A Christmas Odyssey

Late in the afternoon, only eight days before Christmas now, Squeaky and Crow together alighted from the hansom cab on Primrose Hill. They walked by the light of the street lamp across the pavement and up the path to Henry Rathbone’s house. It had taken a certain amount of inquiring to find out where he lived, and they were later than they had intended to be. Squeaky felt nervous, and—in spite of the fact that Crow hid it well—he knew that he did too. This was a quiet neighborhood and eminently respectable. They were both ill-fitting strangers here. Added to that, they carried with them news that would not be welcome. It was really a message of defeat.

Squeaky hesitated with his hand on the brass knocker. He was furious with himself for being such a coward. He had never been in awe of anyone when he was a businessman, selling women to those who wanted or needed to buy. He had despised them and was perfectly happy that they should know it. It was a straight exchange: money for the use of a woman.

Well, maybe it was not quite that simple, but close enough. There were never any questions of honor or embarrassment in it. Violence, now and again, of course. People needed to be kept to their side of the arrangement. They tended to slip out of it if you allowed them to. Let yourself be taken advantage of once and it would happen again and again.

“Are you going to knock, or stand there holding that thing?” Crow asked peevishly.

Squeaky picked it up and let it fall with a hard bang.

“Now look what you made me do!” he accused, turning to glare at Crow.

The door swung open, revealing a calm-faced butler.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen. How may I be of service to you?”

Squeaky swallowed and nearly choked.

“We would like to speak to Mr. Henry Rathbone, if you please,” Crow answered, while Squeaky tried to collect himself and regain his composure.

The butler blinked and looked confused.

“Mr. Rathbone asked Mr. Robinson here to perform a service for him,” Crow continued. “We have come to report our findings so far, and see what Mr. Rathbone would like us to do next.”

“Indeed?”

The butler still seemed uncomfortable. It was hardly surprising. Squeaky was lean and snaggletoothed, and had long gray hair falling onto his collar. Crow had a charming smile with far too many teeth. His hair was black as soot, as was his bedraggled coat with its flapping tails. And—simply because he had had no time to return home and put it down—he still had his doctor’s Gladstone bag with him.

Squeaky drew in his breath to try a better explanation.

Perhaps because of the length of time they had been on the step, Henry Rathbone appeared in the hall behind the butler. He recognized Squeaky immediately.

“Ah, Mr. Robinson. You have some news?” He looked at Crow. “I am afraid I do not know you, sir, but if you are a friend of Mr. Robinson, then you are welcome.”

“Crow. Doctor, or almost,” Crow said a little sheepishly. There was a note of longing in his voice, as if the “almost” had cost him more than he wanted to admit.

“Henry Rathbone. How do you do, sir? Please come inside. Have you eaten? If not, I can offer you toast, a very agreeable Belgian pâté, or Brie, and perhaps some apple tart and cream. Hot or cold, as you prefer.”

Crow could not keep the smile from lighting his face.

Squeaky wanted that supper so badly he could taste it in his mouth already. Guilt at the news he brought overwhelmed him, but only for a couple of seconds.

“Thank you, Mr. Rathbone,” he replied quickly, just in case Crow had any other ideas. “That would be very nice indeed.” He took a step forward into the hall as the butler pulled the door wider to let him pass.

They sat next to the fire in the sitting room. Squeaky was fascinated first by the number of books in the cases in the walls, and then by the delicate beauty of the two small paintings hung over the mantel. Both were seascapes with an almost luminous quality to the water. He felt Rathbone’s eyes on him as he stared, and then the heat of embarrassment burned up his face.

“Boningtons,” Henry said quietly. “They’ve always held a particular appeal for me. I’m glad you like them.”

“Yes.” Squeaky had no idea what else to say. He was even more out of his depth than he had expected to be, and it made him highly uncomfortable. Suddenly he did not know what to do with his hands, or feet.

Crow cleared his throat and stared at Squeaky.

Henry looked at him, waiting.

Squeaky plunged in. Better to get it over with. “Thing is,” he began tentatively. “Thing is … we found word of Mr. Wentworth.”

