Mrs Carradine’s Theatrical Boarding House
St Martin’s Lane
London
November 1792
“You sure he’s dead? He was as well as a body can be only yesterday!” The landlady stood at the side of Mr Falcon’s bed, hands on her hips. “Who’s to deal with the man now? Are you family? If you are, you had best get him out before nightfall, I don’t fancy as having a dead man as a lodger. As far as I know, dead men are particularly bad at paying rent.”
“I…” Ezra glanced at Loveday, but her eyes were fixed on the bed, on what had been Mr Falcon, and she did not hear him. “Madam,” he asked, composing himself a little, “did you see any other person enter or leave Mr Falcon’s rooms? You said he might have had company?”
The landlady made a face. “I never actually saw the girl – if it was a girl, you understand. I just heard footsteps, heard all sorts of bangings, I did, but I keeps my mouth shut and my eyes closed I do.”
“Is that really all you have to say about it?” Loveday burst out, finally tearing her gaze away from the body, her face flushed with indignation. “This was murder!”
“Whatever it was, I want nothing to do with it,” the landlady sniffed.
Loveday opened her mouth again but Ezra held out a hand and shook his head. She subsided, looking miserable.
Ezra ushered the landlady away with promises that they would deal with Mr Falcon’s rent and his belongings, and gave her instructions to send a boy to fetch the local coroner at Covent Garden. Loveday sat down in the one chair, set in front of a mean little writing desk. She looked numb with shock. Ezra thought it best to let her be, and checked the corpse’s pulse just in case. He stood back, then regarded in close detail what had once been a man.
The body lay fully clothed on top of the bed, still in mourning from Mr Finch’s funeral by the looks of things. A hat was thrown down upon the floor; a bottle of second-rate gin and a plate of half-eaten pastries stood on the bedside table.
“Honey cakes.” Ezra picked them up and smelt them.
Loveday Finch sniffed and wiped her tears away. She looked at them and then at Ezra. “Baklava.”
Ezra nodded, wrapped them in his handkerchief and tucked them into his jacket pocket. “I’ll take them back to the laboratory.”
Although he was pretty sure of the cause of Mr Falcon’s death, Ezra rolled back the corpse’s shirt and looked for wounds or bruising at his wrists, or on his neck or torso. Nothing. Only crumbs across the man’s waistcoat and the smell of spirits on his breath. Ezra sniffed the gin, too, but there was nothing out of the ordinary there.
“Poison!” Miss Finch declared. “In those cakes, no doubt, like with Pa. Yesterday he was alive and well – he walked, he talked. He spoke the eulogy at Pa’s funeral!”
“Poison, yes. I would put money on it,” Ezra said. “Miss Finch, please look round the room. Does anything seem different? Is anything moved, or out of the ordinary? We must look hard.”
Miss Finch shook her head. “I cannot say. I never was in his lodgings before, not in London – although,” she added, “it always struck me, when we were travelling, that he was most fastidious, most tidy.”
“Then someone has already been through his things,” Ezra said.
“I think they might have been,” Miss Finch agreed thoughtfully, getting up at last.
“Look in his coat pockets and in his drawers – let us see if anything will put us on the path towards whoever may be the cause of this disaster.”
Loveday nodded and began to search.
In the chamberpot underneath the bed Ezra found the vomit. The man had been sick, and with no one to care for him or call a doctor, he had died alone. Ezra picked up a pen from the man’s writing desk, then bent down and poked at the vomit with it – there were the tell-tale green flecks of pistachio nut. Where in heaven’s name had he got the honey cakes? Had someone delivered them? Had he called on the embassy?
Miss Finch had opened the top drawer of the chest of drawers. She pushed aside the socks and underthings and pulled out the paper that had been used to line the drawer. There, at the back, was a small square of writing paper, folded over four times.
She smiled triumphantly. “It was where my pa hid things too,” she said, but when they unfolded it they found it was only notes for a new trick: a diagram of a box with a false wall that could be used to make things vanish. There was nothing else in any of the other drawers but in Mr Falcon’s jacket pocket she found a small notebook containing addresses of various patrons they had worked for in Vienna and Paris and Constantinople. In a trouser pocket Ezra found a receipt from a chop house in Long Acre, the business card of a Russian fur importer near London Bridge and a folded-up letter addressed to Mr Edward Falcon.
“This is Papa’s handwriting!” Loveday opened it quickly and then sat down again, deflated. “It is in Arabic,” she said.
“Did your father speak Arabic?” asked Ezra, looking at it over her shoulder. “Or Mr Falcon?”
