Timecurse

by Tom Becker

  “I was only saying—” Jonathan began, his face reddening.

  Carnegie shook his head sadly. “Lightsiders. No sense of loyalty.”

  The maid was ringing the front doorbell, examining the windows for any sign of movement within the mansion. She turned back to her companions, frowning.

  “Mr Pelham should definitely be here by now,” she said.

  With nothing stirring inside the building, Raquella brought out a heavy iron key from the folds of her uniform and unlocked the door. The hall beyond was dingy, with the cold, stillborn air of a crypt. As Carnegie strode eagerly after Raquella, casting an appraising eye over the grotesque wooden friezes on the walls, Jonathan lingered in the doorway, unwilling to enter the building.

  “Mr Pelham?” Raquella called out. “Are you there?”

  The Heights remained silent.

  “Doesn’t appear to be anyone at home,” mused Carnegie. “Why don’t we split up and have a look around while we’re here?”

  “Split up?” Jonathan asked apprehensively.

  “Boy, even you can’t get into trouble in an empty house. It’s not like there’s going to be booby traps or anything. . .” Struck by a sudden thought, the wereman shot a questioning glance at Raquella, who shook her head. “OK – I’ll take the upper floors; Raquella, you check out the servants’ quarters. Perhaps our Mr Pelham is a heavy sleeper. Boy, the cellar is all yours. Shout if you find anything.”

  With that, Carnegie loped up the central staircase and disappeared down the first-floor landing. Raquella gave Jonathan a slight shrug, and bustled off into the adjoining room.

  Though Vendetta was nowhere to be seen, there were reminders of his presence everywhere: in the lavish dining room, a single place had been laid at the end of a long table; in the cavernous library, a book lay open on the reading desk; in the study, a letter lay half-written, the pen still resting in the inkpot. At any moment, it seemed like the vampire might appear out of the gloom and resume his work.

  Jonathan headed reluctantly to the back staircase, muttering to himself. The last thing he wanted to do was descend to the cellar, but he couldn’t face admitting to Raquella that he was scared. Only pride kept him moving down to the lowest floor of the mansion. He pushed open the creaking cellar door.

  The first thing he noticed was the cold – the atmosphere in the room was arctic. Only the faintest shards of light dared creep this far down, meekly illuminating a rickety table and a wine rack running along the far wall. Jonathan inched across the flagstones, his breath forming frosty clouds in the air. Like all the other rooms in the Heights, there was no sign of life, no spiders’ webs or scuttling rodents. As he passed by the table, something brushed against Jonathan’s foot. His heart pounding, he looked down.

  It was a corpse’s hand.

  Jonathan yelled out with fright, stumbling backwards. At first he thought he had discovered Vendetta, but then he realized that the man was wearing the formal suit and buttoned collar of a servant. The body was stretched out on the floor underneath the table, a single telltale slice carved into the neck.

  There was a commontion on the stairs, and Carnegie clattered into the cellar, brandishing a candelabra. The wereman skidded to a halt when he saw the corpse, and, observing no imminent threat, eyed Jonathan with bleak amusement.

  “Ah. Well, I suppose I did tell you to shout if you found anything.”

  “It’s not funny, Carnegie!”

  “I know, boy.” The wereman placed the candelabra down on the table and looked over the body. “I’m presuming that we’ve found Mr Pelham?”

  “That’s him,” a female voice replied. Jonathan spun round to see Raquella standing in the doorway, sadly taking in the scene. The maid crossed the cellar and knelt down by the body, closing the butler’s eyes. There was a calm acceptance about her behaviour, a reminder that this was not the first such dreadful sight she had witnessed in this house.

  “Death seems to be an occupational hazard in this place,” Carnegie said. “Your master is a real piece of work, Raquella.”

  “It is his nature,” she replied quietly. “Vendetta has little choice in the matter.”

  “Really? How have you stayed alive all these years, then?”

  The maidservant began to reply, and then stopped.

  “Hang on a minute.” Jonathan bit his lip, thinking. “What was he doing in the cellar? There’s nothing here.”

