By Gaslight

by Steven Price

  That be Madame Froissard’s what sells them chocolate elephants, sir?

  I guess so.

  Right you are, sir.

  Be fast about it.

  He understood two things from what had happened so far. The first was that the woman he was following knew the streets well and the shortcuts through. If it was not Charlotte Reckitt then it would be some other denizen of that world who did not fear the city’s darker passages. No lady would seek them out even in daylight. The second was a suspicion that this woman, whoever she was, was leading him to some purpose.

  The hansom doubled back to Froissard’s purple and yellow awning and frosted window displays and William watched from across the street but he saw no sign of the woman. At the alley he got down and told the driver to wait.

  Two news vendors were quarrelling on the footway and a small crowd had gathered. William drew an elderly man aside. He wore a battered top hat wrapped round with a strap of flypaper and dead flies attached and he was carrying a satchel of wares.

  Catch em alive, sir, the man grinned. He was missing his four front teeth.

  A woman in a blue hat, came out of the alley, William said. Black hair, cloak, fur collar.

  The old man nodded his grey whiskers eastward down the street.

  William muttered his thanks and crossed in the traffic and got back into the hansom and told the driver to go slowly. He knew she could not be far from him now. He told the driver the colour of her hat and what to look for and his eyes scanned the shopfronts as they passed.

  Steppin out on ye, is she? the driver said.

  Something like that.

  Me missus ever step out on me, the driver grinned, I’d break her fingers. Ever last one.

  At the corner of Leicester Square he got down again and approached an omnibus stop and asked a lady under an umbrella if she had seen the woman.

  I’m afraid I only just missed the omni, she said. Perhaps your friend was on it?

  He nodded. He thought a moment and then he ducked back into the hansom as the driver hoisted the reins over William’s hat and he told the driver to catch the omnibus. They were off fast and pushing through the other carts and soon the high swaying housing of an omnibus came into view, the red and white painted advertisements for Tooley’s Knife Polish on its sideboards, along the curving stairs to its roof. He could see, very clearly, the silhouette of the woman up top, in the garden seats.

  Keep back, he called to the driver. But don’t lose it.

  The omnibus went along Long Acre until it reached Drury Lane. There it turned south and was lost to sight. When the hansom caught it the woman in the blue hat was just climbing down. Her boots slipped on the wet rungs and her skirts billowed out and she gained purchase and stepped up out of the street muck and scuffed her boots clear then adjusted her hat and set off east on Wych Street.

  When he was certain of her direction William instructed the driver to go on past and then got out at the next corner and paid the driver more than he owed.

  The driver grinned, tipped his cap. Give her a one for me, sir.

  William slipped into the shallow entrance of a building and waited. He could feel the thrum of blood in his temples. A minute passed, then two. And then the woman was there, gliding round the corner of the building, and William stepped out before her.

  Hello Charlotte, he said.

  The woman stared up in alarm. I beg your pardon, she snapped.

  It was not her.

  The slack skin at her throat, the pitted cheeks. He shook his head, embarrassed.

  Forgive me, he said, I was certain, you looked just like someone—

  His voice trailed off. He could see she had been handsome once. She had black intelligent eyes, long eyelashes. He felt unsettled, the blood was still high in him, he could feel the earlier shock trembling through him still. London’s fogs, its grey river, the cold and scouring loneliness of its streets, all of this was getting to him at last. He could feel something, a familiar darkness, coming up in him.

  The hell with it, he muttered.

  There was a wrongness about his mistake and that wrongness he knew was as real as a nickel. You could rub it between a finger and thumb and make a wish on it.

  He was thinking this standing in the cold while the traffic flowed on over the tenebrous flagstones and the horses snorted and flicked their tails and all at once he understood what it was, what had been troubling him. Why he had pursued an innocent woman through the tangle of London. Why he had not been sleeping.

  Charlotte Reckitt was not dead.

