One thing (among many) that had surprised me about Victorian London was how many theatres and music halls there were. Even in the poorer areas you could barely walk three streets without stumbling across some establishment dedicated to providing entertainment for the masses.
Thinking about it, I suppose it was understandable. TV had yet to be invented, the rise of commercial cinema was still a few years around the corner, and there were only so many nights a family could sit indoors reading by candlelight or singing songs around the piano before going stark staring mad.
Our midnight caller was a messenger boy, shivering in the cold, his feet frozen and wet from the snow, which had soaked through the holes in his battered boots. Clover, alerted by his knock, astonished him by opening the door and greeting him with a warm smile. The boy was even more astonished when she exchanged the scrap of paper he was clutching for one of Mrs Peake’s rabbit pies from the kitchen. Eyes alight with joy, he scampered off as if he’d just received the best Christmas present he’d ever had.
The message was from Horace Lacey, owner and manager of the Maybury Theatre, which was tucked down a narrow road colloquially known as Black Dog Alley, just off Brewer Street in Soho. Brewer Street was close to Piccadilly Circus and its relatively new addition, the Statue of Eros, around which flower-sellers displayed their wilting blooms by day and prostitutes offered passing gentlemen the chance of a ‘threepenny upright’ by night.
Although Christmas Night had been clear, a brown, choking smog had descended over the city on Boxing Day afternoon and showed no signs of shifting as the day drifted into evening. At this time of night, and in these conditions, it was almost impossible to find a hansom cab – which was why I’d paid to have one at our constant beck and call from a nearby stable yard. As Hawkins hurried off to rouse the owner, a muffler over his mouth and nose keeping out the worst of the acrid fumes, Clover and I bundled ourselves up against the elements. Waiting in the entrance hall, listening for the slow clatter of the approaching cab, I looked at Lacey’s message again. In sloping, crabbed handwriting it read:
My dear Mr Locke
Apologies for the lateness of the hour, but I am responding to instructions to inform you without delay of any unusual occurrences within the vicinity of my establishment, The Maybury Theatre (address supplied above). One such, which you may wish to investigate – a singularly grisly murder, no less! – has taken place this very evening in the small courtyard behind this building. I shall await your arrival for two hours beyond the stroke of midnight, though please do not feel obliged to attend if you adjudge the incident to be beneath your consideration. I have sundry tasks to occupy me upon these premises, and so shall not be inconvenienced if you decide to forego this invitation and remain at your domicile.
Your faithful servant
Horace Lacey (esq)
A singularly grisly murder? What did that mean? Poverty and desperation ensured that murders were ten a penny on the streets of Victorian London, so what was so different about this one that it had prompted Lacey to call me out at such a late hour on Boxing Day?
Although I felt a tingle of anticipation I tried not to get my hopes up. I had followed enough dud leads in the past few months to last me a lifetime. Although my ‘watchers’, as I called them, came from all walks of life, I did employ a large number of the dissolute and the dispossessed – vagrants and vagabonds, mudlarks, prostitutes, even pickpockets and cut-throats. There were a couple of reasons for this. One, the majority of them spent most of their time on the streets, and therefore tended to be the first to know what was going on. And two, because they operated below the radar of ‘normal’ society, they could keep their eyes and ears open without attracting undue attention.
I paid each of my watchers a small stipend – as much as I could afford – for their services. But in order to motivate them to stay vigilant and pass on anything useful that came their way, I also promised a sizeable bonus to whoever might provide me with information that would ultimately lead to the recovery of the obsidian heart.
While this was a decent enough system, it did mean that, because many of my watchers were desperate for money, I received a lot of intel that was dubious at best and useless at worst. My problem, though, was that because I was paranoid of overlooking something that might turn out to be vital, I ended up following more of these leads than was probably good for me, which, as the weeks had turned into months, had become a demoralising and exhausting exercise.
What made me more hopeful about this particular lead, though, was not only that Lacey was one of the more affluent of my watchers, but also that, as far as I could remember, he hadn’t contacted me before.
As if reading my mind, Clover put a hand on my arm and said, ‘Try not to get your hopes up, Alex.’
I gave her a smile, which felt skewed and tight. ‘I never do.’
‘Yes you do. Every time. And it’s eating you up.’
I knew she was right, but even so I couldn’t prevent a hint of sharpness from creeping into my voice.
