by Tim Pratt
“It’s nearly noon, old boy, and I told that delightful Ellie Skye we’d meet for lunch at one. I thought you might want to rinse your mouth out and change your shirt first.”
Pimm lowered the blanket by inches, hoping to grow accustomed to the light by degrees. His head felt full of rubble and shattered glass. “Why did you invite her to lunch?”
“Because I found her incredibly charming. And also because I think you found her incredibly charming.”
“This again, Freddy?”
She patted him on the shoulder. “You did a great service when you married me, Pimm. I know it seemed ideal at the time, a way to satisfy your family that you were settling down while helping me, too. But have you ever thought about what you’ve done to yourself? To your own prospects of true happiness?”
Trying for a light tone despite his crashing headache and the aridity of his tongue, Pimm said, “I daresay I’ve spared some poor girl a lot of misery.”
Freddy frowned, a line appearing on her perfect forehead. “Don’t talk rot, Pimm. We were at school together. I know the sort of poetry you like to read. And I knew Adelaide, and how you felt about her, before her unfortunate passing—but that was a long time ago, Pimm, a dozen years. Your heart has healed enough for love to blossom anew, I think. For all that you like to muck about with criminals and murderers, there’s a soft soul inside you. You deserve to be happy, don’t you think? Happier than liquor alone can make you, I mean.”
Pimm swung his legs over the side of the bed and sat up, turning his back on Freddy. “Is this about Ellie Skye? I barely know the woman, Freddy, really—”
“Yes, and you won’t get to know her if you think you can’t. You have qualms about taking a mistress. Fine. There are other options.”
“And what would become of you, if I pursued happiness with another—with a woman, Freddy?”
“There is such a thing as divorce, you know. It’s been seven years since Parliament made it legal—”
Pimm shook his head. “Shall we brand you an adulterer, then? Or would you prefer to testify that I am an adulterer who dabbles in bestiality or bigamy as well? Because without those sorts of allegations, and proof to back them up, divorce is beyond our reach. Even then, I might not be allowed to remarry.”
“There is already talk in Parliament of amending the Matrimonial Causes Act to be… rather less rigid, in light of the Constantine Affliction, and the social changes that illness has wrought.”
“Oh, yes, I expect the law will be changed to allow a wife to divorce her husband for simple adultery, since adultery runs the risk of bringing a terrible disease into the home—but would that be better, if I were just an adulterer?
“Better than being an adulterer who cavorts with farm animals and his second wife? I daresay, yes.”
Pimm snorted laughter. “Divorce is out of the question, Freddy. Be serious. Imagine the reaction from my family! I would be disinherited.”
“So? You have a private income—your grandfather saw to that. You aren’t dependent on the goodwill of your brother or mother. In fact, the freedom from their expectations would probably suit you.”
Pimm frowned. “When did you become so cold, Freddy? My family may not understand me—or, for that matter, I, them—but they are not bad people, and I do love them.”
“Mmmm. I forget you have the luxury of thinking well of your family.” She sighed. “I suppose, if it comes to it, we could simply fake my death, and I could move to the Continent.”
Pimm blinked, turning to look at his wife, and best friend. “That seems like a lot of trouble, doesn’t it?”
“Love is worth a lot of trouble, Pimm. If you don’t know that…” She shook her head. “You did once. Perhaps if we explained our… arrangement, to Ellie, she would understand, and we could work something out, without the necessity of divorce…” Noticing Pimm’s expression, she snorted. “Oh, don’t look so shocked, Pimm. People make arrangements all the time. Life is complicated.”
“Perhaps in France,” Pimm said. “But this is England. People would talk.”
“You really must come to one of my salons some day, Pimm. Your eyes would be quite opened. Talking is half the fun.”
