As well as that, he apparently knew the secret way into and out of the Harlequin. I shouldn’t think more than half a dozen people today know about that.’

‘No, it couldn’t,’ said Flynn. ‘I’ve already thought of that. I went to James Roscius’s funeral five years ago and if you think it was faked—’

‘God, it’s an alluring idea to think of half the music establishment of Western Europe walking mournfully behind an empty box,’ said Flynn. ‘But I shouldn’t think it’s very likely. I should think it’s quite difficult to fake a full-blown funeral. And there was a memorial service at St Martin’s as well.’

‘You’d have to have an awful lot of people in on the fake,’ agreed Gilly. ‘Undertakers and medical people and whatnot.’

‘Exactly. But I did think about it for all that,’ said Flynn. ‘I had all the wild ideas of Roscius being still alive – of having been mutilated in a road accident or a fire—’

‘I thought somebody would say that. Yes, or even that he might have been the victim of some disfiguring disease – leprosy or one of those appalling face cancers. But I don’t really think that’s likely. And you don’t come across many cases of leprosy in Chelsea these days, do you?’

He paused to take another mouthful of pasta, and Danilo said, ‘How old was Roscius when he died?’

‘Oh, barely thirty,’ said Flynn. ‘About my age, in fact. He moved like a young man, although I did wonder—’

‘If there was the faintest crookedness about his spine.’ He refilled their wine glasses, and Gilly and Danilo glanced at one another, both remembering the Shadow. A faint crookedness described him exactly.

Flynn said, as if it had only just occurred to him, ‘It’s quite difficult to convey the – the strangeness of this Shadow creature to someone who hasn’t seen him.’ He drank more wine, looking at them both blandly over the rim of the glass.

There was a silence. Then Danilo said, ‘You know, don’t you? That we – that I was at some of those Sunday-night gatherings?’

‘As a matter of fact,’ said Flynn, setting down his glass and reaching for a wedge of bread, ‘the doorman at the Greasepaint told me.’

‘Only that there was a guy who had managed to get off the drag club circuit into the Harlequin company – deservedly so, he said. And that he had a girl with him who looked like something out of a Burne Jones painting. He’s surprisingly erudite, that doorman.’ Flynn grinned at Gilly, and then looked back at Danilo. ‘It was you he meant, wasn’t it? Yes, I thought it must be. Only someone who genuinely understood about cross-dressing and drag – in a stage sense, I mean – could have managed such brilliant characterisation of Aillen.’

‘We were only on the fringes of that world—’ chimed in Gilly, and thought: Well, you knew it would come out at some point. Here’s the point. She said, furiously, ‘I suppose that’s the only reason you involved us. Because we already knew some of the story.’ She glared at him, and pushed back her chair, ready to fling out of the restaurant in a temper.

‘Listen,’ said Flynn, putting out a hand to stop her, ‘we’d better clear the air on this. I don’t care where you were or what you did – well, short of murder or terrorism or drug-dealing, I don’t care. All right?’

‘Well,’ said Gilly. ‘I suppose so. Yes, all right.’ She subsided into her chair.

Flynn said, ‘In any case, I’m the only one allowed to throw fits of temper.’ He looked at her for a moment and Gilly was unable to decide if he was being serious. ‘The fact that you knew about the Shadow made it easier to explain,’ said Flynn, ‘but I wouldn’t have approached either of you if I hadn’t thought you’d be trustworthy. Or,’ he said, speaking very deliberately, ‘if I thought you were short on guts.’

‘You think there’s danger?’ began Danilo, and then said impatiently, ‘Yes, of course there’s danger. He’s killed twice that we know of—’

Flynn leaned forward. He’s forgotten about being rude and outrageous, thought Gilly. He’s absorbed in this and because it’s caught his interest he hasn’t time to be bored or impatient. And he’s concerned as well – is that for Cauldron, or for Tod Miller’s daughter, I wonder? She said, ‘OK, so we know about this Shadow, and we understand about his oddness and the hypnotic powers he possesses or whatever else they are – so what? What do you want from us?’

‘I did go to the police,’ said Flynn. ‘And they didn’t believe me. In fact the inspector practically accused me of sensationalism.’ He grinned, and said, ‘Admit it now. It’s pretty difficult to describe the Shadow to a police officer.’

Flynn grinned, but said, ‘The thing is that you’ve both seen him; you’ve talked to him.’

‘Yes, but you understand about him. That’s why I asked you out tonight. You see, if the police won’t do anything about this villain, then I must. And that means I’ve got to find out as much as I can about him. To do that, I need a couple of allies who won’t think I’m in the first stages of insanity.’

‘Yes, but it’s all right, you won’t be asked to do anything dangerous. I’ll explain about that in a minute.’

Flynn picked up his glass again, and Gilly said, absently, ‘You’ll be too drunk to do anything at all if you keep sloshing that wine back.’

‘I know it.’ Flynn drained his wine glass and set it down. ‘Now listen. There’s another aspect to all this that also has to be considered.’

‘Yes.’ Flynn looked at Danilo curiously. ‘How did you know I meant that?’

‘Obvious, really,’ said Danilo. ‘We all know that poor, stupid old bugger Tod Miller could never have written Cauldron.’

