A Christmas Odyssey Read online

  Crow was still pretending to be interested. “She sounds different,” he said, regarding the young man closely. “You pursued her? Was she all you imagined?”

  The young man lifted one bony shoulder. “No idea. She only had time for Lucien.”

  That caught Squeaky’s attention, and he sat upright too quickly. The young man turned to stare at him, breaking the thread of his remembrance.

  Crow glared at Squeaky.

  Squeaky scratched himself, as if it had been a sudden itch that had disturbed him. “Too bad,” he commiserated. He caught Crow’s eye and decided to say no more.

  “Is she still around here?” Crow asked casually.

  “What?”

  “The girl with the sea-blue eyes.”

  “Oh, Sadie? Haven’t seen her.” The young man fished in his pocket, but apparently did not find what he was looking for. He furrowed his brow. “I’m getting out of here. This is becoming tedious. Do you want to come to Potter’s with me?”

  “Sounds like a good idea,” Crow agreed, without asking Squeaky. “I’d like to hear more about Sadie. You make her sound special, something new.”

  “Won’t do you any good.” The young man rose to his feet, and swayed a little. Crow caught him by the arm, steadying him. “Obliged,” the young man acknowledged the assistance, letting out a belch of alcoholic fumes. Don’t bother with Sadie. I told you, she went with Lucien.”

  “Where to?” Crow asked him, still holding his arm.

  “God knows.” The young man waved a hand in the air.

  “We aren’t on conversational terms with God,” Squeaky put in acidly. “I ask, but he doesn’t bleedin’ answer.”

  The young man started to laugh and ended with a hacking cough.

  Crow patted him on the back. It was a useless gesture, but one that allowed him to keep a firm hold on his arm and prevent him from collapsing altogether as he guided him toward the way out.

  The journey to Potter’s was made erratically along footpaths slick with ice. Holding on to each other was a way to maintain balance as well as to make sure that they did not lose the young man, and that he did not pass out in one of the many doorways. He might well freeze to death if he did.

  “Fool,” Squeaky muttered under his breath. Now that he was not making money out of other people’s vices, he had a far less tolerant view of them. “Fool!” he repeated as the young man stumbled. He would have fallen flat on the ice-covered paving stones if Crow and Squeaky had not yanked him to his feet again.

  When they finally reached Potter’s they found that the place was dimly lit, mostly by tallow candles in a variety of holders. Despite the lateness of the hour it was still full of people. Some were drinking, while others lounged in corners quietly smoking what Squeaky knew from past experience was tobacco liberally laced with other substances, possibly opium derivatives of some sort. The air was heavy and rancid with the stench of smoke, alcohol, sweat, and various other bodily odors.

  Crow wrinkled his nose and shot a grim look at Squeaky. Squeaky tried to smile but knew it looked sickly on his face.

  They were offered brandy, and bought some to try to revive the young man. He seemed to be falling asleep, or possibly into a kind of stupor.

  The sharp spirit going down his throat stirred him, at least temporarily. “What?” he said abruptly. “What did you say?”

  “You were telling us about Sadie,” Crow prompted him. “How beautiful she was, and how much fun.”

  “Yes, Sadie.” He repeated the name as if rolling the flavor around his mouth. “What a woman. Skin like … like …” He could not think of anything adequate. “So alive,” he said instead. “Always laughing, dancing, making jokes, kissing someone outrageously, places you wouldn’t believe.”

  “Lucien …” Crow put in.

  “Oh yes, him especially,” the young man agreed. “He would do anything for her, and did.” A slow, dreamy smile spread across his face. “She dared him to swallow a live fish … eel, I think it was. Revolting.”

  “Did he?” Squeaky asked.

  The young man looked at him with disgust. “Of course he did. Told you, he’d do anything for her. Admired her.” There was envy in his face. “Said she made him feel like a god—or a fallen angel, maybe. Can you see it?” He smiled a little vacantly. “Spiraling down from the lip of heaven in an everlasting descent to the fires of hell and the dark underlight of those who have tasted all that there is and know everything that the universe can hold.” He began to laugh. It was a strange, shrill sound broken by hiccups.