  It made little sense. There was a craziness to it that echoed his father’s own obsession with Edward Shade but he could not shake the conviction. He had trusted his instincts for years now and because of that had survived great hardship but that was in a different country, a different world. London’s cutthroats and fogs were making him jittery, making him doubt himself. He still had not eaten. He walked now back through the fog to a coffee house he had passed and took a table in the rear and sat on one of the little wrought iron chairs built for French ladies with his massive back to the wall and tried to think it through. A chop was broiling and spitting on the gridiron behind the counter. The light within was blue through the big glass windows and shadowed as the late afternoon shoppers shuffled past but the air was warm and William could feel his cold toes begin to throb as they thawed. If she was still alive there would be something, some clue.

  He ate slowly, he wiped his moustache between bites. Perhaps there was some madness in the Pinkerton men. Some lunacy of detection, some impossible pursuit of the dead. Edward Shade, for his father. Charlotte Reckitt, for himself. He closed his eyes, rubbed at his temples, smiled bitterly. His father would have been about his age now when he first began hunting the man Shade.

  As he was finishing, a huge shaggy man in a tight-fitting frock coat rose from across the room and approached his table through the cigar smoke.

  You’d be Mr. Pinkerton I reckon? he said in a rough voice.

  William tensed. Set down his utensils.

  The giant blinked slowly and something shifted, flipped over in his eyes. Those eyes were vicious, the eyes of an ex-convict if ever such eyes existed. There were keloid scars stitched across the back of each wrist where they protruded from his sleeves and a lean savage scar at the base of his throat as if he had been garrotted once but lived to tell of it and the top of his left ear had been sliced clear away. He held a dented hat in one fist.

  I seen you seated here, sir, an I said to meself, now maybe here’s a gentleman willin to listen to a man’s account.

  Do I know you?

  A law-abidin citizen like meself? the giant smiled, shaking his head. I don’t see how.

  William smiled faintly.

  It ain’t me what wants to talk, the giant said. It’s me employer. Can I sit?

  No.

  But the giant had already pulled out the chair and sat, his thick thighs upraised, his enormous back bowed forward, his hands interlaced before him in a fair approximation of a peaceable man on a peaceable mission. His voice when he spoke was low and measured as if he were not used to holding his tongue around strangers. It ain’t wise now, is it, sayin no without hearin none of the details, Mr. Pinkerton? he said.

  William thought of his pursuit through the streets and the speed of it and the near impossibility of anyone tailing him. How did you find me? he asked.

  Aw now, it were just chance, the giant shrugged. Just luck, like.

  Luck, William said flatly. How long have you been following me?

  The giant raised an eyebrow.

  You’re not English.

  It don’t matter what I am. Me employer has a regular interest in meetin with you. He has a proposal for you.

  Why isn’t he here himself?

  He’s grievin, he is. An he don’t see as how he can trust you yet.

  William studied the man’s scarred visage and grunted. I’d say he probably can’t. Grieving over what?

>   Charlotte Reckitt.

  William leaned forward, interested. He adjusted the brim of his top hat as if he were outside in the weather and he pushed his plate clear and dropped a few coins onto the tablecloth. What’s your name? he said.

  Me employer’s name is Foole, he said. You ain’t like to know him neither.

  That’s not what I asked.

  Me own name ain’t important.

  The giant was still seated with one enormous hand splayed on his thigh in easy reach of a weapon should any be concealed under a coat wing and William watched him. Then he got to his feet. Something in it did not feel right.

  I’m not interested yet, he said. You can tell your Mr. Foole that.

  Yet?

  Yet. And he pushed his way past and through the panelled doors. The sudden rush of cold air came at him with a shock, the roar of the street.

  The giant caught him at the cab stand outside.

  Mr. Pinkerton.

  William turned his face away, spat into a foam-fiecked puddle in the street. In the early years he had been approached often by thieves and cutthroats proposing some business arrangement and he had not trusted them then and he did not trust this now. A gelding with grey socks lifted its head, rolled a big eye in their direction. A driver in patched woollens came out of the pub across the street and saw them and started across.

