by Tom Becker
“Who else did you ask?”
“Well, I figured if we were going to steal stuff, we needed a getaway driver, and there was only one man for that job. Verv was the fastest and craziest stunt rider at the fairground. No one could handle a horse like he could. Of course, the fact that he was crazy helped. The only thing that mattered to him was speed. A good job, too. We’d have been caught a couple of times if it hadn’t been for him. And then . . .”
Correlli closed his eyes.
“. . . and then there was Mountebank. Swine. A two-bit card shuffler calling himself a magician. Not that I knew that at Spinoza’s. Back then, he looked like the final piece of the puzzle. He could pick a lock with his eyes closed. Doors, safes . . . nothing could keep him out. I wouldn’t learn about the other side to him until much later. . .”
His voice trailed off, and he hurled a stone far off the edge of the roof.
“We went to work right away. And we were good. I selected the target, the twins got us in, Mountebank got us the goods, and Verv got us out again. Some of our jobs went so smoothly it was like the victims were helping us. The Baskerville Emerald was the best example of that. It was secured in a safe, surrounded by a ring of bodyguards in a locked strongroom. How did we steal it without anyone seeing us? Even I’m not sure, and I planned it.”
“In the end, that turned out to be our final job. Verv and the twins crossed over to Lightside while Mountebank went back to performing in Darkside, and I . . . well, you know what I ended up doing.”
“But why?” said Jonathan, suddenly curious. “You’d just pulled off your greatest robbery. Why split up then?”
Correlli was spared the need to reply by a flash of movement on top of a house a couple of streets away. The fire-eater got to his feet, brushing the back of his trousers.
“Here they come. Right on time.”
Straining his eyes, Jonathan could just make out two figures racing over a rooftop. They were running at full speed across the peak of the roof, their feet blurring across the thin ledge. One swung around an aerial, while the other executed a neat backflip over a chimney stack. The two women were mirror images of one another, dressed in modern clothing – three-quarter-length tracksuit trousers and vest tops – with short, boyish blonde haircuts.
“Remember,” Correlli added, “if you’re having trouble telling them apart, Nettle’s the prickly one.”
“That shouldn’t be too hard to remember.”
The fire-eater gave him an amused look, but said nothing.
The twins had reached the adjacent building, which was separated from the safe house by a ten-foot gap. Jonathan was about to ask the fire-eater how they were going to get across it when, without breaking stride, both women leapt into the air. Jonathan gasped. They arced gracefully through the sky, soaring impossibly high before hurtling down towards the safe house. Landing in a cloud of dust several paces away from Jonathan and Correlli, both twins slipped smoothly into a forward roll to lessen the impact. The woman on the left was up on her feet instantly, jabbing her finger into her twin’s side.
“Call that a jump? You nearly took me down with you, you fat pig!”
“You poke me again, you’ll lose your finger!”
“What are you going to do – eat it?”
Correlli coughed. The twins whirled round. Two sly smiles appeared on their faces, their argument instantly forgotten. They moved lithely towards the fire-eater.
“Well, well . . .”
“. . . well. Antonio Correlli. It’s been a while.”
“A long while,” her sister concurred. “Too long a while, Fray?”
Fray frowned, considering the question.
“No,” she said slowly, “I wouldn’t say that, exactly.”
Correlli bowed extravagantly. “Ladies. It is wonderful to see you both again. These past years have been poorer for the lack of your company.”
Nettle gave him a scornful look. “Save that rubbish for your thru’penny wenches, Correlli. Or Fray.”
Her sister yanked her hair sharply.
“OW!”
“You’re the only wench around here, Nettle!”
They clenched their fists and stood off against one another. Correlli held his hands up for calm.
“Please . . . both of you. You can sort this out later. We have an interesting proposition for you, and there isn’t much time.”
“We?” they said, in chorus. For the first time, the twins noticed Jonathan’s presence. A look of disdain spread over both their faces.
“Who’s . . .”
“. . . that ?”
“I’m Jonathan,” he replied calmly.
Fray put her hand over her mouth in a fake display of horror. “Watch out, Correlli. We’ve heard that children can be bad for your health.”
“Especially your health,” her sister chimed in.
The twins fell about laughing, the sound of high-pitched giggling echoing out over the rooftops.
“Hilarious,” Correlli said drily, as their giggles subsided. “It’s good to know that word of my humiliation has crossed over to Lightside. More importantly, did you hear about the Crimson Stone?”
The twins’ faces went abruptly serious.
“Such a waste,” Fray said sadly. “Such an amazing thing . . .”
“. . . going to such a wrinkly old man,” her twin concluded.
“Well, then maybe this might be of interest to you.” Correlli drew himself up. “I’m going to help the boy pinch it, and I need your help to do it.”
The two girls glanced at each other, communicating without saying a word. Then they took up a position on each side of the fire-eater, taking it in turns to whisper into his ear.
“You do know . . .”
“. . . stealing’s wrong, don’t you?”
“What’s in it . . .”
