A Christmas Odyssey

Bessie was looking after Lucien, who was lying close to the stove. Henry Rathbone sat in the corner with Squeaky and Crow, who were huddled in their coats. They were saving the last few pieces of wood for the early morning.

“What do we look for now?” Henry asked, a note of desperation in his voice.

“Pick him up an’ carry him out,” Squeaky said impatiently. “Before he gets us killed. Let his father deal with it.”

Crow gave him a black look. “And of course this Shadwell will just let that happen! Next thing they know, the police will come to Wentworth’s door looking for Lucien for the murder of whoever it was who was knifed to death at the bottom of those stairs.”

Henry straightened up. “Then we need to know who it was, and who killed them.”

“And if it was Lucien?” Crow asked him.

Henry bit his lip. “Then we find out how … and why, and decide what to do about it.” He was sitting with his back against the wall, the candlelight accentuating his features. Rathbone looked appallingly tired, and yet there was no anger in his face, no bitterness that Squeaky could see. Of course he was a fool. Without Squeaky and Crow to look after him he would have come to grief in minutes. He would have been robbed blind, possibly killed if he had put up any resistance. He seemed to believe anything he was told, no matter how obviously a lie.

And yet there was a kind of courage in him that Squeaky had to grudgingly admire. And in spite of the stupid situation Henry had gotten them all into, Squeaky also rather liked him. That was another thing that had gone badly wrong lately: Since Squeaky had become respectable he had gone soft. Was this age catching up with him? Or cowardice? He had always been careful, all his life; to do otherwise would have been stupid. But he was never a coward! All his values had slithered around into the wrong place! Everything was out of control!

“Makes sense,” Squeaky said at last. “If it’s Sadie who’s died, can’t see why he would kill her. Seems to have been fascinated with her. She’s the reason he got into this cesspit anyway. Likes his pleasures, that one. See it in his face when he talks about her. You get dependent on something, the bottle or the opium or whatever, then you don’t destroy it. Those things make you act like an idiot, but they get to be the most important things in the world to you. You never, ever forget to keep them safe. You’d poke your mother’s eyes out before you’d risk losing them.”

“What if Sadie preferred Niccolo, and Lucien killed her in jealousy?” Henry asked.

“He’d kill Niccolo,” Squeaky answered. “Taking her back. That’s property. You don’t smash something that’s yours. It would just be stupid. Slap her around a bit, maybe,” he conceded, remembering a few such acts of discipline from his brothel days. “Not where it shows, of course. Don’t spoil the goods. So if it’s him who’s dead, we’re in trouble.”

Henry’s face twisted with bitter amusement and understanding.

Squeaky blushed. He had not meant to give himself away so clearly. He would rather Henry merely guessed at his former life, rather than know it for certain. He wondered whether to try to improve on what he had said, then knew he would only make it worse.

“Do you think he is telling the truth?” Henry pressed. “And he really doesn’t know who’s died?”

“Not sure I’d go that far!” Squeaky protested. “Not … not entirely. He’s bound to lie about some things.”

Henry smiled.

Squeaky realized that he had just given himself away again. Now Henry would know that Squeaky always lied, at least a bit. Damn! Being respectable was a pain, and hard work!

Henry turned to Crow. “And you?”

“I’ve no need to lie,” Crow said with a grin, glancing at Squeaky, then away again. He straightened his face, suddenly very sober. “And I don’t think Lucien has either. He’s pretty well lost, whatever he says. No point really. Whether he did kill either one of them or not, he’s going to get blamed for it. Personally I think it was probably that disgusting little vampire in the lavender coat. He looks like something risen from the dead. I should think he likes knives.”

“I believe him too,” Henry said quietly.

“Hey, just a minute!” Squeaky protested. “I didn’t say I believed him. I just …” His mind raced. “What if Sadie told Niccolo to go to hell, and he killed her? Then Lucien comes along, sees her dead an’ covered in blood, an’ he slices him up? Ash had nothing to do with it.”

Henry thought about it for several moments. “Then why would Lucien not admit that?” he asked. “Such an act would be justified, to the people here. And it seems they are all he cares about. This is his world—at least until we can get him out of it.”

“Out of it?” Squeaky said incredulously. “Look at him! He’s drunk an’ he’s taking God knows what else to keep him awake, or asleep, make him laugh, or see what he wants to see, feel something like being alive, God help him. He belongs here. Hell don’t let go of people, Mr. Rathbone. Not that most people are willing to climb out of it, even if they could—an’ they can’t.”

“First we have to find out if he killed either of the two victims, and if he did not, then who did.”

