‘It’s late fall,’ I offered, brushing the weed from the page. ‘An unlikely time of year for flowers.’
‘Not in California.’
Had she been talking to her son? Did they hanker, after all, for their native land? Was there some plot afoot? ‘Where has Lloyd been all day?’ I asked in a tone of voice meant to disguise my growing concern. ‘I haven’t seen a trace of the boy.’
‘You know Lloyd; he comes and goes as he pleases,’ she said, leaning back on her haunches and wiping her brow with the back of one wrist. It was an unusually temperate day for autumn. ‘Off chasing Constance Wooldridge, unless I miss my guess.’
That was my fear. Despite all that had happened, and all that had passed between us, he remained a wild card, in part because of his unruly nature, and in part because he had drunk the powerful elixir. No one knew better than I that, once taken, its effects could be felt immediately, or, as I had learned to my own shock, at a later and less predictable time—an Alpine peak, or a costermonger’s arcade. To my knowledge, all that was needed was some sufficient stimulation—whether it be emotion or incident—to bring on the dreadful change—a change that was in some ineffable way as welcome as it was horrific.
‘Will he be joining us for dinner?’
‘Why this sudden interest?’ she said, turning to face me. Her face was smudged with dirt, and her black hair clung like tendrils to her cheeks. To some men, she would have appeared no more than some humble and hardy native worker; to me, and even at her age, she was an exotic, like some tawny-skinned creature of a faraway isle.
‘I just wondered. I was writing and skipped tea.’
‘Then go ask Mrs Chandler to get a move on. I’ll go and wash up.’
First taking the manuscript back up to my study, a bit of damp weed still clinging to the page, I paused at the door of Lloyd’s room, listened for a sound, then knocked. When I got no answer, I went in.
Sally Chandler must have tidied it up. The bed was neatly made, the carpet swept, the slippers by the bedside—the slippers I had last seen in the Aldgate Arms. On the bedstead, I saw a volume of De Quincey’s perverse and satirical essays; it was bookmarked, I discovered, with the final bill from the Aldgate Arms, stamped Paid In Full. At least he hadn’t set up camp somewhere else. I stuck the bill in the pocket of my coat, lest there be any dispute from the hotel regarding further charges. I looked around for the satchel but didn’t see it anywhere. I opened the wardrobe, peered under the bed, and even behind the curtains. I was about to leave when I had an intuition and looked in the wardrobe again. Parting the clothes, I found the satchel, hanging flat, by a crooked nail—a sure sign of Lloyd’s own handiwork.
I put it on the bed, where I had laid my stack of papers, and opened it, wondering what books or papers I might find inside. But there were none. Still, it did give off an unpleasant odour, and its inside was encrusted as if with old blood. Had the bag belonged to a doctor at one time? Tilting it towards the last light of day coming through the windows, I saw the oddest assortment of things—brass rings, an amber comb missing several teeth, a torn envelope, a rusty key. I took the key out—it was nothing like the keys to this house. Was it the key to his room at the Aldgate Arms? Surely he should have returned that to Mr Donohue.
But another thought also flitted ignobly through my mind, a thought too terrible to entertain, and it was abruptly dispatched.
Packing the satchel away again so as to leave no sign of my snooping, I went to my study, where I happened upon Sally cleaning out the fire grate. ‘Oh, sir, I didn’t think you’d be in here,’ she said, gathering up her rags and pail.
‘No, no, that’s all right,’ I said, ‘pay me no mind—I’m just passing through.’
She chuckled. ‘That’s exactly what Lloyd said.’
‘Lloyd was in here?’
‘Yes, sir. Not twenty minutes ago.’
‘What was he doing?’
‘Using the mirror,’ she said, gesturing at the cheval glass. ‘He looked right smart. All dressed up, and smelling of the nicest cologne.’
Mine. Its scent still lingered in the air.
‘Did he say where he was going?’
‘Oh no, sir, and I wouldn’t ask him no such thing.’
I would have asked, though the answer, I feared, was plain.
