‘So you met my housekeeper?’
‘Yes. She was very hospitable.’
‘I’m sure she was,’ he snorted, ‘in my house!’
‘Sorry, sir. I didn’t mean . . .’
‘Don’t worry, Titus. The poor woman was with us for years, and knew my wife from a child. She is lost without her.’
Titus’s mouthful of port was more difficult to swallow. He wanted to offer some comfort or empathy to Pilbury but anything he said would sound impertinent.
‘And just when I thought it could not get any worse,’ Pilbury murmured, draining the dregs from his glass and pouring himself another, ‘I start losing my mind. I’ve heard of men my age who start losing their memories: within six months they’re wearing babies’ napkins and being spoonfed by their wives.’ He gave a mirthless chuckle.
‘No, sir,’ Titus ventured, ‘I’m sure it’s no more than tiredness and overwork. Plus,’ he cleared his throat, ‘you don’t seem to eat much.’
‘I have been overtired, overworked and underfed before. This is different.’
The Inspector stared into the ruby liquid, swilling it around his glass. After a while Titus got up.
‘I’d best be getting back to see to the horses.’
Pilbury said nothing until Titus was at the door, then he stood up unsteadily.
‘I’m sorry, lad. I’m not myself tonight.’
Without his hat and coat and with shirt and hair disarrayed he looked like Titus’s father.
‘Yes you are,’ Titus said quietly, and went out.
The station was silent and shadowy when he got back. Evidently the men were all out on the beat.
Titus crept through the darkened kitchen, pausing to slip the bread knife into his belt, before continuing on to Pilbury’s office. The silent room unnerved him, its pale faces watching him from the walls. He withdrew the brick in the fireplace and took out the lock of Charly’s hair, then retrieved a screwed-up letter from the bin and wiped off the ash. He tucked both into his pocket.
From the corner of King Street he could catch a bus all the way to Fulham and he managed to slip past the conductor while a fat woman struggled on. The traffic was heavy and when they got to Fulham he had time to see the street sign halfway up Harwood Road: Blake Gardens. He scrambled down the steps from the top deck and leaped off the bus.
The houses in Harwood Road were all grand five-storey affairs, but Blake Gardens was a yellow brick terrace of cottages, possibly intended for the servants of the bigger houses. They had neat little front gardens and lace curtains in the windows.
Number nine was much the same as the others, although less well cared for. The lawn was patchy, the privet brown and leafless, and the black paint on the door was peeling off in strips.
Creeping over to the window, Titus peered inside. Frobisher was sitting by the fire gnawing a chicken leg. In his other hand was the remains of a glass of beer. After glugging down the frothy dregs he thumped the glass down on the floor, tossed the chicken bones into the fire and barked, ‘Lill!’
A moment later the medium came in. If possible she looked thinner and paler than the last time Titus had seen her. She took the plate and headed for the door.
‘I’m going to the club. Don’t use too much coal while I’m gone.’
She nodded and went out. Frobisher stood and stretched his legs. Then, after checking his pocket watch by the clock on the mantelpiece and lifting one buttock to fart, he went out.
Titus scrambled to the other side of the bay window and pressed his back against the wall of the house as Frobisher emerged putting on his top hat, and went out of the front gate.
Titus waited a minute before trying the front door. It was locked. He wondered whether to go back to the beginning of the street, scale a wall and go through all the back gardens, but in the end he gave the door a sharp rap then concealed himself once more.
A moment later the girl opened the door. There was a pause and then she stepped out onto the porch. He could see her perfectly in profile: the line of her straight nose, the barely perceptible swelling of her chest beneath the baggy dress. He held his breath and waited for her to notice him. But she didn’t.
‘Francis?’ she called. ‘Did you forget something?’
A little breeze made the dry hedge whisper and she rubbed her arm where goosebumps had appeared.
Titus eased sideways until he was under the roof of the porch.
