Artful: A Novel

by Peter David

  “Did that old woman call you . . . ‘Dodger’?”

  “Dodger by street nature and nature of the street. Artful Dodger in full, as I’m reg’larly addressed by me more intricate friends.”

  She frowned a moment and then said, “You mean ‘intimate’?”

  Dodger blinked and then said cheerily, “Much the same thing.”

  “Not truthfully, but I am not of a mind to argue with he who has been twice my savior this evening, from that man and from the old woman.”

  “Ya keep calling Sarah ‘old.’ She ain’t but much more than a summer or so ahead of you, truth t’ tell.”

  The maiden was clearly astounded at this intelligence. “She looks so much older!”

  “Life on the streets can do that, and does.”

  “I . . . had no idea.”

  “No,” said Dodger, looking at her sidelong. “No, I’m fain to think you would’na. It’s like—no offense intended, miss—but it’s like ya just dropped into the middle of the world out of nowhere. If ya told me right here and now that you descended from the moon and were new to this sphere, I’d say that makes as much sense as anythin’ else.”

  “I’ve . . .” She hesitated, as if searching for the best way to express it. “I’ve led a rather sheltered life.”

  “Are ya a novice escaped from an abbey before taking your solemn vows?” He said it partially in jest, but even as he did, he realized that it was a sensible explanation, plus it had the additional merit of being relatively earthbound as opposed to relying on lunar visitation.

  She looked as if she wanted to laugh at that, but wasn’t entirely sure how one was supposed to go about laughing, as if the entire business of enjoying a joke were alien to her, which seemed to go a ways toward reinvigorating his lunar visitor theory once more. “Hardly,” she said finally. But she volunteered nothing beyond that. Still, she kept staring at the Artful as if she found him worth studying in some academic manner.

  “Do you have a name, at least?”

  Even in that regard, she hesitated. “Alexandrina,” she said at last.

  “That’s far too much of a mouthful for the street life,” said Dodger. “Takes too long to shout out if you’re in danger. ‘Alexandrina, look out!’ By the time you get through all the syllabubs of the name, whatever’s after you is already on you.”

  “I had no idea,” she said, “that just a handful of . . .” She paused and then there was the slightest—ever so much the slightest—hint of an upturn at the corners of her mouth, “syllabubs . . . could constitute the difference between life and death.”

  “Now ya know. To wit,”—and he pondered the matter—“Alex is a boy’s name and not a fitting way for a gentleman to address a lady, and so Drina it is, if it suits your fancy.”

  “I am . . . not sure. No one has ever addressed me as such.” She rolled it about in her mouth for a few moments and then said with a firm nod of her head, “Very well. Drina, then.”

  As they walked, he saw that she was looking to the right and left and behind and in front of herself, and there was a wariness in those glances that spoke volumes to him. It told him that she was on the run from someone, and it wasn’t simply that boorish fellow who had endeavored to force his attentions upon her. There was someone—or someones—else.

  They reached a place where the road crisscrossed with another, and they stared at each other for a long moment of silence.

  “You have been too kind, Dodger,” she said after a time. It was odd, for there was no nervousness about her, even though she was clearly out of her element and concerned that she was being followed. She was one of the most self-possessed individuals he had ever encountered, yet there was that paradoxical caution about her. “But I would soon as not put you at any continued risk defending my honor.”

  At that, the Artful laughed, said noise serving to startle Drina. “Of all the dangers I face every single day and every single night, from jail to transp’tation, to the noose, defendin’ the honor of a young lady is the least dauntin’ and the most rewardin’. It was me pleasure is what I’m sayin’, miss.”

  “Well . . . thank you, then.” She curtsied slightly and then turned away.

  The reasonable thing for the Artful to do would have been to let her go without any further word, for he had been in her presence less than five minutes and had found himself deep in it twice already. There was no sense in him risking his own neck. No sense in it at all. The only actions that young men undertake that have nothing to do with sense typically relate to affairs of the heart, and in that regard the Artful Dodger knew himself to be unassailable, for his heart was a dark and mysterious thing locked away in a high tower.

