Those few who knew which building he spoke of said that it was a workhouse, some charity for the destitute in need of food and shelter. None of his informants had ever been inside, however, and they had no knowledge of who operated it. And no one had anything useful to say regarding the black wagon, which surprised Luka not at all. At best, he was treated to a rehash of Cat’s folktale about the previous spring, but nothing conclusive.
Around midnight, Luka departed one of the taverns, convincingly intoxicated, and made his way back west along Whitechapel Road. Behind him, a trio of drunken men stumbled out of the pub he had been patronizing and began moving along in the same direction.
Luka chanced a look back and saw that they were watching him.
But were they following him? And if so, why? Had the mysterious owner of the workhouse taken note of his inquiries so soon? But no, that was absurd. And besides, the men were well and truly drunk. Perhaps it was merely a coincidence.
To test his curiosity, Luka turned into an alleyway and continued on his way. After a few moments, the men entered and began following along behind him.
Trouble, he thought, carefully cracking his knuckles and stretching his neck as he walked. Perhaps they were thieves looking to rob him. If it came down to a fight, he preferred to be good and limber for it.
Luka turned down another alleyway, and again the men followed. Then he turned again and suddenly found himself in a small yard. Cornered. The street was nearby, he had no doubt of that. But he did not know the area, and he had made a mistake.
He turned in place and saw the men approach, all of them sporting more or less the same ugly grimace. One of them had a stick that he had acquired from somewhere. Another had a lantern.
Perhaps a policeman would wander by on patrol, Luka thought. They did that, often at the least convenient of times. It would be one thing to be interrupted before a fight began; it would be another if he were already in the midst of the brawl.
Quickly and quietly then, he thought.
“Sorry, lads,” he said, slowly approaching, “but I think I’ve made a wrong turn. Could you point me toward Bethnal Green Road?”
The man with the stick looked at the other two and said, “’E sure sounds foreign.”
“Aye,” said the man with the lantern. He stepped forward and raised it toward Luka’s face. “An’ ’e looks like a Jew.”
“That ’e does,” agreed the third man.
“I am not a Jew,” Luka said, “though I fail to see the significance.”
But the men ignored him.
“Tommy said it were a Jew what done ’em,” said the first man.
“Aye,” said the other two.
All three of them looked back at Luka and studied him intently. It was really rather absurd, and Luka almost laughed.
“I’m afraid I have no time for this,” Luka said, advancing and pushing past them.
The third man grabbed him by the arm and held him fast.
“Not so fast, Jew!” he snarled. “We know what ya’ve been up to. Seen ya prowlin’ about. Lookin’ for ya next one, that it?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Luka said. “But if you don’t unhand me, I will break your arm.”
Hearing the tone in Luka’s voice, the man released him and took a step back, but none of them let him pass. The man with the stick took his weapon and poked Luka in the chest.
“Ya reckon ’e’s Leather Apron?” he asked.
“The coat’s leather,” said the man with the lantern.
“Aye. An’ Leather Apron were a Jew,” said the third man.
What in God’s name are they going on about? Luka wondered. The only “Leather Apron” he had heard of was in relation to—
“Are you accusing me of being the Whitechapel Killer?” Luka demanded.
He was almost tempted to kill the men simply for the insult.
“See!” shouted the man with the lantern. “See, ’e’s confessed! Police! Constable! Constable, come quick!”
Luka folded his arms and sighed.
“That was not a confession,” he said.
“Guilty conscience,” retorted the man with the stick.
Luka shook his head and said, “Get out of my way, you idiots. I am leaving.”
He pushed past them again, and again the third man grabbed for him. This time Luka reacted, snapping his hand up and catching the fellow by the wrist. He yanked hard to pull the man off balance and threw him to the ground.
He had thought that would be the end of it, but he was mistaken. While he was distracted, the man with the stick swung his weapon. Luka, his head turned away from the attack, reacted a moment too late. He threw up his hand to ward off the blow, but he caught the offending arm just as the stick struck his skull.
Luka swore loudly in Svan and winced away, releasing his attacker. His head ached where it had been struck, and his vision was blurred for a moment. He saw shapes rather than men, but they were enough to manage with. All the while, he heard the man on the ground shouting for the police. Luka took a moment to kick him to shut him up. The yelling was rather obnoxious.
The man with the stick came in again, but now Luka was ready. He caught the man by the wrist, in a motion he had become so accustomed to of late. He twisted in place and brought the man over his shoulder, distending the arm and forcing him to drop the stick.
The fellow with the lantern dropped his light onto the ground and rushed in to help his friend, so Luka kicked him in the shin. He gave the first man a solid punch in the belly and threw him to the ground before attending to the remaining fellow. The last man heaped blows upon Luka, which Luka more or less took and ignored. He forced his arms in between his assailant’s arms and flung them outward. He returned his own punches against the man’s chest until his knuckles hurt. Then he kicked the man’s feet out from under him and let him drop into the street.