“You asked us if we believe him that he didn’t kill either of them,” Crow interrupted. “And you say you do.”

“I do,” Henry agreed. “It is not a certainty, of course, but I shall treat it as such, unless circumstances should make that impossible. Therefore we must proceed on the assumption that someone else killed whoever it was—even both of them.” He looked at Crow again. “What is your opinion of Mr. Ash?”

“Syphilitic,” Crow said simply.

Henry was surprised. “You know that so easily?”

Crow smiled, but there was no pleasure in his expression. “He moved very little, but his hand slipped on the cane, as if he were not sure whether he gripped it or not, as if he could not really feel his fingers. His feet were the same. That curious, slightly stamping gait is peculiar to advanced stages of damage to the nerves. He is probably more than a little insane.”

“Then he might well have been violent,” Henry concluded.

“Why would he kill them?” Squeaky asked. “Even a creature like that has to have a reason.”

“You are quite right,” Henry agreed. “But one thing makes me wonder about the cane. Ash is quite small, and you say he has the signs of advanced syphilis?” He looked at Crow. “The cane in his hand slipped from his grasp. We saw it. Do you believe he could have attacked a healthy young man or woman and escaped completely unhurt himself?”

“Not likely,” Crow conceded.

“Lucien,” Squeaky said sadly. “He killed Niccolo, his rival for the girl, probably taking him by surprise—knife in the back. Then when she found them he attacked her too. That’s where he got injured himself.” He looked at Henry’s downcast face and felt guilty for having spoken the truth when he knew it would hurt him. “You can’t do anything for him.”

Crow pulled his coat tightly around his shoulders. He had been staring at the ground, but now he turned to Henry. “We should put together all the evidence we can,” he said, looking from Henry to Squeaky and back again. “Even here, there has to be reason in things. There are a lot of questions we haven’t answered yet. What do we know about this Niccolo? Who was he and where did he come from? Did he and Lucien know each other before meeting here? In fact, did Lucien bring Niccolo here? Or the other way round?” He stopped for a moment, looking from one to the other.

“Was it for women, or opium?” he went on. “Some kind of torture, or sexual appetite? Was Niccolo a sadist? A masochist? Did he love Sadie, or was he just using her?”

Henry smiled at him. “Thank you, Dr. Crow,” he said gravely. “You are a voice of hope where there seems to be very little otherwise. Your suggestions are excellent. As soon as we have had a little sleep—if such a thing is possible in this place—we shall find something fit to eat, for ourselves and Lucien and Bessie, then continue our investigation.” He looked at Crow, then at Squeaky, his face grave. “If you are still agreeable to helping, of course?”

Crow shrugged. “I’m curious,” he said. “I’ll help.”

Henry waited for Squeaky.

Squeaky felt trapped. He should have resented it, yet against all reason or sense, he was vaguely flattered to be included. He certainly would have been hurt had Henry not asked him. But he had to put up some sort of resistance, even if only to salvage the shreds of his reputation.

“Won’t do any good,” he said yet again. He gestured toward where Lucien was lying curled over on his unwounded side, either asleep or unconscious. “What else are you going to do with him anyway? If he killed Sadie and Niccolo, are you going to expect his father to take him in and cover it up? They may have been rubbish, but they were still people. And who’ll he kill next, eh? Have you thought of that?”

“Yes, Mr. Robinson, I have,” Henry said in little more than a whisper. “Nobody comes out of a place like this without paying a price, and I am not imagining that Lucien can do so either. I want to help him, not to excuse him. It is not a physical thing, to climb out of hell, as you put it; it is an ascent of the spirit. It will be long and extremely painful, and there is a cost to be paid. It is a steep climb—a toll road if you like—and each stretch of it will exact a price. But I imagine you know that.”

Squeaky was stunned. He stared at Henry’s ashen face with its clear blue eyes, and saw no evasion in it, no soft, easy forgiveness. Was Henry referring to Squeaky’s own ascent from a place not as unlike this as he would wish to imagine it, until he was now positively decent? Or very nearly. Hester Monk treated him as if he were honest. Of course she probably kept a very good check on him, although he had never caught her doing so. That was a painful thought too. He very much liked having her trust. It was worth quite a lot of discomfort to keep it.

Henry was still watching him.

It occurred to Squeaky that in helping Lucien Wentworth, he might be proving that the way up was possible, proving it to Henry Rathbone, and more than that, to himself.

“Course I’ll help,” he said tartly. “You need me. I know a lot of things you don’t.”

Henry smiled, extraordinarily sweetly. “For which I am grateful,” he accepted. “Now let us rest until it is time to begin.”