“. . . for us?”
“The boy gets the Crimson Stone,” replied Correlli calmly. “We get everything else. Xavier’s a hoarder, and a wealthy one to boot. Whatever’s in there is going to be worth a pretty penny.”
Colour rushed to both of the twins’ cheeks.
“Will there be diamonds . . .”
“. . . and rubies? Rubies are my favourite.”
“Going on Xavier’s reputation, I’d imagine that every stone under the rainbow will be there. Is that enough to tempt you?”
The twins scampered over to the edge of the roof and formed an impromptu huddle. Their whispers grew louder and louder, until one of them – Jonathan had no idea which – shrieked with anger.
“Take that back!”
Correlli rolled his eyes.
“This may take some time,” he said, out of the corner of his mouth.
12
It felt like the longest afternoon of Raquella’s life. Perched in a chair in Carnegie’s lodgings, she stared at a grandfather clock, willing the minute hand to move more quickly around the dial. Until the magician Mountebank began his evening performance at Kinski’s Theatre of the Macabre, there was nothing for them to do. Even so, as she sat there, Raquella could almost hear the sands of time pouring away. With their deadline drawing closer, it seemed foolish to waste even a second. She wanted to get up and go outside into the cramped, noisy streets – to do something, anything. At least Jonathan had been able to go back to Lightside immediately. He wasn’t just waiting.
By comparison, Carnegie was a picture of calm. He was sprawled out on the divan, flicking through a penny dreadful. The garish cover of the magazine was drenched in red ink, its title proclaiming Gruesome Tales of Spring-Heeled Jack. Occasionally a rumbling chuckle escaped from the wereman’s throat. He looked up as – not for the first time that afternoon – Raquella tutted.
“No point getting worked up,” he rumbled. “No doubt we’ll be in mortal danger soon enough.”
“It would almost be a relief! Anything’s got to be better than all this waiting around. Carnegie, it’s Saturday already. We’ve only got five days to get Vendetta the Stone.”
“Which means we’re in for a busy time. Until then, you should try and relax.” Carnegie propped himself up on one arm, and waved the magazine around his lodgings. “Don’t you see? Sitting around waiting is the good bit. The bit with the fighting and the nearly dying is the bad bit. Try not to confuse the two.”
“I guess you’re right.” She nodded at the penny dreadful. “Good read?”
The wereman snorted. “It’s utter rubbish. It beats staring at the clock, though. Want to read it after me?”
Raquella shook her head. “If it’s all the same, I think I’d rather stay tense.”
“Fair enough.”
Carnegie settled back into his penny dreadful, reading until his eyelids dropped and he fell fast asleep. The magazine slipped from his fingers on to his chest, where it rose up and down on his undulating ribcage. From time to time, he growled softly in his sleep. At nine o’clock, as the light began to fade and the shadows began to thicken inside the room, Raquella gently shook him awake.
“It’s time,” she said.
The wereman’s teeth glinted in the gloom. “Let’s go and twist the magician’s arm, then.”
He rose like a ghost and headed for the front door. Outside, they hastened through the dingy enclave of Fitzwilliam Street and out on to the broad pavements of the Grand. It was still early on Darkside’s cankerous main street, and it would be several hours until the first argument began, the first punch was thrown, and the first score was settled. Even so, the pavements were thronged with people sweating and steaming in the summer heat, and boisterous shouts ricocheted off the surrounding buildings. Outside The Last Supper, an ornate carriage came screeching to a halt and belched out a group of portly, well-dressed diners, who hastened inside the restaurant before they could be waylaid. In the gutter by the Casino Sanguino, an old man held up his last, blood-drenched coin, whimpering quietly to himself. From somewhere deep within the bowels of the Psychosis Club, the sound of a lone violin playing an off-key dirge drifted up on to the street.
Over the years, both Carnegie and Raquella had become well-known faces in Darkside, and as they walked along the Grand, more than one head turned. They made an odd couple – the rangy, down-at-heel private detective and the small, purposeful maidservant. Yet, in different ways, they both signalled trouble. Aware of the whispers that ran through the crowds like a sea breeze, Carnegie simmered and snarled at anyone foolish enough to pay too close an inspection.
Fearful that the wereman’s temper was about to erupt, Raquella was relieved when Kinski’s Theatre of the Macabre came into view. A tall, gravely elegant building, it occupied centre stage of the Grand. A row of stone steps led up to a grand entrance framed by flaming torches. Craning her neck, Raquella could see a row of balustrades running along the length of the first-floor balcony, before the top of the building was swallowed up by the night sky. On the pavement in front of the theatre, a large drunk man in a herald’s costume was trying to drum up trade.
“Dare you come inside?” he bellowed. “Dare you enter the occult world of Mountebank the Magnificent – the Master of the Macabre, the man who has outwitted the Devil himself? His feats of magic will astound and amaze! The faint of heart should keep on walking!”
Despite the increasing volume and slurring of speech, no one in the crowds swelling past the theatre gave the herald a second glance.