‘What’s that got to do with it?’ Gilly was glad Danilo had added the word ‘poor’ to his description of Miller.

Danilo glanced at her with indulgent impatience. ‘Gilly, my love, do you truly believe that Tod Miller wrote Cauldron?’ he said. ‘The man hadn’t the – the depth. The subtlety.’

‘I’m not sure either.’ Flynn was pleased to find them both so perceptive. ‘But if we add up all the bits of information we’ve got they make a remarkable total.’ He leaned forward again, ticking the points off on his fingers. Sensitive hands, thought Gilly. Artist’s hands. I’ll bet he’s dynamite in the sack.

‘Think about what we know about our man,’ said Flynn. ‘For starters he looked as if he was living in Professor Roscius’s old house.’

‘And he was in the Harlequin the night Tod Miller was killed,’ contributed Gilly.

‘And,’ said Flynn, ‘the first time I saw him, he was watching Cauldron with a kind of hungry intensity.’

They stopped and looked at one another. ‘You think he wrote it,’ hazarded Gilly. ‘But – would he be capable— The musical side—’ She stopped and stared at Flynn. ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘I’ve just seen what you’re getting at. But I still don’t see why he would kill Mia Makepiece.’

‘If it’s his show he’d kill her to stop her ruining it,’ said Flynn at once. ‘I’d have killed her myself at times if somebody had handed me the means.’

Danilo said, impatiently, ‘Oh, we’d all have killed her for two pins. No, it’s all right, Gilly, I don’t mean it literally. But she was crap in the part.’

‘Well, all right, I’ll allow the Shadow Mia’s murder – if he’s mad, that is – but why would he kill Tod Miller?’

‘Revenge is the likeliest,’ said Flynn. ‘If Miller refused to acknowledge the Shadow as Cauldron’s creator he could have flown into a rage and—’

‘And Julius Sherry accused me of lack of taste,’ said Flynn, eyeing Danilo with amusement and reaching for the wine again. ‘But yes, that could be the way of it.’

‘I do mean more than that,’ said Flynn. He looked at Gilly. ‘You’ve guessed, haven’t you?’

Gilly said, softly, ‘He’s Professor Roscius’s son. That’s what you think, isn’t it?’

‘Wouldn’t it have been known if Roscius had had a son? Wouldn’t you have known?’

‘Not necessarily. If he was disfigured to this extent—’ Flynn stopped, remembering with an inward shudder the man’s face. ‘If he was born like that,’ he said, ‘Roscius might have kept him in seclusion, for the boy’s own good as much as anyone else’s.’

‘If I’m right,’ said Flynn, ‘the Shadow won’t be able to bear letting his show go to the Gallery Theatre without him. He’ll follow it – he won’t be able to help himself. And that’s where you come in.’ He paused, and then said, ‘You’ll be there already – you’ll be at the Gallery, God help you.’

‘Oh God, it’s worse,’ said Flynn, with a return to his normal abrasive manner. ‘It’s a dismal, squalid slum of a theatre and you’ll be fighting cockroaches in the dressing rooms and tinkers and hookers in the stalls.’

‘I didn’t think Ireland had hookers. I thought it was against your Church.’

‘Believe me, Gilly, we have a great many things in Ireland that are against the Church. Hookers are only one of them.’

‘So, all right,’ said Danilo, ‘we’re in the squalid old slum-theatre, fighting cockroaches—’

‘And keeping a watch for the Shadow,’ said Flynn. ‘That’s what I want you both to do. To watch for him – see if he appears, or if anyone catches sight of him prowling around.’

Gilly and Danilo exchanged glances. Then Danilo said, slowly, ‘OK. That seems fair enough. But while we’re doing that, what about you? What will you be doing?’

‘I’ll be in Ireland with you. Did you think I’d miss out on a fight?’ demanded Flynn.

‘But I’ll be scouring the west coast trying to find Professor Roscius’s old house.’

‘Oh I see. Can you – er – afford the time to do that? I mean,’ said Gilly, a bit awkwardly, ‘can you just go off and leave your work?’

‘In the normal way, no,’ said Flynn. ‘Not any more than you can. But it so happens that I’ve just roughed out an initial set of designs for submission for the Barrie festival in March, and I won’t hear for a while whether I’ve got the commission. I couldn’t take a year off to search for our lost lady and our vanished villain, but I can spend two or three weeks in Ireland without going bankrupt. Wouldn’t you know that for luck?’

‘I am. I don’t know precisely where his house is, because nobody ever did know – the old boy rather liked surrounding himself with mystery. But I do know it’s somewhere just outside of Galway City, near the Moher cliffs. It oughtn’t to be that hard to find – it isn’t a very densely populated part of Ireland. And if I’m right then that’s where we’ll run our man to earth. That’s where his lair is.’

Gilly shivered, and wished the word ‘lair’ had not been used. To counteract this, she said, half to herself, ‘We don’t even know his name.’

‘First name your villain and then set a trap for him,’ said Flynn, and sat back and surveyed the littered table. ‘And now will we order some more of Luigi’s ciabatta bread? And another bottle of wine to go with it?’

Chapter Twenty-Two