Lifeblood

by Tom Becker

  I am in desperate need of your assistance. I have become enmeshed in a dire scheme that may well cost me my life. In my hour of need, I am throwing myself on the mercy of the Gentlemen, in the hope that they will help me. Meet me at the club at the usual time tomorrow night,

  Brother Fleet

  “This could be anything,” murmured Jonathan. “What are those numbers across the top of the page?”

  “The date,” replied Carnegie. “The 21st of January, DarkYear 106.”

  Arthur smiled grimly. “I’m not surprised Correlli’s threatening us. That’s three days before James Ripper was murdered and, by the sounds of it, Edwin was in on the plan.”

  8

  An unholy silence reigned over the grounds of Vendetta Heights. Life had fled: no animals sniffed and scurried through the undergrowth, no birds wheeled and flocked over the estate. The onset of winter had drained the colour from the trees: only the hedgerows of the labyrinth in the centre of the garden had managed to cling on to their dark leaves. Bare branches made anguished clenches at grey skies.

  Down on the terrace, a group of workmen were inspecting the shattered remnants of a glasshouse. Affected by the unnatural stillness of the atmosphere, they crept around the shattered windowpanes, whispering nervously in one another’s ears. The youngest of the group could barely keep still, his head darting this way and that at every imagined noise.

  A makeshift canopy had been erected on the patio up by the mansion, from under which two figures watched the men at work. One was a young woman with flaming red hair, who stood attentively by the side of a wicker chair. In the chair sat a pale, blond man, a cane resting across his knee. His eyes burned with hatred. Vendetta: banker, vampire, the richest man in Darkside. When he spoke his voice was ragged.

  “Remind me again, Raquella, why you decided to hire these oafs?”

  There was a delicate pause as the maid weighed up her response.

  “Your reputation precedes you, sir. Finding workmen is not always easy.”

  “I’m sure you offered enough of my money to make it an attractive proposition.”

  “Most people refused to speak to me – no matter how much I offered them.”

  The vampire shifted restlessly in his chair. “I simply can’t believe this rabble was all you could find.”

  “I did my best, sir,” she replied implacably.

  Snarling, Vendetta reached up and grabbed Raquella by the back of the neck, pulling her head down until she was level with his eyeline.

  “This is all your fault. The workmen . . . the glasshouse . . . I should have drained you a long time ago. I know what you did. I know you helped the Starling boy. You betrayed me, and now look at me. Look at me!”

  Raquella forced herself to meet his gaze. The vampire’s skin, always pale, had now assumed an utterly lifeless pallor, and his cheeks were hollow. She remembered the night she had discovered him dragging himself up the steps of Vendetta Heights, blood pouring from a wound in his side. During a fight with Jonathan his own knife had been turned upon him. Most blades would have barely scratched him, but Vendetta’s knife was coated with a rare substance that prevented his victims passing on any infections through their blood. The overdose of this substance in his bloodstream had left him in agony.

  Could a vampire – a creature of the undead – die? Raquella didn’t know, but for the next few days Vendetta had come as close to mortality as she had ever seen him. Racked with a fever, he tossed and turned in bed, muttering phrases in a strange language. The slightest sliver of light caused him such pain that his screams echoed down the hallways of his enormous mansion.

  Throughout the darkest days of Vendetta’s illness, there had only been one person there to look after him. One person who had wiped the perspiration from his skin, tried to feed him food and water, wrenched open the windows when it was safely dark outside and chased the stench of death from the stuffy bedroom. One person who, during one particularly long and painful night, had rolled up her shirtsleeve and pricked her arm with a sewing needle, allowing drops of blood to trickle into Vendetta’s grateful mouth.

  Raquella didn’t know why she hadn’t walked out that night and left her master to rot. Maybe she was so used to serving him that she didn’t know anything else. In a strange way, did she feel guilty for betraying this brutal, evil man? Whatever the reason, her ministrations were probably the only thing that had stopped him from killing her. For now.

