by Amy Cross
"Not in an official capacity," I reply.
He smiles. "I knew this would happen. We're dealing with some powerful people here, Matthews. They're well-connected, and they don't like being disturbed. That's the thing about powerful people. If you shine a light on their business, they tend to react badly. You might think that the King's Arms is a dangerous, sordid place, Inspector. You'd be right. There are some foul and disgusting people in this room right now. But the people of Mayfair, the people of Westminster, the people who wield real power in this city... They're ten times worse." He raises his glass of beer. "I know where I'd rather be. Cheers, Inspector!"
Reluctantly, I raise my glass in a toast, and then take a sip. One week ago, I would have argued with Pope's cynicism, but lately things have changed. I have already been well and truly warned by my superior, Captain Elton, to stay away from this case. The iron fist of power has struck, and I have had no choice but to scuttle back into the shadows. For now, at least.
"Relax," Pope continues. "It's a lesson we all have to learn sooner or later. All this talk of democracy and civil rights, it's just a smokescreen. It's their latest way to keep us under control. They've learned that they just have to pretend to give us some freedoms and opportunities, and we'll suck it up like a puppy at his mother's nipple. I mean, if you look at it logically, it makes sense. Why would anyone, having wielded real power, the power of kings and queens, even contemplate giving it up?"
"I fear we are straying once again from our purpose," I reply. "What have you learned about Mr. Lockhart and Lady deHavilland?" Reaching into my pocket, I pull out a small collection of coins and slide them across the table. Pope is a man who worships money above all things; any good deeds that might be committed in his name, are merely incidental to his pursuit of cold, hard cash. "I hope you'll understand, Mr. Pope, that I am not a wealthy man."
He counts the coins before slipping them away. "Edward Lockhart is dead," he says. "I don't have the body, and I don't even have any proof, but I'm absolutely certain. The manner in which the man left his home was sudden and unexpected, and I have ascertained that he most certainly did not pass through any port on his way out of the country. Furthermore, as we discussed previously, his luggage was taken and burned. It's quite clear to me that the man was murdered, probably because he'd been to see you. Someone was worried that he was going to talk, and that he was going to be taken seriously, and so they shut him up. Which brings me to my next point, which is that I think you should watch your back."
"Me?" I ask, shocked. "Why should -"
"Think about it," Pope continues. "They killed Lockhart because they knew he talked to you, so it stands to reason that they'd also want to kill you. Now, we've got to assume that these are clever people. They're certainly not amateurs. Which begs the question, why haven't they already got to you? Why haven't you been found dead in some gutter somewhere? Obviously they've made a conscious decision to keep you alive, which means you're useful to them, but that won't last forever."
"And who are they?" I ask.
"I'm still working on their identities," he replies, "but I'm quite certain Lady Henrietta deHavilland is involved in some way, as is her little pal Vincent D'Oyly."
"How can you be so sure?"
"Well, for one thing, I'm minded to believe more or less everything that you claim Mr. Lockhart told you. I don't see why he'd lie. The man was terrified for his life, and he was attempting to get your help." He pauses for a moment. "The other thing worth noting is that, about two minutes after you walked in here, you were followed by Mr. D'Oyly himself."
I turn to look at the crowd of people, but I do not see Vincent D'Oyly anywhere. Nor can I imagine such a weak-looking figure lasting more than a second in such bawdy company.
"Relax," Pope says. "He turned and ran after just a couple of steps. I mean, he literally turned pale, spun around and hurried out of here. He's obviously smart enough to realize he wouldn't last long in a place like this; he's got his corridors of power, and we've got ours. He's probably loitering outside right now, though, hoping to follow you home. It's one of the reasons I wanted to meet you here, of all places. I wanted to see if he'd follow you into the pits of Hell, and to his credit, he tried." He takes another sip of his beer. "I quite think that this pub is one of the very few places in the whole of London into which the tentacles of these monsters cannot reach. There's some irony for you, huh? This is probably the only place you're truly safe right now."
