Julian was part of Queen Anne’s bodyguard and saved her life from a foreign assassin bent on poisoning her afternoon tea. Julian had once been an assistant to a lion tamer at the Riggen Brothers’ Circus—which Matthew doubted existed—and served in that position until, alas, Silkie the lion decided he was not getting enough meat and therefore the tamer’s arm must suffice. Julian had sailed to South America in search of a shipwreck carrying a fabled emerald called the Green Goddess, and though he had not found the gemstone he was made an honorary member of the Tupinamba tribe for saving a young boy from drowning. Julian had once fought three duels in one day—before breakfast, after lunch and after dinner—and three men lay in the cemetery at Salisbury to prove it.
And on and on.
Listening to these yarns, Matthew thought Julian might well offer his services to Lord Puffery’s Pin and be set for life.
Not once, however, did Julian mention Professor Danton Idris Fell, Mother Deare or any personage of that evil ilk; for the time spent entertaining the Turlentorts—and Benson and Hedges as well—he was simply an adventurer, or as Matthew believed, a young man dreaming of a life he might have had, and spinning his history from whole cloth much cleaner than the suit tailored for him by Fate.
Matthew had seized whatever sleep he could in the coach, and likewise had Julian. Matthew had seen that Julian never fully let himself go to sleep; the man slept so close to wakefulness that he just seemed to be resting with his eyes closed, and in truth his eyes were not closed that much, they were just glazed over and staring into space. Several times Julian had come up from his strange slumber with a start, on his lips a harsh whisper that in his dream—or nightmare?—must’ve been a shout, his eyes wide and red-rimmed with some private terror. And always his hand was either gripping that pistol or white-knuckled around the hilt of his sword, so that it seemed he was continually fighting duels in a Salisbury of his soul.
And that, Matthew thought, was the price the villain had to pay for his choices of profession and associates: unable to rest as normal people did, being constantly on guard, and shouting at phantoms that came reaching for him from the grave.
In that pitching coach, Matthew was fighting his own living nightmare of what he would do if Cardinal Black and the book of potions could not be found. Plus also a chemist to decipher Gentry’s formulas had to be found and taken back to Y Beautiful Bedd in time to bring Berry back from her path to mindless imbecility. This entire journey to London might be a waste of time, and then where to go? He had to trust Julian because he had no choice; if Julian had any kind of connection in London to move them forward in this quest, then Julian was the master of the moment, and Matthew reduced to a tag-along.
But…what if this was all for nothing? The more Matthew let fact and logic enforce themselves in his brain the more he feared it was a delusion to think he could regain the book of potions—if it could even be found—and return it and a chemist to Y Beautiful Bedd in time. They still had something in the vicinity of twenty days before the potion became immobile, but if he failed in this quest how could he ever forgive himself? And to return to New York after he had found Brazio Valeriani…would he take Berry’s broken shell back to her father, or would she be so far gone she imagined herself to be daughter to the Nashes and spend the rest of her life in that role?
Never in his life had he felt so helpless and so conflicted, for in exchange for this quest he had vowed to find Brazio Valeriani for Professor Fell and he was certain the professor did not want the man to discuss the weather in Italy. It had something to do with Fell’s interest in demonology, Valeriani’s dead father Ciro—a man of science who had for some reason lost his mind and hanged himself—and, strangely enough, a piece of furniture.
It sounded to Matthew like an evil mixture, to which Cardinal Black had become an added ingredient.
As the coach had gotten nearer to the city, Matthew could hear London calling. It was at first a low murmur or drone, felt more than heard, even through the noise of the wheels and the creaking of the coach. He recalled such a sound on his trip from Plymouth en route to his stay at Newgate Prison. It was the voice of London in all its life: the inhalation and exhalation of breath from human lungs, the thuddings of boots, the slamming of doors, the scrapings of wooden hulls against piers on the river, the noise of forks against plates, the clinking together of glasses, the music of taverns and street-singers, the beat of hooves on the streets and the squeak and crunch of innumerable wheels of wagons, coaches and carriages ever turning, all these and a thousand more elements to the voice of London and its six hundred thousand occupants…but in the depths of this voice Matthew heard only one question being directed at him from whatever spirit ruled the sprawling city: Will you succeed, or will you fail?
