by Tom Becker
Down in the desolate kitchen, she lit the stove and heated up a saucepan of milk, gratefully warming her hands over the flame. Pouring the hot milk into a china cup, the maid had taken her first cautious sip when her ears caught the sound of a faint ringing noise.
The cup of milk fell to the floor, shattering.
Raquella raced up the stairs and out through the back door, the folds of her nightgown flapping around her ankles, and sped across the back terrace towards a circular white building dominated by large windows. The air was so cold it stung her cheeks, and the pebbles bit into her feet, but she barely noticed. Reaching the entrance, she yanked open the door and ran inside.
If Vendetta took pleasure in anything beyond money and death, it was his glasshouse. Finally rebuilt following a devastating explosion, it was more opulent than ever: a court of tropical flowers, resplendent in their bright blues, brilliant reds and violent yellows, dutifully attended by rows of heaters which raised the temperature until the atmosphere was thick with condensation. Although the first impression was one of delicate beauty, Raquella knew that there were dark secrets in the heart of the glasshouse: poisonous plants, buried weapons, corpses rotting in the flower beds.
The maid hurried along the central pathway, splashing through the streams of water trickling across the flagstones, ducking to avoid the low-hanging vines. Feathery ferns brushed her arm as she went. On a patio table in the centre of the glasshouse, Raquella saw the source of the insistent ringing: Vendetta’s telephone. Her master had spent a small fortune connecting the device to Lightside, creating an exclusive channel of communication that reputedly not even Blackchapel could match. Every call was a momentous occasion – if Raquella’s hunch was right, perhaps never more so than now.
Finally reaching the phone, she snatched up the receiver and said, “Hello?”
And, over the crackling of the line, she heard a dry, familiar voice reply, “Hello, Raquella.”
Her heart pounding, Raquella heard herself saying, “Master? Where have you been? I was worried.”
Vendetta chuckled thickly. “No doubt. Circumstances dictated that I leave Darkside as quickly as possible. I’m afraid there wasn’t the time for any emotional farewells.”
“I am glad to hear that you are well, sir. Where are you?”
“My location is no concern of yours,” the vampire replied curtly. “You never know who may be eavesdropping.”
“Very good, sir.” Raquella paused. “I . . . I found Mr Pelham. In the cellar.”
Vendetta made a dismissive sound down the line. “Don’t shed any tears over the butler. Pelham got what he deserved. I caught him snooping around the cellar, and took the appropriate steps. It appears someone was paying him to keep an eye on me. Holborn, no doubt.”
“The Abettor, sir? Why would he spy on you?”
“Holborn and I have never seen eye to eye. He always resented the influence I had over James Ripper. Has anyone from Blackchapel visited the Heights in my absence?”
“No, sir. . . But I did see Holborn outside the shop of Josiah Bartlemas. Lucien was with him.”
If she was expecting a reaction from her master, she was to be disappointed.
“Yes,” Vendetta said, “I suspected that might turn out to be the case. It makes my task here only more pressing.” There was a pause. “What were you doing at Bartlemas’s shop?”
Raquella silently cursed her slip. “I was looking for a watch for my father, sir,” she lied. “It is his birthday soon.”
There was a long pause. “Raquella, it is fair to say that you have not always displayed the loyalty one would expect from household staff. I left Darkside in search of your friend Starling, but he disappeared before I could get to him. Almost as though someone had warned him.”
Her heart sinking with dismay, the maid stayed silent.
“Luckily, I found someone else who met my . . . requirements. Even so, Raquella, there is only so much disloyalty I can allow.”
“Yes, sir.”
“We will discuss it further on my return,” the vampire intoned coldly. “In the meantime, stay away from Bartlemas.”
“When should I expect you home, sir?”
“If all goes well, after the Blood Succession. You will know if I have been successful.”
“Good luck, sir.”
“Oh, and Raquella?”
“Yes?”
“If I’m right, Holborn will do anything in his power to prevent me from achieving my goal. The Heights are far from safe at present. Watch your step.”
