Wild Boy and the Black Terror

by Rob Lloyd Jones

  Wild Boy shook the hand away, harder than he had meant to. Lucien stepped back.

  Clear your head. Concentrate.

  “We’ll keep all the guests in this ballroom,” Wild Boy said, looking to Lucien. “Get some of your Gentlemen to dress as servants. They can be among them, serving drinks.”

  “Serving drinks?” Wiggins complained, his voice reaching a falsetto. “Drinks are served in the refreshment room.”

  “There ain’t no refreshment room tonight,” Wild Boy said. He stopped himself from shouting at Wiggins, aware that he needed the man’s help.

  “But these events are structured in a particular way,” Wiggins protested. “The husbands collect the programmes, and then there is the polonaise, and the…” He sighed. “Do you know what any of this means?”

  “No, I dunno what anything you’re saying means, mister. Don’t know about high society, dinners or dances or nothing like that.”

  “Then what does someone like you know about?”

  “Catching killers.”

  Wiggins was about to speak, but the words caught in his throat. His posture slumped, as if the plank had suddenly been swiped from his back. “Did you say killers?”

  “Thank you, Wiggins,” Lucien said. “That will be all for now.”

  Wild Boy was glad to see the floor manager scuttle away. He wished Lucien would do the same. This was going to be hard enough without him breathing his stale breath down Wild Boy’s neck. At least they had agreed to work together. But Wild Boy felt so weak. It was as if, without Clarissa, he was only half a person.

  Lucien checked his pocket watch. “Ten past eight. The guests arrive in fifty minutes. So, Wild Boy, where do we begin?”

  28

  “The staff,” Wild Boy said. “We’ll start with the staff.”

  Buckingham Palace usually kept a staff of around a hundred men and women. Tonight, every one of them was a potential danger. The killer could sneak into the palace disguised as a royal footman or a groom. So all but ten of the staff had been given the night off. That left three maids to attend the Queen, four servants to train the Gentlemen in their disguises as waiters, two for guiding carriages and Wiggins – the Royal Floor Manager – to announce guests as they arrived.

  These men and women were gathered in a line on the dance floor, together with the members of the string orchestra. Wild Boy had to be sure they could all be trusted, and that they were sharp enough to spot trouble.

  As he walked along the line, each of the servants stepped back and drew a breath. They had been told the Wild Boy of London was here, but had all assumed it was a joke.

  Wild Boy stopped by one of the grooms. His gaze roved around the man’s clothes and then lingered on his leathery face. He saw a missed button on his shirt, and a white spot below his left ear. Shaving cream.

  “Eyes ain’t too good, are they?” he asked the man.

  “I cannot afford spectacles.”

  Wild Boy glanced at Lucien. A servant with bad eyesight was no use in a hunt for a killer. Better he was out of the way. Lucien gave a signal, and the groom was invited to enjoy an evening’s rest from his usual duties.

  Wild Boy continued his inspection, examining the servants and musicians in the glare of the ballroom’s chandeliers. “He’s all right… She’s good…”

  He stopped at a pretty parlour maid who was only a little taller than he was, and leaned close to smell her arm.

  “You stink of perfume,” he said. “And you’ve cleaned your nails. Meeting your lover tonight in secret, right?” He looked at the other servants along the line. “Anyone know who the lover is?”

  They shook their heads furiously.

  “Could be the killer in disguise,” Wild Boy said, thinking aloud. “Using that way to sneak in.”

  The girl, too stunned to respond, allowed herself to be led from the ballroom.

  That left eight servants and the orchestra. Wild Boy smiled at the group and one of the musicians fainted. “Maybe get rid of him an’ all,” he muttered.

  “We have forty-five minutes,” Lucien said. “What next?”

  All of the Gentlemen stood behind him, waiting for instructions.

  Think. Concentrate.

  “Windows,” Wild Boy said. “Everyone follow me.”

  At first no one did. Instead they all looked to Lucien, seeking confirmation of the order.

  “Don’t look at me,” Lucien barked. “Do what the boy says.”

