LENG EXITED THE HOUSE of Industry, his face cool and placid, but he was raging within. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the reverend’s loathsome exudations from his hand. Stepping out into Park Street, he saw his carriage parked at the corner of Pearl, where a small group of guttersnipes were fawning over it. Munck, seeing Leng emerge, immediately shook the reins, and the carriage moved forward.
What a damnable thing to happen, Leng thought, just when he was in greater need than ever of experimental subjects on which to test the Arcanum. He could, of course, take the matter up with the Mission elders or the council—but that would take too much time. It would be preferable to simply kill the insufferable ecclesiastic. But before he arranged for this mental cataleptic to meet a tragic end, it would be prudent to learn precisely what had happened to Miss Crean and where precisely Considine had come from. Removing the cleric prematurely might possibly lead to an even more objectionable result. At some time in the very near future, he would need to have a conversation with the unctuous Royds.
He climbed in the cab. “You drive,” he said curtly to Munck.
“Yes, Doctor.”
The coach pulled away from the curb, Leng deep in thought. The more he considered this, the more disastrous the development appeared. There were at present no young females at Bellevue of the right age and health to be suitable—he had run through all of them. On top of that, he could not afford to appear too eager for more, especially since Dr. Cawley, the medical director, was showing annoyance at Leng’s having spirited Ferenc off so quickly. It was within the bounds of his Bellevue credentials to do so, of course, but the patient had been sufficiently intriguing that the hospital was eager to examine him themselves. Indeed, they were asking when they could expect Ferenc back.
As Munck headed northward on the Bowery, Leng eased his mind by considering the most appropriate way in which the Right Reverend could meet a dreadful end. After a few minutes, his attention shifted to the view outside his window. They were just passing a crowd in front of the Bowery Theater.
As he gazed, an idea came to him. “Take a left on Canal, then another on Mott,” he said.
“Yes, sir.”
The carriage made the requested turns, which brought it back into the slums of the Sixth Ward and then once again toward the Five Points. As they moved south on Mott, a town house, more elegant than its neighbors, rose up ahead. Several young dandies loitered about in front: Bridget McCarty’s brothel. His eye swept the group, and he decided taking a victim here would be unnecessarily dangerous—he should seek someone who would not be missed.
“Munck, turn right on Bayard, please. When you reach Centre Street, slow down.”
They came out on Centre Street. In the middle of the block was a low limestone structure that—with its squat columns and narrow windows—had an ironic resemblance to an Egyptian temple. This was the ancient, infamous prison known as the Tombs.
Munck, seemingly anticipating his master’s thoughts, expertly slowed the horses down to a walk, while Leng peered at the street through a gap in the carriage curtains. A woman had just come out of the Tombs: one whose thinness, rags, and filth could not entirely hide her youth. It appeared she had just been released. She looked dazed, squinting into the hazy lamplight, struggling to wrap a threadbare shawl around her shoulders.
“Stop.”
The carriage came to a halt along the curb, beyond the woman. As she drew alongside, Leng opened the carriage door and swept off his hat. “Miss? May I have a word?”
“I’m not in that business no more,” said the woman, quickening her step.
Leng sprang out of the carriage and paced her. “No, no, miss, you misunderstand. Allow me to introduce myself—Dr. Enoch Leng of the Five Points Mission. My business is saving souls, and I’ve found the surest way to do that is by feeding souls. Now, I have some grapes and sweetmeats in the carriage—if you’d care to step inside?”
The woman stopped and looked at him, her face grimy and drawn, a few locks of blond hair straying out from under a bonnet. “I know what you’re after—sir. You don’t fool me.”
Leng paused. “Well, perhaps you do know what I want. But I’m a good clean gentleman, miss, and I’ve a fine place where you can take a hot bath, have a good dinner, and be given a fresh change of clothes. And where, I might add, you’ll be treated with respect.”
She gazed into his face with an expression of resignation mingled with exhaustion. She resumed walking.
“Where are you going to spend the night, dear girl?” Leng added as she moved away. “It’s bound to be a cold one. And it appears you’ve been cold a long time. Prison is no place for a fragile creature like yourself.”
She hesitated, slowing her pace.
“A fine saddle of beef and potatoes drowned in butter await.”
She halted. Munck had eased the carriage forward to where Leng was now standing, and as she looked back, he held its door open invitingly. A long moment passed. And then, with something like self-disgust, she turned and climbed inside.
“What is your name, dear?” Leng asked.
“Daisy.”
Leng reached for a small lacquered carrying case affixed to the inside of the carriage, opened it, and withdrew a small porcelain box, within which were nestled candied apricots. “Would you care for one?”
The girl hesitated, then reached out and took one, cramming it into her mouth.
“Have another.”
She took another.
“Take them all, my dear Daisy. Sit back, relax, and enjoy the journey to my home.”