Anne Perry's Christmas Vigil Read online

  “Did you kill Sadie?” Henry asked Lucien.

  Lucien’s eyes opened wide. “No!”

  “Or Niccolo?”

  “No! I can’t think of any reason you should believe me, but I haven’t killed anyone, at least … at least not directly. God knows what I’ve caused indirectly. Poor Sadie. It was a hell of a mess.” His face pinched with remembered pain, and his eyes seemed to see the memory as if it were more real than Henry himself, or Crow sitting on the floor a few feet away.

  “But you saw it?” Henry challenged.

  “Only the blood,” Lucien replied.

  “What is it you do for Shadwell?” Henry asked.

  “Bring people here—young ones with money.”

  Lucien started to shudder. His body seemed to slip out of his control, and his teeth rattled.

  Henry took off his coat and wrapped it around Lucien, folding it over his thin body with gentleness. Then he sat back on the ground again, looking oddly vulnerable in his shirtsleeves.

  Bessie looked at him anxiously, but Squeaky put out his hand to stop her from interrupting.

  If Henry was cold, he gave no sign of it.

  “Bring people here to indulge their tastes, and then they find that they are addicted, and have to come back again and again? And if they become troublesome, who deals with them then?”

  “I don’t know,” Lucien stammered through his teeth. “Shadwell himself, maybe.”

  “Was Sadie troublesome? Was she no longer doing what he wanted of her?” Henry persisted.

  Lucien stared at him. Then he closed his eyes and turned away. “She always did what he wanted. She couldn’t afford not to.”

  “Why not?”

  “Don’t be so damn stupid!” Lucien gave an abrupt, painful laugh that ended in choking. When he caught his breath again he went on. “He gave her the pretty things she liked, and the cocaine she needed.”

  “So then why did he kill her?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe it wasn’t him.”

  “Niccolo?”

  “I don’t know. He could be dead too.” Lucien gulped. “Maybe it was that verminous little toad in the lavender velvet.”

  “Ash. Why would he kill them?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Henry waited.

  Lucien sighed. He looked away, avoiding Henry’s eyes. “I’ve crossed a few people, made enemies. If Niccolo is dead, whoever killed him probably thought it was me. We looked rather alike. In the half light of that passage, and if he was with Sadie …” He stopped. His face filled with regret and a peculiar kind of pain that was extraordinarily honest, without self-pity, as if he could see his loss with new clarity. “We were always headed to destruction, she and I.”

  Crow looked at Henry, his expression anxious.

  Henry nodded and moved away, allowing Lucien to rest, at least for a while.

  Bessie was looking after Lucien, who was lying close to the stove. Henry Rathbone sat in the corner with Squeaky and Crow, who were huddled in their coats. They were saving the last few pieces of wood for the early morning.

  “What do we look for now?” Henry asked, a note of desperation in his voice.

  “Pick him up an’ carry him out,” Squeaky said impatiently. “Before he gets us killed. Let his father deal with it.”

  Crow gave him a black look. “And of course this Shadwell will just let that happen! Next thing they know, the police will come to Wentworth’s door looking for Lucien for the murder of whoever it was who was knifed to death at the bottom of those stairs.”

  Henry straightened up. “Then we need to know who it was, and who killed them.”

  “And if it was Lucien?” Crow asked him.

  Henry bit his lip. “Then we find out how … and why, and decide what to do about it.” He was sitting with his back against the wall, the candlelight accentuating his features. Rathbone looked appallingly tired, and yet there was no anger in his face, no bitterness that Squeaky could see. Of course he was a fool. Without Squeaky and Crow to look after him he would have come to grief in minutes. He would have been robbed blind, possibly killed if he had put up any resistance. He seemed to believe anything he was told, no matter how obviously a lie.

  And yet there was a kind of courage in him that Squeaky had to grudgingly admire. And in spite of the stupid situation Henry had gotten them all into, Squeaky also rather liked him. That was another thing that had gone badly wrong lately: Since Squeaky had become respectable he had gone soft. Was this age catching up with him? Or cowardice? He had always been careful, all his life; to do otherwise would have been stupid. But he was never a coward! All his values had slithered around into the wrong place! Everything was out of control!

