Anne Perry's Christmas Vigil Page 18

  Henry was watching him, waiting.

  “He isn’t going to live much longer,” Crow said quietly. “His body’s rotting. He stands so still because he can’t feel his hands or feet. If he moves he’s likely to lose his balance. He pretends to carry the stick for an affectation, but actually he’d fall without it. I don’t think he killed Niccolo or Sadie, but he knows who did. In fact, I think he was there. He knows something else, but I can’t get him to tell me.”

  “At a price,” Squeaky told him. “Don’t give all your help away. I know you’re a doctor, an’ all that, but doctors charge.”

  An indescribable expression crossed Crow’s face. For a moment Squeaky was afraid he would not be able to pretend that he had not seen it. He realized with a jolt that in spite of the years he had seen him coming and going, watched him patch up the injuries of all manner of people, he really knew Crow very little: not the man underneath the black coat, the flashing smile, and the bizarre humor. Now he had trespassed, to a place Crow did not want to let him into.

  “I have nothing to give him,” Crow said, without looking at either Squeaky or Henry. “His pain is beyond anyone’s reach. He is closed in with it until it kills him.”

  Squeaky shuddered. Perhaps in a way that was true of all of them, a final aloneness. He disgusted himself by feeling sorry for the man in his absurd costume.

  Henry leaned forward. “Is it who killed them that he will not tell you?” he asked Crow. “Or something else?”

  Crow thought for a moment. “I think it is something else,” he said finally.

  “The reason they were killed?” Henry suggested.

  Squeaky stared at Crow, then at Henry, then back at Crow again.

  “It’s something about Sadie,” Crow answered. “Something secret, that he nurses inside him, because he knows and we don’t. We are making a profound mistake about her. Something we believe is totally wrong. I’m trying to work out what it could be, and I can’t.”

  “Do you think Lucien killed her?” Henry asked. Squeaky knew from the tightness in his voice that if Crow said “yes,” he would accept it.

  Crow looked at Henry as if Squeaky were not even there.

  “No,” he answered. “Because he had no reason to. She gave him the physical pleasure that he craves, and she was very skilled, by all accounts, at making men feel admired, important—even that she loved them, in her own way. I can’t see how he would have deliberately sacrificed that.”

  “That’s more or less what I learned too,” Henry agreed. “Pleasure, admiration, a kind of emotional power are his weaknesses, but not violence. It seems the same was true of Niccolo, from what I could find out.”

  “Jealousy?” Squeaky put in. “Most men get violent if the women they think of as theirs pay too much attention to someone else. I’ve seen it over and over. You don’t have to be in love. It’s to do with possession, with being top. If someone can take your woman away from you, it’s a sign that you’re weak. You could love anybody at all, so your love is meaningless.” He forced memories away from him, things he had done in the past to make sure no one imagined him vulnerable, the fear he had instilled to keep himself safe. He could still too easily see their pale faces in his mind.

  Henry and Crow were both looking at him.

  Squeaky felt as if the ugliness in his mind were visible in his face, and they could read it. They would be revolted. He was revolted himself. He felt naked in the most painful and degraded way. His skin must be burning.

  “They said she was beautiful,” he began defensively. “Beauty can have funny effects on men. Lucien said it himself. Long black hair like silk, and sea-blue eyes. Sort of mouth you never forget. Comes into your dreams, whether you want it to or not.”

  “If that is the sort of woman she was, she may have had other enemies,” Henry pointed out. “I know you are playing devil’s advocate, Squeaky, which we need, but you must grant that that is also true.”

  “I know the devil too well to make jokes about him,” Squeaky said grimly. “Or to plead anything for him either.”

  “I mean that you are making the opposite argument, so that we see our case in the full light, from all sides,” Henry explained. “I was asking about Niccolo, but I learned a lot more about Sadie from the answers. She was very beautiful, and funny at times—although people who are drunk, or in love, are more easily amused than the rest of us.”

  He shook his head. “Even so, she seems to have been extraordinarily vivid in her personality, never a bore, which to some is the ultimate sin. But she was dependent on the cocaine, and without it she was very frightened.” He stopped, his face in the shadow. “I think she may have had an illness, perhaps something like tuberculosis. What do you think, Crow?”