“Do not tell Ellie—Miss Skye,” Pimm said, “about your condition. Please. She’s a reporter. That means she likes to learn secrets, and put them on the pages of a newspaper, and distribute them to anyone who can read, or who knows someone who can read the best bits aloud to them. She is not someone with whom you should share intimacies that are quite that intimate. And, blast it, as I said, I barely know her, you’re concocting a love affair out of nothing—”
“If you aren’t interested in Ellie for yourself, shall I introduce her to some of our eligible friends, then?” Freddy said. “Provide her with a bit more security in her life? Ellie and I chatted a bit this morning, and I learned that her family, though all dead, is respectable enough, solidly middle class. And she’s not too old, for all that she seems to have resigned herself to spinster-hood. I could introduce her to Reggie Jolley, perhaps, or Edmund Thorpe?”
Pimm opened his mouth to speak, but couldn’t quite bring himself to answer, and his headache returned with a terrible force. The thought of Ellie with either of those men affronted him in some deep way he could scarcely articulate. He finally managed, “Jolley, that ass, she’s far too smart for him, and Thorpe is such a towering boor, I would never wish such a fate upon her, and—”
“As I thought,” Freddy said, in an insufferable tone, but before Pimm could complain, she handed over a glass, and Pimm gulped from it gratefully.
He’d expected water, and there was water, but there was whiskey, too. He gulped it down even more rapidly once he realized, the warmth spreading through him, his headache receding.
“Good,” Freddy said. “I hate to ply you with liquor, but this way you might look halfway human by lunchtime. And perhaps being in Miss Skyler’s company when you aren’t chasing a murderer will show you how delightful she is.”
Pimm shook his head. “I can’t, Freddy. If I don’t go talk to Abel Value this morning, he’ll send someone around, and I’d rather not have his people in my house again. I need to give him a… carefully edited… version of what happened last night. He will not be happy that I failed to bring the killer to him personally.”
“Curses. Well, I won’t break the date with Ellie, anyway—I could use another girlfriend.”
Pimm looked at Freddy, alarmed. “Don’t tell me you have designs on her?”
“Now, now, settle down. You know I am a paragon of discretion when I engage in such assignations. I don’t think Ellie would be interested, anyway—one cannot always tell from such a short acquaintance, but I get no sense that she is interested in such… purely feminine pursuits. Doubtless the very suggestion would cause her to turn adorably red in the cheeks, though… No, no, I’ll behave. You and I should never fight over a woman, it’s unseemly. I feel more of a brotherly affection for her anyway. Or perhaps sisterly. I can’t really tell any more. Perhaps you can join us for our picnic after, if Value doesn’t murder you?”
The thought of seeing Miss Skye again did give a more pleasant dimension to the prospect of an otherwise wretched day. And Ellie had promised to tell him a story about Bertram Oswald, which interested him almost as much. “I will do my best.”
“Do you want a pistol for your meeting? One of the air pistols I’ve modified, or even the revolver?”
Pimm considered. He didn’t much like guns, and he had his electrified walking stick… “Yes,” he said after a moment. “That might be best.”
Services Most Unsatisfactory
This time the meeting took place in the back room of the Black Dog tavern, near Blackfriars Bridge. This was apparently a headquarters of sort for Value, who sat hunched over a small and cluttered desk, Big Ben looming behind, his head very nearly touching the ceiling. “Good morning, Mr. Value.” Pimm seated himself in the rickety wooden chair opposite the desk. He inclined his
head to the giant. “Ben.”
“Morning, is it?” Value didn’t look up from the mound of papers he scanned. “Afternoon, more like.”
“I’ve always been terrible with time,” Pimm said amiably. “I just wanted to let you know that your murderer has been unmasked.”
Value looked up, removing his pince-nez glasses. “Ben told me about your adventures,” Value said. “At least, the portion for which he was present. Adams was able to find some clue to the killer’s identity on the new victim’s person?”
“Indeed he was. I followed the evidence straight to the killer.”
“Are you sure you found the right man?”
“Entirely sure. He confessed to me personally. And, as I had predicted, the killer was indeed a gentleman with an interest in your business.”
“I need his name.”
“Certainly. Thaddeus Worth.”
