by Tom Becker
But despite the dangerous situation, a part of Kate was relieved to learn about her background, as though an itch in the back of her mind had finally been scratched. Her restless turbulence, the strange kinship she had felt with Jonathan, even the problems at home – everything seemed to make a little more sense now.
The limousine had left the centre of London, and was now purring down a sharply inclining street that cut a passage between a set of iron railings and a row of grand houses. At the bottom of the hill, the car pulled into a cobbled lay-by near a side gate in the railings. The door locks clicked open, and suddenly Vendetta was gesturing with his pistol for them to get out.
“I recognize this place!” Jonathan exclaimed into the night air. “This is Highgate Cemetery!”
The vampire nodded. “Because James was slain before the Succession, tradition forbids his family from burying him in Darkside alongside his ancestors. Thomas arranged for him to be buried here in Highgate. I was there when they crossed over one night and committed him to the earth.”
Vendetta unlocked the gates and led them inside the cemetery. A broad pathway curved gently around a bank of graves, which sloped up and into the trees. The silence was as absolute as the darkness. Kate tiptoed through the shadows of towering Celtic crosses, and past angels clasping their hands together in prayer, their stone faces weathered and stern. In certain places the graves were arranged haphazardly, almost on top of one another, bundling their inhabitants together in death.
The vampire walked quickly, as though retreading a familiar journey, before coming to a fork in the path marked by an obelisk-shaped grave. He pointed to a set of narrow steps which had been cut into the bank between two graves, leading away from the main pathway before disappearing amongst the trees.
“We go this way,” Vendetta said crisply. “After you.”
After a deep breath, Kate climbed up the bank, trying to avoid the feeling that she was trespassing over dead bodies. The crude steps led deeper into the undergrowth, where trees creaked and leaves rustled in the breeze. Even surrounded by death, it was hard not to feel as though there was life up here: a wild, dark force of nature. Her heart thumping in her chest, Kate heard Jonathan pressing along behind her, and took comfort from his presence.
A rough trail continued through a row of increasingly ornate graves that had fallen into disrepair: the stonework was chipped, the engravings swallowed up by moss. Finally Kate came out into a small glade, marked by a mound of earth in the centre of the clearing.
“We are here,” Vendetta announced. “The last resting place of James Ripper. Now we can begin. . .”
22
The rain had eased, leaving the pavements and cobblestones in Jackdaw Square glistening in the glow of the street lamps. Even in normal, rowdier times, this more refined district preferred to carry out its crimes in private, behind thick curtains and oak-panelled doors. Now, just after midnight in the midst of the Blood Succession, the houses were united in a conspiratorial silence.
Presently, the door to one of the houses opened, briefly spilling light out on to the square, and a small man waddled down into a waiting carriage. With a loud giddy-up, the coachman spurred the horses into life, and the carriage rattled off into the night. As the sound died away, two figures dressed in black emerged from the shadows by the park railings and sized up the house in front of them.
“Where do you think he’s gone?” Raquella whispered.
Harry shrugged. “As long as it’s somewhere far away, I don’t care.”
Pulling out his lock picks, the boy darted across the street and set to work on Dr Hugo La Mort’s front door. Raquella kept a nervous lookout, convinced that at any second the lights would flick on in a neighbouring house, or a cry of alarm would go up. With the Bow Street Runners still abroad, this was the worst time to be caught committing a crime in Darkside.
After what seemed like an age, Harry made a small sound of satisfaction, and the lock clicked open. He ushered Raquella inside the residence and quietly closed the door behind them.
“Try not to disturb anything,” he urged in a low voice. “We don’t want the doctor knowing we’ve been here, if we can help it.”
“Yes, thank you, Harry,” the maid replied stiffly. “You are aware this isn’t my first burglary?”
The boy looked surprised for a second, and then grinned. “You’re a girl after my own heart, Raquella.”