  “I think you’re probably right,” Crow said softly. “Some of her vitality, some of her wild gulping at life was fear. I’ve seen it before. Do everything now, in case there’s no tomorrow.” He stopped abruptly.

  Henry looked at him, then touched him very gently on the arm for just a moment before letting his hand fall.

  Crow took a deep breath and let it out in a sigh.

  “Is that right?” Squeaky asked. “Would she have died anyway? And you reckon she knew that?”

  “I don’t know whether she knew it,” Crow replied.

  “You’re a doctor—you know!” Squeaky accused.

  “I’m not a doctor.” Crow looked at the ground.

  Squeaky drew in his breath to ask him why not, then knew it would be intrusive, even cruel. You did not ask people questions like that. Crow was his friend, and friends do not trespass into pain, still less into failure.

  “But it sounds like it,” Crow went on. “The fever, bright eyes, pale skin with a flush on the cheeks, the frantic energy and the tiredness, the … the knowledge inside her that she has not long—the need to do everything now.”

  “You sound very sure,” Henry said gently.

  “I’ve seen lots of it,” Crow replied, his voice cracking. He took a breath as if about to say something further, then let it out again without speaking.

  Squeaky looked at Henry.

  “No one can help that.” Henry turned to Crow.

  Crow smiled, his eyes filled with pain. “I used to think I could, when I was young, and stupid. My mother had it. That’s why I wanted to be a doctor. I used to think I could cure her. But she died anyway.”

  “We all fail at something,” Henry told him very quickly. “One way or another. Things that don’t work out as we had hoped, people we love who don’t love us, dreams that crumble. Time catches up with us, and we realize what we haven’t done, what chances for kindness, for courage we have wasted, and too many of them won’t come again. We see glimpses of what we could have been, and weren’t.”

  Squeaky was stunned. What was this life Henry was talking about? It was surely not the life he had had himself, inventing and making things, having a son who was the best lawyer in London, a nice house, people who trusted and admired him. What failure had he ever known?

  Henry’s attention was on Crow. “But you have helped many,” he said with growing conviction in his voice. “More important, you have helped some whom possibly no one else would help. Don’t let yourself be crippled because it wasn’t everyone. Nobody succeeds all the time.” He smiled bleakly. “Think how insufferably arrogant we would become if we did. There would be no need for God.”

  Squeaky smiled. “Is He going to pick up the bits we drop, then?”

  “I don’t know,” Henry replied. “But I don’t mean to drop Lucien if I can help it. There’s always a chance.”

  “You’re a dreamer,” Squeaky told him. “This isn’t your world.”

  “Hell is everybody’s world, at one time or another, Squeaky,” Henry answered.

  Squeaky blasphemed softly under his breath. “You’ve been here for days and you still don’t have the least idea! Lucien’s here because he wants to be!” He forced the words out between his teeth. He did not want to
hurt this gentle man. He liked him, dammit! But somebody had to save him from himself.

  Crow was staring at Squeaky.

  “And you don’t need to look like that either!” Squeaky snapped at him. “He came here for pleasure, no matter what it cost, or who paid it. He wanted to live in a world where everybody flattered him and told him how handsome and clever he was. He wanted to believe the lies—so he did. He didn’t give a damn about anyone else, and now nobody gives a damn about him.” He looked at Henry. “He’s here because he chose it. And you can’t change that.”

  “Of course I can’t,” Henry admitted. “But if he chooses to leave, perhaps I can help him believe that he can do it.”

  “It’s too late,” Squeaky said brutally, not because he wished to hurt, but because he couldn’t bear the hope and despair that would follow. It had to end now.

  “It’s never too late,” Henry said stubbornly. “Well, maybe it is sometimes, but not yet. There’s still something to fight for. You are free to go, of course, but I would rather you stayed with us, because we need your help, and your experience.”

  Squeaky wanted to swear, but no words in all his wide vocabulary were adequate to suit his feelings.

  “Well, I’ve got to stay, haven’t I!” he said roughly. “You haven’t got enough sense to find your way out of a wet paper bag!”