Henry leaned forward eagerly. “You did? Already? That’s a most excellent start.”

Squeaky felt the sweat prickle on his skin. He was making a complete pig’s ear of this. He didn’t even mean to be deceptive, except for the best of reasons, and here he was doing it. Respectability had put him out of practice of saying anything the way he meant it.

“Thing is,” he began again. “His father’s right, he’s picked up with some very bad company indeed. Woman called Sadie, a real bad lot. Seems he’s lost his wits over her. Got tangled up with a rival, and now there in’t anything daft enough or bad enough he won’t do to impress her. Even damn near killed someone.”

He drew in a deep breath. “Mr. Rathbone, he in’t going to come back as long as she’ll give ’im the sort of attention he wants, an’ she’s playin’ him off against this other young fool, clear as day to anyone with eyes in their heads. It’s a world you don’t know, sir, an’ don’t want to.”

Henry looked sad, but not surprised. “I see,” he said quietly. “It seems to be as bad as his father feared.” He looked across at Crow. “Do I assume that you agree, Doctor?”

Crow blushed, not for the question, but for the courtesy title to which he had no right. He faced him squarely. “Yes sir. I’m afraid he’s sunk to the kind of place people don’t come back from. It isn’t just the drinking, although that’ll get to you in time. It’s the violence. It seems this young woman thrives on it. The sight and smell of blood excites her, the idea that men will kill each other over her.”

“Are you saying that we shouldn’t try?” Henry asked him.

Squeaky drew in his breath to tell him that that was exactly what they were saying, then he saw Crow’s face and changed his mind.

“Yes sir,” Crow answered gravely. “It’s the man’s own heart that’s keeping him there. I … I suppose if we can find him, we could tell him that his father wants him back, but I don’t think it’ll make any difference. I’d say, sir, that he’s best not to know what’s become of his son. What he imagines would be bad, but once you’ve seen something for real, there’s no escaping it ever. There’s things you don’t want to see.”

“Lots of things,” Henry agreed. “But that is not a reason to turn away. Perhaps if we could persuade Lucien that there is a way back, then …”

Squeaky leaned forward. “He doesn’t want to come back! There’s no one keeping him there except himself. Crow’s right, Mr. Rathbone.”

“I suppose he is,” Henry murmured. “But I have given Mr. Wentworth my promise. If you would be kind enough to tell me the best direction in which to begin, I shall do so. And perhaps any other advice …”

Squeaky could not bear it. This man was a babe in the woods. He had not the faintest idea what he was dealing with. He would be robbed and probably killed within the first couple of hours.

“You can’t,” he said simply. “You’d be done over an’ left in the gutter. Maybe even knifed, ’specially if Lucien knows you’re after him. I can’t let you … sir.”

“I am not doing it from choice, Mr. Robinson,” Henry replied gently. “I have promised an old friend that I will do all I can. I have not yet done that. Please, give me whatever advice you have, and allow me to reimburse you for the trouble you have taken so far, and any expense you may have incurred.”

“We didn’t go to any expense,” Squeaky said with an honesty he knew he would regret later. He saw Henry’s disbelief in his eyes. “I relieved one or two gentlemen of their wrongful earnings,” Squeaky explained without a flicker. “Used ’em to buy a little information. And no trouble neither. So you don’t owe us at all.” He made to rise to his feet, but Crow did not follow him, so he sat back down again. “And a very good supper too,” he added.

Crow took a deep breath, as if to steady himself, then he spoke quickly.

“If you’re determined to go an’ see for yourself, then I’ll come with you. I know the way better than you do.”

Squeaky cursed himself. He should have seen that coming. He knew Henry Rathbone was a fool, but he should have realized that Crow was too.

“You neither of you know a damn thing!” he said furiously. “Like sending kittens into a dogfight! I’ll come with you.” He wanted to add a whole lot more, but there didn’t seem to be any point, and every time he opened his mouth he got himself into more trouble.

“Thank you, Mr. Robinson,” Henry said with a beautiful smile.