At the entrance, a bored elderly woman was sitting in a ticket booth. Carnegie swept straight past her.
“Oi!” she squawked indignantly. “Where d’you think you’re going, sonny?”
“Inside,” he said ominously.
“It’ll cost you a farthing a head.”
Carnegie patted his waistcoat pockets, and gave Raquella a sideways glance. The maidservant sighed and handed over two coins.
“You’re a real gentleman,” she told the wereman.
“You’ll get it back,” he replied, affronted. “I always pay my debts.”
“I’ll believe that when I see it.”
Compared to its grand façade, the foyer of Kinski’s had seen better days. The tatty green carpet was covered in large stains, and there was a strong odour of cheap alcohol. The walls were covered with torn posters advertising such varied delights as The Bloody Bard, Dr Faust’s Chorus of Devils and Susie, Snake Charmer Extraordinaire. Raquella wondered how it had looked when the theatre had first opened, whether the brass had gleamed and the lights had shone brightly, or whether the foyer had been as grubby as it was now.
Carnegie surveyed the scene with distaste. “Nice.”
“Have you not been here before?” Raquella asked with surprise.
“I’m not what you’d call a theatre-goer. Come on – we’ve missed the start of the show.”
He pushed through a set of double doors and into the auditorium. It was a vast space, row upon row of seats stretching away from the main stage. Boxes ran around the sides of the hall. The high ceiling was covered in a detailed, bloody frieze of clowns fighting with one another. The auditorium was all but empty, with only a handful of heads visible in the seats down near the stage. The echoes of past performances, the raucous applause, laughter and cheers of the audience had long since died away, replaced with a mournful atmosphere of loss.
Mountebank the Magnificent was standing alone on stage. He was a striking sight. There was not a drop of colour in his skin, and his head was covered in a thin layer of white hair. His eyes were a piercing blood-red. He was dressed in a dazzling white suit that accentuated his pale skin tone, with a matching bright pink handkerchief poking out of his breast pocket.
As Raquella and Carnegie settled into seats towards the back of the auditorium, he clapped his hands, and suddenly a raven was flying around the auditorium, cawing loudly. It circled higher and higher into the air before returning to the stage and settling on the magician’s shoulder. He bowed in the face of non-existent applause.
“You are too kind. Thank you. Now, for my most dazzling feat of magic, I will need a fearless assistant. Let me see. . .” He scanned the sparse crowd. “How about that young lady . . . there?”
Mountebank pointed straight at Raquella. She groaned and slunk lower into her seat.
“Oh great. What should I do now?” she hissed.
“Get up there,” Carnegie murmured back. “He’s the man we’ve come to see, isn’t he? Perfect way to meet him.”
Raquella rose reluctantly from her seat, a shove from the wereman sending her stumbling into the aisle. There was a half-hearted round of applause from the audience. Cursing her bad luck, she walked self-consciously towards the front of the auditorium, where Mountebank gave her a charming smile and helped her up on to the stage. His hand, she noted, was deathly cold to the touch.
“Thank you, my dear. What’s your name?”
“Raquella,” she said, feeling suddenly very small under the harsh glare of the footlights.
“Really? What an unusual name!” Mountebank replied lightly. “Well, Raquella, you shall have the honour of helping me with my finest trick. It’s a card trick.” There was a groan from the audience. He held up a hand. “Please. I’ll think you’ll find it’s as unusual a card trick as this young lady’s name.”
Raquella blinked. Suddenly there was a pack of cards in the magician’s hand. He fanned them out and then turned his head away.
“Please pick one and show the audience – make sure I can’t see it! Then sign the card and put it back in the pack.”
Eager to get off the stage, Raquella quickly selected a card and looked at it. The cold face of the Queen of Knives stared back at her. For some inexplicable reason, it sent a shiver of fear down her spine. She flashed the card to the audience and then signed it before slip
ping the Queen of Knives back into the fanned pack. Mountebank smiled, and the cards disappeared as quickly as they had arrived.
“Expertly done! Thank you, my dear.”
Raquella curtsied and made to leave the stage, but the magician grabbed her hand.
“If you could help me with just one more thing. To complete this trick, I will need the help of my patented card-picking machine.”
There came a rumble of wheels from the wings, and then a giant contraption appeared on the stage, pushed by two assistants dressed in black hooded costumes. They looked horribly like executioners. With a great show of ceremony, Mountebank donned a white hood of his own, and led Raquella over to his “patented card-picking machine”. Up close, she could see that it was a steel table, above which hung a canopy of gleaming metal spikes. There were leather straps at each corner of the table.
“R-really,” Raquella stammered. “I’m not so sure about this. . .”
“Relax, my dear,” he replied, taking her firmly by the wrist. “I’ve performed this trick thousands of times. It’s only gone wrong once or twice.”
Nobody laughed. A murmur of expectation rippled through the hall.
Mountebank made her lie down on the table and began fastening the straps around her legs and ankles, talking to the audience all the while.
