Back when Charley was a callow constable, he would have leapt from the window, too, without thinking – and would most likely have snapped an ankle or even a leg and lost the suspect to boot. For better or worse, he’s more calculating and cautious now. Though he’s no crack shot, the revolver is his best bet. He has no qualms about plugging the man; whether he killed Rosa or not, he’s committed more than enough crimes to deserve shooting. Charley rests the gun butt on the window sill, wraps his finger – the middle one, not the crooked index finger – around the trigger, takes careful aim, fires.
The bullet finds its target; Neck falls to his knees, clawing at his shattered shoulder blade. Charley is sure he’s done for. But that’s what the hangman thought, too. It seems the damned villain is indestructible. He’s down for only a moment before he staggers to his feet and stumbles forward. When he reaches the far end of the roof, he swings himself over the edge and disappears.
Charley wastes no time berating himself or cursing the culprit; he bursts from the room, scrambles down the stairs and out the front door, heading for the alley at the other side of the harness shop. It’s empty. So is the courtyard at the end of the alley. He checks the doors that open onto the courtyard. They’re all locked.
The detective scans the pavement for drops of blood or footprints that might lead him in the right direction, but it’s hopeless; there’s too little light and too much slush. Among the many valuable things Charley learned during his policing career is his vast vocabulary of curse words. Normally he makes sparing use of them, but now he avails himself of all his favorites.
Returning to the alley, he surveys the side of the harness shop. He’s always despised drainpipes; they provide much too convenient a ladder for lead-stealers and attic thieves. Now he has even more reason to hate them; it’s obvious from the way the pipe is pulled away from the brick wall that, despite his grievous wound, Neck somehow managed to clamber down it.
Charley wouldn’t be surprised to learn that the rooftop escape route was more than just an expedient, a desperate resort of the moment; Neck may well have made a mental note of it, in case he ever found himself trapped. You have to hand it to the blighter; though he’s a nasty piece of work, he’s also resourceful and fearless. Maybe once a man has cheated death, it no longer holds any terror for him.
The trouble with having no fear is that you often don’t have much sense, either. Charley once spent weeks tracking down a daring cracksman who didn’t bother with the fine points of opening safes; he simply blew the doors off with an explosive known as pyroglycerine. When Charley finally caught up with the fellow, there wasn’t enough left of him to arrest; he’d had a fatal attack of hubris and had blown himself into the next world.
When he brushes the snow from his coat and reenters the Seminary, all the unoccupied girls are gathered in the front hall, awaiting word of Neck’s fate. Rosa’s daughter, Audrey, is with them, a sturdy lass of seven or eight, with wine-colored hair like her mother’s. ‘Did you get him?’ she asks, wide-eyed and hopeful.
Charley shakes his head ruefully. ‘He’s harder to hang onto than an eel. He can’t have gone far, though, with a bullet in him.’ He takes Mrs Bramble aside. ‘You did well, drugging him that way. I only wish I’d got here sooner. If I’d been home, where a man should be on Christmas Eve—’
‘Don’t be blaming yourself, now, do you hear? You can’t be everywhere at once. Do you have any idea where he’ll go next?’
‘To Hell, I hope. But I won’t count on it. Still, he’s wounded badly enough to need a doctor. Do you know of any close by?’
‘No legitimate ones. But there’s Dr Smoot, who has a sort of an office in Wilton Street. Sweeney Smoot, they call him, after Sweeney Todd.’
‘Oh, yes, because he supposedly slit the throats of his patients and sold their bodies to the medical school.’
‘I expect that’s just a myth. He may not be much of a doctor, but as far as I can tell he’s harmless, just a bit too fond of his liquor. People go to him who can’t afford any better.’
‘Or who have something to hide?’ Charley turns back to the group of anxious girls. ‘There’s no need to worry, ladies. Now that he knows I’m onto him, he won’t be coming back here. Please be very careful, though, in going to and from the Seminary. It’s best if you travel in pairs. I’ll let you all know as soon as I’ve caught the wretch.’ He bends down to tousle Audrey’s already tousled hair. ‘And I will catch him, my dear, I promise you.’