‘Please tell your mother I won’t be dining at home tonight,’ I said. ‘Something’s come up.’
‘What about the mistress?’
‘No, my wife will be dining here. But tell her, too, that I’ll be out.’
I ducked into the master bedroom while Fanny was in the bath, grabbed my hat, and, noting the hole in the pocket through which I had shot the derringer at Josef, pulled on my coat; one chamber of the gun would still be loaded and he was still out there, somewhere, his mission not yet fulfilled. I was beginning to feel, however unwillingly, quite like a character from one of my own novels.
Outside, it took me several blocks before I could catch a cab, and all I could think of was the twenty-minute advantage Lloyd had over me. The horse seemed as lethargic as the coachman, who replied to my every entreaty to hurry by touching the brim of his cap and saying, ‘Whatever you wish, your lordship,’ before proceeding at the same slow pace. I got the distinct impression that he was drunk.
In my mind’s eye, I pictured Lloyd knocking, and then importunately banging, on the door of the Wooldridge house, and her aunt quaking on the other side. Desmond, I was confident, would be nowhere in the vicinity. But what would I say, what could I do, to dissuade Lloyd from further pursuit? He had always been a fickle lad, his attention wandering from one servant girl to another (thank goodness Sally was so plain), or from one female acquaintance to the next. I had noted, however, that he was almost invariably rebuffed, as there was something in his manner, something too hasty, too odd, that put off the objects of his desire. I had not only seen it in Davos, with his amour fou for Constance, but in Torquay with an innkeeper’s daughter, and on a cruise down the Rhine, with the captain’s young niece. On that last occasion, the situation had become so fraught that I deemed it best for us all to disembark in Koblenz, from which we took the land route back to France.
When I saw the tailor shop where I had taken refuge on my first visit here, I banged on the lid of the cab with my walking stick and got out. I paid the driver, who was slumped forward as if he’d been dozing, and the cab plodded on, as I held back. From here, the brown-brick town house looked as quiet as its neighbours, the walls of which nearly touched it on either side. The gas lamps were on in the street, a thin scrim of fog gathered about each beacon, and in the house, a yellow glow emanated from the fanlight above the door and from several windows on the third storey. To my relief, there was no sign of Lloyd or a commotion of any kind.
Perhaps I’d been wrong, and he was merely out on the town, bathed in my cologne and pretending to be . . . what, this time? Not a professor. An author, no doubt!
A constable wandered past on his nightly rounds, swinging his lantern, and lest I look suspicious by loitering in a doorway, I coughed conspicuously, strode to the town house, and mounted the front steps. Having come this far, I thought Constance might be glad to see me, and to have my assurance that the problem was now well in hand.
But when I came to the door and lifted the knocker, I paused. The door was already open, though just off the latch, and the brass plate around the knob looked damaged. Looking down, I saw fine splinters of wood on the step.
And my heart took a sudden beat.
Rather than announcing myself with a knock or a shout, I pushed the door open with the tip of my cane, and stepped into the foyer. The gold pendulum of an imposing grandfather clock ticked back and forth, a dour portrait of an old bewigged judge hung on the wall, a hall table held a vase of silk flowers. All was otherwise still.
Before me, a narrow staircase, the runner a faded purple, rose to a landing, and even though I went up as gently as I could, each step emitted its own distinctive creak or gro
an. Rounding the corner, I stopped, thinking a rug had been rolled up and left there for removal. It was only on second glance that I saw it was a woman—small and elderly—fast asleep . . . or something worse. I bent down, quickly determined that she was alive and breathing, and lifted her onto the window seat. There was a bruise on her forehead where she had clearly received a blow, and though she remained unconscious, she appeared in no other immediate danger.
That, I now knew, lay somewhere else in the house.
I went up the next flight, and heard voices from a bedroom towards the back. They were not raised in agitation, or argument. It all sounded quite subdued, even amiable, and as I approached, I detected the unmistakable scent of my cologne.