‘Well, what do you expect?’
‘Nothing less,’ she said soothingly. ‘But… look, I know it’s pointless me saying this, but I’m going to say it anyway… try to stay calm. Focused. Try not to despair. We’ll get there eventually. I honestly believe that.’
‘Women’s intuition?’
She locked my eyes with hers as if trying to instil some of her belief into me. ‘I know we’ll get the heart back because not getting it back is too horrible a prospect to contemplate.’
We’d talked about this already – about the implications of what might happen if we failed, of how things might unravel. I sometimes felt as though we talked about nothing else, as though our conversations just went round and round in a never-ending spiral, our own personal time loop.
I sighed wearily. ‘Yeah, I know.’
We were saved from further conversation by the faint sound of the approaching carriage, the rumble of wheels and the clop of horse’s hooves partly muffled by snow.
Clover briefly tightened her grip on my arm, giving me a reassuring squeeze, then she leaned forward and planted a kiss on my cheek. Her breath smelled warmly and sweetly of cloves, which I knew she chewed, along with mint, to keep her breath fresh.
‘Once more unto the breach,’ she said. ‘You never know. Maybe you’ll get a late Christmas present.’
‘I thought you told me not to get my hopes up?’
‘I also said I believed we’d find the heart sooner or later. Who’s to say you won’t get the breakthrough you’ve been looking for tonight?’
When we stepped outside we were met with a wall of smog. Instantly I felt it trying to crawl down my throat, and I pressed my scarf to my face as I trudged along the path of compacted snow towards the wrought-iron gate set into the high hedge. I knew the hansom was there only because we could hear the creak of its wooden frame and the snorting and shifting of the horse. The smog was so dense we couldn’t even see the gates until we were almost upon them, beyond which the carriage was a vague patch of darkness in the murk. The soft clang of the gates as I closed them was answered with a creak as Hawkins pushed open the door of the hansom from within. I saw his hand emerge to help Clover climb aboard, then I stepped up into the carriage myself.
Hansom cabs were designed for two passengers, so it was a tight squeeze with three of us crammed in. What made it more uncomfortable was that, despite our best efforts, tendrils of smog continued to creep in through the crevices around the doors and windows, turning the air pungent. As the cab set off with a lurch, I thought of the poor driver on his sprung seat at the back of the vehicle, fully exposed to the elements. I thought too of the ever-present coterie of men watching the house (not that they’d be able to see more than a metre in front of their faces in these conditions), who were no doubt even now stamping their feet to ward off the cold and trying not to choke to death on the noxious fumes.
And they were noxious. That was no exaggeration. I’d known even before coming here that Victorian smog was basically a big ball of toxins – sulphur dioxide and soot particulates from the huge amount of coal that was burnt both domestically and industrially – that gathered together in the sky, became mixed in with low-lying clouds of water droplets, and were then squished back down onto the city as the air cooled, but I’d never realised quite how lethally pungent they were until I’d been given the dubious honour of experiencing them first-hand.
People died from inhaling London smog. Lots of people. In this age respiratory problems and cancers were rife – and here was I, putting lives at risk for my own selfish purposes. The driver of the hansom; the men guarding my house; every single person I employed as a watcher – they were all at risk because of me, for one reason or another. At risk from the elements; at risk from the Wolves of London…
Which made me what? A selfish bastard? Or something worse? Was I, in my own way, as ruthless as my enemies?
I continually told myself I was fighting the potential for chaos, that I was doing this for the greater good, that the end would justify the means – but did I really believe that? Was my battle really bigger than me? Would it really have far-reaching effects if I lost it? Or was it nothing but a personal skirmish? Something that would affect my timeline, but barely touch anyone else’s?
Although it was less than three miles from my house in Kensington to the Maybury Theatre, the smog and snow meant that the horse could move at little more than a snail’s pace. Yet even though the journey took well over an hour, we endured it mostly in silence. Admittedly the conversation was limited by the fact that we kept our mufflers over our faces, but I doubt we’d have talked much even if the air had been clear. I was too pensive to chat, Hawkins – never a big talker at the best of times – seemed lost in his own thoughts, and Clover, who was squashed between us and seemed to sense our joint mood, simply rested her head on my shoulder and took the opportunity to have a snooze.