As Charley is stepping out into the snow, the fat flakes fluttering like moths, Mrs Bramble calls after him, ‘Whatever happens, you may as well come back here. You’ll be tired and hungry. I’ll leave a light and the kettle on.’
Charley gives her a salute and a smile that’s grateful but at the same time slightly sad. How curious it is that he feels more welcome and more at ease in a molly house than in his supposed home. He can’t help wondering how many other men – and women, for that matter – feel the same way. Perhaps that’s why the city boasts such a wealth of public houses and introducing houses, not to mention supper clubs and sporting clubs and every other sort of club and association. People need that sense of belonging, and they’ll take it where they can find it.
Of course, not everyone is lucky enough. Charley has known far too many lads like Wink – and men like Neck – who grew up on the streets, or in a hovel furnished mainly with neglect and abuse, and never do manage to find themselves a warm and welcoming place, but always find themselves on the outside looking in.
Charley has one other memento of his policing days – a smashing pair of thick-soled leather boots, issued to him only a few months before he retired – and he’s thankful for them now, as he goes slogging through the slush. Though he prides himself on his knowledge of London streets long and short, large and small, he might never have found Wilton Street if Mrs Bramble hadn’t pointed him in the right direction. It’s only a few blocks long, and scarcely wide enough for a wagon.
There’s nothing to indicate that the building housing Dr Smoot’s office is anything other than a tenement. If the medico ever did hang out a shingle, it’s disappeared. Perhaps he’s not very interested in attracting business – or unwanted attention. There’s no bell pull on the door; Charley doesn’t want to announce his presence, in any case. It is equipped with a lock, but it’s no Chubb; he fishes out his ring of picks and rakes and swiftly, silently coaxes it open. Beyond is a dark, damp, dirty entryway and a second door with a border of yellow light all around it; it has no lock, not even a doorknob. Charley takes a deep breath and eases it open, just enough to allow him a view of the room, which is lighted by a smoky oil lamp.
At a battered deal table sits a figure with its back to him. Though the man’s face isn’t visible, it’s easy enough to tell, from the way his head is drooping, resting on his folded arms, that it’s not Neck. Neck has been here, though, judging from the bloody linen shirt that lies bunched up on the floor. Charley slips through the doorway and approaches the man.
A rustling sound from close at hand startles him; he pivots in that direction, his stick raised, but there’s no threat, only a mouse scampering away, abandoning the chunk of stale bread he’d been chewing on. Charley turns back to the man at the table, who hasn’t stirred. ‘Dr Smoot?’ he says softly, then again, more loudly. There’s no reply. Oh, lord; it looks as though Neck has done for him, too.
TEN
Charley strides forward and, taking hold of the doctor’s greasy hair, gently lifts his head. Something wet is oozing from his mouth, but it’s not blood, it’s only drool. The detective almost laughs with relief. The man isn’t dead at all, just dead drunk and reeking of gin. There’s no time to sober him up in some civilized way. Charley shakes him roughly, delivers a couple of slaps to his face, then wipes the drool and hair oil from his palm, using the man’s sleeve. The fabric of his frock coat is nearly as greasy as his hair.
‘Doctor! Dr Smoot! I need to ask you some questions!’
T
he doctor pries open his eyelids, revealing orbs so bloodshot they look like cut persimmons. ‘I don’ know … I don’ know an’thing … about an’thing.’
‘Really?’ says Charley. ‘I suppose you’ve no idea how this got here, then?’ He picks up the bloody linen shirt and dangles it in front of Smoot’s face.
‘Never seen it b’fore. C’n barely see it now.’
‘That’s a shame. I was hoping you could help me.’
‘You sick?’
‘Only with remorse. You see, I had a run-in with a fellow earlier in the evening – over a woman, you know. Silly business.’ He shakes Smoot again. ‘Are you listening?’
‘I’m listing-ing,’ says the doctor, though he seems more intent on the task of jamming his grimy bare feet into a surprisingly colorful pair of Berlin wool slippers.