The door was ajar, and pressing myself against one wall, I could see into the room. Constance, her red hair spread across the shoulders of a long white dressing gown, was standing with her back to me, and I could hear Lloyd’s voice saying, ‘It could always have been like this. Don’t you find this nice?’
He was off to one side and out of sight. Constance was pouring brandy into a glass.
‘Well, isn’t it?’ he said when she didn’t answer.
‘Very,’ she said softly, bringing him the glass and thus passing from my view.
‘That’s better,’ I heard him say, and then in a slurred tone, ‘More.’
‘More brandy?’
‘Don’t be daft. More. You know what I like.’
Several seconds passed—what was happening?—and then he said, ‘Get rid of it.’
‘Please, why are you—’
‘Entirely.’
‘But I cannot—’
‘I told you, get rid of it!’
Silence again.
Was now the optimal moment? I had hoped to catch a glimpse of Lloyd and get a better idea of the lay of the land before taking any action, but things were progressing rapidly. I reached down into the bottom of my coat pocket to fetch the derringer—I had felt its bulk against my thigh the whole way in the coach—but discovered now that it wasn’t the gun at all. It was a pair of leather gloves, lined with rabbit fur and wadded tight. I examined them with horror; they weren’t even mine. They belonged to Lloyd.
Did he have the gun with him then? Was he holding it now? And was he even Lloyd—or was he that foul, Hyde-like creature he could become?
The ticking of the clock below was all I could hear above the beating of my heart and the mounting urge in my throat to cough. What now? I had my walking stick, but, should it come to a fight, it would be little defence against the derringer. I could only hope that if the shot went off, it would go awry.
There was the rustle of clothing, and the silk dressing gown flew into view, puddling on the floor.
‘Now, welcome me,’ he said.
‘How?’
‘Good God, do I have to do everything for you?’
‘I only meant—’
‘Over there.’
‘Please, you know I—’
‘Over . . . there.’
I heard the sound of bedclothes being turned back, and a mattress squeaking.
‘Invite me,’ he said. ‘And make it convincing.’
Her voice, all but trembling, said, ‘Come to me.’
‘Come to me, my what?’
‘My . . . darling.’
When I pushed the door back with my cane and stepped into the room, Constance was lying naked on the bed, and Lloyd, his braces hanging and trousers undone, was stripping off his shirt. Her eyes widened, and even before turning around to see who had entered, he said, ‘If it’s you, Louis, you’ve come at a very inopportune time.’
‘I’d say I’ve come in the nick of time. Constance, you may cover yourself.’
‘Ever the gallant knight.’
She dragged the corners of the coverlet around her and shrank into the bed.
And then he turned towards me in the lamplight. He wasn’t quite Lloyd, and he wasn’t quite not. The features were his, but the malevolent glint in his eyes, like the sneer on his lips, was pure Hyde. ‘We could share, you know.’
‘You disgust me.’
‘That seems unfair,’ he complained. ‘You made me what I am.’
‘For that, I will be forever remorseful. Now, get out.’
As languidly as if he were removing his handkerchief, he took from his pants pocket the derringer and squinted at it from several angles before saying, ‘Look what I’ve found.’ He glanced up at me. ‘What have you got? Gloves?’
He raised the gun and pointed it at my chest. ‘Time to leave, Louis.’
My name came out as a hiss.
From the landing, there was a moan. The old woman was reviving.
Lloyd’s ears pricked up as markedly as a wolf’s might, and his eyes momentarily shifted focus. It was my best chance, and I leapt forward, lashing my cane at his outstretched arm. I caught him at the elbow, knocking the muzzle downward, but he held onto it and swept his arm back up, catching me off-balance. I crashed against the window, shattering the glass, and Constance screamed, her cry echoing out into the night.
‘Damn you!’ Lloyd shouted, and when I raised the cane to strike him, he fired the derringer wildly, the bullet ricocheting off the armoire and demolishing the perfume bottles on the vanity.
I struck him on the collar of his shirt, and he pulled the trigger again, only to find it was spent.