But his caution was unnecessary for now she walked down the path and leaned over the gate. He darted into the darkness of the hall. He was lucky there were no lamps lit as he hadn’t made it to the room at the end of the passage before she came back in.
While she turned her back to shut the door, he slipped into the kitchen.
Against the wall to the left squatted a large, black and fortunately cold range. He crouched down on the far side of it to wait.
From the living room came little clinks and taps as she cleared Frobisher’s plate and glass. He experienced a flash of fear when a glowing white face appeared in the window until he realised it was only the lantern she carried up the hall.
Titus watched her place the lantern on the kitchen table, drink the last few dregs of the beer, then take the plate and cup to the sink. Her face swam up in the glass and she turned on the tap. Somewhere nearby, the boiler began to groan.
Slowly he got up.
The water gushed as he crept around the table, never taking his eyes off her, though she didn’t raise her own from the water. He slid the bread knife out of his belt.
She turned off the water and at the same moment he sprang forward, grabbing her around the middle and pressing the knife to her neck.
‘Start summoning demons,’ he hissed, ‘and I’ll cut your throat before you can say Abracadabra.’
Under his bicep, the little medium’s heart fluttered like a bird. He could have broken her in half with one flex.
‘There is no money here,’ she said, ‘nor any valuables. You’re hurting me.’
‘Promise not to scream and I’ll take it away.’
‘I promise,’ she whispered.
Titus withdrew the blade and tucked it back into his belt.
‘Sit down.’
She did as she was told and he lowered himself into the chair next to her. They regarded one another in silence until Titus began to worry that she was trying to mesmerise him with her large dark eyes. And then he worried that she might hypnotise him into stabbing himself with his own knife so he got up quickly and put it out of reach on the range.
‘There now, that’s much more civilised, isn’t it?’ he said, returning to the table.
‘Who are you?’
‘My name doesn’t matter. Yours, I believe, is Lilly Kent, though you pretend to be a “Signorina Vaso”.’
‘That was Mr Frobisher’s idea,’ she said quietly. ‘He thought it sounded mysterious. What do you want?’
Titus leaned back in his chair, making the rickety wood creak.
‘I’m a friend of Inspector Pilbury’s.’
He was surprised to see her relax at the name.
‘How is the Inspector?’ she said, with round, innocent eyes.
‘You should know,’ he said, ‘you did it to him.’
She blinked, then frowned.
‘Did what?’
He leaned over.
‘Well, there’s two options as I can think of,’ he said, his voice low, ‘one: you’re a fake and you’ve driven him mad by some kind of hypnotising, or two: you’re not a fake and you’ve put a demon in him.’
The lamp hissed quietly.
‘I’m not a fake,’ she whispered.
‘Well, in that case,’ he said, through gritted teeth, ‘how about you tell me why you’ve turned him into a devil?’
‘Tell me what’s happened,’ she said.
He frowned. Her concern seemed genuine. Was she trying to stall him until her manager got home?
‘When’s Frobisher back?’
�
��Umm . . . I don’t know. Midnight possibly. Or one.’
He’d just have to take a chance on her telling him the truth and be ready to escape out of the back if he heard the front door.
‘I watched you. The night you came to the station. When they brought Joseph Rancer in.’
She nodded slowly.
‘You were in Pilbury’s office . . .’
‘We were trying to summon the child,’ she said. ‘The last murder victim. But she was too distressed to identify her killer.’
‘You’d given up and were talking to Mr Pilbury when something . . . strange happened.’
She leaned forward, her lips parted.
‘Something white came out of your mouth and went into Pilbury’s.’
Lilly’s breath caught in her throat.
‘Are you sure it wasn’t pipe smoke, or fog?’
‘No, not really. I only know that since then he’s been acting strangely.’
‘How?’
Titus got up and went to the window. If he told her the whole story he’d be putting Pilbury in mortal danger. She was mercenary: the letter made that clear enough. If she thought she might make money out of it wouldn’t she just go straight to the press, or worse, the police? He rubbed his face, then dug his hands into his pockets. The lock of hair, nestled deep down in the corner, was sleek against the back of his fingers.
