A Christmas Odyssey

by Anne Perry

  “What does she look like?” Henry asked. “She must be somewhere. Perhaps she’s hiding because she knows what happened. Maybe she has a pimp who protects her … and he killed Niccolo, and Sadie just got in the way.” He looked at Squeaky. “Or maybe it has nothing to do with Sadie. What do you think?”

  Squeaky saw the hope in his eyes and hated to crush it. “Maybe,” he said reluctantly. “I suppose. But if nobody’s seen this woman, I don’t know how we’re going to find her.”

  “Look for her protector?” Henry suggested.

  “Pimp, that’s what you mean. The man who owns her.”

  Henry winced. “If you prefer.”

  “What if her pimp is Shadwell himself?” Squeaky asked, shifting his position because his legs were cramped. Hell, it was cold down here! He longed for the warmth of the Portpool Lane Clinic. “Do we want to go after him?” he added.

  “He’s the one with the opium, and probably the cocaine,” Henry pointed out.

  Then Squeaky had a sudden, wild idea, one that would really give them something to follow, if it were true. He leaned forward eagerly. “At first we didn’t know if it was Lucien or Niccolo who was murdered,” he said urgently. “We got different descriptions of Sadie, so maybe we don’t know if it was Sadie who was killed, or this Rosa! Maybe nobody’s seen her for a few days because she’s dead!”

  Crow stared at him, his eyes wide. “Nobody’s seen Sadie either!” he argued, but he was leaning forward, wide awake now.

  “We don’t know that, ’cause we haven’t been looking for Sadie,” Squeaky pointed out.

  “But why would anyone kill Rosa?” Henry asked, clearly puzzled.

  “Well, maybe we should ask Lucien that.” Squeaky replied. “Maybe there’s a whole lot we should ask him, like exactly what he’s done for Shadwell lately. Who else has he brought down here? Maybe there’s someone in this we don’t even know about.” Squeaky drew in his breath and began again. “And let’s ask Lucien what he knows about this Shadwell, an’ make damn sure we get a straight answer this time. If Shadwell is Rosa’s pimp, is he Sadie’s too? And if he is, what does Lucien pay for her, and what else does he do to earn it?”

  “You are right.” Henry spoke before anyone else could. “We shall speak with Lucien again. However, I would be grateful if you would allow me to lead the questions.” He pulled himself to his feet, a little stiffly. He had been sitting on the hard floor for some time like the others. He was cold, and his muscles locked when he tried to pull his coat more closely around him. It flapped open now as he walked across to where Lucien was huddled, half asleep.

  Bessie looked up from where she sat with him, her face streaked with dirt, her eyes hollow. “I think ’e’s a bit better,” she said hopefully.

  Henry knelt down. “Good. Thank you. I’m afraid we must disturb him because we have questions.”

  She nodded.

  “Lucien,” Henry said firmly. “Sit up and pay attention. I need to talk to you, as do Crow and Squeaky. There are many questions that cannot wait any longer.”

  Lucien stirred and opened his eyes. His face was almost colorless and shadowed with bruises. His cheeks were gaunt, but even so he did not seem quite as deeply shocked as he had a day earlier.

  Henry moved to assist him in sitting up, and Bessie quickly helped him from the other side. He moved awkwardly and was queasy with pain, for a moment gagging as the wound in his side was stretched and the dried blood tore at his skin. At last he was propped against the wall.

  “I don’t know who killed him—or her,” he said, biting his lips with pain.

  “I assumed not.” Henry said, moving to sit more comfortably. Crow and Squeaky were close, just a little behind him. “There are other things that matter, and may lead us to knowing who did.”

  “Nothing matters, Mr. Rathbone,” Lucien contradicted him. “And it really won’t make any difference. Either Sadie or Niccolo is dead, and everyone will believe I killed them, whoever really did.”

  “Shut up and answer what you’re asked!” Squeaky told him curtly. “Mr. Rathbone decides what matters, not you.”

  Lucien gave a faint smile, looking at Henry. “Who’s your charming friend?”

  “Squeaky Robinson,” Henry replied. “And for the moment he’s right. There are several things we don’t know, and it’s necessary that we learn.”

  Lucien looked away.