  Carnegie nodded at the bottles of wine. “Maybe he was getting Vendetta a drink.”

  “I doubt it,” said Raquella. “Since his illness I’ve barely seen him touch a drop. I haven’t had reason to come down here for months.”

  Jonathan knelt down and began inspecting the bottles near the butler’s outstretched hand. The maid looked on nervously.

  “Please be careful – those are the most expensive bottles in the mansion. If anything happened to them, my master would be furious. Especially that one – it’s priceless.”

  “This one?” Jonathan’s hand stopped by a dusty bottle on the bottom row of the rack. “Really? Oh well, Vendetta’s never really liked me anyway.”

  He pulled the bottle out from the rack. As he slid it free, he saw a cord had been tied to the bottle’s base. There was a loud click, and a part of the cellar wall beyond the rack slid to one side, revealing a pitch-black opening.

  Jonathan stood up, brushing his hands clean. “Looks like Mr Pelham found more than he bargained for. Fancy a look inside?”

  Carnegie passed him the candelabra. “Your discovery, boy. After you.”

  With a deep breath, Jonathan stepped into the darkness.

  7

  Jonathan moved slowly down a narrow corridor, holding the candelabra out in front of him like a shield. The candles flickered and shied in the draught, as though fearful of going any further.

  “Everything all right in there, boy?” a gruff voice called out behind him.

  “Yeah,” Jonathan replied edgily. “There’s a room up ahead.”

  He stepped cautiously through a doorway, and into the cramped confines of the chamber beyond. Measuring barely four paces by four paces, the secret room was little more than a cubbyhole. There were no windows set into the walls, and only two items of furniture: a clerk’s bureau, and an accompanying high stool. On the surface of the bureau, a large black book was resting next to a small silver key.

  Behind him, Jonathan heard the rustling of a skirt. Raquella took in her new surroundings with undisguised amazement.

  “You really didn’t know this was here?” asked Jonathan.

  She shook her head, bewildered. “The Heights are riddled with secret passageways and rooms. I’ve seen only a handful, and even those I discovered by accident. I thought Vendetta went down to the cellar less than I did.”

  “One of the advantages of being a creature of the night,” Carnegie remarked wryly from the doorway. “More time for skulking around.”

  The low ceiling had forced the wereman to remove his stovepipe hat, and he stooped slightly as he entered the room. Wiping his nose on his sleeve, Carnegie appraised his surroundings.

  “For some reason, I was expecting something a little more grand,” he concluded. “Flocks of bats. Walls drenched with blood. A coffin, at the very least.”

  Jonathan went over to the bureau and picked up the silver key, inspecting it in the candlelight.

  “Any idea where this might go?” he asked.

  Carnegie shrugged. “There’s a lot of locks in Darkside, boy. Fancy trying every one?”

  “Guess not.”

  As he tossed the key back on to the bureau, Jonathan felt a tug on his sleeve. He turned to see Raquella tracing her fingers over the cover of the black book.

  “It’s not the key that’s important here,” she breathed. “It’s this!”

  The maid hurriedly settled down upon the stool and o
pened the book. As she reverently turned the crisp parchment, Jonathan saw that the pages were filled with rows of names and numbers written in dried brown ink in small, copperplate handwriting.

  He frowned. “What is it?”

  Absorbed in the pages, Raquella barely seemed to register his question. “This is Vendetta’s ledger for his private bank. It contains the account details of his most wealthy and important clients: every bribe they received, every stolen item they’ve bought. Occasionally I’ve seen him carrying it, but I’ve never had the chance to look inside it. I thought he left it at the bank.”

  Carnegie raised a hairy eyebrow. “Very interesting. I’d imagine there’s a few dirty secrets in here,” he said. “Quite a lot of people would like to get their hands on this, I’ll bet.”

  “Quite a few have tried,” Raquella replied quietly. “Where do you think he got the ink from? Blood dries brown, you know.”

  Jonathan shuddered. Knowing Vendetta, he could have guessed that the ink had a gruesome origin. Even so, the thought of the vampire spending his nights alone in this room, scratching out his accounts in his rivals’ blood, sent a tremor down his spine.

