Lifeblood

by Tom Becker

  “But what about the black cloud?”

  “Enough, boy!” Carnegie yelled. “Can’t you leave it alone?”

  Jonathan bit back a sharp reply. Ever since the three of them had regrouped, Carnegie had been withdrawn and sullen. There was a look in his eyes that Jonathan had never seen before. If he didn’t know better, he would have called it fear.

  “We’re too late, then,” he said glumly.

  “Not necessarily,” Arthur replied, rising briskly. “De Quincy may be gone but we’re in his private study. Let’s see if we can find anything useful.”

  The portly reporter began searching the wrecked room, pulling files down from the shelves and rummaging through drawers. Eager to take his mind off the nearby corpse, Jonathan leant a hand, leaving Carnegie to stand where he was.

  After ten minutes of leafing through de Quincy’s correspondences, Jonathan groaned with frustration.

  “Have you seen how many of these things he’d written? Was there anyone he wasn’t blackmailing?”

  Arthur gave him a grim look. “This is Darkside, Jonathan. Everyone’s got a secret.”

  “Yeah, but this is going to take for ever.”

  He felt a tap on his shoulder, and looked round to see Carnegie brandishing a neat black folder. There was a bloodstain on the top-left corner.

  “Whatever you’re looking for will probably be in here. He was carrying it when he was killed.”

  “Oh. Er, thanks,” Jonathan replied, gingerly taking the folder at arm’s length.

  He carried it quickly over to the desk and emptied its contents out over the surface. Then he and Arthur began shuffling through the papers. Jonathan was reading a lengthy threat to a Darkside businessman who was secretly double-crossing his partner when the reporter let out a low whistle.

  “Bingo. See the date on this? That was last week. And see who it’s addressed to.”

  Jonathan took the paper and began to read.

  My dearest Brother Fleet,

  It has been many years since we last spoke. While you have no doubt grieved for the pleasure of my company, given our rather fraught experiences all those years before, a parting of the ways seemed very necessary. I trust you have fully recovered your wits following the unpleasantness regarding your late, lamented brother James.

  So why, I hear you thinking, has my old Brother seen fit to contact me again now? The truth is, there has been a reunion of sorts amongst the Gentlemen. Brothers Spine and Rake have joined me in a new business venture that we thought you should hear about. We have come into the possession of some fascinating information regarding the real identity of your sole surviving sibling. This means that we are the only people in Darkside – bar Thomas Ripper himself (may his health never fail him) – who know both the Ripper heirs. Playing straight as ever, I have written to both of you with this offer: whichever one of you pays us the most money shall be granted the identity of the other. This would allow you to dispatch your sibling now, thereby avoiding any potential messiness with a Blood Succession. An advantage I’m sure you were aware of when you bumped old James off. Aren’t you glad now you asked us to help you?

  You have seven days to make us an offer.

  Yours fraternally,

  Brother Heart

  “It’s a copy,” said Arthur, reading over his shoulder. “Our friend Nicholas was nothing if not meticulous.”

  “He was blackmailing Brother Fleet?”

  “It’s bigger than that,” the reporter replied excitedly. “According to this letter, Brother Fleet wasn’t just any old Gentleman. He was a Ripper too! Of course! It’s all starting to make sense now.”

  “OK,” Jonathan said slowly. “So Nicholas managed to get the rest of the Gentlemen to gang up on Brother Fleet. But how did he think he was going to get away with blackmailing one Ripper, let alone two?”

  “Maybe he thought he was safe here,” Carnegie growled softly from the window. “Maybe he just didn’t care any more. Look around you, boy. Can you imagine staring out of this window every day? What do you think that does to a man?”

  Jonathan looked out over the Panopticon. In every direction there was the dark grotto of a cell, a hundred tiny prisons of human misery. He shivered, but not from the cold this time.

  “Let’s get out of here,” he muttered. “Where do we go now?”

  “Back to the newspaper,” replied Arthur. “We’ve got some news for our esteemed editor.”

