Dark Dawn Over Steep House

by M. R. C. Kasasian

  Reclining, I put the open end to my mouth and sucked, drawing the incense deep into my lungs, holding that familiar coolness as long as I could until exhaling through my nose to gather the last of its essence before it wisped into the darkness.

  The effect was immediate – a complete unfathomable happiness, an intense sense of hope, a great surge of bliss. I was aware that the men were watching me, but I felt nothing other than the profound wonderment that comes over all indulgers of the sacred flower.

  How could I have forgotten how paradise seeps from the bulb of a poppy? I sucked again and let the breath of angels flood into my body, drawing me back into my pillow, sinking me into myself, closing my eyes with such a delicious drowsiness that I hardly heard the key turn in the door.

  Somebody spoke. ‘Turn up the light.’ And as the gas flared I opened my eyes to see silhouettes taking form, blurred shapes coming into focus, one tall and wiry, blond with a tanned complexion, the other even taller and barrel-chested, more mature, both standing looking at me. The second man’s lips were full and sensual, the upper carrying waxed military moustaches, his hair black and cropped short, and I tried to tell myself that it was just my pipe and the poor light that made him look handsome. I smiled sleepily.

  The second man did not smile back. He walked up and looked down at me as one might assess a prize pig. ‘Mein Gott, she is a plain one.’

  And, all of a sudden, he did not seem quite so attractive, his leer forking off in a livid scar. He prodded my waist with his cane. ‘Not much meat on her.’ He turned to his companion. ‘You vill have to do better than this if I am to use you again.’

  The younger man flapped his hands. ‘It is like fishing. Sometimes you pull out a Dover sole, sometimes a lamprey.’

  ‘Next time catch me a salmon, something I can get my teeth into.’

  The older man sniffed and reached down to stroke my cheek with the back of his hand. I slapped it away.

  ‘Do not touch me.’

  He grabbed hold of my hair. ‘She has spirit. I like that better than the vilting English roses they usually bring me, who beg and veep and svoon. You will give me a bit of a fight, vill you not, my little one?’

  He grasped under my head and pulled me up, his face so close I could smell his cologne. Few Englishmen would have worn that.

  ‘Let go.’ I clawed at his face but he grasped my wrist, pulling me easily away.

  ‘That hurt a little.’ He dabbed his nostril where my nail had caught it. ‘Do you like pain, girl? I can supply it in plenty.’ His fingers clawed into my hair and twisted it and I winced, but I would not cry out. He let go and I fell back.

  ‘I think that is enough.’ The young man’s voice took a hard edge.

  The Germanic man blinked like a lizard. ‘Getting a fit of conscience?’ he mocked. ‘Vell it is late for that, my fellow. Your money is on the mantle shelf. Take it and go. Vee shall never do business again.’

  The younger man looked at him coolly. ‘You will leave her alone now.’

  The tall man laughed. ‘And how vill you make me?’

  ‘Before you start a fight . . .’ I pulled my skirts just above my knee. The younger man averted his eyes in embarrassment but the other appraised me critically.

  ‘Nice legs,’ he purred.

  I found my garter – ‘Thank you’ – and whipped out my revolver, the one I had taken from Johnny Wallace.

  The German raised his eyebrows and depressed his moustaches. ‘Do you know how to use that?’

  ‘Enough to put a bullet through your heart,’ I bluffed, and he eyed me with amusement. ‘Or brain – if you have one.’

  ‘This is ridiculous,’ he said calmly and jerked his head towards the younger man. ‘If you vant more we can negotiate.’

  I got to my feet, keeping the gun aimed straight at him.

  ‘We can negotiate better at the police station,’ the younger man told him.

  The tall man frowned. ‘You are not looking like a – vot do you call them? – peeler.’

  ‘That is because I am not.’

  ‘Vot then?’

  ‘Your nemesis,’ I said.

  The German man looked momentarily nonplussed but he recovered quickly. ‘My men are up the stairs and they are many and armed. Do you think you can take me out of here and through the streets of London like a valk in Hyde Park – you, a girl and he,’ he vibrated his lips, ‘hardly more than a boy?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said.

  The young man clenched his jaw. ‘Shall I take the gun now?’

  Two of the lamps burned out in quick succession.

  ‘No, thank you, Peter.’

  ‘I had a servant called Dieter.’ The older man tipped his head back. ‘He displeased me and I had him flogged.’