Value was a man schooled at hiding his emotions, generally showing no more expression than a lizard on a rock, but he visibly flinched and paled. “There must be some mistake,” he murmured. “Thad… Thad would never…”
Pimm brushed a bit of lint from the knee of his trousers and ordered his thoughts. Mix in truths with the lies, to make the lies seem more true… “Apparently his wife contracted the Constantine Affliction, and subsequently abandoned him. He held her departure against the prostitutes, I suppose, as he must have contracted the illness from one of them. Presumably it was one of your women—or else, he knew where to find your women, having once been involved in that part of your business. I understand he was a whoremaster. I can’t say for certain why he left the dead women on your doorstep, but then, I suppose employees holding grudges against you is nothing new.”
Value turned in his chair. “Ben. I need you to bring Thad—Mr. Worth—here, to me, as soon as you—”
“I’m afraid that won’t be possible,” Pimm said. “Mr. Worth has been taken into police custody.”
Value stared at him through slit eyes. “What?”
“He confessed to murder—several murders—as I mentioned. It seemed prudent to call the police, in light of such information.”
Value sighed. “How very droll, Lord Pembroke. You seek to spare him from my retribution? How noble. Of course, since my people made sure all the bodies vanished, there will be no evidence of his confessed crimes, and he will be dismissed as a madman, especially when a few of my people step forward to attest to his mental dissolution since his wife vanished—”
Pimm cleared his throat. “There is a body, actually. You heard about some excitement near the river last night? Police milling about? They discovered Worth’s latest victim, exactly where he told them she could be found.” Pimm spread his hands. “That should do for evidence, I daresay.”
“Ben,” Value said, through gritted teeth. “You told me you took the body to Adams.”
“We did, sir. As for what Lord Pembroke did after that… I couldn’t say. I reported straight to you afterward.”
Value grunted. “I’d like to know how you contrived to have that body transported, Halliday. I may need to have a word with Adams.”
Pimm shrugged. “Anything he did, he did at my request—and you did tell him to cooperate with me completely, so there’s no point in blaming him.” Pimm hesitated. “You threatened to tell people certain secrets of mine, Value, if I didn’t find your murderer. While I realize I did not adhere to the letter of our agreement, I hope—”
Value snorted laughter. “I don’t care about your sham marriage, Halliday, nor do I expect I’ll have time to ruin your reputation, as I’ll be rather too busy running for my life. Do you have any idea what you’ve done to me?”
“Running for your life? That might be overstating things, sir. I put a man with knowledge of your business into police custody, with a burning desire to trade information in exchange for his life. Yes, I’m afraid that might inconvenience you a bit, but unless he can implicate you personally in a murder, it hardly constitutes a danger to your life—”
Value laughed, hollowly. “You stupid man. I expected you to do something like this, you know, to bring in the police—I am not afraid for my business interests. There’s no proof that I’m involved in illegal human prostitution, and what good is the word of a murderer anyway? But if I’d known it was Thad… that it was Mr. Worth… killing those girls, I would have handled things differently, I…” He shook his head. “Get out of here, Halliday. I have arrangements to make. Urgent ones.”
Pimm frowned. “What can Worth possibly tell the police that would lead to your death? I never took you for the murdering sort, sir. At least, not in a firsthand way.”
“I am not a killing man, as a rule—there are better ways to make your point, usually. But Worth knows other secrets, Halliday. And just the fact that he might tell those secrets puts my life in danger from people far more powerful than myself. If I turn up dead, know that you’re responsible. But what do you care what happens to some old villain?”
“Mr. Value, I would not wish to see you murdered. To see your criminal enterprises stopped, of course, but not by means of your death. If there are powerful men arrayed against you, the police can protect you, in exchange for information—”
“You have no idea how wrong you are, Lord Pembroke. Please, be gone.”
Thinking about Ellie’s cryptic comments the night before, Pimm said, “Is it… something to do with Bertram Oswald? Is he the powerful man—”
“Ben!” Value bellowed. “See the little Lord out, since he seems unable to comprehend a dismissal!”
Pimm rose, holding out his hands in a placating gesture, before Ben came for him. “I’ll leave. But Mr. Value, do let me know if I can help you—”
“You’ve helped enough.”