  Squeaky wondered if he was crafting some sort of lie that might excuse him. Or perhaps the man was simply afraid. For an instant Squeaky felt a surge of pity. It startled him. He knew better than that. Spoiled, arrogant young men like Lucien Wentworth had had everything given to them, all the privileges Squeaky himself had never even dreamed of! A safe home that was warm even in winter, enough food, even good food, clean and well-cooked, not anyone else’s leftovers. They had beautiful clothes, always clean. People cared about what happened to them. They were taught to read, write, count, and speak like gentlemen. They didn’t have to worry and be afraid of tomorrow.

  So why was Squeaky sorry for him? Was it just because Hester would have been? Or was this all because of Henry Rathbone?

  “Lucien,” Henry said firmly. “I can’t protect you, and I wouldn’t even if I could. The only way out of this is to face it. And believe me, there is no escape. The pain is going to come, and the darkness, whether you run away or not.”

  Squeaky winced. He had wanted to interrupt; now he changed his mind. Henry’s quiet voice was worse than anger or open emotion.

  Lucien looked back at Henry. “I don’t know who was killed, or who did it,” he said again. “If Shadwell comes to take me himself, I still won’t know. There’s no use in you threatening; I can’t help.”

  “I believe that is what you think,” Henry replied. “Tell me more about Shadwell. Is he Rosa’s pimp? And Sadie’s?”

  “He’s Sadie’s,” Lucien answered. “At least … he owns her.”

  “And Rosa’s pimp?” Henry asked.

  “No.” Lucien sounded doubtful, but he did not add anything more.

  “Why Sadie’s?” Henry persisted.

  “Because he feeds her the cocaine she needs,” Lucien replied quietly.

  “And Rosa?”

  “She didn’t use it.”

  “Why does he feed Sadie cocaine?” Henry persisted.

  Lucien did not reply but Squeaky could see him chewing his lip, biting. It must have hurt, but clearly less than the pain that burned inside him.

  “She lures the kind of men few other women can,” he replied reluctantly. “And she keeps them. They come again and again.” A wry self-mockery lit his eyes and then went out.

  Henry put his hand on Lucien’s wrist, gripping him gently, but without allowing escape. “And why does he want you? What do you do for him that she can’t?”

  Crow turned to look from Henry to Lucien. For an instant Squeaky thought he was going to interrupt. The wretchedness in Lucien’s face was now so consuming that he half-thought of intervening himself.

  Then Crow leaned back again, saying nothing.

  “I bring a different sort of people,” Lucien said at last. “People with other tastes: torture, voyeurism, bondage. I didn’t bring them enough though. Some things sicken even me. Perhaps if I had brought them, Shadwell wouldn’t have killed whoever it was.”

  “Who was it, Lucien? Niccolo? Rosa? Or Sadie?” Henry asked him.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Who is Niccolo?” Squeaky put in. “Did you bring him here?”

  “Yes,” Lucien said quietly. “Months ago.”

  “Who is he?” Squeaky insisted.

  “A young man with social pretensions,” Lucien said with slight contempt. “His father made a lot of money in trade of some sort.”

  “So why’s he here in this gutter, then, not in Society?” Henry said. He glanced to left and right. “This is hardly pretentious.”

  “You’ve got to be born into the sort of Society he’s aiming at. You can’t buy your way in.
I don’t know his history, and I don’t care.” Lucien half-turned away.

  Squeaky grabbed Lucien’s shoulder and dug his fingers into his flesh.

  Lucien winced and cried out.

  “Don’t you get superior with us, you useless little toad!” Squeaky hissed at him. “Who else’ve you brought to Shadwell?”

  “Only those who were more than willing.”

  This time Lucien was angry.

  “Did Niccolo come for drugs, torture, or just women? Sadie in particular?”

  “Women,” Lucien said. “Sadie wasn’t for him.”

  “Rosa?”

  “Yes. He liked Rosa. She was pretty as well, very pretty. But there was a kind of innocence about her, where Sadie could make you believe she knew everything there was to know about pleasure, from the beginning of man and woman—from Eden.” For a moment Lucien’s memory seemed to drift back into another time.

  “Were they on cocaine as well?” Crow asked.