  ‘Why, you arrogant . . .’ My companion bunched his fist.

  ‘I have a servant called Molly,’ I told the older man. ‘She is a good-hearted woman and might even visit you in prison.’

  ‘You are making a stupid mistake,’ he sneered.

  ‘It is you who have made the mistake,’ Peter assured him.

  ‘And if I even think you are signalling to anybody . . .’ I linked my left arm through the German’s, pushing the barrel under my cloak into his ribs and trying not to look unnerved by how much he towered. ‘I must warn you that I have a very nervous finger, Your Highness.’

  The German man’s lips drooped. ‘You are knowing me? That could be very awkward.’ He blinked lazily. ‘For you.’

  ‘We have known you for a long time, Prince Ulrich,’ my companion said. ‘But we never had any proof.’

  The prince reappraised me. ‘Pity,’ he said. ‘You may be plain but we could haff had such sport.’

  ‘My sister is still housebound because of your sport.’ Peter came towards him. ‘My God, if I had that gun!’

  Which was exactly why he had not.

  ‘Better to let him live.’ I reasoned, ‘and suffer for what he did.’

  ‘Vich one voz she?’ Schlangezahn enquired as one might discuss a mutual acquaintance.

  ‘The one who will put you behind bars,’ I told him. ‘Now, perhaps you could escort me to the police station.’

  The prince’s face was impassive and he bowed from the waist. ‘The pleasure, dear lady, is all mine.’

  ‘Move, damn you,’ Peter urged impatiently.

  ‘Haff some respect,’ the prince reproved mildly. ‘There is a lady present.’

  29

  The Stairs to the Stars

  THE STAIRCASE PRESENTED our first problem. It was steeper than I remembered and ran straight up a narrow gap between two walls. There had hardly been room for me to pass down in my flounced-out skirts and bustle, let alone walk two abreast.

  ‘I shall go first,’ I decided, ‘and you shall bring up the rear, Mr Hockaday.’

  ‘Hockaday,’ Prince Ulrich mused. ‘I rarely know their names but this one caused me trouble.’

  ‘She has hardly begun,’ Peter vowed, as I put my foot on the first step.

  We moved up crabwise so that I was up three steps before my prisoner was on the first. His face was slightly lower than mine and I could look into his eyes, deep and dark with a hint of amusement.

  Muffled voices came down the stairwell.

  ‘I do not believe you vill kill me.’ His lips pouted disdainfully.

  ‘There is one sure way to find out.’ I edged up another step.

  The prince stumbled and I dug the muzzle in.

  ‘I believe you,’ he promised hastily.

  The talking grew louder, men’s voices raised in banter and breaking into laughter. My right shoulder touched the door at the top and I realized that I had a problem. The door had a round wooden handle. Obviously I could not turn that with my elbow and I could not use my right hand.

  ‘Do not put me to the test,’ I warned and unlinked my arm from his, keeping the gun firmly in place.

  ‘If you shoot me, my friends will kill you both, and they are cruel men,’ Prin
ce Ulrich assured me.

  ‘Then you had better behave,’ Peter Hockaday warned, ‘or we shall all die.’

  I twisted my torso, not taking my eyes off the prince. ‘You will speak English.’ I found the handle with my left hand. ‘Here goes,’ I breathed, mainly to myself, and twisted the handle.

  The door creaked and I linked my arm through his again.

  ‘Ulrich,’ a deep voice cried merrily. Sidney Grice would have been able to translate his next remark but I did not have much German. I think he commented how quick the prince had been, and that another voice asked if he’d had good sport.

  ‘Speak English in the lady’s presence,’ the prince instructed.

  The door swung open and I saw three of them, two sitting, and one standing over the ‘Chinaman’ at his desk. Foo/Jones stared at me and wet his lips, nonplussed and then amused. He put his hands together and bowed.

  ‘Aber voz. . .’ A striking redheaded young man in a long maroon cloak eyed us in surprise.

  ‘It is all gutt,’ the prince assured them. ‘Vee are just going for the valk.’

  ‘Aber,’ the young man began again, and then some more. I understood none of it but his tone was clearly suspicious.

  We shuffled up.

  ‘Nein nein,’ Prince Ulrich assured him. ‘Vee go alone.’