Eventually we halted beneath the fuzzy orange glow of a street lamp. The driver rapped on the roof and we clambered out, Clover blinking sleepily. As Hawkins spoke to the cab driver, Clover and I, still holding our mufflers over our faces, climbed the short flight of wide, semicircular stone steps to the theatre’s main entrance.
Although The Maybury was intended to be the proud centrepiece of a row of squat redbrick dwellings that stretched into the smog on either side, it wasn’t a particularly impressive structure. The architecture was basic, devoid of elaboration, and the brickwork itself was blackened by a crust of soot. I rapped on the double doors, which were panelled in small, individual panes of glass – though they might as well have been painted black, so thick was the grime that coated them.
After a few seconds I heard the patter of approaching footsteps followed by the grating squeal of a key in a stiff lock. The right-hand door was plucked inwards, and a man all but leaped into the widening gap, brandishing a yellow-toothed scimitar grin.
It wasn’t the grin that made me step back, however, but the smell that gusted from his body. It was eye-wateringly pungent – even more so than the yellow-brown smog, threads of which were now sliding around my feet, preceding me into the theatre’s entrance lobby. I held my breath as the man’s stench rolled over me like the first blast of heat from a steam room.
What he smelled of wasn’t body odour, but perfume, which he obviously applied with wild abandon. Used sparingly it might have been pleasant – a welcome change from the sweaty stink that most people exuded – but his was a reek that clawed at the throat and stung the senses; it was like drowning in a vat of rotting lilies.
‘Mr Locke, I presume!’ the man exclaimed. ‘This is a veritable honour, sir! Please! Come in! Come in!’
I cleared my throat and managed to croak, ‘Thank you.’ Then, bracing myself, I stepped past him, followed by Clover and Hawkins.
As the man turned his back on us to lock the door, I glanced at Clover. She responded by screwing her face into a squinty-eyed expression, like a dowager duchess presented with a dead mouse in a box. Trying to conceal a smile, I looked at Hawkins, who studiously avoided making eye contact with me.
Tugging the key from its lock and pocketing it with a theatrical flourish, the man swung to face us, side-swiping us with yet another waft of his cloying odour. Clover and I stepped back, and even Hawkins shuffled his feet. The man spread his arms, fingers extended as though he was cupping a pair of invisible crystal balls.
‘Welcome to the Maybury Theatre!’ he declared.
He was small and prissy, his black, wavy, slightly overlong hair and handlebar moustache carefully oiled and sculpted. He wore a red velvet tailcoat, floppy green cravat, silver waistcoat, striped trousers and gleaming, pointy-toed boots, complete with spats. He looked like Willy Wonka, or at least like someone trying too hard to be eccentric.
‘Thank you,’ I said again, and introduced my companions.
Once our host had finished simpering over her, Clover glanced around the gas-lit lobby. ‘Charming place you’ve got here.’
It wasn’t. It was shabby and grubby, the woodwork chipped, the carpet threadbare, the wallpaper, once ruby and cream, now dulled to sludge brown and urine yellow. Even the sagging red rope, which stretched across the bottom of the stairs between the newel posts, resembled a skinned snake.
The little man beamed at Clover. ‘Thank you, my dear. It is too sweet of you to say so. I do confess that I regard the Maybury as my own little corner of paradise, though I expect you shall think me a fool for doing so.’
‘Not at all,’ said Clover silkily; she hated being called ‘my dear’. ‘I think the theatre suits you very well.’
As the little man simpered, I stepped forward and extended my hand, glad I was wearing gloves.
‘You are Mr Lacey, the manager?’
‘Manager and owner, sir,’ he corrected me, grabbing my hand like a bulldog snapping at a morsel of food and shaking it vigorously. He puffed out his silvery chest. ‘Manager and owner.’
As I nodded, Clover prompted, ‘You mentioned a murder, Mr Lacey?’
Lacey released my hand so that he could wave dramatically. ‘Indeed I did. Although…’ He gave me a meaningful look.
‘Is there a problem?’ I asked.
Lacey glanced quickly at Clover, then back at me. ‘Not a problem as such. No, no, I wouldn’t call it a problem. Only…’
Clover frowned. ‘Only what?’
‘I’m sorry, my dear. Perhaps I’m a little old-fashioned; indeed, I’m certain that I am. But the fact is, the particulars of this matter may prove a little… distressing for delicate ears.’
Clover smiled, though her teeth were clenched.