“A little – please and thank you. Mr Falcon could not manage even that. I never saw my father write it, though.” She sighed. “Why on earth should he write to Mr Falcon in a language neither of them could understand?”
“It might tell us something of use,” Ezra mused, “if only we could read the thing. Nothing seems clear at all!”
“One thing is clear,” Loveday said quietly. “Mr Falcon is gone. He was like an uncle to me, and now he is dead. I have no family, no work now, nothing at all!” She sat in the chair, her hands folded uselessly in her lap, the very picture of misery. Then suddenly her eyes grew wide and she leant forward. “Who’s to say that I will not be next? That someone will not poison me?” She gasped. “That they have not already set the hour of my death!”
Ezra grimaced. She was over-dramatic, but she was right. “Miss Finch, I’m sure—”
“How can you be sure of anything any more? Oh, I wish I had my blade!”
Ezra did not think her blade would be much good against poison, but he did not say so. “We need to find out who did this and why,” he said firmly. He cast around the room. “There must be something here.”
“We have looked! We have looked everywhere. We are magicians, Ezra, that’s all. Why poison magicians?”
“The coroner’s men will be here soon to collect the body. We already have an idea of how the death was caused, just not why. If we can only find the why…”
“We?” she said, a little hope breaking into her voice.
“Yes,” Ezra said with a smile. “We, Finch and McAdam – or Finch and whatever my new name will be.” He looked at her. She was smiling a little more. Good.
The coroner’s men came swiftly and bore the body away to the crypt of St Peter’s. Ezra thought he should like to be present at the post-mortem, to take a good look at the man’s heart. Miss Finch told the landlady she could have Mr Falcon’s good cloak and boots to pay for another week’s rent. Then she and Ezra would go through the man’s rooms with a fine-toothed comb.
They went and sat together in the tea rooms in Panton Street, Ezra with his notebook, Miss Finch with a battered leather-bound book that had belonged to her father. It was best to do this methodically – and Ezra was aware that his own future was far from clear at present, so they may as well get as much as they could done while they could.
They went over the events of the past few days again and again. The tongueless man, the honey cakes, the master’s killer, the Arabic letter.
“There is a definite Ottoman connection but it still doesn’t make sense,” Ezra said. “I swear the man Oleg is Russian, but a Russian working with the Turks? I thought those two countries were enemies.”
“He may have his own reasons for all we know.”
Ezra looked at Loveday. She was right. “There must be something we are missing. The master used to say violent death was either within families or to do with money.”
“My father and I had no money problems,” Loveday said, “and I have always done the accounts. I would have known.”
“What about Mr Falcon?”
Loveday shrugged. “They shared all income.”
“Equally?” Ezra asked.
“Yes, down the middle. If anything he should have been better off than us.”
Ezra asked Miss Finch to find and check Mr Falcon’s accounts and to write as thorough and complete a memoir of their time in Constantinople as possible; there may have been someone offended somehow, perhaps. If she wrote the memory down, start to finish, something might turn up.
“And the translation, of course – we need to read that letter,” Ezra added. “Perhaps someone at the embassy could translate it for you. Who was it you performed for?”
“A Mr Ali Pasha. Father was on good terms with him. Perhaps…” She frowned, firm with a sudden resolve. “We should speak with him. As soon as possible – today.”
“Miss Finch,” Ezra began, but he could see she was already set on it.
Oh well. It could not be so difficult, he thought; and it would do them both good to get some answers for once.
The embassy building was a brand-new white-stuccoed palace in the grandest part of town. As they crossed the street Ezra could feel his resolve fading, but he steeled himself and made for the entrance.
“Ezra, wait!” Loveday grabbed him by the elbow before he could reach the door. “The tradesmen’s entrance,” she said, “not the main one. If anybody here is to recognize me it is far more likely it will be there.”
“If?” Ezra hissed. “You never said if before, Miss Finch! If this is some wild-goose chase—”
“Then neither of us will have lost anything by it! And in any case someone is bound to know me. I am very memorable.”
Ezra couldn’t argue with that, at least.
The porter did not know Loveday.
“Of Falcon and Finch,” she clarified when he simply shook his head at her. “We performed for Mr Ali Pasha.He was in correspondence with my father, who has been murdered. It is most urgent we speak with him.”
“Impossible,” said the porter, waving a hand dismissively. “Mr Ali Pasha is an important man, and very busy. Whatever it is you want with him, he has no time—”
“I already told you!” Loveday protested. “It is a serious matter. My father has been murdered – and Mr Falcon too – and I am sure if your Mr Ali Pasha knew of it he would be keen to help us clear the matter up.”