‘He challenged me to a duel, but then he got cold feet at the last moment and turned tail – just as I was firing my pistol. I think I may have hit him. If so, he’ll need medical help, but he doesn’t dare go to just any doctor; as you know, dueling is illegal.’
‘I don’ know an’thing about—’
‘Of course, it’s also illegal to treat a gunshot wound and not report it.’
‘Is it, now?’
‘It is.’ Well, it should be, at any rate. ‘But what else can you do, right? You’re a doctor; you’re sworn to help anyone who needs it. If a man with such a wound comes in, you’re obliged to treat him. There’s nothing wrong in that; you’re just doing your duty.’
‘Tha’s right. My du’y.’
‘I’m sure you did a fine job, too. Were you able to remove the bullet?’
‘Oh, my, yes. ’M a capital surgeon, y’know – once I’ve had a d’ink or two to steady my hands. It broke the scrap – the scapula, but din’ go in deep. A .31 caliber never does, ’less it’s fired from close up. ’F he keeps his arm in the sling, it’ll – hic – heal up in no time.’
‘I suppose you cut off the handcuffs as well.’
‘Yes, I did.’ The doctor shakes his head. ‘Just a min’t. ’F you were dueling, why would he—’
‘Never mind that. I hope he paid you well for your services.’
‘He din’ have his wallet. Or his trousers, for that ma’er. I – hic – had to lend him some, and a coat ’s well. Not the sor’ of fellow you say “no” to. Tol’ me he’d be back in a day or two.’
‘I don’t suppose he gave you his address?’
‘I din’ ask.’
‘I’ll tell you what. I’ll pay his bill for him. It’s the least I can do.’ Charley tosses half a crown onto the table. ‘There’ll be more, if you find out where he lives. Tell him you like to look in on all your patients, see how they’re getting along.’
Dr Smoot snickers. ‘Can’t remem’er the last time I did that.’
‘And there’s no need to now; I’ll pay him a visit myself. If I can see that he’s all right, it’ll soothe my conscience no end.’
Charley’s conscience actually does bother him a bit – not because of Neck, of course, but because of Jane, who will be wondering why he can’t at least make it home for Christmas Eve. She seems to still imagine that they’re a happy family, or at least a contented one; no doubt she went on believing in Father Christmas, too, long after she was old enough to know better.
Well, she’ll be asleep by now, in any case, and in the morning he can make it a point to be there before she wakes up. Though Mrs Bramble has prepared another room for him, he insists on staying in Rosa’s old room – after nailing boards over the broken window. She brings him a sandwich and a glass of eggnog made with liberal amounts of brandy and rum.
As he’s going through the pockets of Neck’s overcoat, the door swings open a foot or so – though it’s a little askew, it’s still on its hinges – and a face wreathed by red hair appears. ‘May I come in, Inspector?’
‘Please do, Audrey. I was just looking for clues.’
‘Did you find any?’
‘No. For a thief, he has very empty pockets.’
Audrey nods at the Colt’s revolver lying on the bed. ‘Is that his gun?’
‘It was. Now it’s mine.’
‘I thought you didn’t like guns.’
‘I don’t. I’ll lock it up somewhere safe.’
‘Did you shoot him with it?’
‘You ask a lot of questions.’
‘I’m a child; it’s what we do.’
‘It’s what detectives do, too. Perhaps you’ll be one someday.’
She laughs. ‘Oh, there are no women detectives. Are there?’
‘Not yet. You could be the first.’
Audrey holds up her arms, and he lifts her effortlessly onto the bed. She eyes the overcoat suspiciously. ‘Did he kill my mother?’
‘I’m not sure.’
‘She didn’t kill herself, I know that much.’
‘No. Perhaps we shouldn’t be talking about this. Why don’t we sing some carols, instead? It is Christmas Eve, you know.’
‘It don’t feel like it.’
‘Well, maybe it’ll feel more like it if we sing.’ He launches into ‘The First Noel’; after a few moments, Audrey chimes in, her voice high and soft and sad. By the time they segue into ‘Tomorrow Shall Be My Dancing Day,’ her voice is stronger and she’s smiling just a little. Charley hears another voice pick up the tune, and another, and he looks up to see half a dozen of the girls clustered outside the doorway, singing along. Despite her handicap, even Mary joins in.