‘Oh, don’t worry about me, Mr Lacey,’ she muttered. ‘I’m a lot tougher than I look.’
‘She is, Mr Lacey,’ I confirmed as he glanced at me dubiously. ‘And the hour is late, and we’re all eager for our beds. So if you could lead us to where the murder took place…?’
At once the theatre owner was all fluster and activity.
‘Of course, of course! Please forgive me. This way…’
He skipped past us, liberating another waft of his nostril-stinging odour, and unhooked the rope barrier at the bottom of the stairs. He waved us through, re-hooked the rope, then darted ahead.
‘This way, this way.’
He led us up the stairs and along a narrow corridor that skirted the left side of the auditorium. Evenly spaced arches along the right-hand wall led into the auditorium itself, which at this hour was nothing but a vast black space, whilst to our left were a series of doors, most of them marked: Private No Admittance.
Lacey ignored them all, stopping only when he reached the door at the far end. One of a set of keys was dangling from the lock. He grasped it and gave it a twist.
‘This door allows one access to the back-stage area from the front of the theatre,’ he explained breathlessly. ‘One can also access the area via the stage, of course, not to mention through a door at the back of the theatre, which leads into the courtyard where tonight’s deed occurred.’
‘Is the victim’s body still lying where it fell?’ asked Hawkins.
Lacey looked shocked. ‘Certainly not. I informed the local constabulary as soon as the matter was brought to my attention.’
‘You intimated in your note that the murder was unusual, Mr Lacey?’ I said.
‘And so it was. Hideously so.’
‘In what way?’
Lacey licked his lips and glanced worriedly at Clover, who said, ‘It’s all right, Mr Lacey. I’m a big girl.’
Nodding doubtfully, Lacey said, ‘Although the unfortunate victim had been freshly despatched, her remains were… picked clean.’
‘Picked clean?’ I repeated.
‘Of flesh, sir. The poor girl had been stripped to the bone. As if by an army of vermin. Or carrion.’ He shuddered, causing fresh waves of perfume to waft over us. ‘It was a singular sight. I wish never to view its like again.’
The way Clover looked at me I knew we were both thinking the same thing. Along with the tracks I had found last night, could this be evidence that the Wolves of London were nearby? Perhaps toying with us prior to closing in?
‘How can you be certain that the murder was a recent one, Mr Lacey?’ Hawkins asked. ‘Is it not possible that the victim was slaughtered weeks or even months ago and her remains, for whatever reason, tonight transferred to the courtyard behind your premises?’
Lacey shook his head vigorously. ‘No, no, it is quite impossible. There was blood, you see… a great deal of fresh blood… on the ground and… and on the wall beside the body.’
He slumped against the door. Recounting the experience was clearly taking it out of him. I could see his legs shaking, as if they were struggling to keep him upright.
Sweetly Clover asked, ‘Are you all right, Mr Lacey? Would you like a chair?’
I shot her a warning look, but Lacey seemed unaware she was teasing him.
‘No, no, my dear, thank you. It’s very kind, but… I’m sure I shall be well in a moment.’
‘Forgive me, Mr Lacey,’ I said, ‘but is it possible that Mr Hawkins could be right and that the corpse may have decomposed before being brought here? I mean, how do you know the blood found close to the body belonged to the victim?’
Lacey pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at his forehead. ‘She was recognised, sir.’
I raised my eyebrows. ‘Recognised by who?’
Again Lacey glanced at Clover, as if unsure how much he should reveal in her presence. ‘The truth is, sir, certain young ladies frequent the courtyard – against my wishes, you understand – to… er… consort with… that is to say, entertain—’
‘Prostitutes, you mean?’ said Clover bluntly.
Lacey blanched. ‘Quite so.’
‘And the victim was a prostitute?’ I asked.
‘Not only the victim, sir, but the… um… young lady who discovered her remains. She made quite a racket, I can tell you. I felt certain her screams would rouse the entire neighbourhood. Naturally her client took to his heels the instant she began her caterwauling, and so I failed to set eyes—’
‘Sorry to interrupt, Mr Lacey,’ I said, raising my hand, ‘but didn’t you say the corpse was picked clean?’
‘I did, sir.’
‘So how was the victim identified?’