‘What’s your name?’ she said softly.
‘Titus. Titus Adams.’
‘How old are you?’
‘Fifteen.’
‘Me too.’
He turned round, leaning against the cold porcelain of the sink.
‘He your uncle, that Frobisher bloke?’
‘No. Although I used to call him uncle. He was my mother’s friend when we lived in Somerset. He saw me having my fits, as Mama called them, and told her we could make a fortune from them. It was he who brought me to London.’
‘Looks like he was right about making a fortune,’ Titus said, glancing up at the high ceiling and elaborate cornicing.
‘It is a nice house, but we live beyond our means. He spends so much in his club up in town that we have no money for food or fuel. That’s why I have to work all the time.’
‘Is that what you were doing at the station, working?’
She glanced at him sharply.
‘I don’t ask the Inspector for money. I try to help.’
Realisation dawned on Titus.
‘But he paid you once upon a time, right?’ he said. ‘That’s how you got to know him. He wanted you to contact his wife.’
She looked away and nodded, reddening slightly.
‘Elizabeth. Grace was the little daughter. She died of typhoid and the mother went after her a few weeks later. He begged me to try and contact them but, as I expected, they had moved on to the next sphere. Untroubled spirits do not linger.’
He stared at her.
‘And troubled ones? Those that died violently?’
‘They find it more difficult to pass. Some become lost. Some yearn to speak to those they have left behind.’
‘Some try to come back.’
Again she looked sharply at him.
‘Why do you say that?’
‘Inspector Pilbury is sick. Very sick.’
‘Sick in spirit, you mean?’
Titus tilted his head and stared up at the demon faces made by the coiling plaster leaves. They grimaced back at him, their tongues lolling.
‘The spirit is not his own.’
She got up from the table.
‘Titus. Tell me what you came here to tell me.’
‘I didn’t come to tell you anything!’ he snapped. ‘I came to find out why you made Rancer’s spirit possess Inspector Pilbury!’
Silence fell like a hammer. The lantern guttered and dimmed. The girl seemed to turn to stone before him, her eyes and skin and dress merging into cold grey.
‘I saw him try to kill a child,’ he said.
‘No,’ she whispered.
‘There are laws against witchcraft.’ He forced the words out through clenched teeth. ‘If you tell anyone I will see you hanged.’
‘I . . . I . . .’ she stammered, then covered her mouth with her hand.
Swallowing hard, two or three times, she took the hand from her mouth, inhaled deeply and finally spoke.
‘He was hanged the day before my visit to the police station, wasn’t he?’
Titus nodded. ‘He had a way of doing his killings. I followed Pilbury to the river and saw him doing the same. I stopped him and he ran away, seemingly without recognising me.’
‘He could have gone mad. Just be copying the killer.’
‘He’s not mad. That’s the worst part. If they catch him they will hang him for sure.’
‘But he can be stopped before he kills.’
Titus shook his head slowly.
‘There’s been another murder.’
They stared at one another then Lilly shook her head.
‘That was another Rancer killing,’ she said. ‘It just took a long time to find the body.’
‘I knew that boy. He was alive the day after Rancer hanged.’
She began walking around the table, rubbing her arms, blinking rapidly, muttering to herself.
‘I want you to contact him,’ he said.
She stopped and looked at him, then sat down and put out the lantern.
Moonlight cast long, grasping shadows of the trees on the walls and table. It lit up her pale face and dress, making her glow like a ghost. Titus felt as if he was the only solid, real thing in the whole house.
‘What was his name?’ she said.
‘Charly. I don’t know his surname.’
‘This will be difficult without an item of clothing.’
He swallowed, then said softly, ‘I have his hair.’ Reaching into his pocket he took the limp clump and handed it to her.