They slept briefly, then set out to find some hot food, and perhaps pies and ale they could bring back for Lucien and Bessie. They left the alleys and walked along Piccadilly into Regent Street. It was dry now and bitingly cold, with frost and here and there a dusting of snow, which contributed to the decorations of colored ribbons and wreaths of holly and ivy on shop doors.

“Happy Christmas!” a stout woman called out cheerfully, passing sweets to a child.

“And to you!” a gentleman returned. “Happy New Year to you!”

Someone was singing “God rest ye merry gentlemen” and other voices joined in.

The traffic was heavy, the clatter of hooves and the jingle of harnesses loud.

Squeaky rolled his eyes, and said nothing.

“Happy Christmas,” Henry replied to a passerby.

After another hundred yards they found a tavern serving hot food that had a good fire in the hearth. Henry paid for them all, including provisions to take back to Bessie and Lucien. They ate in silence, relishing the luxury too much to disturb the pleasure of it with conversation.

They started back again and were soon in the narrow alleys. It was dim, as if it were always dusk on these midwinter days. There was no reality of Christmas here, perhaps not even any belief in its meaning.

They delivered the pies and ale, which were received with gratitude, expressed with few words and ravenous pleasure. They decided that Bessie would stay with Lucien to look after him while he healed. Henry, Crow, and Squeaky would continue to search for proof of who had been killed, and whether Lucien was involved or not, and if so, in what way.

It was decided that Crow would go back to Mr. Ash and see if he could persuade him to tell whatever else he knew.

“There has to be more,” Henry said. “He is involved in it somehow, because he feels too intensely to simply be an observer.”

Crow agreed. “What about you?” he asked.

Henry bit his lip. “I shall endeavor to learn something of this Niccolo—who he is, and above all if anyone has seen him in the last two days.” He looked at Squeaky. “You are the best suited among us to learn more about Sadie, particularly if she is still alive, and if not, who else, apart from Lucien, would have wanted to kill her.”

Squeaky considered that a very dubious compliment, but this was not the time to argue with what was clearly the truth. Henry himself would be totally useless at such a task.

They agreed to meet back at daybreak the following morning, at the latest.

The others were already waiting when Squeaky returned, carrying a jug of hot chocolate he had purchased with some money he had “liberated” from a less-deserving owner. He shared it, measuring carefully, then sat down on the floor to enjoy his portion.

Henry turned to Crow, his eyebrows raised questioningly.

Crow warmed his hands on his mug.

Henry had bought some pies. Squeaky refrained from asking what was in them; he preferred to imagine. He also did not ask what they had cost. Both were things he very much preferred not knowing.

The candles were getting low. One had already guttered and gone out. Lucien and Bessie were probably asleep. They had already checked on them, Crow with some concern.

“How ill is Ash?” Henry asked. “Could he have killed them?” His face was in shadow, so Squeaky could not read his expression, but he heard the strain in his voice. Rathbone must have seen things here that his quiet life on Primrose Hill had not prepared him even to imagine. And of course there was always the smell. Few middle-class people had experienced the smells of the gutter, the sewage, the decaying bodies of rats, the rot of old wood.

It brought back memories to Squeaky that he had worked very hard to forget.

Before the security of Portpool Lane there had been other places, ones that smelled like this, of stale wine, vomit, unwashed bodies, blood, and sweat. Above all he could remember the fear. It might be the sudden eruption of temper into a blow against the head, or the knife in the stomach of deliberate revenge. He never looked at his own body because he did not want to see the scars. Some had been from women, and that was better forgotten too. Perhaps he had deserved those, or at least some of them.

Hate was behind him now. Some people even trusted him, and that was like a delicate, precious flame in the darkness. He would kill to keep that, and the moment he did, of course, it would be gone, probably forever. Damn caring what people thought. It was against all the laws of survival. And yet it still beguiled him and drew him in.

It seemed that Crow was going to answer Henry’s question about Ash. He was sitting with his back against the wall, his enormously long legs straight out in front of him. There was a hole in the sole of his left boot. His face was more deeply lined than Squeaky had ever seen it before. He looked more like forty-five than thirty-five. Squeaky recognized it as not just weariness but a kind of pain that darkened the energy of spirit and the hope that lit him. If that went out, it would be a darkness Squeaky would never find his way out of.

Henry was watching him, waiting.

“He isn’t going to live much longer,” Crow said quietly. “His body’s rotting. He stands so still because he can’t feel his hands or feet. If he moves he’s likely to lose his balance. He pretends to carry the stick for an affectation, but actually he’d fall without it. I don’t think he killed Niccolo or Sadie, but he knows who did. In fact, I think he was there. He knows something else, but I can’t get him to tell me.”