  “Makes sense,” Squeaky said at last. “If it’s Sadie who’s died, can’t see why he would kill her. Seems to have been fascinated with her. She’s the reason he got into this cesspit anyway. Likes his pleasures, that one. See it in his face when he talks about her. You get dependent on something, the bottle or the opium or whatever, then you don’t destroy it. Those things make you act like an idiot, but they get to be the most important things in the world to you. You never, ever forget to keep them safe. You’d poke your mother’s eyes out before you’d risk losing them.”

  “What if Sadie preferred Niccolo, and Lucien killed her in jealousy?” Henry asked.

  “He’d kill Niccolo,” Squeaky answered. “Taking her back. That’s property. You don’t smash something that’s yours. It would just be stupid. Slap her around a bit, maybe,” he conceded, remembering a few such acts of discipline from his brothel days. “Not where it shows, of course. Don’t spoil the goods. So if it’s him who’s dead, we’re in trouble.”

  Henry’s face twisted with bitter amusement and understanding.

  Squeaky blushed. He had not meant to give himself away so clearly. He would rather Henry merely guessed at his former life, rather than know it for certain. He wondered whether to try to improve on what he had said, then knew he would only make it worse.

  “Do you think he is telling the truth?” Henry pressed. “And he really doesn’t know who’s died?”

  “Not sure I’d go that far!” Squeaky protested. “Not … not entirely. He’s bound to lie about some things.”

  Henry smiled.

  Squeaky realized that he had just given himself away again. Now Henry would know that Squeaky always lied, at least a bit. Damn! Being respectable was a pain, and hard work!

  Henry turned to Crow. “And you?”

  “I’ve no need to lie,” Crow said with a grin, glancing at Squeaky, then away again. He straightened his face, suddenly very sober. “And I don’t think Lucien has either. He’s pretty well lost, whatever he says. No point really. Whether he did kill either one of them or not, he’s going to get blamed for it. Personally I think it was probably that disgusting little vampire in the lavender coat. He looks like something risen from the dead. I should think he likes knives.”

  “I believe him too,” Henry said quietly.

  “Hey, just a minute!” Squeaky protested. “I didn’t say I believed him. I just …” His mind raced. “What if Sadie told Niccolo to go to hell, and he killed her? Then Lucien comes along, sees her dead an’ covered in blood, an’ he slices him up? Ash had nothing to do with it.”

  Henry thought about it for several moments. “Then why would Lucien not admit that?” he asked. “Such an act would be justified, to the people here. And it seems they are all he cares about. This is his world—at least until we can get him out of it.”

  “Out of it?” Squeaky said incredulously. “Look at him! He’s drunk an’ he’s taking God knows what else to keep him awake, or asleep, make him laugh, or see what he wants to see, feel something like being alive, God help him. He belongs here. Hell don’t let go of people, Mr. Rathbone. Not that most people are willing to climb out of it, even if they could—an’ they can’t.”

  “First we have to find out if he killed either of the two victims, and if he did n
ot, then who did.”

  “You asked us if we believe him that he didn’t kill either of them,” Crow interrupted. “And you say you do.”

  “I do,” Henry agreed. “It is not a certainty, of course, but I shall treat it as such, unless circumstances should make that impossible. Therefore we must proceed on the assumption that someone else killed whoever it was—even both of them.” He looked at Crow again. “What is your opinion of Mr. Ash?”

  “Syphilitic,” Crow said simply.

  Henry was surprised. “You know that so easily?”

  Crow smiled, but there was no pleasure in his expression. “He moved very little, but his hand slipped on the cane, as if he were not sure whether he gripped it or not, as if he could not really feel his fingers. His feet were the same. That curious, slightly stamping gait is peculiar to advanced stages of damage to the nerves. He is probably more than a little insane.”

  “Then he might well have been violent,” Henry concluded.

  “Why would he kill them?” Squeaky asked. “Even a creature like that has to have a reason.”