  There’s been talk, like. About that night on Blackfriars.

  I’m sure there has been.

  Talk, like maybe she didn’t jump.

  I don’t give a damn what the flash world is saying, William said. He turned and climbed up into the hansom and shut the door sharply. Don’t find me again.

  But the giant leaned in, his head level with William’s own. Where he gripped the door eight enormous fingers imprinted into the velvet lining. The cab creaked under his weight. You’re paid up at the Grand Metropolitan until the end of the month, the giant said in a low voice. An it ain’t the Agency payin the tab neither. You come here on your own time followin Charlotte Reckitt an wantin to know about Edward Shade. We got no wish to pry into your affairs, like—

  The driver scrambled up into his perch behind, the hansom swayed. Guv? he called down.

  —but you was called away by Mr. Shore the morning a jill’s head were pulled out of the soup. An you seen it for yourself.

  William watched the tight grey skin around the giant’s eyes crease in the cold. The wiry black hairs of his beard, the grey interleaven there. He could see the brown teeth when the man grimaced.

  Step away, he said. Driver, he called.

  It be worth your while to listen.

  Driver!

  He can pay.

  I’m not for hire. If your employer wants a detective, tell him to find an English one. He kicked at the door of the hansom, as if at a dog. Now get. Go on.

  The giant flinched but did not move. Me Mr. Foole, he’s got information about Charlotte Reckitt. Information what maybe you might find of interest, now.

  Your Mr. Foole does.

  Aye.

  William had one hand on the upper strap of the cab. What information?

  You can ask him that yourself.

  What does he want in return?

  Well he don’t expect somethin for nothin, now. Will you meet with him?

  William glanced off and then back up at the huge man. You tell your Mr. Foole when I want to talk to him I’ll find him myself. He started to turn away and then he paused. Carts rattled past, crowds went on their way. Follow me again, he murmured, almost gently.

  The giant released his grip on the door.

  What he had meant by that last and what the giant had understood was: You just tell me which fingers you want me to break first and I’ll oblige.

  ELEVEN

  Foole watched Fludd bang in through the kitchen door and swing a stiff knee out and straddle the chair next to Molly with his wet boots squeaking and when she shoved playfully at his shoulder he looked at her and she stopped.

  Did it not go well? she asked.

  O well enough, Fludd muttered. If you’d call climbin into a bearpit an pokin the beast in the balls without gettin ate well enough. He had both elbows folded miserably over the chair back and his chin rested upon it. Pinkerton don’t take kindly to bein followed, Mr. Adam, he said. You know me thoughts. You take a cutter in your pocket if you still mean to talk to the bastard.

  Molly snorted.

  Foole fixed a sober eye on the giant, dripping, sullen. He’ll meet with me then?

  Fludd’s nose was wet from the weather and he swiped at it, his knuckle folded into a handkerchief. Then from a plate on the table he took a biscuit in his teeth and two in each hand and he got to his feet. O he’ll meet with you, Mr. Adam, he glowered. That ain’t the problem.

  After he was gone upstairs Molly gave Foole a grin. Poor old Jappy, she murmured. William Pinkerton don’t scare me none.

  Foole regarded her where she sat, her little fists balled, her legs under the table swinging.

  He should, he said sharply.

  He followed Fludd upstairs to the converted bathroom off the second-floor landing and found the man with his arms aspraddle deep in the cast-iron tub. The tiled floor was not cold but still steam was rising in sinister curls from the grey water around the giant’s up-folded knees. Foole entered, picked a towel from a chair, sat. A low fire was burning in the grate. He watched Fludd pour from shoulder to chest to shoulder a carafe of hot water with his face turned away and Foole crossed his legs and he waited.

  At last Fludd swore and glared in his direction. Go on then, he rumbled. Go on an say it. The meat of his arms shook, his beard trailed a dripping black knot of scum.

  Tell me you don’t think he would be effective, Foole said.

  Pinkerton?

  Of course Pinkerton.