He walked over to the first man he had thrown down and pulled him to his feet. He shoved the fellow against the wall and snarled at him:
“Why did you attack me?”
“Constable!” the man shouted.
Luka slapped him across the face and yelled, “Answer me! Why did you attack me?”
“’Ere, what’s all this then?” asked a voice from behind him.
Luka turned his head and saw a pair of policemen at the mouth of the yard, slowly approaching with lanterns held high in the air. They stepped over the bodies of the two fallen men. Luka released the third man and allowed him to slide to the ground.
He weighed his options. On the one hand, being arrested would be a nuisance. On the other, he would have to either kill or seriously injure the constables if he were to escape. And if he did that, the police might suddenly take an interest in him. People might recognize him. His picture might circulate. And that might lead the police to stick their noses into Osborne Court.
And that would make the Doctor very cross.
And, in truth, the police were hardly about to imprison him for a brawl begun by other men.
“Good evening, constables,” Luka said, removing his hat. “Thank you for arriving so quickly. These men—”
“’E’s the killer!” cried one of the men from the ground. “ E’s Leather Apron, ’e is!”
“Is he now?” asked one of the constables, shaking his head. “And is that you, George Fowler? Up to no good as usual?”
“Bein’ a model citizen, sir!” the man replied. “Caught the killer, we ’ave. An’ ’e’s a Jew.”
Luka sighed and said, “I am neither, though I do not understand why you speak as if the two would be connected.”
The lead constable leaned in close and studied Luka’s face.
“Well…” he said. “What’s your name, there?”
“John…” Luka said. “…Lucas.”
“John Lucas, is it?” the constable asked.
“Yes,” Luka said.
“And what happened here just now?”
“The men attacked me
,” Luka replied. “I assumed they were trying to rob me, so I defended myself.”
“That so?” the constable asked.
“Yes,” Luka said. “You speak as if you doubt me, constable.”
“You’re not the one lyin’ in a bloody mess on the ground,” the constable said.
“’E’s the killer!”
The constable looked at the fellow on the ground and snapped, “Shut it!” He looked back at Luka and said, “I think it might be best if you came ’round to the station with us and answered some questions.”
Luka smiled in a friendly manner and momentarily considered killing the two policemen where they stood. But they were simply doing their duty, and he had to respect that. And besides, if things became truly problematic, he doubted that he would have much trouble escaping the police.
Let Bates and Cat manage things for one evening. He would be back on the street by morning.
“Constable,” he said, reaching beneath his coat and drawing his two revolvers, “I would like you to note that I am legally armed with two pistols.”
He held them out, grip first. The constables, no doubt shocked at the revelation of arms, stepped back and exchanged looks.
Luka continued, “I would like you to note that I am informing you of them and surrendering them into your care as a sign of goodwill. Please note that I have not used them, not when I was attacked by these men and not to escape from you.”
He allowed the realization that he could easily have killed the two constables to escape sink in. Smiling again, he handed the revolvers to them.
“Now then, to the station?” he asked.
The lead constable looked down at the pistol in his hand, his face a little pale. He nodded slowly.
“Aye. The station. Got some…got some questions for ya.”
Chapter Twenty
Blackmoor
Varanus brooded over Robert’s revelations for several days. The Blackmoor Varanuses had no knowledge of it, of course—she was too good a guest to offend hospitality in such a manner—but Ekaterine knew that she was troubled almost immediately. Varanus could not tell her the heart of the matter for obvious reasons. Ekaterine’s loyalty and friendship were absolute, Varanus knew that, and she would doubtless forgive any crime that might stain Varanus or her family without hesitation. But cannibalism was such a dread abomination, it would leave a mark that would torment Ekaterine even in the knowing of it, as it already tormented Varanus. There were few alleged sins that caused Varanus any distress—for indeed, theft, murder, and deception, while repugnant in principle, could all be applied to positive means. But not cannibalism. For that there could be no redeeming purpose, and so Varanus could not reveal the shadow it cast upon her family, even to her dearest friend.
And so, they passed three days reading in silence, exchanging but a few words here and there. This seemed not to trouble Ekaterine, who sensed Varanus’s distress but knew better than to inquire about a subject that Varanus would not freely discuss. It comforted Varanus to know that she had Ekaterine’s support without needing to speak of it.
Korbinian was with them as well, almost constantly. He was not silent, but rather spoke to Varanus in gentle whispers, often running his fingers through her hair as he reminded her that the sins of her ancestors were not her sins; the crimes they accused her grandfather of were not her crimes, nor were they proven beyond speculation. Other times he read to her in French and German, and this comforted her as well.
The third day was especially dreary, with the sky threatening rain—and periodically delivering it in short but heavy showers. Varanus and Ekaterine sat together in the library reading, clothed—quite by accident—in complimentary dresses of blue and gold. And Korbinian was there as well, playing the violin softly in the background. It was rather good of him.
“Ekaterine,” Varanus said, “a thought occurs to me.”
“Yes?” Ekaterine asked, looking up from her book.
“How would you like to go looking for your ghost abbot?” Varanus asked.