  The angry cry echoed round the dusty main office of The Informer. Even down in the basement, where the printers were half-deafened by the ceaseless clatter of the presses, they looked up from their machines and wondered which prominent citizen had threatened to kill them all this time, or how large an expenses claim a reporter had just handed in. For the thousandth time, they questioned what they were doing working in such a dangerous trade. Petty theft or embezzlement would be a cinch compared to this.

  “Harry?” shrieked Lucien. “Are you sure?”

  His indignant shouts were overtaken by a hacking cough that made him double over as if he had been shot in the belly. Perched precariously on the edge of Arthur’s cluttered desk, the sickly editor looked paler and more tired than ever. At that moment, he seemed to be surviving on anger alone.

  Jonathan nodded.

  “That little wretch!” Lucien coughed. “I’ll throttle him!”

  “Ahem. . .” interjected Arthur. “There’s probably a couple of questions we could ask him before you kill him. . .”

  “I don’t care! He tried to bash my brains in at the Cain Club! And after all I’ve done for him!”

  “Rant and rave in your own time,” Carnegie growled. “I haven’t slept for a while, and I’m feeling tetchy. When are you expecting the boy in?”

  Jonathan was rather relieved to hear the wereman reverting to his usual bullish demeanour. The strange mood that had taken over him in the Panopticon had receded, though he was still quieter than usual.

  “Actually, I haven’t seen him for a couple of days,” Lucien admitted, dabbing at his mouth with a handkerchief. “Apparently he’s been too busy impersonating a master thief to show up at the office. I almost hope for his sake he doesn’t come back.”

  “Where does he live?”

  “Haven’t the faintest idea. He was cheap, and – till recently – he came to work on time. That was all I cared about.” He rubbed his face with his hand. “OK, so where are we now?”

  Arthur methodically ticked off his fingers. “One: James Arkel was murdered by his brother. Two: his sibling was known as Brother Fleet, and was a member of a group known as the Gentlemen. Three: some of the Gentlemen had discovered the identity of Fleet’s other sibling, and were playing them off against each other. Four: they’re now all dead.”

  “Not exactly surprising,” Lucien murmured.

  “Indeed. Five: the only other surviving member of the Gentlemen is William Joubert – Brother Steel, by my reckoning – who’s gone into hiding.”

  “He’s the key,” said Carnegie slowly. “If he’s still alive, we have to find him before Brother Fleet does.”

  “Easier said than done. If Raquella has no idea where her father’s gone, how the hell are we supposed to know?”

  As the conversation drifted on, Jonathan retreated into himself. His muscles were aching, and he was still recovering from the horror inspired by the creature in the Panopticon. All he wanted to do was to go back to Lightside, crawl into bed and sleep for a week, leaving blackmail and brutal murders far behind him. At that moment in time, even school seemed preferable to this.

  The old Lightside newspaper from his mum’s drawer was sitting on Arthur’s desk. Jonathan idly picked it up and began flicking it through it, taking a peculiar comfort from old news stories, problem pages and football scores. On the other side of the room Carnegie and Arthur were having a heated argument about what t
o do next. He wasn’t sure why they bothered. They had hit another brick wall, William was in all likelihood already dead, and that was that.

  As he dragged his eyes wearily over the classifieds he saw that one of the adverts had been ringed in red pen. Jonathan’s blood froze, and he sat bolt upright in his chair. Right there in front of him, tastefully framed in a black box, was the following:

  The Prometheus Gallery is proud to unveil a new collection of works by artists Cal Rufus, Lorna Klein and Edwin Spine. Open six days a week, from 9.30 a.m. to 4.30 p.m.

  He glanced at the date of the Lightside newspaper. It was 13th March, 1994. Two months after James’s death. Maybe they hadn’t hit a dead-end after all.

  Carnegie broke off from haranguing Arthur and gave him a shrewd look. “Seen something exciting there, boy?”