  “You are quite right,” Henry agreed. “But one thing makes me wonder about the cane. Ash is quite small, and you say he has the signs of advanced syphilis?” He looked at Crow. “The cane in his hand slipped from his grasp. We saw it. Do you believe he could have attacked a healthy young man or woman and escaped completely unhurt himself?”

  “Not likely,” Crow conceded.

  “Lucien,” Squeaky said sadly. “He killed Niccolo, his rival for the girl, probably taking him by surprise—knife in the back. Then when she found them he attacked her too. That’s where he got injured himself.” He looked at Henry’s downcast face and felt guilty for having spoken the truth when he knew it would hurt him. “You can’t do anything for him.”

  Crow pulled his coat tightly around his shoulders. He had been staring at the ground, but now he turned to Henry. “We should put together all the evidence we can,” he said, looking from Henry to Squeaky and back again. “Even here, there has to be reason in things. There are a lot of questions we haven’t answered yet. What do we know about this Niccolo? Who was he and where did he come from? Did he and Lucien know each other before meeting here? In fact, did Lucien bring Niccolo here? Or the other way round?” He stopped for a moment, looking from one to the other.

  “Was it for women, or opium?” he went on. “Some kind of torture, or sexual appetite? Was Niccolo a sadist? A masochist? Did he love Sadie, or was he just using her?”

  Henry smiled at him. “Thank you, Dr. Crow,” he said gravely. “You are a voice of hope where there seems to be very little otherwise. Your suggestions are excellent. As soon as we have had a little sleep—if such a thing is possible in this place—we shall find something fit to eat, for ourselves and Lucien and Bessie, then continue our investigation.” He looked at Crow, then at Squeaky, his face grave. “If you are still agreeable to helping, of course?”

  Crow shrugged. “I’m curious,” he said. “I’ll help.”

  Henry waited for Squeaky.

  Squeaky felt trapped. He should have resented it, yet against all reason or sense, he was vaguely flattered to be included. He certainly would have been hurt had Henry not asked him. But he had to put up some sort of resistance, even if only to salvage the shreds of his reputation.

  “Won’t do any good,” he said yet again. He gestured toward where Lucien was lying curled over on his unwounded side, either asleep or unconscious. “What else are you going to do with him anyway? If he killed Sadie and Niccolo, are you going to expect his father to take him in and cover it up? They may have been rubbish, but they were still people. And who’ll he kill next, eh? Have you thought of that?”

  “Yes, Mr. Robinson, I have,” Henry said in little more than a whisper. “Nobody comes out of a place like this without paying a price, and I am not imagining that Lucien can do so either. I want to help him, not to excuse him. It is not a physical thing, to climb out of hell, as you put it; it is an ascent of the spirit. It will be long and extremely painful, and there is a cost to be paid. It is a steep climb—a toll road if you like—and each stretch of it will exact a price. But I imagine you know that.”

  Squeaky was stunned. He stared at Henry’s ashen face with its clear blue eyes, and saw no evasion in it, no soft, easy forgiveness. Was Henry referring to Squeaky’s own ascent from a place not as unlike this as he would wish to imagine it, until he was now positively decent? Or very nearly. Hester Monk treated him as if he were honest. Of course she probably kept a very good check on him, although he had never caught her doing so. That was a painful thought too. He very much liked having her trust. It was worth quite a lot of discomfort to keep it.

  Henry was still watching him.

  It occurred to Squeaky that in helping Lucien Wentworth, he might be proving that the way up was possible, proving it to Henry Rathbone, and more than that, to himself.

  “Course I’ll help,” he said tartly. “You need me. I know a lot of things you don’t.”

  Henry smiled, extraordinarily sweetly. “For which I am grateful,” he accepted. “Now let us rest until it is time to begin.”

  They slept briefly, then set out to find some hot food, and perhaps pies and ale they could bring back for Lucien and Bessie. They left the alleys and walked along Piccadilly into Regent Street. It was dry now and bitingly cold, with frost and here and there a dusting of snow, which contributed to the decorations of colored ribbons and wreaths of holly and ivy on shop doors.