  By contrast, Carnegie seemed intrigued by this revelation. Taking the ledger from Raquella, the wereman turned to the last page, running a craggy finger down to the most recent payments.

  The wereman banged his fist down upon the table, making both Jonathan and Raquella jump.

  “Scabble!” he barked angrily. “I should have throttled that louse when I had the chance!”

  “You know him?” asked Raquella.

  “Can’t be a private detective in Darkside without knowing Dexter Scabble. He’s a low-rent thief who operates out of Devil’s Wharf. I was questioning him on another matter when the Blackchapel Bell started ringing. Had to let him go – much to my regret.”

  “That night was the fourth of November,” Raquella said thoughtfully. “Judging by the dates in the ledger, two days later Vendetta was paying him £100. Which is hardly loose change.”

  “It’s not that much,” said Jonathan.

  “Our currency is a bit different to yours, boy,” Carnegie growled. “Round here, a hundred pounds would buy you a small chunk of the Grand.” The wereman glanced at Raquella. “What is your master doing paying all this money to a bilge rat like Scabble?”

  “I wish I knew, Elias,” the girl replied. “Vendetta’s never even mentioned his name to me.”

  “One thing’s for sure,” Carnegie remarked. “This wasn’t a charitable donation. There’s something fishy going on here, and I’ve got a nasty feeling it involves the boy. Let’s go and see if Mr Scabble can shed any light on the subject.” The wereman grinned. “I’m sure he’s been missing me.”

  They left the still confines of Vendetta Heights at once – pausing only for Raquella to find a canvas bag, into which Jonathan slipped the ledger. As they passed through the gates of the mansion and back on to Savage Row, Jonathan exhaled deeply, relieved to have left the Gothic estate. Carnegie flagged down a passing hansom cab and ordered the driver to head south. The cab trundled through the dingy afternoon to the sound of the driver muttering dark, unintelligible threats to himself.

  As they travelled south, the air developed a salty tang, and seagulls cried as they banked and wheeled through the sky. In the distance, Jonathan could make out the river lapping wearily against a series of wooden jetties, and the outline of a steamer ship heading out into open water to deliver its illicit cargo. They had arrived at their destination: Devil’s Wharf.

  Scabble Trading, Inc, was situated at the lowest, dirtiest end of the wharf. Despite the proud sign above the door, the office was little more than a wooden shack teetering on the edge of the waterfront. Even the breeze gusting in off the river couldn’t shift the smell of rotten fish guts, and the general atmosphere of seediness that hung over the area.

  Without bothering to knock, Carnegie barged through the shack’s front door and into a threadbare office. A small, wiry man sprang out of his chair.

  “What the blazes?” he cried.

  Carnegie gave him a toothy grin. “Hello, Dexter. Told you I’d be seeing you again.”

  Jonathan blinked. Though Dexter Scabble had tried to present himself as a well-to-do businessman, it wasn’t a very convincing façade: his shoes didn’t match, his tatty waistcoat was missing buttons, and there was a large white stain on his bowler hat that Jonathan guessed was a seagull’s dropping.

  “Carnegie!” exclaimed Scabble. “I told you, those missing silks were nothing to do with me!”

  Even as he spoke, Jonathan noticed the thief’s eyes flick guiltily over to the three large crates piled up in the corner of the office.

  “Calm down,” the wereman replied mildly. “As it happens, that’s not why I’m here. The boy wanted to have a chat with you. I’m just keeping him company.”

  Scabble glanced over to the window, as though weighing up whether to make a break for it, before suspiciously resuming his seat.

  “I wanted to ask you about Vendetta—” Jonathan began.

  “Never heard of him,” Scabble replied automatically.

  “Then how come he’s just paid you a hundred pounds?”

  Scabble’s eyes narrowed. “What’s that got to do with you?”

  “It’s your choice, Dexter,” Carnegie growled, cracking his knuckles ominously. “Either you can talk to the boy, or you can talk to me. I warn you, though – his manners are a damned sight better than mine.”

