A Christmas Odyssey

It was, as Crow had said, a very long night. They began with extremely discreet inquiries in the Haymarket. The area was notorious for the prostitutes who patrolled its pavements so openly that no decent woman went there, even if accompanied by her husband. However well-dressed she was, she would be likely to be taken for a lady of the night. In this area such women might be indistinguishable from ladies of society, especially those whose taste was a little daring.

“I don’t know what we’ll learn here,” Crow said, watching a couple of young women quite openly sidle up to a group of theatergoers.

“Do you know which theaters are fashionable right now for tastes a bit sharper than usual?” Squeaky asked challengingly.

“My patients don’t come up this way,” Crow admitted. “East End music halls are more their line, if they’ve a few pence to spare.”

“Then shut up, and watch,” Squeaky retorted. “And follow me.”

They tried to find places selling more than alcohol, entertainment, and the chance to pick up a prostitute.

Their first three attempts were abortive, but the fourth led them to a very small theater off Piccadilly where the drama on stage was overshadowed by the exchanges in the many private boxes and on the narrow stairs. The lighting was yellow and very dim, making most of the people look sallow and a little sinister. Heaven only knew what they looked like in daylight.

Squeaky watched and waited. He did not know the names of the current young dandies who indulged themselves. Their dull eyes were half-focused, lids drooping. Opium, he thought to himself.

He studied one young man closely, and, brushing past him, felt the quality of the cloth in his jacket sleeve. Yes, definitely money there. He hoped he had not lost his childhood art of picking pockets. There was often very good information to be had from the contents of a gentleman’s pocket—his name and address from his card, if nothing else.

Squeaky knew that moving unnoticed in places such as these would require a little money, and he had no intention whatsoever of financing it himself. His money was earned with proper work these days, and deserved to be spent respectably. Better to pick pockets without Crow’s noticing, though. You never knew what his peculiar aversions might be. There was no accounting for taste, or superstition.

From that theater they learned of others, more daring. The first cost them even to gain entrance. From the outside it looked like a perfectly ordinary public house.

“Don’t look worth the trouble,” Squeaky said disparagingly, regarding the chipped pillars and peeling plaster with distaste.

“An affectation, perhaps?” Crow suggested. Then he hurried over to explain. “A suggestion to the eye of the more sordid appetites catered to within?”

Squeaky was amused, not so much by the idea as by the wording Crow chose. He shrugged and paid for their entry.

“Ye’re right,” he said generously as soon as they were through the archway and down the steps into the main room. It was crowded with people, all of them with glasses or goblets in their hands, except the two almost-naked women who were practicing the most extraordinary and vulgar contortions on a makeshift stage, to the hoots and jeers of the onlookers.

“They’ll be needing me professionally,” Crow observed, wincing at a particularly unnatural-looking move.

Squeaky made no comment. He began to methodically talk to one person after another, asking questions, learning little.

It took them over an hour to learn that Lucien was known here, but had not been seen in more than a month.

They moved on to another place where they learned nothing, and then a farther tavern that at first seemed very helpful. However, in the end the man they found there turned out not to be Lucien, merely some other lost youth bent on finding oblivion.

By four in the morning Squeaky was tired and cold. His head ached. And his feet were sore. He realized all the reasons he had been willing to give up the pursuit of temporary pleasure in favor of a warm bed in the Portpool Lane clinic, and only the very occasional night awake chasing around after other people’s needs. Even then, his time was not spent outside in the rain and the freezing wind, with his feet wet and water sliding down his neck from the rain. Being inside a low-ceilinged room and among the confusion of loud voices was not much better. He had forgotten how he disliked stupid laughter and the crush of bodies in narrow spaces, the smell of stale smoke and drink. Even the music had less appeal than it used to.

They entered a cellar deep below a tavern. The yellow gaslight made the stone walls look even more pitted and stained. They did at least serve good brandy. Apart from warming Squeaky’s body a bit, the drink encouraged him to think that this was the kind of place that might attract a man like Lucien Wentworth, who was raised to know the quality of brandy and partook only of the best.

It was actually Crow who began the conversation with a nearby stranger that finally yielded the first scent of Lucien.

“Clever,” Crow observed amiably to the man nearest him. They were both looking at a provocatively dressed young woman who was miming an obscene joke to the delight of onlookers.

“Cost yer,” the young man remarked. “But they all do.”

“I prefer something a bit …” Crow hesitated. “Unusual.”