And the observation, delivered like a blade to the heart: I am the city that eats men alive. Once I almost consumed you. So come to me again, young Matthew, and test yourself against my age-old teeth of stone.
He could not fail. Could not. But…how to succeed, when failure would mean such a torture he could not live beyond another twenty days, yet as a husk of a man he must find Brazio Valeriani for Professor Danton Idris Fell and in so doing have a hand in damning the world?
These things whirled through his mind as he followed Julian into The Octopus Garden. Within, the hanging lanterns cast greenish glows, there was a musty smell and many arms were reaching for tankards of ale, dice, cards and the like, but neither was there an octopus nor a garden. Over the hubbub of voices there bellowed the noise of excitement—hurrahing and shouting—toward the back of the place, where a dozen or more men were standing around a large table. “Ah!” said Julian over the tumult. “I believe I see our prize.” He took a few more strides through the layers of swirling pipe smoke and then turned back to Matthew again. “He’s there,” Julian said. “Now: you stand silent while I speak to him. Make yourself invisible. Understand?”
“Yes.”
“Come on, then.”
They wound their way between the smaller tables to the larger. Under a brighter yellow lantern could be seen on the table a circular track lined with bricks placed end against end. On that track Matthew caught sight of four rather huge cockroaches scrabbling toward a piece of red twine stretched between two nails, the finish line for this insectile race.
The shouts of the gamblers merged together: Go on, Goliath, go on!…Faster, Alfonzo, faster!…God blast you, Jimmy Jack, you’re as slow as Christmas!…Move your damn ass, Brisket!
And between shouts the men who were evidently the owners of such creatures were blowing puffs of air upon them with little miniature bellows, the better to speed their progress toward the red twine and the bowl of silver coins held by a thin and unsmiling man wearing a white wig decorated with the dried bodies of what might have been former champions of this sport, or simply had been swept up from the floor. On closer inspection—and much closer he did not wish to get—Matthew saw that the shiny black backs of the struggling contestants were marked by dabs of paint: red, blue, white and yellow. It seemed not even its owner could tell Goliath from Brisket without a color cue.
Matthew noted that Julian had edged up beside a tall, slim man in his fifties who had a craggy but not unhandsome face with a long aquiline nose, flowing gray hair, voluminous gray eyebrows and a mostly-white mustache and beard waxed to such a sharp point it might have served as an icepick. This man appeared to be a gentleman of the upper class out for a night among the lowly, until one got a look at the patches on the elbows of the shabby dark blue suit and the unwashed collar and cuffs of his white—had it even been truly so?—shirt. A bright purple paisley cravat tucked around the throat did serve to detract the eye from this individual’s wardrobe misfortunes, or rather it attempted to shock the eye into insensibility.
Julian leaned in closer to the man and over the noise of the race Matthew heard him say, “Hello, Britt.”
The man tu
rned, the copper-colored eyes took Julian in and the leathery face smiled. “Julian, my boy! How good to see you! Where have you been keeping yourself?”
“There and abouts. I have some questions for you.”
“I am always at your disposal, but not now, please! Can’t you see the drama unfolding before you?”
“I see the running of the roaches.”
“You can’t see that Alfonzo is about to overtake my Goliath with less than half a track to go? Blowwwww, winds, blowwwww!” Britt called to Goliath’s owner, who was furiously manning his bellows. “Oh, you’re blowing the wind up Alfonzo’s ass!” Britt cried out as one in anguish. “Dear God, have you no mercy?”
“Which is Alfonzo?” Julian asked.
“The red-dotted demon from the pits of Hell!” Britt said. “Look at him scurry forward!”