"I'm being followed?" I ask, scarcely able to believe that such a thing could be true. How did I not notice someone skulking behind me in the shadows?
"Like I said," he continues, "they could've stuck a knife in you at any point. So why didn't they?"
"Because it would be cold-hearted murder!" I point out. "And because I am an officer of the law! Surely they would not even dare to contemplate such an action!"
He laughs. "You think they give a damn? They killed Edward Lockhart, I'm sure of that. And Sophia Marchant and Elizabeth Cavendish and Isabelle Clements and Victoria Neal and maybe scores of other girls. And Lockhart's butler, Martin Holborn, too."
"The butler?" I say, having not known of this development.
"Found a few streets from Lockhart's house with his neck slashed open. I guess the old guy knew too many secrets from all that time spent in his master's house."
I sit back, trying to take this all in. I understood, of course, that an investigation such as this might attract the wrong kind of attention, but I had no idea that I was already being followed. Vincent D'Oyly could easily have killed me at any point over the past couple of days, yet I'm quite sure that whatever reason he had for keeping me alive, it will not last forever. My card is marked, and from what I have already learned of these people, I doubt it is sufficient to merely back away and abandon my interest.
"What shall we do?" I ask eventually.
"We?" Pope asks, smiling. "We? When did I get dragged into all of this? I could just get up, walk out of here and never have to worry about of this ever again."
"But you're here, aren't you?" I reply. "A man like you never does anything unless there's money involved, and the few coins I gave you were certainly not enough. Someone else is paying you for your time, and judging by the danger involved, the pay packet must be rather handsome."
"Well that's where you're in luck," he says. "Fortunately, Mr. Cavendish is paying me a rather large sum of money, on a rolling basis, to find out what happened to his precious daughter Elizabeth, and there's a big bonus if I can nail the bastards. Cavendish is from moneyed stock and he's a man of privilege himself, but when it comes to his daughter, his loyalty is faultless. Family comes first for him, and I admire that. Granted, I'm keeping a very low profile, in case deHavilland and her gang decide to wipe out Mr. Cavendish, which they'd do if they thought it was necessary. After all, they made swift work of the Marchants. But right now, my best chance of landing that bonus is to get a little help from you, Matthews. And that's why I'm here."
"What's our next step?" I ask, feeling as if I am completely in Pope's hands.
"You're safe for tonight," he replies. "They'll be very much aware that you came to meet someone here, but they won't know who. Until they can be sure of all your contacts, they'll keep you alive so they can watch you. We can't meet again, not for a while. I have some people to visit, and hopefully I'll have some more information soon. Next time you see me, it'll be because I'm ready to go public with everything I know. Until then, I'd advise you to keep a very low profile."
"Sounds like a risky strategy," I point out.
He smiles. "You say that like it's a bad thing. It's a perfectly reasonable strategy and it'll work a treat, but only if we stick to it. Now get out of here. Go home, Matthews, and put your feet up. D'Oyly will undoubtedly follow you, but he won't make a move. I'll be in touch soon. Maybe a week, maybe a month, maybe longer. It all depends how much time it takes me to uncover a few choice pieces of information. The roots of this mess are buried d
eep, but I'll dig down to them eventually. The most important thing for you to do, my friend, is to not panic. You're safe until we meet again."
"Thank you for your -" I start to say.
"Just go," he interrupts. "Let's not get sentimental about this. I've got a bad stomach as it is."
Standing up, I struggle through the sea of bodies until I reach the door, and finally I emerge into the cold night air. I glance along the street, but there's no sign of D'Oyly; still, I'm quite sure that Pope was right when he said I'm being followed. As I turn and walk along the street, heading home, I listen out for any hint that someone is behind me. I suppose D'Oyly is a craftier man than I'd realized, and he keeps back, watching from the shadows. It is a strange sensation to know that I am being watched. I force myself to keep from looking back, since I don't want the man to know that I'm onto him, but finally I reach my front door and I can't help but glance over my shoulder. Sure enough, at the far end of the street, a dark figure loiters. I can't see his face, but I'm sure he can see mine. He's watching me and, if I put a foot wrong, I've no doubt he'll slip a dagger between my ribs at the first opportunity. Taking a deep breath, I enter my home and close the door, and finally I feel safe. I can only pray that Pope gets back to me quickly, so that this nightmare can be ended and its perpetrators brought swiftly to justice.