  “Thank you,” Henry said gravely.

  “I’ve been thinking.” Crow measured his words. “I’ve heard a lot about Sadie, because I asked about her. At least some of it has to be lies, but I can’t tell which is which. Sorting out the truth might be our next course of action.” He looked hopefully at Henry, then at Squeaky.

  “So what did you hear?” Squeaky asked. “She’s a damn good whore, with T.B., and any other disease she might have picked up along the way. She had long, black hair and blue eyes.”

  “She was tall and slender, with extraordinary grace,” Crow added. “And very disturbing eyes, actually, according to those who were not in love with her. One was green and one hazel.”

  Squeaky shrugged. “What does it matter?”

  “Unless it was two different women?” Henry pointed out. “Maybe it wasn’t even Sadie at all? Then Lucien would have had no reason to kill Niccolo.” A sudden hope lit his face.

  “Lucien is vain, stupid, completely selfish, and up to his eyeballs on opium, drink, and anything else he can get hold of!” Squeaky said. “He doesn’t need a reason to lose his temper and kill someone!”

  “But there was another woman Niccolo used,” Crow argued. “Perhaps she was the one with the hazel-green eyes?”

  “Can we find her?” Henry asked eagerly. “Do you know her name? Anything about her?”

  “Rosa,” Crow said, yawning. “Apparently he hit her quite a bit. I asked if we could find her, but no one’s seen her recently.”

  “What does she look like?” Henry asked. “She must be somewhere. Perhaps she’s hiding because she knows what happened. Maybe she has a pimp who protects her … and he killed Niccolo, and Sadie just got in the way.” He looked at Squeaky. “Or maybe it has nothing to do with Sadie. What do you think?”

  Squeaky saw the hope in his eyes and hated to crush it. “Maybe,” he said reluctantly. “I suppose. But if nobody’s seen this woman, I don’t know how we’re going to find her.”

  “Look for her protector?” Henry suggested.

  “Pimp, that’s what you mean. The man who owns her.”

  Henry winced. “If you prefer.”

  “What if her pimp is Shadwell himself?” Squeaky asked, shifting his position because his legs were cramped. Hell, it was cold down here! He longed for the warmth of the Portpool Lane Clinic. “Do we want to go after him?” he added.

  “He’s the one with the opium, and probably the cocaine,” Henry pointed out.

  Then Squeaky had a sudden, wild idea, one that would really give them something to follow, if it were true. He leaned forward eagerly. “At first we didn’t know if it was Lucien or Niccolo who was murdered,” he said urgently. “We got different descriptions of Sadie, so maybe we don’t know if it was Sadie who was killed, or this Rosa! Maybe nobody’s seen her for a few days because she’s dead!”

  Crow stared at him, his eyes wide. “Nobody’s seen Sadie either!” he argued, but he was leaning forward, wide awake now.

  “We don’t know that, ’cause we haven’t been looking for Sadie,” Squeaky pointed out.

  “But why would anyone kill Rosa?” Henry asked, clearly puzzled.

  “Well, maybe we should ask Lucien that.” Squeaky replied. “Maybe there’s a whole lot we should ask him, like exactly what he’s done for Shadwell lately. Who else has he brought down here? Maybe there’s someone in this we don’t even know about.” Squeaky drew in his breath and began again. “And let’s ask Lucien what he knows about this Shadwell, an’ make damn sure we get a straight answer this time. If Shadwell is Rosa’s pimp, is he Sadie’s too? And if he is, what does Lucien pay for her, and what else does he do to earn it?”

  “You are right.” Henry spoke before anyone else could. “We shall speak with Lucien again. However, I would be grateful if you would allow me to lead the questions.” He pulled himself to his feet, a little stiffly. He had been sitting on the hard floor for some time like the others. He was cold, and his muscles locked when he tried to pull his coat more closely around him. It flapped open now as he walked across to where Lucien was huddled, half asleep.

  Bessie looked up from where she sat with him, her face streaked with dirt, her eyes hollow. “I think ’e’s a bit better,” she said hopefully.

  Henry knelt down. “Good. Thank you. I’m afraid we must disturb him because we have questions.”