  The Gentlemen followed Wild Boy around the ballroom, examining latches and locks and peering out to window ledges. The patio doors were framed by heavy red curtains that were bunched in drapes, like stage curtains opening for a show. The show was snow – lots of snow pattering against the glass and settling thickly beyond the porch.

  Wild Boy selected ten of the Gentlemen. “You lot are window patrol. All of these windows gotta stay locked. No one gets in or out. Look here, where the snow’s piled up on the ledges outside. These windows open outwards. That snow means no one’s opened them, so no one’s got in that way.”

  “But how on earth will we catch the killer unless he gets inside?”

  “We gotta see the killer to catch him,” Wild Boy said. “If we keep these windows closed, then he’s got to come in through the ballroom door, same as the guests.”

  “What if a lady swoons?” one of the men asked.

  “Let her swoon. Better than getting the terror.”

  He felt another twist in his gut. He knew he should have been enjoying this, a chance to order the Gentlemen about. But without Clarissa it felt so wrong.

  Don’t think about it. Stay focused.

  He shouted to Wiggins in the doorway. “Any secret passages into this room we should know about?”

  Wiggins scoffed. “Why would there be a secret passage?”

  “I dunno, usually one, ain’t there?”

  “Not in Buckingham Palace there is not.”

  “All right.” Wild Boy jumped onto one of the velvet benches beside the dance floor and addressed the Gentlemen who weren’t checking the windows. “You lot are on candle duty. Whatever causes the terror burns with black smoke, we know that much.”

  “But what is it that burns?” one of the men asked.

  “Don’t know that yet. Maybe fiddled candles or some sort of oil. We gotta check every light in this place, anything with a flame. Make sure they ain’t got nothing suspicious about them. They should be orange-almond–oil candles, like these, and smell sweet like marzipan. Any ain’t got that smell, come and get me. Oh, and don’t go breathing its smoke.”

  “Or what?”

  “Or you’ll see your worst nightmares and die.”

  “I… Oh.”

  Wild Boy jumped down, spoke to two others. “You and you, guard the fire. No one throws nothing on the flames. Anyone tries, grab ’em. Could be the killer.”

  “Forty minutes till the guests arrive,” Lucien said. “The artist is here.”

  A short man was brought forward, dressed in a flowing white shirt with lace ruffles and a starched collar so high it tickled his cheeks. When he saw Wild Boy he screamed for five seconds, then lit a thin cigarette.

  “I am here to see you?” he asked.

  “Can you draw?” Wild Boy said.

  “Draw? I am Franz Winterhalter. I have exhibited at the Salon de Paris.”

  “Good for you. I’m gonna describe two people and I want you to draw their faces. Only we gotta work fast.”

  “I assume this is a joke?”

  Wild Boy stepped closer and plucked the cigarette from the man’s lips. It was something he’d seen Marcus do to signal impatience, and it worked. The artist’s eyes bulged and he coughed smoke.

  “Do I look like I’m joking?” Wild Boy said. “Lucien tells me that if you do this, then you’re the right man for the Queen’s next portrait. So are you gonna get out your pencils or should we send for someone else?”

  The artist nodded several times. “Only, I sketch in ink, not pencil.”r />
  For fifteen minutes Wild Boy described Gideon and Dr Carew to the artist in as much detail as he could. The drawings wouldn’t be perfect, but they’d at least give the servants an idea of who to watch out for. He didn’t bother to describe Spencer. Surely his mask or burned face would be enough to give him away.

  Winterhalter set to work with his inkpot and quill.

  “Twenty-five minutes,” Lucien said. “Where is the Queen’s jeweller?”

  The next man brought forward was tall and thin, with a single strand of hair slicked across an otherwise bald head. He carried a small cushion with a tiara for the Queen, a nest of pearls with the last black diamond set in the middle. Beneath the chandeliers, the jewel shone brighter than ever, dazzling Wild Boy’s eyes.

  “I understand this is a delicate matter,” the jeweller said, in an appropriately delicate tone. “But please tell me, is this diamond Oberstein’s work? I cannot imagine anyone else cutting a stone with such skill.”