There was a click, and the line went dead.
Raquella placed the receiver back in its cradle, troubled by the vampire’s final warning. She left the glasshouse slowly, checking the wide expanses of the grounds for movement. As usual, there was no sign of life among the bare oaks that lined the estate, or in the dark hedgerows that formed the maze. Raquella felt suddenly, keenly alone.
Locking the back door behind her, the maid returned to the kitchen and began mopping up the spilled milk. She was sweeping up the shards of china when she heard the unmistakable sound of footsteps coming from the room above her head.
Raquella froze. As the footsteps padded stealthily around the ground floor, a voice in her head told her to run out of the back door and out through the grounds. But for some reason she stayed where she was. With Vendetta away, Raquella was the mistress of the household – and there was no way she was going to allow an intruder to have the run of the building.
Taking a deep breath, Raquella warily ascended the stairs to the ground floor. The footsteps had stopped, replaced by a persistent tapping noise that came from beyond the dining-room door. Pausing only to select an umbrella from the stand as a makeshift weapon, Raquella crept towards the dining room, and pushed the door open.
Inside, a boy was sitting in Vendetta’s chair at the head of the long dining table, absent-mindedly drumming on the wooden surface with two large ebony-handled spoons. It was Harry.
“You!” Raquella shouted, startling Harry into dropping one of the spoons. “What on Darkside are you doing in here? You frightened me half to death.”
“Sorry,” he replied casually, not looking in the least bit penitent. “I knocked, but no one answered.”
“That’s not an invitation for you to break in!” Raquella said indignantly, laying the umbrella down on the table.
“I was worried!”
Even though the words sounded sincere, there was a smile playing on Harry’s lips. He really was an exasperating boy, far too sure of himself. Raquella could never shake the impression that secretly he was poking fun at her – a fact that riled the maid beyond belief. And unlike Jonathan, Harry seemed impervious to her sharp tongue.
“Your chivalry is touching,” she said coldly. “But as you can see, I am fine. Feel free to leave the same way you came in.”
“What I’m trying to work out,” Harry said thoughtfully, ignoring her, “is what could be so important that it would make you go outside half-dressed on one of the coldest days of the year.”
Suddenly aware that she was still in her bedclothes, Raquella drew her dressing gown around her. The colour was rising in her cheeks – from anger, she told herself, not embarrassment.
“You’ll have to forgive me. If I’d been expecting burglars, I would have dressed appropriately.”
Harry made a placatory gesture. “OK, I’m sorry. Look, there was another reason I came here – Jonathan’s going back to Lightside to look for Bartlemas. I thought you might want to join us.”
Raquella shook her head. “I’m in enough trouble as it is. My master suspects me of helping Jonathan.”
“You’ve spoken to Vendetta?”
The maid nodded. “He is already angry with me – if he finds out that I have been searching for Bartlemas, then I have no hope. I have done all I can. Jonathan is with Carne
gie, and far away from Vendetta’s grasp. What happens to him now is out of my hands.”
“And what’s going to happen to you?” asked Harry. He was no longer smiling.
“Why do you care?”
“Jonathan’s got Carnegie and his dad to look out for him. Only fair that someone’s looking out for you, too.”
Raquella searched Harry’s face for traces of mockery, but this time she couldn’t find any. Was he actually being serious?
“This would be so much easier if you weren’t quite so annoying,” she said finally.
“I might be less annoying if you weren’t quite so prickly.”
There was a pause, and then they both smiled.
“I’ll do you a deal,” Harry said. “Tell me what Vendetta said to you, and I’ll promise not to annoy you for the rest of the day.”
“That seems like a reasonable trade,” Raquella relented. “First of all, though, I’d like to get dressed.”
She left the room, choosing to ignore Harry’s impudent grin. Really, she fumed to herself as she ascended the staircase leading to her bedroom, the boy had the manners of a guttersnipe. The Ripper lineage was not what it used to be.
There was a creak on the stairs behind her.