  “You can’t threaten me!” protested Scabble. “The Succession is on – the Runners will be here faster than you can say ‘Tyburn Tree’.”

  “Maybe,” mused the wereman. “But we’re an awfully long way from the Grand. How many teeth do you think you’ll have lost by the time they get here?”

  Scabble leaned back in his chair. “A persuasive argument, Carnegie. You’re quite the negotiator.”

  “And you’re quite the hustler. Why is Vendetta paying you all that money? What’s the scam?”

  Scabble affected an injured expression. “A hustler? I’m hurt! I’m just a humble businessman trying to make ends meet. The transaction between Mr Vendetta and myself was an entirely legitimate one. And, might I add, a private one. I don’t see why I need to tell you anything more.”

  Carnegie leaned in closer over the desk, digging his claws into the woodwork. “Let me explain things for you. Vendetta’s disappeared, and he’s after Jonathan here. As much as the boy can be a pest, I’ve grown accustomed to having him around – and I’m not going to be very happy if he turns up in a gutter without any blood in his veins. Given that you’re now such good pals with the vampire, I thought you might be able to shed some light on what ‘Mr Vendetta’ is up to.”

  Scabble pushed his bowler hat up and scratched his forehead.

  “All right,” he sighed. “Listen, Vendetta did come and see me the night Thomas Ripper died. He wanted to procure a couple of items in a hurry, and thought I might be able to help him. It just so happened that they were in stock in one of warehouses along the docks, so two days later I went to the Heights to deliver them. It was all very amicable, I swear to you! Well, as amicable as things get with Vendetta, if you get my meaning. . . I was barely in his study for five minutes – to be honest, I’m not even sure he was listening to me. He kept looking at his watch, all impatient. When he got what he wanted he cut me off mid-sentence and got old Archie to chuck me out.”

  “Who, Mr Pelham?” asked Raquella.

  Scabble snorted with laughter. “When we were growing up in the No’penny Poorhouse I knew him as plain old Archie. Last time I heard, he was still at the poorhouse, him and his niece Clara. P’rhaps that’s why ‘Mr Pelham’ wouldn’t let on he knew me – maybe he thought Vendetta might not like his butler having such humble origins. Archie was certainly worried about something. He was all sweaty and nervous, lik
e a fellow who’s about to pull a caper only to realize he hasn’t got the bottle. In fact, maybe you should go and ask Archie Pelham some questions, instead of barging in here and bothering an innocent man like me.”

  Carnegie looked uncomfortable. “I don’t think anyone’s going to be bothering Mr Pelham now. One final question: what was Vendetta buying from you?”

  Jonathan was surprised when Scabble burst into high-pitched laughter.

  “Do you take me for a fool, Carnegie?” he said. “You can beat me black and blue if you want, but the worst punishment you can deal out would be a picnic compared to what would happen if Vendetta found out I’d betrayed him. I’ve told you all I can. Gentlemen, I bid you good day. Feel free to take up any further matters with my associates.”

  Dexter Scabble dipped into his pocket and brought out a small whistle. On a shrill blast, three burly men dressed in striped blue and white sailors’ shirts crashed into the office, bulging forearms crossed.

  “Show them the door, boys,” said Scabble.

  8

  Given the strange exchange she had witnessed between Jonathan and the redheaded girl, Kate wasn’t entirely surprised by the empty chair in her classroom the next day, or the silence that greeted Jonathan’s name on the register. But she was disappointed. After much thought, Kate had decided to confront Jonathan with what she had seen and heard behind the sports hall. She was curious how he’d react: perhaps he would be angry; maybe he’d think she was crazy. Maybe she was crazy – but Kate couldn’t deny the connection she felt with him, a connection that demanded she find out what was going on.

  Only now there was no one to ask. Jonathan had vanished again. As before, there was no outcry. The teachers didn’t respond to his absence with the usual inquisitions, while Kate’s classmates were too preoccupied with their own dramas to notice: worrying about exams, falling out and making up with their friends, trying to get over their hopeless crushes. If Jonathan’s parents were worried, there wasn’t any sign of them around school. It was as though he had been a figment of Kate’s imagination.