  “You’re hurting me,” Raquella said, through gritted teeth.

  “You want to tell me about pain? I’m a cripple!”

  The icy blast of his breath swept her face.

  “You’re getting stronger each day. It won’t be long before you’re walking again.”

  Vendetta let go of her neck. As she stumbled away from him, a series of hacking coughs rent his body.

  “Need . . . to feed. Tell one of the guards to bring me a workman. The young one. He mustn’t be able to struggle . . . I’m . . . so very weak. . .”

  Smoothing her hair down, Raquella helped her master quietly back inside.

  As dusk fell an exhausted Vendetta slept. He looked a little better for feeding; a hint of colour had returned to his cheeks. The remaining workmen had fled, and wouldn’t be returning. At this rate the glasshouse would never be repaired.

  When she was satisfied that he was comfortable, Raquella pulled a heavy coat over her maid’s outfit and slipped out of the side door into the gloomy evening. She walked quickly down the driveway, her footsteps crunching on the gravel. A shadowy figure opened the front gates for her: as always, she nodded in thanks, but avoided eye contact.

  The wind was rummaging through the huge trees that lined Savage Row. Raquella found the sound strangely comforting. It was nice to be out in the fresh air. Usually she spent her nights in the cramped servants’ quarters at Vendetta Heights, but tonight she had promised to visit her family down in the Lower Fleet. At the thought of seeing her parents and her brothers and sisters again, her footsteps instinctively quickened. Raquella would have liked to have saved time by taking a train on the Dark Line, but she was saving every penny. Her wages were the main reason her family could eat but, given Vendetta’s current mood, she couldn’t be sure how much longer she would be working. Or, for that matter, how much longer she was going to remain alive.

  As Raquella headed past a giant mansion belonging to Darkside’s most successful gambler, she heard the sound of a pebble skittering across the pavement on the other side of the street. She stopped and turned. A woman dressed in a flowing maroon cloak was standing underneath a streetlamp. Her florescent bright-blue hair shone brilliantly in the soft light.

  “Hello, Raquella,” said Marianne. And smiled.

  Tensing, the maidservant crossed the street. “Good evening, Marianne. You’re getting lax. I heard you.”

  “If I had wanted to remain silent, you wouldn’t have done. I was merely being polite.” Her eyes glinted. “Wouldn’t want to scare you.”

  Raquella took an involuntary step back, bringing forth a peal of laughter from the bounty hunter.

  “Oh, do come on. I merely wanted to pass on a message to one of your friends.”

  “Which friend?” Raquella asked suspiciously.

  “The little one. Jonathan.”

  The maid looked startled. “I-I don’t know anyone called Jonathan,” she stammered.

  “My dear, if you wanted to keep your friendship a secret, then perhaps you shouldn’t have driven down the Grand with him in Vendetta’s car. Did you think that no one noticed? Please don’t play the innocent with me. You’re too clever for that.”

  Raquella thought quickly. Having risked her life helping Jonathan take on Vendetta, she had resolved never to see him again. She had to admit to a small twinge of curiosity as to how the Lightsider was getting on, but there was no doubt her master would kill her if he knew she h
ad spoken to Jonathan. Vendetta’s patience stretched only so far. On the other hand, Marianne was very sharp, and extremely dangerous. Crossing her wasn’t a good idea either.

  “What’s the message?”

  “Firstly, let him know that I forgive him.” She smiled coldly. “His actions hurt me, my reputation, and – worst of all – my pocket. But I am prepared to bury the hatchet, so to speak. There’s no money in revenge, and anyway, I doubt that your master will be quite so . . . magnanimous when he recovers. Jonathan’s going to be in quite enough trouble as it is.”

  Raquella shrugged. “If I run into him I’ll pass it on. Anything else?”

  “A little bird tells me people have been asking questions about the James Arkel murder. If they happen to get any answers, I want to hear about it.” Marianne smiled. “If I’m prepared to forgive him, it’s the very least Jonathan can do for me. Got that?”