  And yet he heard his own voice saying, as if he stood a distance from it and overheard it merely as an interested observer, “Have you lodgings?”

  She turned and looked at him in a curious manner. “Not . . . hereabouts,” she said at last.

  “The streets can be fierce for a young woman with no protector and no place to stay. If you be in dire straits—which is how it seems to me, what with me being merely an onlooker—if that’s the case, and you need a place to hang your hat—not that you have a hat, but if you did—I have a shelter which is not much of anythin’ at all, but it does me all right and should do you as well . . . .”

  His voice trailed off, and he felt abashed, for he could not recall a previous time where such a nearly unconnected string of words had tumbled from his mouth, associated with each other only in the fact that they were in each other’s general neighborhood during the period of their utterance.

  She was regarding him with wide eyes. “That is . . . very kind of you, but I am not certain that it would be proper.”

  “Were I not a gen’leman, I could see reason for that worry, but I am and therewise there is not,” said the Artful Dodger with as much pomp as he was capable of pomping out. “You simply strike me as someone who needs a place to stay, and I gots a place that needs stayin’.”

  As if to urge them on their way, there was a faint rumbling from on high, and the first of several fat raindrops—with the promise of more to be forthcoming—descended and landed squarely upon their faces.

  “Any port in a storm,” said Dodger with a grin, and so it was that Drina followed Dodger as quickly as they could to the burned out, run-down façade that served as his shelter and place of residence.

  She hesitated outside it, scrutinizing the dilapidated structure, and said cautiously, “Is it safe? Truly?”

  “You ventured out into the streets of London with little or no knowledge of the ways of survivin’ on them,” the Artful pointed out to her. “A bit late in the day to be concernin’ yourself over matters such as safety, wouldn’t ’cha say?”

  If the wisdom of his words were not sufficient incentive, the flash of lightning and crack of thunder overhead and the increased velocity of the rain were enough to propel her inside.

  And it was in that manner that a young, desperate woman accepted the hospitality of Jack Dawkins, the Artful Dodger, and set his life on a very unexpected course.

  FIVE

  IN WHICH WE ARE RELOCATED TO A SITE OF SOME VILLAINY CLOAKED IN JUSTICE, BEFORE RETURNING TO THE DODGER’S CIRCUMSTANCES IN THE NEXT CHAPTER

  Mutton Hill was the location of a particularly infamous metropolitan police office, notorious for the parade of hardened criminals, accused criminals, and non-criminals, all of whom received more or less the same treatment and level of punishment, for the reasoning by the magistrate in question was that if one was truly innocent, one had no business being brought into the police office in the first place, and that to be there was to be guilty, and only the expeditiousness of the sentence was worth considering.

  Suchlike was the province of the Magistrate Mr. Fang, about whom we have presented you some intelligence already, and who has been waiting with some impatience to
be brought directly into the heart of the story. And when an individual such as Mr. Fang demands attention, then by rights and for the safety of all concerned, attention must surely be paid.

  The police magistrate did not have a courtroom so much as he had an overlarge, paneled front office with a bar at one end, behind which he sat perched like the vulture that he was, every evening, without fail, navigating through the human Sargasso of lost souls like an excessively deft mariner, steering his way without allowing them to touch him in any way or pose any manner of threat to him.

  One after the next after the next, the police would bring their various examples of gallows bait before Mr. Fang, and he would listen (barely) and pronounce sentences (quickly) in the best tradition of the sort of mercy that far more human individuals than he had displayed with equal facility.