“At a price,” Squeaky told him. “Don’t give all your help away. I know you’re a doctor, an’ all that, but doctors charge.”

An indescribable expression crossed Crow’s face. For a moment Squeaky was afraid he would not be able to pretend that he had not seen it. He realized with a jolt that in spite of the years he had seen him coming and going, watched him patch up the injuries of all manner of people, he really knew Crow very little: not the man underneath the black coat, the flashing smile, and the bizarre humor. Now he had trespassed, to a place Crow did not want to let him into.

“I have nothing to give him,” Crow said, without looking at either Squeaky or Henry. “His pain is beyond anyone’s reach. He is closed in with it until it kills him.”

Squeaky shuddered. Perhaps in a way that was true of all of them, a final aloneness. He disgusted himself by feeling sorry for the man in his absurd costume.

Henry leaned forward. “Is it who killed them that he will not tell you?” he asked Crow. “Or something else?”

Crow thought for a moment. “I think it is something else,” he said finally.

“The reason they were killed?” Henry suggested.

Squeaky stared at Crow, then at Henry, then back at Crow again.

“It’s something about Sadie,” Crow answered. “Something secret, that he nurses inside him, because he knows and we don’t. We are making a profound mistake about her. Something we believe is totally wrong. I’m trying to work out what it could be, and I can’t.”

“Do you think Lucien killed her?” Henry asked. Squeaky knew from the tightness in his voice that if Crow said “yes,” he would accept it.

Crow looked at Henry as if Squeaky were not even there.

“No,” he answered. “Because he had no reason to. She gave him the physical pleasure that he craves, and she was very skilled, by all accounts, at making men feel admired, important—even that she loved them, in her own way. I can’t see how he would have deliberately sacrificed that.”

“That’s more or less what I learned too,” Henry agreed. “Pleasure, admiration, a kind of emotional power are his weaknesses, but not violence. It seems the same was true of Niccolo, from what I could find out.”

“Jealousy?” Squeaky put in. “Most men get violent if the women they think of as theirs pay too much attention to someone else. I’ve seen it over and over. You don’t have to be in love. It’s to do with possession, with being top. If someone can take your woman away from you, it’s a sign that you’re weak. You could love anybody at all, so your love is meaningless.” He forced memories away from him, things he had done in the past to make sure no one imagined him vulnerable, the fear he had instilled to keep himself safe. He could still too easily see their pale faces in his mind.

Henry and Crow were both looking at him.

Squeaky felt as if the ugliness in his mind were visible in his face, and they could read it. They would be revolted. He was revolted himself. He felt naked in the most painful and degraded way. His skin must be burning.

“They said she was beautiful,” he began defensively. “Beauty can have funny effects on men. Lucien said it himself. Long black hair like silk, and sea-blue eyes. Sort of mouth you never forget. Comes into your dreams, whether you want it to or not.”

“If that is the sort of woman she was, she may have had other enemies,” Henry pointed out. “I know you are playing devil’s advocate, Squeaky, which we need, but you must grant that that is also true.”

“I know the devil too well to make jokes about him,” Squeaky said grimly. “Or to plead anything for him either.”

“I mean that you are making the opposite argument, so that we see our case in the full light, from all sides,” Henry explained. “I was asking about Niccolo, but I learned a lot more about Sadie from the answers. She was very beautiful, and funny at times—although people who are drunk, or in love, are more easily amused than the rest of us.”

He shook his head. “Even so, she seems to have been extraordinarily vivid in her personality, never a bore, which to some is the ultimate sin. But she was dependent on the cocaine, and without it she was very frightened.” He stopped, his face in the shadow. “I think she may have had an illness, perhaps something like tuberculosis. What do you think, Crow?”

“I think you’re probably right,” Crow said softly. “Some of her vitality, some of her wild gulping at life was fear. I’ve seen it before. Do everything now, in case there’s no tomorrow.” He stopped abruptly.

Henry looked at him, then touched him very gently on the arm for just a moment before letting his hand fall.

Crow took a deep breath and let it out in a sigh.

“Is that right?” Squeaky asked. “Would she have died anyway? And you reckon she knew that?”

“I don’t know whether she knew it,” Crow replied.

“You’re a doctor—you know!” Squeaky accused.

“I’m not a doctor.” Crow looked at the ground.

Squeaky drew in his breath to ask him why not, then knew it would be intrusive, even cruel. You did not ask people questions like that. Crow was his friend, and friends do not trespass into pain, still less into failure.

“But it sounds like it,” Crow went on. “The fever, bright eyes, pale skin with a flush on the cheeks, the frantic energy and the tiredness, the … the knowledge inside her that she has not long—the need to do everything now.”