  She nodded, biting her lip.

  “Excellent. Just in time.”

  A black carriage came clopping down Savage Row, driven by a giant, elongated figure. As it pulled up alongside them, a small, jittery man leapt out of the cab and held the door open for Marianne. A thought suddenly occurred to Raquella.

  “Marianne?”

  The bounty hunter inclined her head.

  “Why are you doing this?”

  Marianne smiled. “I always had a soft spot for the little one,” she replied softly.

  And with that, she swept up into the carriage. The small man followed her inside, and in a matter of moments the sounds of the horses had been swallowed up by the gloom. Raquella remained by the streetlamp, a thoughtful expression on her face.

  It was pitch-black by the time she arrived at her parents’ house, and immediately Raquella could tell that something was wrong. Her youngest brother, Daniel, was wandering outside in the street, crying. Raquella scooped him up into her arms.

  “Danny? What’s wrong?”

  The little boy said nothing, merely pressed himself closer against his sister. The front door was ajar. Raquella entered the house slowly, her sense of foreboding growing. The lights were off and the hallway, usually a bright bustling corridor filled with scampering children, was deserted.

  “Ma?” she called out. “I found Danny outside. Where are you?”

  There was no reply.

  “Ma? Pa?”

  Downstairs was empty. Raquella climbed the staircase, suddenly fearful of what she might find. At the end of the landing was her parents’ cramped bedroom. Pushing the door open, Raquella saw her mother lying out on the bed, head turned to one side, gazing out through the window at the streets beyond. Raquella’s brothers and sisters were gathered around her, their faces creased with concern.

  “What on Darkside’s going on here? Where’s Pa?”

  There was a pause.

  “He’s gone,” whispered her mum.

  “Gone? Gone where?”

  Without tearing her gaze from the window, her mum handed Raquella a note. The maidservant’s hands shook as she read it.

  My Dearest Georgina,

  I have always feared that this day would come. For years I have been keeping a dreadful secret. Many nights I thought about telling you, but I knew that it would have only put you and the children in danger. Now I know that my hour of reckoning has come, and I must face it alone or place all those I love in unimaginable peril. A life without you is barely a life at all, but I hope that in time I shall be able to return to you, my love. In the meanwhile, take care of one another.

  Your loving husband,

  William

  “I . . . I don’t understand,” said Raquella. “What’s this secret he’s talking about? Where has he gone? What’s going on, Ma?”

  Georgina didn’t reply to her daughter’s question.

  “Oh, my William,” she whispered. “What have you done?”

  9

  Ahansom cab came to a clattering halt outside the front door of the Rafferty house. Alerted by the noise, Jonathan, Carnegie and Arthur headed outside, in time to see Lucien Fox climbing awkwardly down from the carriage. The editor of The Informer hobbled towards Arthur, a testy expression etched on his face.

  “This had better be good. You know I don’t like to leave the office.”

  The reporter smiled grimly. “Oh, it’s good all right. In fact, it’s so good that I didn’t think it was a good idea advertising it around The Informer. You might trust your devoted staff, but I certainly don’t.”

  They headed back into Edwin’s glum front room, where the note from the safe had been left on the table. Lucien put on a pair of sharp-rimmed spectacles and began to inspect it thoroughly, the paper crackling under the touch of his fingers. He read the note several times in complete silence. Then he looked up, rubbing his neck thoughtfully.

  “Well, it could be genuine,” Lucien conceded. “Paper looks old enough.”

  Arthur beamed triumphantly, pressing the ever-present handkerchief to his perspiring forehead. “Unbelievable, isn’t it? You know what this is, don’t you? It’s the first new clue to the James Ripper murder in over a decade!”

  “I wouldn’t get too carried away just yet,” Lucien replied cautiously. “This note’s only a couple of lines long, and it doesn’t exactly prove anything. It could be referring to something else entirely.”