  Wild Boy glanced at Lucien, who shook his head so firmly that his jowls wobbled. No one could know anything about that stone.

  “Thank you,” Wild Boy said to the jeweller. “Thank you for doing this.”

  The jeweller handed the tiara to one of the Gentlemen, and was led away.

  Twenty minutes.

  Wild Boy followed the Gentleman carrying the tiara, out of the ballroom, through the gallery and then up the Grand Staircase. The corridor on the first floor was as extravagant as the rooms below, with golden stucco squares on white wallpaper, like frames without paintings.

  Two Gentlemen guarding a door snapped to attention. “Password,” one of them demanded.

  The Gentleman with the tiara said, “Clarissa.”

  The door was unlocked and one of the maids accepted the jewelled headpiece. Beyond her, Wild Boy glimpsed the Queen at a dresser, considering her own reflection in the mirror. A sad, lost look filled her eyes, which had sunken even deeper into her face. Was she was thinking about Marcus?

  The Queen spotted Wild Boy in the looking glass, and her face changed in a way that only he would notice. Just a slight narrowing of her eyes and purse of her lips, but its meaning was clear.

  Catch the killer or you are finished.

  The door closed and the lock turned. Wild Boy should have been reassured. The Queen was guarded in a room with no windows. But minute by minute his confidence was crumbling.

  The plan was for the Queen to emerge at ten o’clock and descend to the ballroom to greet her guests. That gave the Gentlemen an hour to find the killer. If they failed, Her Majesty would appear in her tiara, presenting the killer with a target and the Gentlemen with their best chance of catching him. But Wild Boy knew that Lucien would never place the Queen in such danger. He wouldn’t even give her a choice. If they hadn’t caught the killer by ten o’clock, she would remain right there, in her room.

  That meant they had one hour – and only one hour – to find the killer.

  Downstairs, a rush of panic swept around the ballroom as the Gentlemen made their final preparations for the guests’ arrival. Some donned their disguises: the white coats and gloves of royal servants. Others rechecked windows and lights. They had turned the ballroom into a mini-fortress. If everything went as planned, the killer would have to enter the same way as the guests. Surely he would be seen.

  But still, Wild Boy couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d missed something.

  His heart sank deeper as the artist presented his sketches, unveiling them as if they were paintings at the Royal Academy. Neither ink drawing caught the likenesses of Dr Carew or Gideon. Hoping they might still help, Wild Boy asked one of the Gentlemen to show them around.

  The Gentleman stared at the drawings. “What are these for?” he asked.

  “To help spot the suspects.”

  “I am not sure these will help.”

  “Have you got a better idea?” Wild Boy snapped.

  The man stepped back, his face turning as red as the ballroom walls. “No, I mean… You have seen the invitation to the ball, haven’t you?”

  Wild Boy hadn’t thought to ask. “Why?”

  The man brought a slip of card from his pocket and offered it with a shaky hand. “I thought you were aware,” he said.

  Wild Boy didn’t want to take it. But he had to look.

  The card slipped from Wild Boy’s hand. His legs felt so weak that he gripped the wall for support. Why hadn’t he known about this? Why hadn’t he asked?

  “It’s a masked ball?” he said.

  29

  The ballroom walls swirled. The golden griffins darkened. Their wings spread and claws stretched as they changed into monstrous crows.

  Wild Boy rubbed his eyes, and the room returned to normal. He stared at the invitation on the floor. He’d thought he was ready, thought he’d covered all the angles. But he’d overlooked the most important factor of the evening. How was he going to spot the killer at a masked ball?

  The stitches in his head began to throb again. His breathing grew faster. He needed to escape this place, to get some air. He barged past several Gentlemen and rushed along the gallery and back to the palace entrance.

  Outside, the snow fell harder, hissing against the forecourt lamps. Wild Boy stepped from under the porch and in seconds his hair was covered in a thin layer of white. His teeth chattered from the cold, but he didn’t care. He was glad to feel something other than painful guilt and heavy responsibility.