  Jonathan stared numbly at the page in front of him. “Reading the papers. . . My dad said they were having a coffee and reading the papers, and then Mum went really quiet. I think this was this paper she was reading.”

  The wereman came over and cast an eye over the front page. “Well, the date fits.”

  “And look here.” Jonathan spread the newspaper out on the desk. “She ringed this advert. Any of those names look familiar to you?”

  Suddenly Arthur was on his shoulder. “I’m guessing Edwin Spine is our old friend Mr Rafferty.”

  “He was displaying his paintings. But not in Darkside, in Lightside! And my mum found out. Don’t you see? She went to the exhibition and saw something that sent her racing back to Darkside.” Jonathan turned to Carnegie, his eyes shining. “And I’ll bet you all the money in the world it was to do with James Arkel.”

  20

  Crossing was easier now. His body still trembled when he passed that invisible boundary, his heartbeat still fluttered like the wings of a hummingbird, but his mind was calmer, more certain. He was becoming more comfortable with the waxing and waning of the two worlds he inhabited. Jonathan may not have been truly from either Darkside or Lightside, but he could survive in both places. As he came out blinking into the crispness of a London winter morning, he felt a sense of freedom blossoming within him.

  Unable to face the long journey to Lone Square, Jonathan had badgered Carnegie into showing him a different route back to Lightside. Reluctantly, the wereman had agreed. He led Jonathan north of the Grand, and up the crest of a steep hill that broke out in a scrubby patch of parkland. It was a dismal sight, devoid of life and colour. Instead, the wind sliced through brown, overgrown grasses and weeds. A dank pond sat sullenly over to Jonathan’s left. There was no one around.

  Carnegie stomped through the grass, heading towards a tangled thicket beyond the pond.

  “I’ve used this crossing point a couple of times. It comes out on Hampstead Heath in your London.”

  “Good. That’s near the gallery.” Jonathan stopped. “It’s not that far from my house either. Why didn’t we go this way last time?”

  The wereman stopped and looked at him sharply, wiping his nose on his sleeve. “Oh, I’m sorry, boy. Have I been slowing you down?” he said acidly.

  “I didn’t mean it like that,” Jonathan protested. “It just seems funny that you’re showing me this one now, that’s all.”

  “You cross when and where I tell you, boy. This place is only safe now because the gang of cut-throats who usually ply their trade here have holed themselves up in the Silver Cage. I know that because I saw them go in there earlier today, and when those boys start drinking, they don’t stop for a couple of days. Everything I do, I do for a reason. Understand?”

  Jonathan nodded.

  “Good. Go in a straight line through that thicket there. The park should still be clear when you return, but don’t dawdle.”

  And with that, Carnegie turned on his heel and thrashed his way back through the undergrowth. Jonathan took a few tentative steps into the thicket, muttering to himself about the wereman’s temper. Dried twigs and leaves crunched beneath his feet. Brambles tore at his clothing and his skin, tough and sharp as barbed wire. But then, with surprising suddenness, it came to an end, and Jonathan was extricating himself from the other side of the thicket, passing Londoners out running or walking their dogs.

  Hampstead Heath had been one of his favourite haunts when he was younger, and he knew the rolling pathways like the back of his hand. On a couple of occasions, his father had brought him up here for long, rambling walks. They had been one of the few times they had spent any time together, though they walked in silence on Alain’s insistence. That seemed a long time ago, now. Everything had changed.

  Now he was back on Lightside, it was tempting to head east and visit home again. But Jonathan knew that he would have to go over what he had discovered, and Alain would have so many questions, and Mrs Elwood so many objections, that there just wasn’t enough time. Also, Alain would have insisted that he come along to the gallery, and he wasn’t well enough yet. Dimly, Jonathan realized that his mum had made the same choice all those years ago, and had vanished with only an answerphone message left behind. Would he too now vanish into thin air?

  So instead, Jonathan slipped off the Heath at the south side, jogging down Parliament Hill and down into the genteel centre of Hampstead, where cafés and shops sat placidly in the sunshine. He was relieved to see the Prometheus Art Gallery was still at the same address. The name was painted in gold lettering over a black shopfront. Watercolours of stormy seascapes rested on easels in the window.