  We were in the room now and it was obvious from their uneasy glances that they were suspicious. Peter Hockaday came up after us.

  ‘Guten abend herren,’ he greeted the group cheerily and their puzzlement increased.

  I got to the door with my prisoner and he pulled it open. The red-haired man grabbed Peter’s arm.

  ‘Vot is going on?’ he demanded.

  ‘We are.’ Peter tried to shrug him off but the man tightened his grip.

  Jones did his best oriental inscrutability, but I saw him slide open a drawer without taking his brown eyes off me and I was not going to wait to find out what he kept in there.

  ‘We are leaving,’ I insisted quietly.‘Now’

  ‘Release him,’ Prince Ulrich commanded his companion and the red-haired man let go of Peter. ‘Oh, I nearly forgot.’

  He reached into his coat pocket and I dug the muzzle in, but the prince produced a black cloth bag with a drawstring, and I heard the coins clink as Jones/Chang caught it.

  The moon glowed full that night and countless stars burned unimaginably far away, but all the lights of heaven could not penetrate the black misery that went by the name of Limehouse.

  30

  The Old Biscuit Warehouse

  I KNEW THAT WE had almost no hope of hailing a cab in that area, which is why I had arranged for Gerry Dawson to take us. Gerry was an ex-policeman and one of the very few drivers I could rely upon completely. My trust was not displaced for, as we rounded the corner to the site of the old biscuit warehouse, I saw his hansom still waiting by the half-tumbled unloading bay, his piebald mare, Meg, in harness. Her back was sagging and she stood with her front left leg raised from a strained hock. It was not that he treated her cruelly – for his wife joked that he loved his horse more than her – but Meg was getting old and a life of hauling heavy loads was beginning to show.

  Gerry looked down from his high seat at the back. ‘Didn’t know you was reelin’ in such a big bloater. We’ll never get the three of you aboard.’

  ‘We cannot leave Miss Middleton here unaccompanied.’ Peter Hockaday hesitated. ‘But I am worried about her riding in your cab with him.’

  Gerry Dawson pulled the lever to unfasten the flaps. ‘Don’t you worry about the Frenchy. I can deal with him.’

  ‘I am a Prussian officer,’ Prince Ulrich expostulated, ‘of noble lineage.’

  Gerry shrugged. ‘It’s all the same to me. Foreigners are Scots or French and you ain’t wearing a kilt.’ He gestured with his whip handle. ‘Hop on.’

  I let go of the prince’s arm and he heaved himself on to the footboard.

  ‘If anything should happen to Miss Middleton. . .’ Peter warned our prisoner, but Prince Ulrich sneered.

  ‘It is not I who vill be afraid ven my friends find out vot has happened.’

  ‘Those posturing dandies?’ I scorned, ignoring the hand he put out to help me aboard and keeping my revolver trained on my captive.

  ‘Is that weapon loaded?’ Gerry leaned away.

  ‘It certainly is.’

  ‘Only you won’t shoot Meg?’ he asked uneasily, having heard about my expertise with firearms.

  ‘I have had lessons.’ I scrambled aboard, slightly ashamed at how easily the lies tumbled out.

  The prince looked about. ‘Who is Meg?”

  ‘Your kind of girl,’ I told him. ‘Black hair halfway down her back.’

  He pursed his lips. ‘I prefer blondes.’

  I squeezed in beside him, pulling the flap shut after me. Gerry double-clicked his tongue and we edged into the cobbled square.

  ‘Don’t go wanderin’,’ he cautioned Peter. ‘Stand under the shelter. You won’t be seen there and I’ll be back before you can spit.’

  ‘Be careful, March.’

  ‘It is not me who will need protection when we meet again.’ I wagged a finger. ‘Lamprey indeed.’

  ‘Sorry about that.’ Peter grinned boyishly, tipped his hat and disappeared into the shadows.

  ‘Do not worry,’ the prince said. ‘I shall be making very good care of you both.’ And there was nothing boyish or reassuring in his smile.

  31

  The Curious Case of the Coughing Dog

  SEARGENT HORWICH WAS on duty as we made our way into Marylebone Police Station.

  ‘Gerry,’ he called brightly, though it was after three in the morning by the clock behind his counter. ‘Come to rejoin the force?’

  ‘Not likely.’ Gerry Dawson grinned. ‘I’d rather enjoy a pint with people than arrest them.’