‘By her head, sir. Her face, I should say. That was left quite untouched – aside from the fact that her features were contorted in the most terrible agony.’ His eyes swivelled again to Clover as his hand flew to his mouth. ‘I beg your forgiveness, my dear.’
She waved away the apology with a flick of the wrist.
‘And when was the victim last seen alive?’ I asked.
‘Earlier this evening, sir. The… er… young lady who named the deceased informed the constables that the victim had been present this afternoon in a tavern called The Black Jack – a most unsavoury establishment – and that she had subsequently been observed plying her trade in Piccadilly Circus.’
‘I don’t suppose the girl mentioned seeing the victim with any particular client?’
‘I’m afraid not, sir.’
‘Hmm. Well, thank you for the information, Mr Lacey. Now, if you could show us the scene of the crime?’
Lacey nodded and opened the door he’d been slumped against. He led us down a set of thinly carpeted steps to a long corridor at the back of the stage. This part of the theatre, out of bounds to paying customers, was even shabbier than the public areas. The corridor’s only illumination, a pair of guttering oil lamps, above which greasy black stains fanned across the walls like coagulated shadows, was evidence that the Maybury Theatre was in decline. Electricity, though still in its infancy, was becoming more prevalent in public buildings, and yet the Maybury had not yet even graduated from oil to gas lighting. I looked up at the thick cobwebs clumped like balls of fog in the corners of the high ceilings, and winced as the uneven and possibly worm-eaten floorboards creaked alarmingly underfoot. We passed several doors, which Lacey told us were dressing rooms for the actors, or rather ‘actors’, his plummy voice emphasising the second syllable as if to impress us. Clover asked what was currently playing at the theatre, and Lacey told her that a travelling company were rehearsing a tragedy entitled The Fall of Oedipus, which was booked for a two-week run early in the New Year.
‘But you must come and see the production, my dear,’ he gushed. ‘I shall send you tickets.’
‘Thank you,’ said Clover heavily. ‘That would be lovely.’
The instant Lacey opened the door into the courtyard at the back of the building a thick brown wall of smog pressed in, wispy tendrils exuding from the main mass and reaching out like the long fingers of forlorn ghosts. Clover started to cough and pulled her muffler over her face. Pressing his handkerchief to his mouth, Lacey wafted at the encroaching murk, as if it could be discouraged like a flock of birds.
Lifting his arm and breathing into his sleeve, Hawkins asked, ‘Where was the body found, Mr Lacey?’
The theatre owner pointed, the smog so thick it immediately enveloped his hand. ‘Against the wall on the far side, almost directly opposite this door.’ He lit a lantern from a small shelf beside the door and handed it to Hawkins. ‘You had better take this.’
Hawkins took the lantern, gave a curt nod, then stepped into the smog without hesitation. He was swallowed up immediately, as was the lantern glow, though I could hear the soft crump of his footsteps on the snow-coated cobbles. I eyed the swirling brown cloud warily for a moment, then plunged after him.
Behind me I heard Lacey say weakly, ‘I think I shall remain here if you don’t mind?’
Clover said something in reply, but by now I was already half a dozen steps ahead of her, and heard only the tone of her voice – understanding, soothing – and not her actual words. It was as if the smog was cramming my senses like cotton wool, muffling my hearing, distorting my vision. I tried to breathe as shallowly as possible and squeezed my eyes into slits to prevent the pollutants from stinging them. The client of the doxy who had discovered the body must have been desperate for a shag to brave these toxic conditions. As for the girls themselves… well, they were just desperate. Prepared to risk their health, their lives, everything, for the sake of a few coins to buy food and gin.
It was impossible to tell how big the courtyard was, or what was in front of me. I used my left hand to hold my muffler over my face and my right to probe the way ahead. The smog swirled around the fingertips of my outstretched arm, forming fleeting spirals in the murk. In these conditions you would have to virtually trip over a body to find one – which was possibly what had happened. In which case it was no wonder the girl who’d found her friend had screamed the place down.
I’d advanced fifteen, maybe twenty steps through slushy, gritty snow when the dimness in front of me suddenly darkened and shifted. I jerked back as a shape loomed from the smog, its head glowing yellow – but it was only Hawkins holding up the lantern.
‘Careful, sir,’ he murmured, lowering the lantern to knee-level.
I looked down to where he was indicating. Through the thick brown veil I could see that the off-white ground had suddenly become darker, slicker. I lowered myself into a squat and in the glow of lantern light the oily blackness staining the snow turned red.