  This had been a particularly busy evening, for when rain was coming down, police tended to be particularly aggressive at nabbing miscreants, or suspected miscreants, the latter requiring nothing more than looking as if perhaps, at some point in the future, they might be inclined toward considering some manner of mischief, and therefore such activity should be nipped solidly in the bud. The reason, of course, was that it was far drier in Mr. Fang’s parlor than it was outside, to say nothing of far more temperate, basked as they were in the warmth of Mr. Fang’s generosity of spirit. Not toward the plight of those brought before him, of course. No, lack of generosity of spirit would have been the more accurate way in which to put it. But that very lack of generosity, the no-nonsense manner in which Mr. Fang dispatched villains of all kinds, was more than enough to warm the hearts of the police officers.

  This particular evening, the officers were clustered, dripping and wet, in the parlor, trying not to step on each other, holding firm to their various charges, hoping that their business would require as much time as possible so that the rain would have the chance to cease its pummeling of the streets. This gave them opportunity to observe Mr. Fang, who was in a rather dyspeptic mood, which was a bit of a change from his typically foul mood, so at least some measure of variety was being provided.

  A police officer had just had his latest acquisition, a starving child who had snatched an apple from a merchant, sentenced to six months in jail, and was ushering the sobbing youngster out of the room when all of the brave officers were jolted to their feet by a barking so loud that it sounded as if a hound spat from hell had honored the gathering with its presence. Shouts and protests and threats of arrest were all topped by a thunderous demand from the magistrate himself: “What is going on here! What is the meaning of this!”—both not questions so much as demands for explanation.

  The demands were aimed at a tall, broadly built man, who had a thick gray cloak draped around him and a high-topped hat that gave him a faint resemblance to an old-style Calvinist. His height enabled him to dominate the room, which promptly fell silent. He had strong, chiseled features and a black Van Dyke beard with flecks of silver at the edges. The beard was so bristling that it seemed to have a defiant life of its own, sticking out as if challenging someone to comment upon it.

  He had one hand firm upon a leash that was keeping in place an extremely sizable German shepherd, with fur of brown and black and a sizable piece missing from its left ear, no doubt torn off by some animal. The remains of the left ear, and all of the right, were drawn back, and the dog was snarling softly, with its gaze fixed upon the magistrate. The magistrate shifted uncomfortably in his chair, finding himself disconcerted by the dog’s attention.

  The dog’s master was carrying in his other hand the distinctive black satchel of a practitioner of the medical arts. And when he spoke, his voice was oddly accented. “I apologize for my dog’s enthusiasm. Silence, Jacob!” And he snapped the leash once. The dog quieted, but its attention remained focused upon the magistrate. The police officers were looking at each other with concern, clearly trying to convey mutely their opinions to each other as to whether they should do something to intervene and force either the man or mastiff or both from the police house immediately. No one, however, took the initiative, each of the officers doubtlessly so modest that none of them wished to make their bravery conspicuous.

  “You are German, sir?” asked Mr. Fang.

  “Dutch, actually. It is a common mistake.”

  “Either way, sir,”—and Mr. Fang thumped his hand upon the bar impatiently—“you are a guest in our land, and as such, are displaying deplorable manners. You will bring that . . . that animal”—and he pointed at the German shepherd, whose growl had dwindled to a barely controlled rumble—“outside immediately, and then wait your turn behind all these good gentlemen.”

  “I have no doubt that will happen,” said the doctor coolly, “should another man who has business here, and who is accompanied by a dog, choose to stop in. As for me, neither of those requests, sad to say, will be honored.”

  Mr. Fang was so flummoxed, so outraged, that at first he could not summon a response. When he did, it was to thump the bar yet again and bellow, “Insolence, sir! Insolence most intolerable!”

  The newcomer looked chagrined. “I see the cause for your ire, sir. If it will mollify the situation,”—and he reached into his bag—“I will happily apologize . . .” He drew a large silver crucifix from his bag. “And in fact, if you will join me by gripping this symbol of forgiveness, then all will be well; I swear to every good and true servant in this room, it will be.”

  The magistrate drew in breath with a sharp hiss and let it out slowly. When he spoke again, it was in a different tone, one that was far more cautious and wary, with an undercurrent of danger. If a cornered lion, or more accurately a jackal, were able to engage its hunter in conservation, it would have likely sounded similar. “I do not believe you offered your name, sir.”