They proceed to ‘God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen’ and ‘While Shepherds Watched.’ At some point, Charley feels Audrey’s head come to rest against his shoulder. ‘Is she asleep?’ he whispers to Mary.
She nods and, moving stealthily into the room, lifts the young girl in her arms. ‘It’s long past her bedtime.’
As she turns to leave, Charley calls softly, ‘Wait!’ He reaches into the spacious inside pocket of his greatcoat and pulls out the porcelain doll given him by the tobacconist; though he tried to pay, Mr Blimely wouldn’t hear of it. ‘Give her this, will you? It’s a Christmas present.’
Charley has never had the least trouble falling asleep, especially with a little rum and brandy in him; once the familiar keyed-up feeling that always accompanies a case has subsided, he turns down the gas and stretches out on the bed, still fully clothed, the Colt’s revolver tucked beneath his pillow. Though there’s not a chance in the world that Neck will return for his gun and his clothing, he could conceivably send someone else, and Charley likes to be prepared.
Just as he’s drifting off, he hears the mangled door creak, and the bottom of it scrapes along the carpet. Charley carefully slides the pistol from beneath the pillow. Then, just as carefully, he slides it back, confident that he has little to fear from an intruder who is wearing such fragrant Florida water. ‘Mary?’
She lies down next to him and drapes an arm across his chest. ‘Audrey woke up long enough to see her dolly. She loves it. She’s already named it Charlene. Inspector Charlene, in fact.’
Charley laughs softly. ‘Inspector Charlene, eh? Well, who knows, we may have women on the force one day. They’d make quite good inspectors, actually. At least my wife and mother would. They never let me get away with anything.’ They’re both silent for a time, then Charley says, ‘What will become of her, do you think?’
‘Audrey? Well, Mrs Bramble don’t feel it’d be good for her to stay on here. She’s found a place for her at the Priestley Orphans’ Asylum. Several of the girls have placed children there – you know, when they couldn’t care for them any longer – and I guess they’re treated pretty well; of course the more money you donate the better they’re treated. We’ve all chipped in a little.’
‘You can count on me for some, as well.’
‘I know.’ Mary’s delicate fingers toy with the buttons on his waistcoat, begin undoing them one by one, then move on to the buttons of his braces.
Though Charley has seldom said no to an amorous opportun
ity, this seems not quite right, somehow, so soon after Rosa’s death. ‘You don’t need to do this, Mary.’
‘I want to. And I think Rosa would want me to.’ She runs a fingernail lightly down his knuckle-beaten nose and along the day-old bristles on his jaw. ‘Consider it a Christmas present.’
The presents Charley receives from Jane and the mother are well meant, he supposes, but only serve to demonstrate how little they actually know him. He’s never worn a smoking jacket in his life – though of course he’ll have to now, at least within the confines of this house – nor has he ever shown the least fondness for monogrammed linen handkerchiefs; a bandana serves the purpose much better, and may also be used to bind a wound or wipe sweat and smuts from your face. And, come to think of it, if they object so strenuously to his tobacco habit, why buy him a smoking jacket?
Of course, the snuffboxes – which Hanora wrapped for him – don’t exactly create a sensation, either. Jane at least makes a show of being pleased with hers, but she can’t quite hide a look that says, ‘What on earth am I to do with this?’ The mother doesn’t even try; in fact, she comes right out and says it.
Charley feigns an expression of surprise. ‘I thought you’d be sure to know, Mother. My sources assure me that they’re all the fashion among society ladies.’
‘Oh. Well, yes, of course,’ replies the mother, scrambling to save face. ‘But they’re usually much more … fancier.’
Somehow he manages to make it through the day without insulting anyone very grievously or doing anything more ill-mannered than putting his elbows on the table during dinner. The courses are unaccountably numerous and huge, which is not such a bad thing; Hanora and her family will feast well on the leftovers. What’s more, Charley can overeat and then use it as an excuse to retire to his little study for a long winter’s nap.
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