“You sound very sure,” Henry said gently.

“I’ve seen lots of it,” Crow replied, his voice cracking. He took a breath as if about to say something further, then let it out again without speaking.

Squeaky looked at Henry.

“No one can help that.” Henry turned to Crow.

Crow smiled, his eyes filled with pain. “I used to think I could, when I was young, and stupid. My mother had it. That’s why I wanted to be a doctor. I used to think I could cure her. But she died anyway.”

“We all fail at something,” Henry told him very quickly. “One way or another. Things that don’t work out as we had hoped, people we love who don’t love us, dreams that crumble. Time catches up with us, and we realize what we haven’t done, what chances for kindness, for courage we have wasted, and too many of them won’t come again. We see glimpses of what we could have been, and weren’t.”

Squeaky was stunned. What was this life Henry was talking about? It was surely not the life he had had himself, inventing and making things, having a son who was the best lawyer in London, a nice house, people who trusted and admired him. What failure had he ever known?

Henry’s attention was on Crow. “But you have helped many,” he said with growing conviction in his voice. “More important, you have helped some whom possibly no one else would help. Don’t let yourself be crippled because it wasn’t everyone. Nobody succeeds all the time.” He smiled bleakly. “Think how insufferably arrogant we would become if we did. There would be no need for God.”

Squeaky smiled. “Is He going to pick up the bits we drop, then?”

“I don’t know,” Henry replied. “But I don’t mean to drop Lucien if I can help it. There’s always a chance.”

“You’re a dreamer,” Squeaky told him. “This isn’t your world.”

“Hell is everybody’s world, at one time or another, Squeaky,” Henry answered.

Squeaky blasphemed softly under his breath. “You’ve been here for days and you still don’t have the least idea! Lucien’s here because he wants to be!” He forced the words out between his teeth. He did not want to hurt this gentle man. He liked him, dammit! But somebody had to save him from himself.

Crow was staring at Squeaky.

“And you don’t need to look like that either!” Squeaky snapped at him. “He came here for pleasure, no matter what it cost, or who paid it. He wanted to live in a world where everybody flattered him and told him how handsome and clever he was. He wanted to believe the lies—so he did. He didn’t give a damn about anyone else, and now nobody gives a damn about him.” He looked at Henry. “He’s here because he chose it. And you can’t change that.”

“Of course I can’t,” Henry admitted. “But if he chooses to leave, perhaps I can help him believe that he can do it.”

“It’s too late,” Squeaky said brutally, not because he wished to hurt, but because he couldn’t bear the hope and despair that would follow. It had to end now.

“It’s never too late,” Henry said stubbornly. “Well, maybe it is sometimes, but not yet. There’s still something to fight for. You are free to go, of course, but I would rather you stayed with us, because we need your help, and your experience.”

Squeaky wanted to swear, but no words in all his wide vocabulary were adequate to suit his feelings.

“Well, I’ve got to stay, haven’t I!” he said roughly. “You haven’t got enough sense to find your way out of a wet paper bag!”

“Thank you,” Henry said gravely.

“I’ve been thinking.” Crow measured his words. “I’ve heard a lot about Sadie, because I asked about her. At least some of it has to be lies, but I can’t tell which is which. Sorting out the truth might be our next course of action.” He looked hopefully at Henry, then at Squeaky.

“So what did you hear?” Squeaky asked. “She’s a damn good whore, with T.B., and any other disease she might have picked up along the way. She had long, black hair and blue eyes.”

“She was tall and slender, with extraordinary grace,” Crow added. “And very disturbing eyes, actually, according to those who were not in love with her. One was green and one hazel.”

Squeaky shrugged. “What does it matter?”

“Unless it was two different women?” Henry pointed out. “Maybe it wasn’t even Sadie at all? Then Lucien would have had no reason to kill Niccolo.” A sudden hope lit his face.

“Lucien is vain, stupid, completely selfish, and up to his eyeballs on opium, drink, and anything else he can get hold of!” Squeaky said. “He doesn’t need a reason to lose his temper and kill someone!”

“But there was another woman Niccolo used,” Crow argued. “Perhaps she was the one with the hazel-green eyes?”

“Can we find her?” Henry asked eagerly. “Do you know her name? Anything about her?”

“Rosa,” Crow said, yawning. “Apparently he hit her quite a bit. I asked if we could find her, but no one’s seen her recently.”

“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 could 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.

Henry patted him on the shoulder. “Your turn,” he said cheerfully. “I think we had better fortify ourselves with as good a meal as we can find first. It’s going to be a long night.”