Constance screamed even louder, and in a fury, he hurled the gun at my head, narrowly missing, and then, at the sound of a policeman’s whistle on the street outside, ran to the window, and to my shock, jumped out. I looked outside, thinking to see that he had fallen to his death, but instead I saw him scrambling across the roof of the town house next door, as agile as an ape, braces still dangling as he dodged among the chimney stacks. The whistle came closer and footsteps echoed on the pavement. Constance, wrapped in the quilt, slithered to the floor, and I slumped down beside her, my breath gone, coughing, knowing that my life, as I had lived it until then, was at an end.
TOPANGA CANYON—CALIFORNIA
Present Day
Wildfires are like tornadoes, Rafe reflected. They jumped all over the place, destroying one thing and leaving another, right beside it, intact. The Compound had been razed, but La Raza had been spared. So had his trailer. Apart from a thick layer of ash lying all over it like black icing on a cake, it had withstood the blaze.
The Cornucopia, however, had not been so lucky.
When the fire crossed the road, it had consumed the porch and was well on its way to devouring the whole building when a helicopter dropped a couple of thousand gallons of water on, and through, its roof. Foam retardant had followed. Traipsing through the wreckage now, Miranda said, “They might as well have let the fire have it. At least the sandalwood and incense would have made the canyon smell nice. Now it’s just this unholy pile of junk.”
As far as Rafe could tell, there was nothing left to salvage. The fire department had left red tape around the outside to warn that the structure was off-limits and unsafe to enter, but he and Miranda had ducked under it, and even taken a chance on going upstairs. The wood was still damp and squished underfoot, and the walls reeked of smoke. The bedroom that they had just finished painting Sunshine Gold was the color of a battleship, and the fancy new quilt and curtains were a sodden mess. The windows were all blown out. Miranda went to the closet to gather some clothes, but after prying open the door that had swollen shut, simply stood there, silent. Rafe handed her the linen laundry bag they had brought along to retrieve a few of her belongings, but she just let it dangle from her hand.
“What was I thinking?” she said, and peering over her shoulder, Rafe could see that the interior of the closet, too, looked as if it had been hit by a bomb. She took a blouse that had been hanging on the back of the door, smelled it, and tossed it back in again. “A total loss.”
Rafe didn’t know what to say. He stood back and let her roam around the room, looking for anything she might want. She found her jewel
ry box on the floor, put it in the bag along with some clogs that had survived under the bed, and said, “That’s it. Let’s just get out of here. I can’t stand it.”
Outside, she threw the almost-empty bag into the backseat of her Subaru, where Tripod gave it a good sniffing before losing interest.
“How’s your mom adjusting to the dog?” Rafe asked.
“She’s calling the American Kennel Club to see if she can get a three-legged dog an emergency pedigree.”
Rafe laughed. “And how about you?”
“Listen—as halfway houses go, San Marino isn’t half bad. I’ve got a two-room suite overlooking the rose garden. And it helps having Bentley there. Turns out he’s a pretty nice guy.”
“I liked him.”
“He liked you, too. In fact, I hope you don’t mind, but I told him you’d salvaged an old book in the canyon and might like his opinion sometime.”
Rafe looked down at his shoes. He’d known this question was pending, but in all the confusion since the fire, it had not directly come up.
“I mean, you got it back, right? The night you went after Laszlo?”
“I did not.”
“What happened to it?”
“The best I can tell, it was destroyed in the fire.”
“Oh no. It’s gone?”
He nodded.
“Did you ever even get to the end?”
“Yes,” he replied, though he did not reveal the shocking conclusion to a narrative that had already been incredible enough. “I’m going to go back and take one more look around the Compound. But I’m not holding out any great hope.”
“Maybe Laszlo’s still got it, wherever he is.”
How could he tell her that that was impossible?
“That night,” she said hesitantly, “you’re sure you didn’t see any sign of him?”
“Nope. I told you—the place was abandoned when I got there. Even the Spiritz aren’t dumb enough to hang around in a wildfire.” He didn’t dare look up and meet her eye.
The Jekyll Revelation Page 35