Elly
Today
Alice was right: the view from the penthouse balcony is breathtaking. Standing right at the edge and leaning against the railing, I look out over the vast darkness of London. It's getting late, and a million electric lights are shining as far as the eye can see, while the horizon gently glows with the pulse of the suburbs. It's almost as if I can see as far as the end of the world. I place my hands on the metal railing, just to anchor myself. I feel like I'm on top of the world, granted unparalleled privilege over the entirety of London. Even though it's cold out here, I could stay forever. This view is perfect.
"You seem lost in thought," says Mark, his voice drifting over to me from the doorway.
Turning, I smile. To him, I must seem like some kind of savage, wide-eyed as I experience the 'real' world for the first time. It's almost as if he's proud of me, except there's a look in his eyes that speaks of something else entirely. Perhaps I'm deluding myself, but I can't shake the feeling that he wants me; he really, truly wants me. Even though the idea seems absurd, it seems as if it's actually true. I feel as if I'm a million miles away from my normal life. Glancing back out at the view of London, I try to work out which of the million lights represents my mother's house.
"London's my favorite city," Mark says. "There's something extremely romantic about the complete lack of romanticism." He pauses for a moment. "If that makes sense. Sometimes I don't know if I'm being profound, or banal, or both."
I open my mouth to reply, but I feel as if anything I say will ruin the mood.
"I must say," he continues, "the view is improved immeasurably by your presence."
I smile, flattered by his comment. I can't help feeling that he's studying me, analyzing my every move in an attempt to gain a better understanding of my intentions. Whenever I turn away from him, I feel sure that he's checking me out, and observing the way this black dress clings to my body. There's a part of me that wants to just end this whole charade and make a move, but I know I have to be more careful. I'm in Mark's penthouse apartment, and I guess I have to play by his rules. If anyone's going to make a move, it has to be him. Besides, there's always a chance that I've misinterpreted the whole situation and he's merely invited me up here as a friend.
"You look like you belong here," he says finally.
"I do?" I ask, shocked by the idea.
"You have a natural elegance, Elly. I hadn't noticed it before, but it's evident now."
"Thanks," I say, blushing slightly. "I think."
"I hope I wasn't too brusque with you earlier," he continues. "I'm afraid I'd had a pretty torrid morning, and I really wasn't in the mood for small-talk. It was only later that I realized I'd been hard on you. I said some things that were unfair."
"It's fine," I say.
"I thought your performance at the funeral was very admirable," he says. "I didn't think you had that level of self-assurance. There's something extremely attractive about a woman who exhibits a certain level of confidence."
"I just did what I had to do," I reply. "Everything was kind of crazy."
He steps out onto the balcony, and for a moment he seems preoccupied with the view of London. "I don't invite everybody back here," he says eventually. "In fact, I'm usually very keen to preserve my independence and keep people at arm's length. Most times, I hire a room at another hotel. The Castleton is my home away from home, and I rely on the place very much. I feel welcome here." He pauses for a moment. "Perhaps it was unwise to invite you, but I didn't have time to come up with another option. I just wanted to have you here tonight."
I turn away, hoping to hide the smile I can't suppress. I wish I knew what he wanted. Is he being vague and obtuse, or am I just scared to read the signals?
"So," I say, turning to look back out across the city, "you don't actually live in a hotel, do you?"
"Is there something wrong with that?" he asks.
"Don't you need a home?"
"My home is here."
"Don't you have any family?"
He pauses for a moment. "Well, now we're getting a little personal. Perhaps we should focus on other things."