Julian leaned toward the track.
His fist came down.
Slam! Upon Alfonzo.
And then Alfonzo was, like Lord Puffery’s Pin, red all over. Or really rather a mushy kind of brown.
The silence of horror fell upon the crowd.
“Egad,” said Britt, the huge bushy eyebrows up and twitching. But then: “And Goliath crosses the finish line! Right-o, chaps, right-o!”
At once a stocky bull-chested gent four inches short of Julian’s height but with a mug like a meat cleaver was snarling up into his face. “Ya murdered my meal ticket, ya bastard! I’ll take your head for—”
He stopped because four barrels did not exactly fit into two nostrils, but it was a near-run thing.
“I wouldn’t cause a scene, Arthur,” Britt cautioned. “And good advice to all my friends gathered here.” He was already reaching for the money bowl. “This gentleman before you once fought three duels in one day in Salisbury, and you can see he’s very much alive and kicking.”
Julian was aiming that deadly stare into the eyes of the late Alfonzo’s owner. Matthew saw Julian wipe his offending hand across the front of the other man’s coat, leaving a streak of ill luck. “Give him a decent burial,” Julian said.
There was some more muttering and a few half-hearted threats were thrown across the table, but Britt took it upon himself to give a coin each to the owners of Goliath, Jimmy Jack, Brisket, and even dead Alfonzo’s owner, who brightened up considerably on his way to the bar.
“Next race in five minutes!” called the bug-wigged man in a sing-song voice that said this was not his first time around the track. “Masters, bring your contestants forward! Gamblers, get your bets on the table!”
Matthew stood nearby, close enough to hear but out of Britt’s line-of-sight; he was just meandering around beside the table as if contemplating his next bet.
“So good to see you, dear boy!” said Britt. He cast his gaze upon the saddlebag. “Travelling far tonight? And still flirting with disaster, are we?”
“Yes, travelling far…and only flirting.”
“It’ll catch up with you! Mark it, and you know what I’ve told you if you keep up your dangerous walk upon the precipice! Every day you have the chance to start anew and afresh!”
“Yes, I recall,” said Julian. “And as I recall, your own precipice is equally as dangerous as mine. Well, I’ll start anew and afresh tomorrow. For now I have to ask you some questions.”
“Oh?” Britt produced a red velvet purse from within his coat and began to put his winnings away. “Pertaining to what?”
“Pertaining to what Royal Navy admiral has decided to go into competition with Professor Fell.”
Matthew saw the man’s fingers pause in their deposit of the silver.
“You know who I mean,” Julian went on. “I want a name.”
“Dear boy,” said Britt, who dropped the last shilling into his purse and closed the bag with its drawstring, “a question of that nature is best directed to Mother Deare. She should know far more than—”
“Mother Deare is dead. The admiral’s name. What is it?”
“Mother Deare dead? Oh, my! That’s certainly news for the street!”
“You know the news of the street twelve hours before it happens,” said Julian. “And you know what street it’s going to happen on. That’s why I’m here looking into your face.” Julian’s hand came up to smooth one of Britt’s sooty lapels. “You are the king of underworld knowledge. I don’t have to tell you that, do I?”
“You flatter me. What can I say?”
“You can say the name, and please do it quickly because I really do despise roaches.”
“Hm. Unfortunately I do not know the name of the personage you seek.” From within the gentleman’s well-worn jacket, Britt’s fingers produced a pewter snuffbox. He opened it and took a whiff up each nostril as Julian waited for the next statement. Britt gave a polite little sneeze, wiped his nose with a cuff and then continued. “But, I do know of the professor’s current predicament.”
“Oh? What might that be?”
“The diminishment of his power. Dear boy, everyone knows it. Certainly you do. It seems a young stripling from the colonies has weakened Danton’s hold on…well…his hold on everything. I am not aware of the name, but I have heard this upstart has not only upset the professor’s business interests, but nearly destroyed that island of his he prizes so highly. Therefore the other sharks in this sea of ours smell blood and are gathering to consume the body. Isn’t that correct?”