She turned away, unwilling to give Harry the satisfaction of a reaction. Remembering the eerie encounter in the doctor’s study the last time she had been here, Raquella was unwilling to head straight upstairs. Instead, she led Harry around the ground floor, where they began combing for clues. The kitchen and front room were dark and dormant, but a lamp was still burning in the back room, and as she entered, the maid saw a sheaf of papers on the desk. Raquella pulled up a chair and began carefully leafing through them.
Most of the papers were letters from patients: angry accusations of malpractice and injury, the handwriting wobbly and the pages stained with blood; veiled threats of retribution; heartfelt pleas on behalf of sick loved ones. At the bottom of the pile, however, was a letter written on aged, yellowed paper, on which Raquella instantly recognized the smooth, controlled handwriting of her master. She called Harry over, and the pair of them began to read:
Vendetta Heights
8 May, DY 114
My dear Hugo,
As both your friend and banker, it has fallen to me to inform you that your account at my bank has run out of credit. It would appear that your fondness for games of chance at the Casino Sanguino has taken its toll. Have I not told you in the past, Hugo, that a wise man never gambles?
Usually in this situation, I would be taking certain punitive measures against you to retrieve your debt. Then again, I know you have no relatives I could harm, and your income depends upon you possessing both of your hands. Given our amicable relationship, I have decided to forestall the threat of violence, and instead arranged a very reasonable repayment plan. As a security, I have confiscated the key to your safety deposit box, which I know contains some items of great value to you. No doubt your desire to regain these items will spur you on to settle your debt sooner rather than later – just the sort of encouragement friends should provide for one another, don’t you think?
Regards,
G. Vendetta
“I guess that explains La Mort’s payments in the ledger,” Harry said eventually. “He was paying back Vendetta.”
Raquella nodded. “In a way, he was fortunate. My master is not always so understanding about debts.”
“Still, when Vendetta visited La Mort and told him he was going away for a while, the good doctor saw an opportunity to get his deposit box back sooner than they’d agreed. So he goes to the poorhouse and forces Mr Pelham to start snooping around the Heights.”
“Of course!” Raquella exclaimed. “The key! When we found the ledger in the secret room in the Heights, there was a key next to it. That’s what Mr Pelham was looking for! He was so close!”
“Which means. . .”
“Which means I know where the key is! We can go and get it now, and open the box before La Mort gets his hands on it.”
Harry put down the letter, frowning. “That’s a point. If Vendetta caught Mr Pelham, and La Mort didn’t get his hands on the key, what’s the doctor been doing in the meantime?”
There came a low moan from upstairs. Harry and Raquella froze.
“There’s someone here!” the maid mouthed, her eyes wide.
Harry nodded. “Sounds like they’re in pain, too,” he whispered.
Gesturing at Raquella to stay behind him, Harry pulled a long-handled dagger from his belt and crept back into the hallway, moving with the alert stealth of a cat. As he stole up the stairs, another pitiful moan wafted down from the doctor’s study. Raquella stayed as close to Harry as she coul
d, reassured by his cool composure. Although the maid didn’t scare easily, there was something about the atmosphere in the still, stuffy house that chilled her to the core, and sent goosepimples scurrying across her skin.
The study door was ajar, allowing Harry to peer into the room before he entered. A gas lamp was still burning away, casting long shadows over the glass specimen jars and the gruesome diagrams on the wall. At first glance, the room appeared to be empty, but as Harry pushed the door further open, they heard the sound of whimpering coming from behind the floor-length curtain drawn across the back of the room.
Harry gestured at Raquella to wait by the doorway, and then moved soundlessly across the room. He grabbed hold of the curtain with one hand, raising his dagger with the other. The whimpering was louder now. Raquella had to fight the urge to cover her eyes.
Harry swept the curtain aside with a flourish, and took a sharp intake of breath.