  One of the candles on the cellar wall guttered and went out.

  There were several moments of silence before he spoke again. “And of course there was Niccolo,” he added. “Never knew if she actually wanted him, or if she just used him to make Lucien mad with jealousy. Either way, it worked.”

  “Niccolo?” Crow repeated the name. “What was he like? Who was he?”

  The young man stared blankly.

  “Who was he?” Crow repeated with exaggerated patience.

  “No idea.” The young man seemed to lose interest. Squeaky fetched more brandy, but it didn’t help. Their informant was beginning to drift off into a stupor.

  “Who was Niccolo?” Squeaky said, his voice edged with threat.

  The young man stared at him and blinked. “Sadie’s lover,” he replied, giggling in a falsetto voice. “Sadie’s other lover.” He started to laugh again, then slowly slid off the chair and fell in a heap on the floor.

  Crow bent down as if to pick him up, or at least to try.

  “Leave him,” Squeaky ordered. “He’s probably as well off there as anywhere else. You won’t get anything more out of him. We need to find this Sadie. Can’t be too many as look like her. C’mon.”

  It was now past five in the morning, and there was hardly anyone left sober enough to give them any answers. They went out into the early morning darkness and the bleak easterly wind. Crow started to turn down toward the river, and his home.

  “No yer don’t!” Squeaky said sharply. “We in’t finished yet.”

  Crow snatched his arm away. “There’s nobody else awake at this hour, you fool!” he said impatiently. “It’s pointless looking now. Not that there’s much point at any time. I want some breakfast, then to sleep.”

  “So do I. Come to the clinic and we’ll get both.”

  “Yes? And how are you going to explain all this to Hester?” Crow asked witheringly.

  “I’m not.” Squeaky was disgusted with Crow’s lack of imagination. “I’m not going to tell her anything. We’ll get a good breakfast, then find a couple of rooms there with no one in them, and she won’t know.” Then another thought occurred to him. “It’s warm there, and only a mile away.”

  Crow gave in, pretending it was a favor to Squeaky. Then he gave one of his flashing grins, which was a mark of his good nature and slightly eccentric sense of humor. “Come on then. I suppose it’s really not a bad place at all.”

  The following evening was much easier. They now knew exactly who they were looking for. Additionally, contacts whom Squeaky had used in the past could be persuaded to yield a little information in return for promises of unquestioning medical help for things, such as unexplained knife wounds or even the odd gunshot.

  Sadie’s name was recognized by several people they asked in taverns and small theaters of the more louche kind. It seemed she was as great a beauty as the young man the previous evening had suggested, although she did not apparently sing or dance. But, far more arresting than mere physical perfection, she was said to possess a wild energy, imagination, and laughter that fascinated more men than just Lucien Wentworth, although they all seemed agreed that he was the most obsessed with her. He had already come close to killing a man who had tried to claim her forcibly.

  “At each other’s throats over ’er, they were,” one raddled old woman told them, where they found her in a busy and very expensive brothel off Half Moon Street. “Stuck a knife in ’is gut
s, that Lucien did. Daft bastard.” She sucked at her few teeth where the taste of whisky still lingered. “’E’ll kill somebody one day. If ’e din’t already.”

  Squeaky silently provided some more.

  “Ta’,” she said, grasping hold of it with gnarled hands, lumpy and disfigured by gout. “Ever seen dogs fight? Like that, it was. Sneerin’ an’ teasin’ at each other. An’ she loved it. Food an’ drink it were to ’er. The sight o’ blood fair drove ’er wild. Eyes bright as a madwoman, and a glow on ’er skin like she were lit up inside.”

  “Where is she now?” Crow asked her, controlling his voice with difficulty.

  “Dunno.” She shook her head.

  “Did the man live?” he asked. “The one Lucien knifed?”

  “Never ’eard,” she said with a shrug. “Prob’ly.”

  Squeaky looked at the swollen hands. “Where’d he go, this Lucien?” He tried to imagine the pain. He reached out and put his thin, strong fingers over hers. “I s’pect you know, if you think about it,” he suggested.

  “No I don’t,” she told him. “Places best not talked about. I don’t know nothing.” She nodded. “Safer that way.”