"Like what?" I look down at my hands on the railing, and I see that they're shaking. Damn it, why am I so nervous? With Rob, I just climbed into bed and got started, but there's something about Mark that's causing this really powerful reaction in my body. Even just having him look at me, I feel as if I can't entirely control my reactions. I need to find some way to pull myself together before he comes any closer.
"You're shivering," Mark says, taking off his jacket and placing it over my shoulders. I immediately feel the warmth from the fabric, and I turn to him, while putting my hands in my pockets so he won't see how scared I am.
"Why did you kiss me the other day?" I ask.
"In the car?"
"In the car." I pause. "Do you really think it was a mistake?"
"Did I say that?"
"Uh-huh."
He smiles. "As I've already admitted, Elly, I wasn't in the best frame of mind earlier today."
"You were a mess," I point out.
"I was. I'm sorry."
"What happened to you?" I ask, looking at the cuts on the side of his face. They look fresh, as if they were only made a few hours ago.
"Nothing much," he replies. "It's not important."
"Whatever," I say, realizing he's not going to tell me the truth. Sometimes when I'm talking to Mark, I feel as if there are these impenetrable barriers that keep me from getting too close to the real man. At the same time, I'm convinced I can find a way around these barriers; after all, he seems to want to open up to me, even if the process is slow and painful.
"Kissing you in the car wasn't a mistake," he says suddenly. "At least, not in the way you're thinking. It's just that there are some complications, and I wanted to make sure you were ready."
"I'm ready," I say, leaning closer, hoping to be kissed again.
"Come inside," he replies, turning and walking over to the door, leaving me standing by the railing. I don't know if it's nerves, or fear, or the cold air up here, or all of those things and more, but I'm still shaking a little. I watch as he disappears into the penthouse, and I figure there's no point hanging around out here when I could be warm inside. I follow him, and when I get inside I find that he's looking at some papers on a small writing desk in the corner of the room.
"What are you doing?" I ask, fearing that somehow the moment was ruined.
"I need you to understand what you're getting into," he says, not looking up from the papers. "All relationships, whether physical or emotional, have contracts. Most of the time, these contracts are unspoken. As y
ou get to know your partner, you learn what he or she likes. You give little hints about what you're willing to accept, and about which lines you refuse to cross. Over time, a contract of understanding takes shape, but it's a slow process that sometimes goes wrong." He finally looks across at me. "I don't see the point in messing around and denying that these things happen, Elly, so I prefer to be up-front and agree the contract in black and white before we begin."
I stare at him. "You want me to sign a contract before we..." My voice trails off as I start to wonder what kind of guy I'm with here. I knew Mark probably wouldn't be like most men, but this is getting a little too weird.
"Perhaps I used the wrong word," he continues. "It's not exactly a contract. It's just an understanding. It's not only for my benefit, Elly. It's for yours as well. This way, we both know what we can and can't do, and where this can and can't go. We know the boundaries, and we know if it's even worth getting started. After all, if two people are completely incompatible, shouldn't they know from the start?" He walks over and places the papers on the table next to me. "You're twenty-one years old, Elly. You're more than capable of making a rational decision and signing this document to confirm that you agree."
"So what kind of stuff are we talking about here?" I ask, taking a deep breath. "Like... bondage?"
He smiles. "No, Elly. Not bondage. Not in the conventional sense, anyway." He pauses for a moment. "There's a game, Elly. It's vast and it's powerful, and it's so old, you can't even imagine when it started. The game is about pushing people beyond their comfort zone. It's about challenging people, and seeing how far they'll go. It's about finding the line you refuse to cross, and then running so far past that line, you eventually find the next line, and then the next, and the next. It's about opening up your mind to the possibilities. Most of all, though, it's about sex. It's about two people in complete control of their bodies. It's dangerous, and you need to know what you're getting into. You need to agree, because agreeing is the first step in opening up your mind. After that..." He smiles. "No-one has ever gone all the way in this game, Elly. Some say it can't be done, but I'm an optimist. I think someone can do it. I think maybe you can do it."