  He was in charge of this case – in charge of the Gentlemen – and yet he had never felt so alone. He tried to remember Marcus’s advice, but this time the words didn’t come.

  “The snow is turning black,” a voice said.

  Lucien sheltered under the porch, smoking a cigar.

  They stood in silence, watching the snow settle around the forecourt. Clusters of polluted flakes were swept by the wind, like flocks of starlings swirling among the white. Through the blizzard, a carriage light came closer.

  “The first guests,” Lucien said. “Are you ready?”

  Wild Boy didn’t feel ready, didn’t feel anything other than panic. It was as if the cold had got through his skin, turning his insides to ice. “What if the killer doesn’t come?” he said.

  “He will.”

  “How can you know?”

  “Me? Training, instinct. Thirty years of it. For you it is just natural. This is what you do best.”

  Lucien tossed his cigar, a fiery arc that hit the snow and fizzled out. “There is something you should see.”

  Wild Boy didn’t want to go. Whatever Lucien wanted to show him, he was certain it was another problem. But then he saw something he’d never seen before. Lucien smiled. It looked unnatural, a little forced, but it was definitely a smile.

  “You should come,” Lucien said.

  Instead of turning towards the ballroom, Lucien led him in the other direction, along a corridor lined with marble statues of Greek gods. He banged on a door at the end.

  A moment passed. The door opened.

  It was another lavishly decorated chamber, with green satin drapes on the walls. A fire blazed in the hearth, and the windows were steamy rather than frosty. The blast of warmth disorientated Wild Boy so that at first he didn’t recognize what he saw.

  There were three men. Two were physicians, with leather bags and medical equipment on a table. The third man lay on a chaise longue beside the fire.

  “Marcus!” Wild Boy said.

  He rushed to his guardian and crouched by his side. In the firelight, Marcus’s face was as pale and waxy as a corpse, aside from the black veins that bulged from his skin. Some of the bloodlines had branched into smaller veins, and branched again. The darkness was spreading.

  Wild Boy took his hand. He could feel Marcus’s pulse going triple speed. He wished more than ever that Clarissa were here. She would want to see him.

  “Her Majesty insisted he was brought here rather than a hospital,” Lucien explained. “These physicians are the finest i
n the world.”

  Wild Boy looked at the two men hopefully, but he knew they had no way of curing Marcus. Only the killer had the cure.

  “His condition has deteriorated,” one of the physicians said. “His heart is struggling to take the strain of the horrors he is experiencing.”

  “Lucien has explained your situation,” the other doctor said. “You hope to catch the killer, to get the cure. But you do not necessarily need the cure, you realize?”

  The physician took an instrument from his bag, a steel plunger and glass vial. A bronze needle jutted from the top, capped with a cork. “Do you know what this is?”

  “A syringe?” Wild Boy said.

  “Precisely. You said the killer had already taken a cure, which was how he survived in Lady Bentick’s dining room. That means the cure is still in his blood. If you can catch him, all we need is a sample of that blood – take it from his neck. From that, we can develop a cure of our own.”

  Wild Boy could hardly believe this. It felt like fire rising inside him. “You could do that? In time to…”

  He was unable to finish the sentence, but the doctors understood. In time to save Marcus.

  “We hope so,” one of them replied. “That is as much as we can say. More importantly, we would have a cure in case this madman succeeds in spreading his poison over the city.”

  It was enough for Wild Boy. Hope. Fresh hope. He squeezed Marcus’s hand tighter, making a silent promise. One way or the other he would catch the killer tonight.

  Lucien rubbed steam from the window. Outside, a carriage rode through the marble arch and into the forecourt of Buckingham Palace. The ball was about to begin.

  “There is one more problem,” Lucien said. He turned to Wild Boy. “Our plan relies on you detecting the killer, which means you must be there among the ball. So what the Devil are you going to wear?”

  30

  “I present Lord and Lady Bisquith.”

  Wiggins bolted up even straighter as he announced the latest guests to arrive at the ball. The Lord and Lady strutted together across the ballroom dance floor, gloved hands raised and fingertips touching.