  We all knew that Gerry had not touched alcohol since Sidney Grice had rescued him from sleeping in doorways.

  ‘Miss Middleton.’ The sergeant greeted me warmly for Mr G and I had kept him from ruin too. He eyed the way I stood armin-arm with the prince in surprise. ‘Who’s the gentleman friend?’ ‘Neither a gentleman nor a friend,’ I replied.

  ‘You will be all right now?’ Gerry asked me.

  ‘I am sure Sergeant Horwich will look after me. Thank you for getting us here, Gerry.’

  ‘I’ll go back then.’ He nodded to his old colleague.

  Was there a wistfulness in the way Gerry Dawson viewed his old haunt as he set off? I thought so, but I was busy keeping hold of my prisoner.

  ‘I wish to press charges,’ I told the sergeant, ‘against this man for attempting to violate me.’

  The sergeant studied us both. ‘’E don’t look that desperate.’

  ‘Nor am I,’ the prince said coldly. ‘I am Prince Ulrich Albrecht Sigismund Schlangezahn, cousin to Kaiser Wilhelm, Emperor of Prussia, and, if you release me this instant, I shall ensure that you do not lose your job and pension on my account.’

  ‘Blimey, ’e don’t ’alf talk funny,’ Sergeant Horwich commented and picked up his pen, the wooden handle stained blue but a new brass nib on it. ‘Name.’

  The prince stood erect. ‘I haff already told you.’

  Horwich dipped the pen. ‘Yeah, but you’ll have to spell it for me. All those Rooshan words sound the same to me.’

  ‘Prussian,’ Prince Ulrich insisted vehemently.

  The sergeant shrugged. ‘Same thing.’

  There was a commotion at the entrance and a large black dog burst through the door, dragging a disarrayed Constable Perkins by a rope around its neck. They were followed by a ruddy-faced woman, and it did not take my guardian’s skills to deduce from her bloodstained apron and the strong aroma that she worked at a fishmonger’s.

  ‘What’s all this?’ Horwich bellowed in his best military manner.

  The door swung shut and flew open again, and a thin man rushed in breathlessly.

  ‘Arrest that woman, Constable
,’ he squealed and the sergeant stiffened indignantly. ‘She’s poisoned Nero.’

  ‘Poisoned?’ the woman shrieked. ‘That mangy mongrel snaffled an ’ole cod ’ead and ’e won’t pay for it.’

  ‘Snaffled?’ The man went purple. ‘She fed Nero a rotten fish ’cause ’e nipped ’er bleedin’ tabby.’

  The dog started coughing.

  ‘Nipped?’ The fishwife howled. I was getting bored with their habit of repeating each other, but apparently they were just getting into their stride. ‘Nipped? That stinking fleabag near bit my Queenie clear in ’arf last week and today ’e charges in like Nelson at Waterloo and—’

  The dog quivered.

  ‘Silence,’ Sergeant Horwich bellowed. ‘You,’ he jabbed his pen, splattering the man’s shirt in royal blue ink, ‘will buy ’er a new cat if ’er old one can’t be mended. You,’ the pen shot towards the woman, ‘will pay for ’is dog if it pops its paws. And General Nelson was not at Waterloo.’ He scratched his head with the pen handle and ended weakly, ‘I don’t think.’

  The dog appeared to be choking.

  ‘See, ’e’s dyin’,’ the man cried. ‘I want annuva black one what can sing for the queen. Show them, boy.’

  And Nero stretched out his neck, but instead of obliging us with a tune, convulsed and vomited over Constable Perkins’s boot.

  ‘Ruddy ’ell.’ Perkins shook his foot in disgust.

  ‘There you are!’ the man exulted. ‘There’s your ’ead back.’

  ‘What on earth is that commotion?’ Inspector Pound came out of his office.

  32

  The Hound of Marylebone

  THE INSPECTOR WAS not quite his usual dapper self. He must have been working many hours by the time I met him that night for his necktie had been pulled down and his collar unbuttoned, and – though I rather liked the stubble – he was in need of a good shave.

  ‘Miss Middleton,’ he greeted me formally. His clear blue eyes looked at my prisoner. ‘And Prince Ulrich.’ Pound acknowledged him icily.

  ‘Inspector Pound.’ The prince touched his own cravat as if to emphasize his sartorial superiority. ‘I thought I saw the last of you.’