  “Wise to be careful who you talk to,” Squeaky agreed. “Best if you just talk to me, an’ him.” He nodded toward Crow. Then very slowly he tightened his grip on her hand, squeezing the swollen joints.

  She let out a shriek of pain. Her lips drew back in fury, showing stumps of teeth.

  “Oh, how careless of me,” Squeaky said in mock surprise. “Gout, is it? Very painful. So they say. You’ll have to leave off the strong drink. Where did you say they went, then? I didn’t hear you right.” He allowed his hand to tighten just a fraction.

  She let out a string of abuse that should have curdled the wine, but she also named a couple of public houses. One was off an alley to the south of Oxford Street, and the other to the north, in a tiny square behind Wigmore Street.

  She looked at him with venom. “They’ll eat you alive, they will. Go on, then, I dare yer! Think yer know it all? East End scum, y’are. Know nothing. East End’s kid’s stuff, all there up front. West End’s different. They’ll drown yer, an’ walk away whistlin’. Find yer body in the gutter next mornin’, an’ nobody’ll give a toss. Nobody’ll dare ter.”

  “She’s right,” Crow said warningly as they went outside again into the icy street.

  “An’ what do you know about the West End?” Squeaky dismissed him.

  Crow blinked. For a moment Squeaky thought he saw something quite different in the blue eyes, as if he had once been the sort of man who knew such places. Then the idea seemed absurd, and Crow was just the same amiable “would-be” doctor he’d known for years.

  “We better tell Mr. Rathbone that we can’t find what happened to Lucien Wentworth,” Squeaky said aloud. “He could’ve gone anywhere—Paris even, or Rome.”

  “There’s no need to give up,” Crow argued. “We’ve a fair chance of finding him.”

  “Course we have!” Squeaky responded. “An’ what damn good will that be? Best if his father never hears the kind o’ company he kept. If he went to these places—an’ I have heard of them, no matter what you think—then he isn’t coming back. They don’t need to know that.”

  Crow was silent for several moments. “Is that what you would want?” he said finally.

  Squeaky was indignant. “How the hell do I know? As if I had children what should’ve been gentlemen.”

  “I think we should tell them the truth,” Crow replied thoughtfully. “At least tell Mr. Rathbone the truth. Let him decide what to tell Lucien’s father.”

  “Soft as muck, you are!” Squeaky shook his head. “And about as much use. What’ll he want to know that for? Tell him Lucien’s gone to Paris, and he’ll stop looking.”

  “Then don’t tell him,” Crow replied. “I will.”

  Late in the afternoon, only eight days before Christmas now, Squeaky and Crow together alighted from the hansom cab on Primrose Hill. They walked by the light of the street lamp across the pavement and up the path to Henry Rathbone’s house. It had taken a certain amount of inquiring to find out where he lived, and they were later than they had intended to be. Squeaky felt nervous, and—in spite of the fact that Crow hid it well—he knew that he did too. This was a quiet neighborhood and eminently respectable. They were both ill-fitting strangers here. Added to that, they carried with them news that would not be welcome. It was really a message of defeat.

  Squeaky hesitated with his hand on the brass knocker. He was furious with himself for being such a coward. He had never been in awe of anyone when he was a businessman, selling women to those who wanted or needed to buy. He had despised them and was perfectly happy that they should know it. It was a straight exchange: money for the use of a woman.

  Well, maybe it was not quite that simple, but close enough. There were never any questions of honor or embarrassment in it. Violence, now and again, of course. People needed to be kept to their side of the arrangement. They tended to slip out of it if you allowed them to. Let yourself be taken advantage of once and it would happen again and again.

  “Are you going to knock, or stand there holding that thing?” Crow asked peevishly.

  Squeaky picked it up and let it fall with a hard bang.

  “Now look what you made me do!” he accused, turning to glare at Crow.

  The door swung open, revealing a calm-faced butler.

  “Good afternoon, gentlemen. How may I be of service to you?”

  Squeaky swallowed and nearly choked.

  “We would like to speak to Mr. Henry Rathbone, if you please,” Crow answered, while Squeaky tried to collect himself and regain his composure.