  “He’s right,” Carnegie sniffed. “This isn’t adding up yet. Are you really suggesting that Darkside’s most infamous murder was carried out by Edwin Rafferty? That man couldn’t have organized a punch-up on the Grand.”

  Arthur frowned. “I know it could be nothing. But I’ve got the same sort of feeling I got when investigating the Claude du Pont murder. No one then thought the chimney sweep could have been responsible for such a fiendish act, but I soon showed them. When I get hunches, they don’t tend to be wrong.”

  “That, at least, is true,” Lucien acknowledged wryly. “But even if the note is something to do with James Ripper, where does it lead you? Ever heard of this Brother Fleet?”

  “I can’t say I have, but I can ask around. Someone on Darkside will know who he is. . .”

  He was interrupted by Carnegie clearing his throat loudly.

  “That’s one way of carrying on. It’s a bit random, though. There is another approach we could try.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Look at the note again.”

  Both Lucien and Arthur peered closely at the small slip of paper, frowning with concentration. After a few seconds the editor clucked his tongue with frustration.

  “I give in. What are we missing?”

  “Bet you the boy spots it.”

  Arthur handed the note to Jonathan, who stared at it intently. Beneath the small, crabby handwriting, he could just about make out a faint pattern that was part of the paper itself.

  “It’s some kind of design. . .” he said. “Two letter Cs wrapped around each other.”

  “Of course! A watermark!” cried Arthur.

  “And which Darkside institution uses that particular design?”

  The reporter thought for a second.

  “Oh. Toffs,” he said glumly.

  They headed west, towards the far end of the Grand. The locals were in a particularly hostile mood that evening, and Jonathan was glad of Carnegie’s baleful presence beside him as they moved along the pavement. Arthur and Lucien followed a pace behind. Though ostensibly in conversation, they paid little attention to one another. Instead their eyes flitted restlessly this way and that, on a permanent lookout for new scoops and exclusives.

  As they passed Kinski’s Theatre of the Macabre, a scream ripped through the night. Jonathan turned to see a man being dragged by his heels through the doorway of the Aurora Borealis Exotic Candle Shop. Scrabbling frantically around for something to cling on to, the man’s hands fastened themselves around a lamp
post. He didn’t scream for help; he must have known there was no point. The tug-of-war lasted for a few seconds, until the unseen creature from inside the Aurora Borealis gave a final wrench, and the man flew into the dark recesses of the shop. All that remained was his top hat, rolling forlornly around the pavement.

  “They must really want to sell him candles,” Jonathan said.

  “That’s one way of looking at it,” Carnegie conceded. “Either that, or they really want to make him into candles.”

  A look of horror flashed across Jonathan’s face, making the wereman guffaw loudly.

  “Darkside still shocks you, doesn’t it? I’d have thought you’d have got used to it by now.”

  “There’s a fair bit to get used to!” Jonathan replied indignantly. “It might help if everyone in this place wasn’t so damn crazy!”

  “Where would the fun be then? Come on, this way.”

  Beckoning, he turned off the Grand and down a wide, secluded road. The crescent moon was low in the sky, and it shone down on a row of large white Victorian-style townhouses. Carnegie headed towards the largest of the buildings, smugly enthroned at the end of the street. A terrace of semicircular steps flowed up to the ornate front door, which was flanked by a pair of enormous marble pillars. A coat of arms had been set above the doorway, with the Latin inscription Ego sum messor fratris mei. Curtains prevented the prying eyes of the poor and the unworthy from seeing what was happening inside the building. Two hulking men had been squeezed into doormen’s liveries, the tassels and braids perching uncomfortably on two bodies built for – and sustained by – violence.

  “There it is,” said the wereman. “The Cain Club. The most exclusive private members’ club in Darkside. Only the filthy rich can get in.”

  Lucien coughed meaningfully. “On that point, now that we’re here . . . how do you intend for us to get in? I’m guessing you’re not a member?”