She took it and held it to her nose. Her face twisted a little, as if in pain, then she closed her eyes. For a moment there was just the even sound of her breathing and the distant tick of the clock in the other room. And then her breathing quickened and her eyes snapped open.
‘Piss off, you dirty great pervert!’ roared a voice several octaves higher than hers. Titus’s blood crawled to a standstill.
‘Charly?’ he managed.
‘Who’s that? Who said that?’ said the child’s voice, still too tight with fear to be identifiable.
‘It’s me, Titus. Your friend.’
The medium’s eyes swivelled round and stared at him.
‘Where’s Stitch?’
Titus’s breath caught in his throat. He forced himself to speak evenly. ‘I’ve seen Stitch and he’s OK. He loves you, Charly.’
‘Where am I?’
‘I don’t know. But I think you’re on the way somewhere different. Don’t be scared.’
‘Where? I can’t see nothing. Everything’s dark here.’
Calmer now, the voice had reached a more natural pitch. For a moment silence fell as the wide eyes swept around the room. Titus felt as if his own body was somewhere entirely different to the tight ball of his consciousness. He was dimly aware of his heart pounding and his blood racing but all his attention was fixed on the medium’s mouth, from which his little friend’s voice came, pure and unfiltered. A tear welled up in her eye. Titus leaned forward and touched her hand. It was ice-cold and slightly damp.
‘Do you believe in God, Charly?’
‘Yeah. Course. I tried to speak to him but he ain’t said nothing back.’
‘Well, I reckon he’s waiting for you, but there’s something that needs to be sorted out here first.’
‘Yeah. That bloke. The policeman.’
Titus swallowed hard, then continued.
‘What about him?’
‘He held me down, under the water, till everything went black.’
‘Who was it?’
Time seemed to congeal as Titus watched the girl’s mouth slowly open. His ey
es had turned to dry pebbles.
‘That one what used to bring you and Hannah home sometimes.’
Titus’s stomach dropped.
‘Why’d he do it, Titus?’ Charly’s voice rose in pitch. ‘I was so scared and the water was so cold, and I couldn’t breathe and . . .’
Panic tightened his voice. Titus struggled to find the breath to soothe him.
‘I’ll make sure he’s stopped, Charly,’ he whispered, ‘I promise.’
‘Tell Stitcher and Rosie that I miss ’em.’
‘I will.’
And then he was gone. Lilly blinked, gave a little gasp and her eyes focused on Titus.
‘What did he say?’
‘Didn’t you hear him?’
She shook her head. ‘If I allow a spirit in completely, everything is dark for me until I’m back in my own body again.’
‘He said . . . He said it was Pilbury.’
15
Titus walked back to the station. The moon was now swathed in a fog whose fingers seemed to reach out for him all the way. He couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was following him and continually glanced behind and around him, but was unable to see further than the nearest lamp post.
Relief flooded over him when he saw that he was in the environs of the station and he ducked down an alley to cut off the corner.
He was halfway down, and could see the gates of the courtyard, when a hand closed over his mouth and a knife was pressed into his stomach.
From the angle of the filthy arms he guessed that his attacker was considerably shorter than him. But he was strong and trembling. This was a bad sign. If the boy was afraid then the merest sound from the street might panic him into cutting Titus’s throat.
He held up his hands.
His attacker stank. He was certainly a pauper, probably an Acre kid, but if so surely he’d have recognised Titus and known the hit would be fruitless. Bold too, to pounce just yards from the police station.
‘Where you been, Titus?’ hissed a voice at his shoulder.
The voice was trembling, but not with fear.
Titus gave an exclamation and tried to pull the hand from his mouth but the knife pressed harder into his stomach.
‘Let me explain something to you before I take me hand away. If you shout out for your mates in the station, I’ll kill you. And if you don’t tell me exactly what’s going on, I’ll kill you. If you understand then stick up your thumb.’
The Hanged Man Rises Page 14