  She nodded.

  “Lucien,” Henry said firmly. “Sit up and pay attention. I need to talk to you, as do Crow and Squeaky. There are many questions that cannot wait any longer.”

  Lucien stirred and opened his eyes. His face was almost colorless and shadowed with bruises. His cheeks were gaunt, but even so he did not seem quite as deeply shocked as he had a day earlier.

  Henry moved to assist him in sitting up, and Bessie quickly helped him from the other side. He moved awkwardly and was queasy with pain, for a moment gagging as the wound in his side was stretched and the dried blood tore at his skin. At last he was propped against the wall.

  “I don’t know who killed him—or her,” he said, biting his lips with pain.

  “I assumed not.” Henry said, moving to sit more comfortably. Crow and Squeaky were close, just a little behind him. “There are other things that matter, and may lead us to knowing who did.”

  “Nothing matters, Mr. Rathbone,” Lucien contradicted him. “And it really won’t make any difference. Either Sadie or Niccolo is dead, and everyone will believe I killed them, whoever really did.”

  “Shut up and answer what you’re asked!” Squeaky told him curtly. “Mr. Rathbone decides what matters, not you.”

  Lucien gave a faint smile, looking at Henry. “Who’s your charming friend?”

  “Squeaky Robinson,” Henry replied. “And for the moment he’s right. There are several things we don’t know, and it’s necessary that we learn.”

  Lucien looked away.

  Squeaky wondered if he was crafting some sort of lie that might excuse him. Or perhaps the man was simply afraid. For an instant Squeaky felt a surge of pity. It startled him. He knew better than that. Spoiled, arrogant young men like Lucien Wentworth had had everything given to them, all the privileges Squeaky himself had never even dreamed of! A safe home that was warm even in winter, enough food, even good food, clean and well-cooked, not anyone else’s leftovers. They had beautiful clothes, always clean. People cared about what happened to them. They were taught to read, write, count, and speak like gentlemen. They didn’t have to worry and be afraid of tomorrow.

  So why was Squeaky sorry for him? Was it just because Hester would have been? Or was this all because of Henry Rathbone?

  “Lu
cien,” Henry said firmly. “I can’t protect you, and I wouldn’t even if I could. The only way out of this is to face it. And believe me, there is no escape. The pain is going to come, and the darkness, whether you run away or not.”

  Squeaky winced. He had wanted to interrupt; now he changed his mind. Henry’s quiet voice was worse than anger or open emotion.

  Lucien looked back at Henry. “I don’t know who was killed, or who did it,” he said again. “If Shadwell comes to take me himself, I still won’t know. There’s no use in you threatening; I can’t help.”

  “I believe that is what you think,” Henry replied. “Tell me more about Shadwell. Is he Rosa’s pimp? And Sadie’s?”

  “He’s Sadie’s,” Lucien answered. “At least … he owns her.”

  “And Rosa’s pimp?” Henry asked.

  “No.” Lucien sounded doubtful, but he did not add anything more.

  “Why Sadie’s?” Henry persisted.

  “Because he feeds her the cocaine she needs,” Lucien replied quietly.

  “And Rosa?”

  “She didn’t use it.”

  “Why does he feed Sadie cocaine?” Henry persisted.

  Lucien did not reply but Squeaky could see him chewing his lip, biting. It must have hurt, but clearly less than the pain that burned inside him.

  “She lures the kind of men few other women can,” he replied reluctantly. “And she keeps them. They come again and again.” A wry self-mockery lit his eyes and then went out.

  Henry put his hand on Lucien’s wrist, gripping him gently, but without allowing escape. “And why does he want you? What do you do for him that she can’t?”

  Crow turned to look from Henry to Lucien. For an instant Squeaky thought he was going to interrupt. The wretchedness in Lucien’s face was now so consuming that he half-thought of intervening himself.

  Then Crow leaned back again, saying nothing.

  “I bring a different sort of people,” Lucien said at last. “People with other tastes: torture, voyeurism, bondage. I didn’t bring them enough though. Some things sicken even me. Perhaps if I had brought them, Shadwell wouldn’t have killed whoever it was.”