The porter sniffed. “I think not, Miss. He has better things to do than attend to a girl’s flights of fancy.”
Loveday bristled, and Ezra thought he had better intervene. “Sir, please…” he began, but the porter had already closed the door on them.
Loveday was fuming as they left, but Ezra felt only a resigned disappointment. It was as if every way they looked there were only dead ends and false hopes.
“There must be someone else in the whole of London who speaks Arabic,” he said, trying not to sound as weary as he felt. “We will get to the root of it, Miss Finch.”
Loveday sighed, some of the fire leaving her. She was tired, too. “Of course. I will make enquiries.”
“And are you sure you’ll be safe at Mrs Gurney’s? It might be an idea to find other lodgings.”
“I couldn’t stomach more change,” Loveday confessed. “I will be careful what I eat, and I will have my blade – I am pretty good with that, you know.”
“I don’t doubt it.”
“And anyway, where would I go?” She shrugged. “I must make the best of things. Keep busy, find the root of all this trouble. I am sure we will, eventually.” But she sighed again, heavily, and did not sound convinced.
“We will, I promise.”
“Thank you, Ezra. I don’t know what I’d do…” Her voice trailed off. “I must put on a smile, that’s what I must do. It will all work out, I am sure.”
She thanked him again as they reached Clerkenwell Green, said she would think on anything or anyone odd that she and her father had happened upon during their trip to Constantinople. Ezra said he would attend the coroner’s post-mortem. He bade her farewell and turned back towards Great Windmill Street.
It was already getting dark and Ezra ran all the way home. He stopped on the front step, took a honey cake out of his pocket and broke it in half. He was putting one half of it in one of Mrs Boscaven’s mousetraps in the kitchen when Toms came in swinging a small carpetbag.
Ezra put the trap down close to the hole in the skirting nearest to the fireplace.
“You off somewhere?” he said to Toms.
“I’m not staying here, I know that much. And in your shoes I’d be making plans too.”
“Why’s that?” Ezra asked. “I know the master’s will – he spoke of it. He wished the anatomy school to continue.”
“He’s dead, Ez,” Toms said flatly. Ezra bridled, but Toms didn’t notice. “You and I have seen the nephew. Even I can tell he’s not one who is,” Toms paused, looking for the right word, “a generous man. He’ll be rid of all of us before long, mark my words. What the master willed is neither here nor there … not when he’s not here to make it so.”
Ezra remembered the funeral, and nodded sadly. The thought chilled him. Everything would change completely. He hadn’t fully taken it in. The master had been both teacher and parent.
He turned away so Toms wouldn’t see his face.
“And there were solicitor’s men round the house, making lists while you lot was out.” Toms drained his cup. “I’m off looking for work back up in Hampstead. I liked it there. Clean air. No bodies lying around or jars full of bits.”
“The museum is important, the exhibits should stay together.” As Ezra said the words he remembered this afternoon. Lashley and Dr James seemed to have made their plans.
“Well, I wouldn’t put it past that Scotchman to flog the whole lot off and pocket the rhino himself.” Toms put his cup down and held his hand out. “Shake? I know I ribbed you, but it were only talk. You weren’t too bad for a darkie,” he said. “No hard feelings?”
Ezra shook Toms’s hand. He knew he ought to feel pleased to see the back of him, but he didn’t. Toms’ going was just one more thing changing, another part of his old life about to disappear. Ezra said nothing, just watched as Toms walked away down the street and off into a new life. Whistling, carefree.
It was nearly seven o’clock and Ezra was helping Mrs Boscaven lay the table for the servants’ tea when Dr James called down that a messenger had arrived for Ezra. Ezra went up to the master’s office, but when Dr James handed it over, he saw that the envelope had already been torn open.
“Sir!” Ezra said. “You have opened my post!”
“This is my house,” Dr James snapped. “You have my name. Do not worry, I am not interested in your comings and goings, but you would do well to tell your young lady friend you are not going anywhere now, for if you do, know that the door will be locked for the evening. This is not a hotel or a lodging house.”
Dr James slammed the door to the master’s office, leaving Ezra standing in the hall holding his letter. He took it out and read it.
Meet me tonight at the corner of Coldbath Fields, 9.00 p.m. URGENT. I talked with the boy. It is imperative you come. Will explain all later. Miss L. Finch
Ezra looked from the letter with its scrawled lines to the tight-shut door of the master’s old office. The word “urgent” was capitalized in Loveday Finch’s sloping hand. He had no choice but to go.