Ekaterine grinned at the idea and said, “I would find it delightful. Are we to walk all the way? I shall fetch an umbrella.”
“Yes, I think you should,” Varanus said. She glanced toward one of the windows, from where she sat in the shadow away from its light. “I do believe it is raining again.”
“You can hardly be surprised by that, liebchen,” Korbinian said, halting his playing with bow poised just above the instrument. “Rain, drizzle, rain, drizzle. That is all there has been all day. It has put me in quite a foul mood, believe me.”
Varanus smiled a little at this.
“But,” she added to Ekaterine, “we shall not walk all the way in the rain.”
“No?”
“No,” Varanus said. “I am curious about that tunnel beneath the church. I suspect that it leads to the priory, and I would like to verify that.”
“And if it doesn’t?” Ekaterine asked. “If it is just a dirty pit dug for no good reason at all?”
Varanus laughed softly and said, “Then you had best wear a dress you care little for, as it will surely be ruined.”
Ekaterine grinned. “Fine dresses were made to be ruined by mud and adventure. Anyone who believes otherwise is an utter bore.”
* * * *
The little country church was as abandoned and dilapidated as when they had first visited it, though its mood was altogether altered by the storm outside. The building felt darker than before, the shadows longer, the wood and stonework more deeply weathered. Varanus and Ekaterine paused just inside the door to shake the water from their skirts and umbrellas. A flash of lightning lit up the carvings on the ceiling and walls, and it was followed closely by a peal of thunder.
Ekaterine looked toward the window, startled by the noise.
“That was very close,” she said.
“Indeed it was,” Varanus said, though she was not at all concerned by it. Until it struck the church, the distance of a bolt of lightning was of little significance outside of scientific measurement. “Come, let us see about that blasted tunnel.”
They went into the vestry and opened the concealed door in the wardrobe. As before, they were greeted by the sight of the brick-lined shaft leading down into darkness. They had two lanterns with them, which they lit, and Ekaterine lowered one on a length of string until it reached the bottom. She climbed down the ladder first, followed by Varanus, who was followed in turn by Korbinian.
At the bottom of the ladder, Varanus held up her lantern to inspect their surroundings. They stood at a crossroads of sorts, in a convergence of three passages that met more or less evenly at the base of the ladder. In the light, Varanus saw that hand and footholds had been set into the brick of the wall behind where the ladder stood, perhaps originally for the purpose of reaching the church above. But such a climb would have been a terrible ordeal, and Varanus appreciated the efforts of whoever had seen fit to add a more convenient method of ascent.
The passage was constructed with more care and substance than Varanus had at first expected. Though the ceiling was low, it was solidly built with brick and arched to provide support. This was no improvised tunnel made of earth and wood, but a proper construction meant to bear the weight of time.
“Something of a surprise, I should say,” Ekaterine said, looking around. “I had rather expected more of a mine.”
“As had I,” Varanus said. “I am pleased at having misjudged.”
“Three tunnels,” Ekaterine noted. “Where do you suppose they go?”
Varanus shrugged and replied, “There is but one way to find out.”
She selected a passage at random and led the way along it. It proved something of a disappointment, though still certainly enlightening, for it ended some few dozen feet away, emptying out onto the moor behind a tumble of rocks that concealed the passage from the outside.
An escape hatch, it seemed, perhaps from the days when Catholics were persecuted in England: a way for renegade priests to
enter the church undetected and escape just as easily. But if the Blackmoors required the use of secret tunnels and priest holes, how late had they clung to Catholicism? To hear Cousin Maud speak, one would think they had been Anglicans even before the Church of England had first been cloven away from Rome. Unless they had been heretics when Protestantism was still illegal in England, which was perhaps even more shocking.
Such thoughts returned Varanus to the question of where the remaining two passages went, and she and Ekaterine retraced their steps to the crossroads. Varanus selected the right-hand passage, the one in the direction of the priory. It continued for quite some distance and with little change in direction or gradient. It was masterfully engineered despite its age, and Varanus was given to wonder just how far back the tunnels stretched. Was it to the time of Catholic persecution under Queen Elizabeth? Protestant suppression under Queen Mary before her? Or perhaps to some earlier time and to some earlier purpose.…
As she walked along the passage, the lanterns scarcely able to illuminate even the way ahead of her with their feeble flickering light, Varanus was put in mind of the hidden places she had seen in France, of the hideous black pit beneath the house of the des Louveteaux in Normandy, where teeming masses of gentlemen and refined ladies had fawned and knelt before the hideousness of beasts. For a single dread moment, she allowed herself to wonder whether there were lightless pits beneath Blackmoor Manor where Cousin Robert and Cousin Maud prostrated themselves in the dirt in obeisance to the unholy.
She almost laughed at the thought. What utter nonsense. Whatever their faults, her kin at Blackmoor surely had too much self-importance to do such a thing.
“Doctor,” Ekaterine said, interrupting Varanus’s thoughts.
A Cautionary Tale for Young Vampires Page 27