  The giant scowled, splashed. I’d like to grow me own pair of tits to play with too, he said, lifting his soft pink breasts in a weird gesture. Don’t mean I should. Pinkerton’s as like to roll you an you end up in a six-by-six as anythin else. He’s dangerous, he is.

  He certainly is.

  Fludd looked at him suspiciously. Wiped water from his eyes with his fingers. Don’t you go agreein with me now, he said. When he moved, a sheet of bathwater overpoured the tub, slicked out over the tiles. It’s bloomin crazy, hirin a jack like that. I don’t give a fig what kind of a detective he is. He’ll check into anythin you sign before he starts to work for you.

  I don’t intend to hire him.

  It’s right bloody crazy as a bat in a barrel.

  I don’t intend to hire him, Foole said again, louder. He could smell the tarry stink of the man’s bathwater, like a thing dredged up from the privy. But Pinkerton is tireless, he went on. You know his reputation. If he wants to find Charlotte’s killer, he will.

  Fludd was quiet, brooding.

  He has all of the resources of the Yard open to him, Japheth.

  I don’t see as how we can’t manage it.

  Manage it? Foole said sharply. We’re not killers, Japheth. We’re not so inclined. I learned a long time ago that violence is not my talent.

  But it’s Pinkerton’s?

  Foole studied his old friend. Yes, he said quietly. I believe it is.

  You sure that’s all what this is about? Him bein effective? Fludd stood and a greasy grey water poured steaming from him and he rose huge and scoured and ferocious in the weak light. A rug of black hair on his belly, whip scars cross-hatching his thighs, an enormous red cock swaying between his legs. There were rough prison-made tattoos Foole had not seen before tracing his shoulders and collarbone. The giant squelched from the tub and took the towel Foole held out to him and began to rub himself vigorously, his eyes fixed on Foole’s the while.

  I got me own talents, he growled.

  I know you do.

  You’ll end up a victim of them Pinkertons yourself. There’s nothin you can tell him that he’ll take as truth, we both of us know it.

  Well.r />
  Tell me. What is it might induce Mr. William bloody Pinkerton to work this angle for you? He don’t want blunt, he were clear on that.

  Foole rubbed at his eyelids, frowning. I’ll offer something he wants more.

  More than the truth? What would that be?

  What do any of us want?

  Fludd twisted his head, corked water from one ear with the towel. O that’s right easy, he grimaced. Whatever we can’t have.

  You ever hear tell of the Saracen? Fludd said later, calmer, seated in front of a fire in the Emporium’s backroom. The curtains were drawn, the room dim.

  Foole stirred his tea, considering. Lived down in Wapping?

  Aye, in the tunnels, under the arches there. Six, seven years back. Big bugger, face all disfigured, like. You could see teeth through his cheek an nothin but holes where his nose ought to of been. Fludd ran a palm over his slicked hair, he cracked an eye, as if to gauge Foole’s expression. Story goes, fought in the Crimea, come back with his face all tore up. Ladies was like to faint if they caught sight of him. He gone down to live under Roberts Street or thereabouts where he could disappear. Fludd gave him a dark look. He were a specialist, like. Worked the flash lay an got so he could pick an choose his kills. He wouldn’t never look in your eyes, only sort of at the face around them. Like he were seein the meat an bone underneath. Pinkerton does it the same. You never met with him, the Saracen I mean?

  Foole shook his head no, he dropped a rock of sugar into his cup. The tea glunked.

  I never give him a thought, not in years. But just hear me out. This jack, this Saracen, it were sort of his calling card, cuttin off a head an floatin it.

  There are a dozen reasons a head gets floated, Foole said.

  Aye. Thing of it is, Charlotte Reckitt used to know the bastard.

  Foole paused, the teacup at his lips.

  I seen them together, down at Finchie’s, years back. Word was, Saracen was a regular on Charlotte Reckitt’s crews, she hired him for months at a time. When I get to thinkin what happened to her—

  You think it was someone in the flash.