  With an effort Lucien forced his attention back to the present. “Who, Rosa? Not so far as I know.”

  “And Niccolo?”

  “Brandy and cocaine.”

  “From Shadwell?”

  “Probably.”

  “What else did he want from you? What do you do for him that makes you worth his time and his best woman? Sadie was the best woman, wasn’t she?” Henry persisted.

  “Yes.”

  “Lucien!”

  “He wanted me to bring in better, richer people, friends from my own social class, young men with money who are bored with the tame pleasures of Society.” He shrugged very slightly, to avoid causing pain to his wound. “Men who want to escape the predictable, the safe marriage to some nice, tedious young woman and the endless round of the same dinner parties, the same food, and the same conversation for the rest of their lives. They want wild dreams, passion, discovery of new places of the mind, fevers of the imagination and the senses.”

  “They want the poppy, or cocaine.” Henry summed it up. “To give them the dreams they can’t create for themselves. Then what are they going to do when they wake up, and all that is left is ashes?”

  “Take some more,” Lucien said huskily. “I know that. I didn’t do what he wanted, which may be why Niccolo might be dead. To teach me the cost of disobedience.”

  “So Niccolo was dispensable?” Henry asked with a touch of bitterness.

  Lucien looked angry, and his expression was answer enough.

  Squeaky stood up, his knees creaking. He was cold and sore and so tired he could have slept almost anywhere, except this filthy sty.

  “Right. Then we’ve got to find Niccolo, or Rosa, whichever of them is still alive,” he said to all of them. He pointed at Lucien. “You’re staying here. You’re too sick to be any use, even if we trusted you—which we don’t. And someone’s got to look after you, which had better be Bessie. You do whatever she says.”

  He lowered his voice to a grim whisper. “And if you hurt her, or let anyone else hurt her, believe me, you’d rather fall into Shadow Man’s hands than mine. He has some use for you, so he probably won’t kill you. You’re nothing to me, so I’ll kill you in a heartbeat—except I won’t. I’ll do it slow. Got that?”

  Lucien smiled, a little crookedly, but there was warmth to it, no self-pity. “I believe you,” he answered. “If Shadwell gets you, which I expect he will, I suppose you expect me to get her back to some kind of world above this one?”

  Squeaky was startled. It was the last answer he had looked for. “Yes,” he agreed. “That’s just what we expect.”

  Lucien’s very quiet laugh ended in a cough. “Poor Bessie. God help her.”

  Bessie stiffened.

  “Never mind God!” Squeaky snapped. “You’re all we’ve got—so you’ll do it!”

  They bought a good supply of food: mostly bread, cheese, and a little sausage. Henry found enough firewood to keep the stove going, barely, for a couple of days. Crow rebandaged Lucien’s wound, then Henry, Squeaky, and Crow left the room quietly and set out on the quest to find Shadwell.

  They descended farther into the world of pleasures.

  “It’s pointless,” Squeaky warned. “Even if we find this Shadwell, he can’t help Lucien, and he isn’t going to try.”

  He was walking beside Henry as they came to the bottom of a flight of steps and turned left along a passageway with little alleys off to either side. The sound of laughter drifted from the left, along with the smells of wine, smoke, and human sweat, and something else indefinably sickly.

  They both stopped.

  “This Shadwell isn’t keeping Lucien here against his will, you know,” Squeaky said to Henry. “Finding him isn’t going to do any good.”

  Henry ignored him, walking again with his hands in his pockets, shoulders hunched. It was bitterly cold down here and they were eager to reach a place crowded with people.

  In one of the cellars it was definitely warmer, but the air was so thick with opium fumes it made Henry gag. Even Crow put his scarf around his mouth. In the dim light they saw more than twenty figures sprawled in a mockery of repose. Some seemed conscious, though not fully aware. Their eyes were glazed; they saw nothing of their surroundings, only the hectic world within their own minds.

  Henry tried speaking to one or two of them but received no answers of which he could make any sense.

  “Don’t bother,” Squeaky told him. “They wouldn’t know their own mothers. Come to think of it, they probably never did. We aren’t going to find Shadow Man here. The poppy’s his servant, not his master. We’ll do better going after the whorehouses. At least the customers will still be conscious.”