Blood. Lots of it. I wafted vigorously at the veils of smog, trying to disperse them.
Vaguely I saw that the wall of the courtyard was no more than a metre in front of me, just beyond the range of my outstretched arm. As Lacey had said, there was blood not only pooled among the cobbles, but spattered up and across the mouldering bricks in jagged streaks. It was clear that whatever had killed the girl must have done so swiftly and frenziedly for her blood to jet out like that. Most of the injuries must have been inflicted while her heart was still beating. But what could strip a human body to the bone with such manic efficiency? A school of piranhas that swam through smog as easily as they swam through water?
If I hadn’t already seen the Wolves of London in action the idea would have been ludicrous. But I’d reached the stage where I was prepared to believe anything. This could even be the work of the shape-shifter. Though what puzzled me—
‘Why was she killed, do you think?’
Clover, emerging from the gloom and squatting beside me, seemed to pluck the question from my mind. I shrugged.
‘Perhaps she knew too much?’
‘Do you think she might have been one of yours?’
It was something I’d considered, but if the girl had information why hadn’t she reported it immediately? Given her profession it seemed odd that she would have held back when a potential payday was in the offing.
‘Who knows?’ I said. ‘I’d need to speak to Cargill, find out who she was.’
Inspector Cargill was my senior police contact – and another of my watchers. I’d discovered that in this period the Metropolitan Police Force was more of a loose and baggy monster than a coherent and organised body, with many of the modern protocols and procedures I was used to still to be implemented. Its officers, in general, were not averse to earning a bit of extra money on the side, and indeed saw no conflict of interest in doing so. For that reason I could number several dozen serving officers among my network of watchers.
Clover tugged her muffler down and briefly sniffed the air. ‘Can you smell something?’
I raised my eyebrows. ‘Apart from the delicate bouquet of carcinogens, you mean? Or is a whiff of Lacey’s Chanel No 666 drifting this way?’
She smiled. ‘I’m serious, Alex. There’s something else.’ She lowered her head, as if to lap at the blood-spattered snow. ‘It’s a musty sort of odour. Weird.’
Since warning me about the blood, Hawkins had been silent, but now he too crouched down and lowered his left arm from his face long enough to sniff tentatively at the air.
‘Miss Clover is right, sir. There is an unusual odour. It smells like…’
‘Mouldy bread!’ said Clover suddenly. ‘Or like when you leave wet washing in the machine for too long.’
Hawkins nodded in agreement – though as he’d never set eyes on a washing machine, I assumed it was the mouldy bread reference he identified with.
‘Quite so. It’s the smell of decomposition.’
‘But not meat,’ said Clover. ‘Something less… animal than that.’
I removed my muffler and twitched my nose. They were both right. Beneath the choking, smoky odour of the smog, there was something. Stale and heavy, it was like mouldy bread… and yet it had a uniqueness and unpleasantness all its own.
The smell disturbed me. It seemed to hover above the blood-slick ground like marsh gas. Turning my head I sniffed left and right, then rose to my feet and sniffed again. I took a few steps back towards the theatre and took another sniff, this time stifling a cough as I swallowed a lungful of freezing smog. Pulling my muffler over my face, I walked back to where Clover and Hawkins were still squatting.
‘Can you do me a favour?’ I said. ‘Go back inside, get Lacey and take him into the lobby?’
Clover looked puzzled. ‘Why?’
‘Because I want to test something. I think that smell might lead back to the theatre. But if Lacey’s there—’
‘His smell will drown it out,’ she said.
‘Exactly.’
She nodded and straightened. ‘I’ll try. Though as I’m a mere woman I may have to punch him unconscious before he’ll listen to me.’
I smiled. ‘Hawkins, will you go with Clover?’
Hawkins glanced uneasily at the swirling smog.
‘Are you certain you’ll be all right, sir?’
‘I’m armed,’ I said, patting the bulge in my overcoat. ‘I’ll be fine.’
With another glance at the smog, Hawkins nodded, then he and Clover moved away. I listened to the slushy crump of their receding footsteps, aware as the lantern light faded of the damp, miasmic chill closing in around me.
Just you and me now, buddy, I imagined the smog – or whatever was in the smog – whispering. So how about I show you what I’m really made of?