  “Happy Christmas!” a stout woman called out cheerfully, passing sweets to a child.

  “And to you!” a gentleman returned. “Happy New Year to you!”

  Someone was singing “God rest ye merry gentlemen” and other voices joined in.

  The traffic was heavy, the clatter of hooves and the jingle of harnesses loud.

  Squeaky rolled his eyes, and said nothing.

  “Happy Christmas,” Henry replied to a passerby.

  After another hundred yards they found a tavern serving hot food that had a good fire in the hearth. Henry paid for them all, including provisions to take back to Bessie and Lucien. They ate in silence, relishing the luxury too much to disturb the pleasure of it with conversation.

  They started back again and were soon in the narrow alleys. It was dim, as if it were always dusk on these midwinter days. There was no reality of Christmas here, perhaps not even any belief in its meaning.

  They delivered the pies and ale, which were received with gratitude, expressed with few words and ravenous pleasure. They decided that Bessie would stay with Lucien to look after him while he healed. Henry, Crow, and Squeaky would continue to search for proof of who had been killed, and whether Lucien was involved or not, and if so, in what way.

  It was decided that Crow would go back to Mr. Ash and see if he could persuade him to tell whatever else he knew.

  “There has to be more,” Henry said. “He is involved in it somehow, because he feels too intensely to simply be an observer.”

  Crow agreed. “What about you?” he asked.

  Henry bit his lip. “I shall endeavor to learn something of this Niccolo—who he is, and above all if anyone has seen him in the last two days.” He looked at Squeaky. “You are the best suited among us to learn more about Sadie, particularly if she is still alive, and if not, who else, apart from Lucien, would have wanted to kill her.”

  Squeaky considered that a very dubious compliment, but this was not the time to argue with what was clearly the truth. Henry himself would be totally useless at such a task.

  They agreed to meet back at daybreak the following morning, at the latest.

  The others were already waiting when Squeaky returned, carrying a jug of hot chocolate he had purchased with some money he had “liberated” from a less-deserving owner. He shared it, measuring carefully, then sat down on the floor to enjoy his portion.

  Henry turned to Crow, his eyebrows raised questioningly.

  Crow warmed hi
s hands on his mug.

  Henry had bought some pies. Squeaky refrained from asking what was in them; he preferred to imagine. He also did not ask what they had cost. Both were things he very much preferred not knowing.

  The candles were getting low. One had already guttered and gone out. Lucien and Bessie were probably asleep. They had already checked on them, Crow with some concern.

  “How ill is Ash?” Henry asked. “Could he have killed them?” His face was in shadow, so Squeaky could not read his expression, but he heard the strain in his voice. Rathbone must have seen things here that his quiet life on Primrose Hill had not prepared him even to imagine. And of course there was always the smell. Few middle-class people had experienced the smells of the gutter, the sewage, the decaying bodies of rats, the rot of old wood.

  It brought back memories to Squeaky that he had worked very hard to forget.

  Before the security of Portpool Lane there had been other places, ones that smelled like this, of stale wine, vomit, unwashed bodies, blood, and sweat. Above all he could remember the fear. It might be the sudden eruption of temper into a blow against the head, or the knife in the stomach of deliberate revenge. He never looked at his own body because he did not want to see the scars. Some had been from women, and that was better forgotten too. Perhaps he had deserved those, or at least some of them.

  Hate was behind him now. Some people even trusted him, and that was like a delicate, precious flame in the darkness. He would kill to keep that, and the moment he did, of course, it would be gone, probably forever. Damn caring what people thought. It was against all the laws of survival. And yet it still beguiled him and drew him in.

  It seemed that Crow was going to answer Henry’s question about Ash. He was sitting with his back against the wall, his enormously long legs straight out in front of him. There was a hole in the sole of his left boot. His face was more deeply lined than Squeaky had ever seen it before. He looked more like forty-five than thirty-five. Squeaky recognized it as not just weariness but a kind of pain that darkened the energy of spirit and the hope that lit him. If that went out, it would be a darkness Squeaky would never find his way out of.