Ezra hardly ate any tea, and left with plenty of time to make it the mile or so to Coldbath Fields, just north of Clerkenwell. He took his pocket knife and notebook, his tinderbox and a half-shilling, in case of some kind of emergency.
As Ezra made his way east through the dark city streets there was the thinnest sliver of moon and only one house in four had bothered to put out a lantern. But the darkness and the candles lit inside meant Ezra could see into houses as he passed by. Not the parlours or the drawing rooms on the upper floors – those had their heavy winter curtains pulled shut to keep out the cold – but the kitchen windows, on which no such curtains were wasted. Little glimpses of lives lived in basements from Holborn all the way almost to Islington, entire households of servants busy with cooking or, having finished work, sitting with their feet up close to the fire, warm and cosy, talking and laughing. Ezra shivered, and it wasn’t just the cold: he felt completely and utterly alone.
He passed the brewery at the end of Liquorpond Street and then the roads turned to mud. Up ahead out of the dark loomed Coldbath Fields Prison, square and heavy, rising up out of the fields like a prison ship that had broken upon the land, as if reminding all around that hell existed here on earth.
Ezra looked up at the bowl of dark blue sky and wondered what path had led him into this terrible tangle of poison and murder. He hoped his master was somewhere safe and peaceful now.
“There you are!” Loveday Finch appeared suddenly out of the shadows. She was holding a spade and had some kind of heavy bag across her shoulder. There was a boy with her, short, no more than nine or ten, carrying nothing. It was, Ezra realized as he came closer, the boy he’d seen outside the house on two occasions – the boy with the strange enunciation and ragged clothes who’d asked about the tongueless cadaver.
Loveday must have seen the look on Ezra’s face. “This is Mahmoud,” she said. Mahmoud nodded slightly. She went on, “I found him lurking outside Mrs Gurney’s. He has been following us.”
Ezra stared at Mahmoud, who looked unrepentant. “I knew it!”
“He is a prince,” Loveday said matter-of-factly. “Come along, I have a spade.” She and the boy moved further off into the dark.
“A prince?” Ezra hurried to keep up with her. “A spade? What on earth is happening? Where are we going?”
“My father’s grave!” Loveday called over her shoulder. “We have to open the coffin. We need to look at the body.”
“Wait! Miss Finch, may I remind you that I was present at his –” he paused; he didn’t like to say it – “his, um, examination by Mr Lashley.”
“We have to dig him up. You need to look again, Mahmoud says it is important.”
“Imperative,” Mahmoud added.
“‘Mahmoud says’ what? Mahmoud,” Ezra hissed, “is a boy.”
“A boy,” Loveday replied, wheeling round, “who is the fifth son of the Ottoman Emperor Selim the Third! This is about money, as you predicted, and the money is on my father’s body. Mahmoud says he will translate my letter as soon as we dig up my father for him.”
Ezra put his hand on her shoulder. “I told you, there was nothing on his body, or inside it!”
The boy piped up, his voice strange and clear despite his foreign accent and much too grand for a ten-year-old dressed in ragged clothes and smelling as if he’d not washed in some time.
“They are mine,” he declared. “The Cherries of Edirne. My insurance, which I need sorely, circumstances being what they are, and her father was to bring them to me.”
“Cherries?” Ezra frowned.
“Rubies!” Miss Finch said.
“The man who killed the master wanted rubies, I remember!” Ezra’s mind was racing. “But how…?”
Loveday shook him off. “It will take too long to explain now, and there is no time – someone else may get there first. There are jewels, Mr McAdam, hidden about my father’s body. We have to get them before anyone else and we have to do this now. That is at the heart of the whole mystery!”
“I told you,” Ezra said firmly, “I was there when Mr Finch was opened up. There was nothing there – his stomach was already gone—”
“They were hidden under his skin,” interrupted the boy, “not in his stomach.”
“Well, that’s all right then!” Ezra snapped. “Of course! Oh, I remember, we failed to take his brain or bowels apart. Perhaps they were stuck up his—”
“Mr McAdam! Please!” Loveday had thrown down the spade and was using her hands to cover the boy’s ears.
Ezra recovered himself. “I am sorry. I was just saying that we – I – would have found anything.”
“I think not,” Mahmoud said. He seemed remarkably composed. “We have ways and means. The jewels were to be hidden under the skin of his scalp, just behind the ear.”
“See?” Miss Finch took Ezra’s hand impatiently. “Come along!”