  “I do not believe it is necessary.”

  “You are quite right. I believe I know you, inasmuch as to know of someone is to know him. A doctor of some notoriety, yes?”

  “Yes. And your notoriety has reached me as well,” said the Dutchman. He shook his bag ever so slightly, and there was the sound of something clattering in there: wooden objects, it seemed to everyone in the room. “And because we see each other plainly, then I believe you are aware that we have business requiring attention.”

  “Yes. Yes, we do,” said Mr. Fang.

  The officers of law enforcement were becoming increasingly perplexed, aware perhaps that there was some aspect of the conversation that was remaining obscure to them. Mr. Fang settled the matter quickly, however, when he stood slowly, like a shadow rising, and gestured behind himself. “It would be best, I think, if we talked in my private office.”

  “If I am acceding to your request, then these good gentlemen,” said the Dutch doctor, “are all bearing witness to the fact that I am doing so.”

  “Yes. Freely and of your own will,” said Mr. Fang. “You may leave your dog.”

  “I may. But as it happens, I shall not.”

  The magistrate shrugged imperceptibly, and so it was that several minutes later, Mr. Fang and a man who was in a position to give him a good deal of difficulty were facing each other in the small, spare room that served as the magistrate’s private office. There were no windows and only one door, both aspects of which the doctor silently apprised himself. He had replaced the crucifix into the bag, but it was still visibly protruding and thus easily accessible. Nor was the dog seemingly inclined to shift its attentions away from Mr. Fang, who returned the animal’s level gaze but otherwise maintained an impassive face.

  “Are you enjoying your stay in London?” asked Mr. Fang.

  The Dutchman tilted his head slightly with a puzzled expression. “I had in my head the envisioning of several ways that this would proceed, but I can say in all honesty that that was not amongst them.”

  “What did you envision? That I would beg for mercy certain not to be forthcoming? That I would attem
pt an assault which would most surely be thwarted by your hound there and whatever tools you have in your bag? Stakes, I presume? Holy water? Garlic, perhaps? Mirrors?”

  “I pride myself on being prepared for whatever I encounter.” The doctor leaned forward, resting his fists lightly upon the desk behind which sat he who was his mortal enemy simply by dint of his nature. “My agents are everywhere, Magistrate. Your activities have been brought to my attention.”

  “As have yours to mine,” Mr. Fang rejoined. Still the picture of calm, as if unaware that his imminent death stood before him, he reached into a drawer and produced a thick file. He opened it and studied it with a raised eyebrow. “Doctor Isaac Van Helsing: Doctor of Medicine, Doctor of Philosophy, respected scientist or, should I say, once respected. According to these files, you went a bit mad after the murder of your beloved sister, Rachel. A tragic business, that.”

  “A tragedy committed by one of your kind,” said Van Helsing, and his voice nearly choked with fury.

  “I should imagine.” Mr. Fang made a great show of studying the papers before him. “Simply to drain prey for sustenance takes a matter of seconds, but apparently one of my kind decided to give your sister the honor of turning her into one of us.”

  “The honor?” Van Helsing reached into his bag and produced a stake, as if to emphasize his incredulity.

  The magistrate’s gaze flickered to it for a moment. “Mahogany. An excellent choice. Quite sturdy. But you’ll find it difficult to strike cleanly if your hand continues to shake with rage, as I notice appears to be the case.” Then, as if Van Helsing’s anger were of no relevance, he returned his attention to the file. “It must have been agonizing for you, watching her deteriorating, turning into one of us. And during that time, at first you must have denied the reality of what was happening to her, because truly, what sane person would accept the existence of the vampyre? Our superior strength, our fangs . . . with all these weapons at our disposal, the single greatest defense we have is the mind of the rational man. What persuaded you to accept the reality, I wonder? Your readings upon the subject? An unimpeachable source?”