  The butler blinked and looked confused.

  “Mr. Rathbone asked Mr. Robinson here to perform a service for him,” Crow continued. “We have come to report our findings so far, and see what Mr. Rathbone would like us to do next.”

  “Indeed?”

  The butler still seemed uncomfortable. It was hardly surprising. Squeaky was lean and snaggletoothed, and had long gray hair falling onto his collar. Crow had a charming smile with far too many teeth. His hair was black as soot, as was his bedraggled coat with its flapping tails. And—simply because he had had no time to return home and put it down—he still had his doctor’s Gladstone bag with him.

  Squeaky drew in his breath to try a better explanation.

  Perhaps because of the length of time they had been on the step, Henry Rathbone appeared in the hall behind the butler. He recognized Squeaky immediately.

  “Ah, Mr. Robinson. You have some news?” He looked at Crow. “I am afraid I do not know you, sir, but if you are a friend of Mr. Robinson, then you are welcome.”

  “Crow. Doctor, or almost,” Crow said a little sheepishly. There was a note of longing in his voice, as if the “almost” had cost him more than he wanted to admit.

  “Henry Rathbone. How do you do, sir? Please come inside. Have you eaten? If not, I can offer you toast, a very agreeable Belgian pâté, or Brie, and perhaps some apple tart and cream. Hot or cold, as you prefer.”

  Crow could not keep the smile from lighting his face.

  Squeaky wanted that supper so badly he could taste it in his mouth already. Guilt at the news he brought overwhelmed him, but only for a couple of seconds.

  “Thank you, Mr. Rathbone,” he replied quickly, just in case Crow had any other ideas. “That would be very nice indeed.” He took a step forward into the hall as the butler pulled the door wider to let him pass.

  They sat next to the fire in the sitting room. Squeaky was fascinated first by the number of books in the cases in the walls, and then by the delicate beauty of the two small paintings hung over the mantel. Both were seascapes with an almost luminous quality to the water. He felt Rathbone’s eyes on him as he stared, and then the heat of embarrassment burned up his face.

  “Boningtons,” Henry said quietly. “They’ve always held a particular appeal for me.
I’m glad you like them.”

  “Yes.” Squeaky had no idea what else to say. He was even more out of his depth than he had expected to be, and it made him highly uncomfortable. Suddenly he did not know what to do with his hands, or feet.

  Crow cleared his throat and stared at Squeaky.

  Henry looked at him, waiting.

  Squeaky plunged in. Better to get it over with. “Thing is,” he began tentatively. “Thing is … we found word of Mr. Wentworth.”

  Henry leaned forward eagerly. “You did? Already? That’s a most excellent start.”

  Squeaky felt the sweat prickle on his skin. He was making a complete pig’s ear of this. He didn’t even mean to be deceptive, except for the best of reasons, and here he was doing it. Respectability had put him out of practice of saying anything the way he meant it.

  “Thing is,” he began again. “His father’s right, he’s picked up with some very bad company indeed. Woman called Sadie, a real bad lot. Seems he’s lost his wits over her. Got tangled up with a rival, and now there in’t anything daft enough or bad enough he won’t do to impress her. Even damn near killed someone.”

  He drew in a deep breath. “Mr. Rathbone, he in’t going to come back as long as she’ll give ’im the sort of attention he wants, an’ she’s playin’ him off against this other young fool, clear as day to anyone with eyes in their heads. It’s a world you don’t know, sir, an’ don’t want to.”

  Henry looked sad, but not surprised. “I see,” he said quietly. “It seems to be as bad as his father feared.” He looked across at Crow. “Do I assume that you agree, Doctor?”

  Crow blushed, not for the question, but for the courtesy title to which he had no right. He faced him squarely. “Yes sir. I’m afraid he’s sunk to the kind of place people don’t come back from. It isn’t just the drinking, although that’ll get to you in time. It’s the violence. It seems this young woman thrives on it. The sight and smell of blood excites her, the idea that men will kill each other over her.”

  “Are you saying that we shouldn’t try?” Henry asked him.

  Squeaky drew in his breath to tell him that that was exactly what they were saying, then he saw Crow’s face and changed his mind.