“Harry, enough!” she shouted, whirling round.
The creature facing her wasn’t Harry. Although it was dressed in normal Darkside clothes – jerkin, trousers and a cloth cap – its mottled skin was green and blistered with pustules. It was a hobgoblin. Raquella had seen her master deal with such creatures before: they were loathsome, unscrupulous beasts, hired for tasks more self-respecting Darksiders would eschew. This one smelled worse than any she had seen before. It was also carrying a long-bladed knife.
Twisting its face into a leer of pleasure, the hobgoblin took a menacing step towards the maid.
“Help!” she screamed.
As she backed away from the creature, Raquella heard the sound of running feet. Harry came skidding round the corner, athletically flipped himself over the balustrade, and bounded up the stairs towards the hobgoblin. The maid noticed that he was still clutching one of the ebony-handled spoons in his hand.
Snarling with annoyance, the hobgoblin turned and slashed wickedly at Harry with the knife. In a single flowing movement, the boy ducked out of harm’s way and rapped the creature on the kneecap with the heavy spoon. There was an audible crack of metal on bone – the hobgoblin shrieked in pain. Following up, Harry grabbed the creature by the collar and used its own momentum to send it stumbling over the balustrade. There was a wail of horror as the hobgoblin started to fall, and then a sickening thump as it hit the floor ten feet below. It had been over in a matter of seconds.
Raquella sagged down on the steps with relief. Harry tossed the battered spoon over the side of the staircase and sat down beside her, breathing heavily.
“A spoon?” she said eventually.
“You sounded like you were in trouble,” Harry replied defensively. “I didn’t have time to swap it for anything better.”
The maid peered over the balustrade at the crumpled form of the hobgoblin.
“You seemed to manage,” she conceded.
“Let me help you, and I’ll show you what I can do with a fork.” Harry winked. “It’s really quite impressive.”
Raquella shook her head, but allowed Harry to help her to her feet. It appeared she wasn’t going to be left on her own, after all.
15
The Docklands Light Railway train moved sinuously through the grey London morning, following a winding path around the skyscrapers of Canary Wharf. Every change of points, every stop and start was computerized; there were no drivers on the DLR. They were ghost trains. In his seat at the front of the lead carriage, Jonathan watched through drizzle-splattered windows as the track unfolded out in front of him. He was used to tube trains charging blindly through the Underground – this felt as though he were at the controls of some sort of giant computer game.
Jonathan nudged his dad and pointed ahead.
“We’re nearly there,” he said. “That’s Greenwich.”
Alain didn’t reply, merely shifting uncomfortably in his seat. He had been quiet all morning. They had risen early, taking a carriage across Darkside to Rookwood Maps and Globes, a cluttered shop whose enterprising owner, Carmen, charged people for use of the crossing point that ran beneath the floor. Carnegie had reluctantly handed over several coins before leading them down the passageway that came out on a dirty side alley off Oxford Street. Although his dad hadn’t said anything, Jonathan had seen his grimace of pain as they stepped over the boundary, and knew that Darkside’s poisonous atmosphere had taken its toll on him. The years he had spent in the rotten borough had permanently damaged Alain’s health – without Darkside blood in his veins, Jonathan wasn’t sure how many more crossings his dad could take.
Back in modern London, the electronic cacophony of the city jarring Jonathan’s ears, they hastened down the Central Line from Oxford Circus to Bank, where they had caught the DLR. The change in atmosphere didn’t appear to have helped Alain – even now, his forehead glistened with sweat, and his jawline was taut with tension.
“Are you all right?” Jonathan asked.
His dad nodded. “Fine,” he replied tersely. “How’s Elias?”
Jonathan looked behind them to see the wereman lazily picking at his teeth with a long fingernail, oblivious to the discomfort of the businessman hemmed in next to him. With his battered suit and bewhiskered cheeks, Carnegie looked like a cross between an eccentric artist and a down-and-out.
“Looks OK to me,” Jonathan reported. “As long as he’s not on a bus, he’s fine. Are you sure we’re going to the right place?”