  Crow peered into the faces of some of the smokers. They were mostly men but included a few women. “He’s right,” he conceded. “This lot can’t tell us anything.”

  They turned to leave, but found their way blocked by a bald-headed man with tattoos on his neck and the parts of his hands that they could see. His right thumb was missing.

  “And what would you be doing in ’ere?” he said with a pronounced lisp, as if his tongue were malformed. “Yer lookin’ ter come ’ere without payin’, then? That ain’t the way it works, gents. Yer come in, yer pays.”

  “We smoke, we pay,” Squeaky told him tersely.

  “Yer come in, yer pays,” the man repeated. He jerked his hand sideways sharply and another figure loomed out of the haze to join him.

  Henry put his hand into his inside pocket to find money.

  “Yer wanna watch ’im!” Squeaky warned, seizing Henry’s arm and holding it hard to prevent him from moving. He felt him wince. He would apologize later. Right now he must stop him from revealing that he had any money, or they would all be robbed blind, and lucky to get out uninjured. His instinct was to fight, and they couldn’t win. These men would be armed with knives and razors, and possibly garottes as well. Opium was expensive, and therefore worth protecting. Henry had no idea what he was dealing with. With an ounce of a brain Squeaky could have stopped this idiocy before it got this far. He was getting slow, and that was his own fault. He was out of practice. Out of brains, more like.

  “ ’E works for Shadow Man,” he said to the others, but nodding his head at Henry. “ ’E looks like ’e’s a gent, and ’e was, once. And them that started as gents, when they hit the gutter, they’re worse than them as was born in it. ’E used to be a surgeon. What ’e can do with a knife,” he held his finger and thumb a couple of inches apart, “just a little, very, very sharp knife,” he said, shuddering, “you wouldn’t want to know about.”

  Henry froze, his jaw dropped in amazement.

  Crow smiled, showing all his teeth. “We call him the Bleeder.” He caught the spirit of the act. “Looks like butter wouldn’t melt, don’t he?” He regarded Henry admiringly. “Looks like that until he gets right up close to you. Then it’s too late.” He raised his right hand so quickly the bald man did not even see it until it was almost at his throat, and then gone again before he co
uld thrust it away.

  Crow’s smile widened.

  “Oh, really!” Henry protested.

  Squeaky looked at Henry sternly. “No, Bleeder! Not this time. ’E’s only trying it on. ’E don’t mean it.” He turned to the bald man. “Do you, sir? Say you don’t, an’ I’ll get ’im out of ’ere, no trouble, no blood. Blood’s no good for business. People come ’ere for a little peace, a little escape. Blood puts ’em right off.”

  “Don’t you come back, or I’ll get you next time!” The bald man said it grimly, but there was no conviction in his voice. He stepped back, leaving them plenty of room.

  As one, Crow and Squeaky took Henry by both arms and swung him around. Then they marched him back up the stairs into the alley, right to the far end and out into the narrow square before letting him go.

  The fog was growing thicker, and the cobbles were slick with ice. The lamps in the street ahead were almost invisible, little more than smudges against the darkness.

  “That was preposterous!” Henry exclaimed, but even in this dim light it was clear to see that he was smiling. “What on earth would you have done if he’d not believed you?”

  “Put me fingers in his eyes,” Squeaky said without hesitation. “But that could have ended real nasty.”

  “We’d better keep moving,” Crow advised. “We can’t afford to have one of that lot catch up with us.”

  “We want either Rosa or Sadie, whichever of them is alive,” Squeaky said. “I’m thinking they aren’t bought by just anyone with enough money. I’ll wager anything you like that they do the choosing, not the clients, although they might think they do. Shadwell doesn’t find their customers for them, they find them for him.”

  “You’re right,” Crow agreed. “So how do we get to where they’ll find us?”

  Squeaky gave him a disparaging look, which was largely wasted because the light was too dim for Crow to see it.

  “Yeah? An’ which one of us is a woman like Sadie going to go for, then?” Squeaky asked sarcastically.

  “Definitely Crow,” Henry replied without hesitation. “You and I are too old, and don’t look the part anyway.”

  Crow’s jaw fell. He struggled for words but none came to him. For once even his smile failed him.