In front of him sat a middle-aged man, tied into a chair with thick leather straps. On a tray next to the chair was the white porcelain bowl containing La Mort’s surgical instruments. As she neared, Raquella was sickened to notice that they were gleaming with fresh blood. Harry quickly cut the leather straps with his dagger and helped the man up and into an armchair. He appeared to be in shock – his limbs were trembling, and he rocked back and forward in his chair, clasping his hands together. It wasn’t until Raquella had poured him a large glass of brandy that he was able to speak.
“T-Thank you,” he stammered.
“Who are you?” the maid asked gently. “What happened?”
“My name is Frederick Longbourne,” the man answered bitterly. “Two days ago that . . . monster La Mort came into my shop, saying he wanted a spare key cut. When I turned to begin using my equipment, I felt a sharp stabbing pain in my neck, and everything went black. When I came to, I was strapped into this chair. La Mort was friendly at first. He told me he’d let me go after I’d given him what he wanted: a skeleton key to use in Vendetta’s bank.”
“A skeleton key?” Harry looked puzzled. “What’s that?”
“It’s a master key,” replied Longbourne. “It has adjustable teeth, and can open any lock.”
“Why didn’t you just give it to him?” Raquella asked.
“It’s not that simple. The skeleton key is the most prized possession of a locksmith, and his greatest secret. If it falls into the wrong hands, then anyone can open any door, and there are no uses for locks any more. When I refused to hand it over he became angry, and began to. . .”
Longbourne nodded at the instruments in the bowl, unable to say any more. Raquella shivered.
“I held out for as long as I could, but I could tell that time was running out for him. Tonight he lost patience and . . .” the locksmith shifted awkwardly in his chair, wincing with pain “. . . I couldn’t take it any more. My skeleton key was hidden in a secret compartment in my belt buckle. He removed it and left immediately. Though not before he told me what he was going to do to me when he returned. La Mort is . . . inhuman.”
Harry nodded. “It’s amazing you resisted for as long as you did.” He glanced at Raquella, and said crisply, “Take him to a real doctor. I’ll go to the Heights and get the key, and then we can meet up back at the bank.”
Loungbourne shook his head wearily. “There’s no time for all that, don’t you see? La Mort’s gone to the bank now. Unless you go after him right away, he’ll be long gone!”
“But we can’t just leave you like this!” Raquella said.
“You’ve freed me – that’s enough. It’s more important that you stop him, whatever he’s doing.”
Harry nodded. As he and Raquella made to leave the study, the locksmith caught his arm. When Longbourne spoke this time, there was a cold, hard edge to his voice.
“If you find yourself up against La Mort, don’t hesitate to hurt him.”
“I don’t think you have to worry about that,” Harry replied ominously.
23
The Bank of Darkside was located at the bottom of Deadneedle Street, a broad thoroughfare that intersected with the northern end of the Grand. In the decades before the borough had been cold-shouldered by the rest of Victorian London, the building had been a church, and its spire still managed to raise a crooked salute to the sky. But instead of prayers and hymns, the bank now echoed with the jingle of coins and the ringing of tills.
Having flagged down a hansom cab outside Jackdaw Square, Raquella and Harry were now rattling along Deadneedle Street towards the bank. Even with the Blood Succession under way, night-time was still business time in the rotten borough, and the carriage overtook a mob of Darksiders heading for the same destination. Some clutched nervously at their money pouches, starting at the slightest noise, while others tried to deter any last-minute attempts to relieve them of their money by surrounding themselves with hired toughs. A couple of sly youths whistled their way nonchalantly down the avenue, trying to give the impression they were going anywhere but the bank.
As the grand silhouette of the old church appeared on the horizon, lights burning fiercely outside its high arched windows, Raquella tapped Harry on the shoulder.
“Well, we’re here,” she said. “I can’t say I’m entirely clear as to what we do next, though.”
“I was hoping you were going to tell me,” Harry admitted. “You’re Vendetta’s maid, after all. Can’t you just go in and tell them your master wants you to open one of the safety deposit boxes?”