I squinted. Was the smog solidifying to my left? Was a shape forming from it?
No. Course not. I was being stupid.
Even so, I shuddered and wrapped my arms around my body in a self-protective hug. No doubt bullets would be useless against a smog monster – although, to be honest, bullets would probably be useless against many of the Wolves of London.
I wished it were the heart I was carrying in my pocket instead of a gun. Unconsciously I cupped my hand, imagining the heart in my fist so vividly I could almost feel its contours beneath my fingers. I tried not to wonder when I’d next feel the weight of it in my palm – or if I ever would.
I gave Clover and Hawkins two minutes, forcing myself to count off the seconds slowly and steadily, and then retraced my steps. All that filled my vision was thick, brown, swirling smog above a ghostly pall of snow. I did as I had done before, edging forward with one hand outstretched and the other holding my muffler up to my face. When I judged that I was halfway across the courtyard I removed the muffler and cautiously sniffed the air. At first all I could smell was the smoky sharpness of the smog, but then, remembering the smell had been strongest near the ground, I squatted and sniffed again.
And there it was, faint but undeniably present. I felt like a bloodhound following a trail. Within seconds the smog started scratching at my throat, so I pulled the muffler back over my nose and mouth, and straightened up. My coughs, even stifled by the muffler, seemed both too loud and oddly flat in the shrouded atmosphere. I glanced around, worried that I was drawing attention to myself. But there was no sign of movement in the thick gloom, and no sound of anything moving nearby.
Less than a dozen shuffling steps later I reached the back door of the theatre and slipped into the building. Even though the corridor was dimly lit it was a relief to see my surroundings again. I locked the door and leaned against it for a moment, stamping snow from my boots and sniffing the air. As I’d hoped, Lacey’s overpowering perfume had dispersed, but the mouldy bread smell, which was more subtle yet more persistent, was still detectable.
In fact, it was stronger in this enclosed space than it had been in the courtyard. Bending almost double, I moved forward, sniffing the air. After a bit of trial and error, I decided the smell was strongest around the door of dressing room five, the number of which was painted on the scuffed and battered wood in white paint that had glazed and partly flaked away.
I tapped on the door and got no reply. When I put my ear to the wood all I heard was silence. I tried the handle, expecting the door to be locked, but to my surprise, it opened. Still holding the handle I stepped into the room.
The space in front of me was dark, the flickering light from the corridor giving the room’s contents only the most basic definition. The mouldy bread smell was stronger here than it had been in the corridor. Blinking into the darkness, my hand crept beneath my overcoat and closed over my gun.
If whatever had killed the girl was hiding here, it was lying low for now. Could it be lurking in the shadows, silent and motionless, watching me? I felt vulnerable in the doorway, framed by the light at my back, but I held my ground. I didn’t want to retreat before investigating further, but neither did I want to step into the room before my eyes had adjusted to the dark.
Wishing the Victorians would hurry up and equip all their buildings with electric light, I peered into the blackest of the shadows. When I’d satisfied myself as much as I could that nothing was moving, I turned my attention to the parts of the room I could see. On the right-hand wall, close enough to the open door that its basic shape was sketched out in yellowish light, was a make-up table beneath a large mirror. There were items cluttering the table, including several candles in brass holders and a small rectangular box that I guessed held lucifers.
Glancing again at the most impenetrable patches of darkness, I crossed quickly to the make-up table and picked up the box of matches. I took one out, lit it and seconds later candlelight was pushing back the shadows. Slipping my finger through the metal loop of the holder, I turned, the candle flame flapping as I swept it from left to right.
The room was small, boxy, and contained only two possible hiding places. One was a squat, battered wardrobe in the corner beside the left-hand wall, and the other was a large trunk pushed against the back wall.
I drew my gun, and then, candle in one hand and pistol in the other, crossed to the trunk. Noting there was no padlock through the loop of the hasp, I used my left foot to nudge the lid open.
My first impression was of something shiny and shapeless, which entirely filled the trunk’s interior, heaving itself upright. It took less than a second – during which my heart gave a single alarmed jolt – to realise that what I’d taken for movement was simply the trunk’s tightly packed contents bulging under the release of pressure.