“If we’re talking about the Josiah Bartlemas I knew, we’ll find him at the Greenwich Observatory. Remember the name we saw on the plans Harry found?”
Jonathan’s brow furrowed. “The Chronos Wheel?”
“Right. Well, that was the most famous invention of Wilbur Bartlemas, who just happened to be Josiah’s grand father. Wilbur was the Astronomer Royal at the observatory a hundred years ago, and was renowned for his inventions to do with watches and timekeeping.”
“What was so special about the Chronos Wheel, then?”
Alain laughed. “It didn’t work.”
“Eh?”
“More than that, no one had any idea what it was supposed to do. Wilbur refused to demonstrate it to anyone. Not even Josiah knew how it worked, though he spent years trying to work it out. He was born in Greenwich, you know.”
“Bartlemas is a Lightsider?” Jonathan said with surprise.
“Half-Lightsider – like all the best people.” Alain’s face broke into a smile, and gave his son a friendly nudge. “When we used to work in the shop together we’d stay up all night talking about London. Josiah loved to hear about the city, how it had changed since he had left. Technology fascinated him. I’d bring back digital watches and watch him take them apart. He always said they wouldn’t catch on in Darkside, but secretly I think he was quite taken with them. Speaking of time – what is it now?”
Jonathan delved into his jeans pocket and took out his Darkside pocket watch. He found its chunky weight in his pocket reassuring, whereas he had never felt comfortable with a mobile phone or with a modern watch strapped around his wrist.
“Just gone midday,” he said.
“We’ve got an hour to get to the observatory,” Alain said. “I’ve got a feeling he’ll make his move at one—” He gave a sharp intake of breath, and clutched at his side.
“Dad!” Jonathan said. “What’s wrong?”
“It’s all right, son,” Alain replied, through clenched teeth. “It’s just the crossings. . . I’m not as strong as I used to be. . .”
Suddenly Carnegie was crouched by their side. “Problem?”
“It�
��s Dad – he’s not well.”
Carnegie cast a critical eye over Alain. “You look done in,” he said. “You need to rest up. Once we get to this Greenwich place, you’re taking a cab home.”
“But what about Josiah?” Alain protested. “If you’re going to try and find him, you’ll need me there. You don’t even know what he looks like!”
“He’s a Darksider. I’m sure we’ll manage to pick him out. With you in this state, you’d be more of a hindrance than a help.”
“I’m sick of this!” Alain snapped suddenly. “I feel so useless!”
“You’ll be even less use if you kill yourself,” the wereman said bluntly. “What if we need you then?”
Jonathan’s dad looked like he was going to argue, but another sharp pain in his side stalled him. Eventually he nodded weakly, and allowed himself to be manoeuvred off the train at Greenwich, up the escalators and out on to the high street. Even though the rain was coming down harder now, and there was an icy chill to the air, the gentle, winding streets were busy with shoppers.
As he scanned the road for a taxi, Carnegie snarled suddenly. “I don’t believe this!”
“What is it?” said Jonathan.
He jerked his head back towards the train station. “We’ve got company.”
Following his gaze, Jonathan’s heart sank. There, above a sea of heads, was the unmistakable face of Humble, Marianne’s giant mute henchman. He was leaning against the station entrance, a foot taller than anyone else in the crowd, an enigmatic smile on his face. His feral partner Skeet was bounding up and down at his side with giddy menace.
“What are they doing here?” Jonathan asked incredulously.
“I doubt it’s to give us a hand. Come on.”
Throwing a supporting arm around Alain, Carnegie ushered them down the high street, muttering oaths under his breath. Humble and Skeet strolled nonchalantly after them – neither appeared to be in a hurry. As they rounded the corner and passed out of sight, Alain stumbled, and had to be helped upright by Carnegie. Jonathan’s dad looked dead on his feet. Sizing up their options, the wereman glanced across the street, his eyes alighting upon a passageway beneath the sign “Greenwich Market”.