Matthew almost said Yes it is, but he kept his mouth shut and his eyes on the table as the next roaches were dabbed with paint for their race.
“No comment,” said Julian.
“And that means correct,” Britt answered with the sly slip of a smile. “I’m sure it will be common knowledge soon, and perhaps an item for all to read in the Pin.”
“The only item that currently concerns me is the admiral’s name, which I’m sure you have but which you for some reason refuse to reveal. All right then, what’s your price?”
“My price? Oh Julian, not everything comes down to money.”
“Ha!” It was a laugh without mirth from the slate-eyed face. “Now that’s a lie for the ages.”
“You hurt my heart, dear boy. And I thought I taught you such good manners.” Britt’s attention turned toward the man with the dead bugs in his wig. “Four shillings on…what’s that little one’s name?”
“Mongo,” came the reply.
“Four shillings on Mongo. He looks quick out the gate.” The coins went into the bowl along with the others being deposited there, and the wigged bugateer wet a pencil’s tip with his tongue and marked down the figure in a ratty-looking notebook. “Julian,” said Britt, “you should go now unless you’d like to place a bet upon Mongo, who appears to me a worthy contestant to win the next round. And please, this time keep your fist to yourself.”
“That’s your final word?”
“Final unto finality.”
Suddenly a thin figure slid up beside Matthew and a dirty face with a mass of black hair topping it grinned at him. “Drink a’ ale, handsome? Then a ride on the pony?”
“The pony?” Matthew asked.
“Yep. My name’s Pony.”
“No, thank you,” Matthew answered, and so moved away from the table while Julian and Britt traded a few further barbs that he was unable to hear. The crowd around the table was getting louder as the roaches were put into a wooden box, the box closed and shaken and then held over the track’s starting point. Matthew figured the bottom of the box was hinged to allow the contestants to fall out upon the track, but he had no desire to see any further nor curiosity to watch the progress of Mongo.
In another moment Julian came up at his side and said, “We’re done here.”
Out in the cold, with the snow blowing around them, Julian said, “Cross the street. We’ll stand in that doorway awhile.”
“Why? Aren’t we done here?”
“We are done in the Garden,” Julian corrected. “Not with Britt. If I know him—and I do, very well—he has never turned down a coin unless it’s for two more. Let’s give him time to lose his shillings on Mongo and then see what he does. Or rather…where he goes.”
They waited in the doorway’s dark as the snow fell before them and the wind took on a high keening note.
In the next ten minutes a few men came into and went out of The Octopus Garden but Julian gave no reaction. At last a tall figure bundled up in a long greatcoat and wearing a floppy-brimmed hat pulled down low upon the head emerged and began striding westward. It was a man who obviously had somewhere important to go, and was sparing no speed even though the wind whipped his face.
“That’s his stride. A bit gangly, like a roach running a race, isn’t it?” Julian said. “Britt’s on the move. So shall we be.”
nine.
Through the white curtains of night Julian and Matthew followed the man called Britt. They trailed at a distance, enough to keep their quarry in sight yet not close enough to trip the game. For block after block Britt went on, at one point his greatcoat seemingly losing its last button and spreading open with the wind like a pair of flapping wings. With one hand he kept the hat on his head, lest it too fly away.
The snow played tricks with measure, but Matthew figured they must’ve travelled half a mile before Britt crossed the street—quickly, in front of a coach whose driver obviously was in a hurry to get somewhere warm—and then descended a narrow set of steps.
“Move!” Julian said to rush Matthew along, but Matthew needed no urging. At the top of the steps they were looking down at an oak door, a pair of green-glassed oval windows and a sign that read The Green Spot. Britt had entered another of the tawdry taverns in what Matthew felt that, beyond the purity of the snow, was an area not so different from the dark bleakness of Whitechapel.
Cardinal Black Page 10