Raquella shook her head. “I’ve never even been inside the bank. I’m his maid, not his secretary.”
“That makes things a little bit complicated,” replied Harry. He ransacked his pockets, producing a grubby potpourri of pencil shavings, boiled sweets and copper pennies. “Hmm . . . I doubt they’ll let me buy a deposit box with this. How much have you got in your purse?”
“I used the last of my money getting us out of the poorhouse,” Raquella replied evenly. “So don’t look at me.”
“Fair enough,” Harry said. “We’ll just have to make it up as we go along, then.”
He banged on the roof of the carriage, and the coachman brought the cab to a halt outside the gabled entrance to the bank. Light was spilling out through the open door on to the street. As she stepped down on to the pavement, careful to avoid a murky puddle, Raquella saw that two gargoyles had been carved on either side of the doorway, their faces leering as they held out hands demanding payment. The cold night air sent a shiver down her spine.
“Hey!” the coachman called out after them indignantly. “This ain’t a charity, you know! Where’s my fare?”
“Call on Arthur Blake at the Informer,” the boy shouted back. “Tell him Harry said you’d get a big tip.”
He hustled Raquella away before the coachman could reply, shaking his head ruefully. “Arthur’s going to kill me for that,” Harry muttered. “He hates stumping up for expenses.”
The maid wasn’t listening; her attention was fixed on the doorway before her. In all her years of service, she had never once set foot inside the Bank of Darkside. Now, as she crossed the threshold, she was confronted with a sight of eerie beauty. There were still faint reminders of the building’s previous incarnation as a church: a row of dusty organ pipes; the mosaic floor; the fluted columns that stretched up to a ceiling so high it was lost in shadow. Only now the stained-glass windows had been altered, their religious scenes replaced by dazzling piles of coins and treasure chests that bathed the church floor in a kaleidoscope of gold, silver and bronze colours. Where worshippers would once have congregated in the pews to hear sermons, clerks now sat at raised platforms, weighing out gold on sets of small scales and counting handfuls of notes. At the far end of the building, where the altar would once have taken pride of place, a figure was now presiding over a wooden desk weighed down with paperwork.
Darksiders were milling across the floor of the
old nave, glancing suspiciously at one another as they kept their valuables close to their chests. The din was strangely muted, although it didn’t mean that the queues were orderly. As Raquella watched, a one-legged man with a heavily scarred face elbowed past a young lady and slammed down a bag of coins on one of the platforms. The clerk eyed him wearily, but said nothing as he began to count the booty.
Harry let out a low whistle. “This wasn’t what I was expecting.”
“Amazing, isn’t it?” Raquella breathed.
“Very atmospheric, but that’s not quite what I meant. Where’s the security? This is the biggest bank in Darkside, and I can’t see any guards. There aren’t even bars over the windows!”
The maid shook her head. “You’re not looking properly,” she said. “There’s thousand of guards here. You just can’t see them.”
Harry frowned. “What – so they’re invisible guards?”
“I can hear them,” Raquella said softly. “I would recognize their sound anywhere.”
Straining his ears, Harry could just make out a high-pitched sound above the sullen hubbub of the crowd. As he craned his neck upwards, the boy realized that the darkness up by the ceiling wasn’t still, but was rippling and fluttering to the beating of a multitude of wings.
“Oh,” Harry said, swallowing. “Bats.”
“You could try and steal something from here,” Raquella mused, “but how would you get out again?” There was a dreamlike look in her eyes as she surveyed the bank. “My father was meant to work here, many years ago, for Vendetta. Perhaps, if he had, then maybe I too. . .” Her voice trailed off, and she looked down at the floor.
Harry was searching for something to say when he caught sight of Hugo La Mort hastening through the crowd, his slicked-down hair gleaming in the soft lamplight. The doctor was making for the wooden desk at the back of the church.