  Jonathan went through the front door, and into a low-ceilinged room with wooden floorboards. A handful of paintings were hanging from the long, whitewashed walls. An elderly man was standing behind the counter flicking through a catalogue, a pair of half-moon spectacles perched on his nose. He looked up as Jonathan entered, and gave him an appraising look.

  “May I help you?” he asked, in the tone that adults in shops often used when they addressed Jonathan: part patronising, part bored, and just a few seconds away from phoning the police.

  “Hi,” Jonathan replied awkwardly. “I wanted to ask you about an exhibition you had here. Er . . . twelve years ago.”

  “Good grief!” The art dealer took off his glasses. “It’s unlikely that I’ll be able to remember that far back, young man, but I’ll try my best. What was the name of the exhibition?”

  “There were three painters: Cal Rufus, Valery Klein and . . . Edwin Spine.”

  If Jonathan had been hoping for a reaction, he certainly got one. At the mention of Edwin’s name, the old man jumped as if he had been scalded. He tapped his fingers on the counter, pretending to think, and trying to regain his composure.

  “Now, let me see,” he said, pressing his fingers to his lips. “Yes, that does ring some faint bells. . .”

  “It’s Edwin Spine I’m interested in,” Jonathan pressed. “Have you still got any of his paintings?”

  The art dealer leaned over the counter. “And why would you be interested in that particular artist?”

  Jonathan stared back at him, unflinching. “My mum’s a fan,” he said. “Have you got any or not?”

  The old man ummed and ahhed before seeming to arrive at a decision. He folded his spectacles away in a case and led Jonathan deeper into the gallery, continuing to talk in an accent that tinkled like crystal.

  “As luck would have it, our collection of Spines does still reside here. I have to say, it’s very unusual to be asked about him. Your mother must be a lady with very refined tastes. . .”

  Beyond the watercolours was a room filled with sculptures. Jonathan realized that the gallery was deceptively large. A grotesque marble statue of a gargoyle caught his eye as they passed towards a door in the far wall. The dealer unlocked it, and let Jonathan inside a storeroom jammed with packing crates. The sparse illumination emitting from a lone bulb was in sharp contrast to the soft mood lighting in the rest of the gallery. The dealer threaded hi
s way to the back of the room, and stopped at a dusty, warped crate.

  “If memory serves me correctly, the Spines should be in this case here.”

  He was prising off the lid when suddenly the door banged open, and the large figure of Correlli barged into the storeroom. Dressed in his habitual open waistcoat, there was a grim look in the showman’s eyes that Jonathan had never seen before. The dealer gave him a peevish look.

  “Excuse me, sir, but this room is private. I must ask you to leave,”

  By way of reply, the fire-eater kicked the door shut behind him, stalked over to the old man and gave him a resounding backhand slap across the face. The dealer crumpled to the floor. Jonathan made to run but Correlli pulled out a small, silver pistol and pointed it at him.

  “You so much as twitch and I’ll put a bullet in you. It’s been a long journey over here and I’ve had to hurry. I’m not going to let you slink off now.”

  Jonathan gasped. “But . . . how did you know?”

  “My employer had a little word in my ear. There’s not much that gets past him. You know how to make some powerful enemies, Jonathan.”

  There was a whimper from the floor.

  “Please, whoever you are,” said the dealer. “Don’t hurt me!”

  Correlli made as if to slap him again, and then stopped short. He peered closely at the old man’s face.

  “Where have I seen you before?” the fire-eater murmured. “There’s something very familiar about you.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Please let me go!”

  “Sol something . . . Sol Byrne, isn’t it? You used to work with Lorcan Bracket years back. I never forget a face, Sol. You’re a long way from Darkside.”

  When the old man answered, it was no longer in the posh, rich tones of before, but the nasal gutterspeak that Jonathan heard every day on the Grand.