The trunk was full of costumes, most of which looked bulky and garish. The top one, which my brain had registered as something reptilian, was made of shimmering green satin edged with gold braid. Beneath it I could see something yellow, something pink, something patterned with bright harlequin diamonds. The costumes looked like ones that the cast of a Gilbert and Sullivan opera might wear. Perhaps that’s what they were. As far as I could remember, Gilbert and Sullivan were still knocking about in this era.
Kneeling on the floor, I put the candle down and rummaged through the costumes with one hand to reassure myself there was nothing beneath the topmost layers of material. I didn’t expect there to be, but I was cautious all the same. When I was happy the trunk contained no nasty surprises I straightened up and crossed to the wardrobe. The candle, which I’d left on the floor, didn’t throw out much light, but there was enough for me to see by, even if the flickering flame did cause vast brown shadows to sway and lurch up the walls.
I listened at the door of the wardrobe, then pulled it open, stepping back and levelling my gun. But apart from a few more costumes on hangers, which jangled like unmusical wind chimes as they swayed from side to side, the wardrobe was empty.
I closed the wardrobe door and released a deep sigh, partly of relief. I might not have solved the mystery of the horrible smell, but neither had I had to defend myself against whatever had torn a girl to shreds out in the courtyard. Now I was convinced I was alone I realised I was shaking slightly; sweating too. I sniffed again. The mouldy bread smell still lingered; in fact, here in this room it had an almost muscular quality.
Wrinkling my nose, I took a last look round, blew out the candle, then exited the room, closing the door behind me. I hurried back to the foyer, slipping my gun back into my pocket so as not to alarm Lacey.
I smelled the theatre owner before I saw him. His overpowering scent curled along the corridor and clutched at my throat. Not for the first time I wished Victorian London didn’t have to stink so much. If it wasn’t the smog, it was the sewers or the people or the reek of horse sweat in the streets.
‘Anything?’ Clover asked as I appeared at the top of the stairs down to the foyer. From the way she jerked upright and took an eager step towards me, I could tell she’d been on tenterhooks.
‘Maybe,’ I said. ‘Who’s currently occupying dressing room five, Mr Lacey?’
Lacey looked puzzled. ‘Five?’
‘Yes.’ I tried not to sound impatient. ‘You told Mrs Locke earlier that a theatre company are rehearsing a play here. Is one of the actors using room five?’
‘Why… yes,’ Lacey said. ‘That’s my primary dressing room. It is currently at the disposal of my leading man, who also happens to be the head of the company.’
‘I see. And what’s his name?’
‘Willoughby Willoughby,’ replied Lacey, and then amended himself. ‘Sir Willoughby Willoughby.’ He paled slightly. ‘But why do you ask? There is nothing amiss, I hope.’
I forced a smile. ‘I hope not too, Mr Lacey. In fact, I’m sure it’s nothing. Tell me, what sort of man is Mr Willoughby?’
‘Why, he’s… cultured. Well bred. Well educated. He displays an enviable knowledge of the fine arts… and he is, of course, a consummate performer…’
‘You don’t like him, do you?’ Clover said.
Lacey blanched. ‘I beg your pardon?’
She gave him a conspiratorial smile. ‘Come on, Mr Lacey, there’s no need to be coy. You’re among friends here. Naturally you’re a gentlemen, and so you refuse to speak ill of your cast. But do I sense a certain… antipathy towards Mr Willoughby?’
Lacey smiled shakily, and I saw his body language change, his defences slipping as he succumbed to Clover’s charms. In a hushed voice, as if afraid of being overheard, he said, ‘I must admit, I do find Mr Willoughby’s presence a little… disquieting.’
‘Disquieting how?’ I asked.
‘There is… an aura about him that bothers me. Oh, admittedly he is pompous, perhaps one would even say overbearing, but it is not wholly that. There are… shadows about him.’
‘Shadows?’ Clover asked.
Lacey wafted a hand as though to dispel his own words.
‘They are not literal shadows, they are…’ he frowned. We waited silently for him to speak. Eventually he said, ‘…there is a darkness about the man. A sense of… danger.’
I’d heard and seen (and smelled) more than enough to set my spidey senses tingling.
‘When are the company next rehearsing?’
‘Tomorrow. They have been idle these past two days, celebrating the season, but tomorrow they shall be hard at it again.’
‘Then we’ll be back tomorrow to speak to Mr Willoughby. With your permission, of course.’
Lacey looked troubled, but nodded.
‘You have it, sir. Gladly. I shall see you tomorrow.’