As Pimm left the tavern, passing the sad midday drunkards, he craved a drink even more desperately than usual. He’d started taking solace in the bottle seriously when Adelaide died, to dull the pain, and he’d never stopped—whiskey had become the obvious cure for all emotional upheaval, leveling things out nicely. But this was a new sort of upheaval. He had seldom, if ever, had the experience of becoming more mystified after solving a crime, and the experience didn’t suit him. What was Value afraid of? What secret did Worth know, that could put Value’s life in danger? Pimm didn’t do well with mysteries. Fortunately, there were people he could ask.
The question was whether or not they would answer.
As Pimm walked, he noticed a disheveled black-haired man from the tavern following him at a discreet distance. Pimm took a few random turns down assorted streets, and even doubled back on his own trail, and the man continued to drift along in his wake. Had Value sent him? Or one of Value’s mysterious “powerful men?”
Pimm ducked into an alley and crouched in a shadow behind a broken crate. After a few moments, the man following him entered as well, moving slowly. As he passed, Pimm jammed his walking stick between the man’s legs at about ankle height and swung it forward, sweeping the thug off his feet. The man landed on the ground with a jarring thud and groaned. Pimm stood and pressed the metal ball of his cane against the young man’s bulging adam’s apple. “This cane is electrified,” Pimm said, almost conversationally. “I can discharge the battery into your throat, but I’d hate to kill you before you answered a few questions. Why are you following me?”
“A man paid me,” the fellow said, holding up his hands. “Didn’t say why. Said I’m to see where you go and report back.”
“Which man?”
“Dunno his name. Young, younger than you. Wore a nice suit.”
“Mmm,” Pimm said. That didn’t sound like Value or Oswald, but it could have been one of their employees. Which made sense—neither one would hire a thug personally. “And where are you supposed to deliver this report?”
The man named a tavern, but not the Black Dog. Pimm considered his options. He could go with this man to the tavern, and confront whomever had hired him, but the odds were good that person would just be
another thug acting on orders. And even if this man did lead him to Oswald, what good would that do? He didn’t know anything about the man—at least, nothing more than any other casual newspaper reader did, and certainly nothing that would connect Oswald with Value. He needed more information. Pimm made a decision.
“I’d very much like for you to stop following me,” he said. “How about, let’s see… ten pounds? Would that suffice? You can go back to your pay-master and say I cunningly gave you the slip, how would that be?”
“I… suppose that would be all right,” the man said, in the tone of someone who’d expected a kick and, in all defiance of reason, received a kiss instead.
“Good man,” Pimm said. “I approve of the entrepreneurial spirit.”
A Wrongful Termination
One of the bells Adam had connected to the doors leading to his laboratory rang, and he hurriedly whispered, “We’ll talk later.” He unscrewed a valve, cutting off the artificial air supply, then threw a dirty white cloth over the jar containing Margaret’s brain, covering the brass speaking apparatus as well.
Adam made a point of appearing absorbed in work on an improved version of his battery when his visitor entered. “Mr. Oswald,” he said, not looking up from his work. “It has been some weeks since you graced me with your company. What brings you here today?”
“You know I prefer ‘Sir Bertram,’ Adam,” the scientist chastised.
“Ah, yes. Your knighthood. For services to the crown. I’d forgotten.”
“You forget nothing, Adam. That’s part of why you’ve been so valuable to me.”
Adam did look up, now. His patron was dressed impeccably in a dove-gray waistcoat, and carried a cane made of some darkly gleaming metal—probably his own Oswaldium, an alloy lighter than glass and harder than steel, though when placed under sufficient strain, it had a brittleness that made it unsuitable for large-scale building projects. “Have been valuable? Don’t I continue to be?”
Oswald picked up a pile of books from a wooden stool, glancing at their covers briefly, then placed them carefully on a wooden table next to a row of jars filled with preserved human eyes, sorted by color. He sat on the stool, placed the cane across his knees, and sighed. “I understand you met Lord Pembroke.”