The young man looked him up and down as if assessing his taste. “You’da liked Sadie.” He sighed wistfully. He was so slight as to be almost emaciated. The bones of his wrists looked fragile when his shirtsleeves slid back. “She was beautiful.”

“Really …” Crow had difficulty pretending interest. Squeaky realized he had no idea what kind of woman Crow liked. The subject had never arisen.

“Face pale as a lily,” the young man went on dreamily. “Hair like black silk. And sea-blue eyes, bright as deep water in the sun.”

Squeaky let his mind wander. This was all a waste of time.

Crow was still pretending to be interested. “She sounds different,” he said, regarding the young man closely. “You pursued her? Was she all you imagined?”

The young man lifted one bony shoulder. “No idea. She only had time for Lucien.”

That caught Squeaky’s attention, and he sat upright too quickly. The young man turned to stare at him, breaking the thread of his remembrance.

Crow glared at Squeaky.

Squeaky scratched himself, as if it had been a sudden itch that had disturbed him. “Too bad,” he commiserated. He caught Crow’s eye and decided to say no more.

“Is she still around here?” Crow asked casually.

“What?”

“The girl with the sea-blue eyes.”

“Oh, Sadie? Haven’t seen her.” The young man fished in his pocket, but apparently did not find what he was looking for. He furrowed his brow. “I’m getting out of here. This is becoming tedious. Do you want to come to Potter’s with me?”

“Sounds like a good idea,” Crow agreed, without asking Squeaky. “I’d like to hear more about Sadie. You make her sound special, something new.”

“Won’t do you any good.” The young man rose to his feet, and swayed a little. Crow caught him by the arm, steadying him. “Obliged,” the young man acknowledged the assistance, letting out a belch of alcoholic fumes. Don’t bother with Sadie. I told you, she went with Lucien.”

“Where to?” Crow asked him, still holding his arm.

“God knows.” The young man waved a hand in the air.

“We aren’t on conversational terms with God,” Squeaky put in acidly. “I ask, but he doesn’t bleedin’ answer.”

The young man started to laugh and ended with a hacking cough.

Crow patted him on the back. It was a useless gesture, but one that allowed him to keep a firm hold on his arm and prevent him from collapsing altogether as he guided him toward the way out.

The journey to Potter’s was made erratically along footpaths slick with ice. Holding on to each other was a way to maintain balance as well as to make sure that they did not lose the young man, and that he did not pass out in one of the many doorways. He might well freeze to death if he did.

“Fool,” Squeaky muttered under his breath. Now that he was not making money out of other people’s vices, he had a far less tolerant view of them. “Fool!” he repeated as the young man stumbled. He would have fallen flat on the ice-covered paving stones if Crow and Squeaky had not yanked him to his feet again.

When they finally reached Potter’s they found that the place was dimly lit, mostly by tallow candles in a variety of holders. Despite the lateness of the hour it was still full of people. Some were drinking, while others lounged in corners quietly smoking what Squeaky knew from past experience was tobacco liberally laced with other substances, possibly opium derivatives of some sort. The air was heavy and rancid with the stench of smoke, alcohol, sweat, and various other bodily odors.

Crow wrinkled his nose and shot a grim look at Squeaky. Squeaky tried to smile but knew it looked sickly on his face.

They were offered brandy, and bought some to try to revive the young man. He seemed to be falling asleep, or possibly into a kind of stupor.

The sharp spirit going down his throat stirred him, at least temporarily. “What?” he said abruptly. “What did you say?”

“You were telling us about Sadie,” Crow prompted him. “How beautiful she was, and how much fun.”

“Yes, Sadie.” He repeated the name as if rolling the flavor around his mouth. “What a woman. Skin like … like …” He could not think of anything adequate. “So alive,” he said instead. “Always laughing, dancing, making jokes, kissing someone outrageously, places you wouldn’t believe.”

“Lucien …” Crow put in.

“Oh yes, him especially,” the young man agreed. “He would do anything for her, and did.” A slow, dreamy smile spread across his face. “She dared him to swallow a live fish … eel, I think it was. Revolting.”

“Did he?” Squeaky asked.

The young man looked at him with disgust. “Of course he did. Told you, he’d do anything for her. Admired her.” There was envy in his face. “Said she made him feel like a god—or a fallen angel, maybe. Can you see it?” He smiled a little vacantly. “Spiraling down from the lip of heaven in an everlasting descent to the fires of hell and the dark underlight of those who have tasted all that there is and know everything that the universe can hold.” He began to laugh. It was a strange, shrill sound broken by hiccups.

One of the candles on the cellar wall guttered and went out.

There were several moments of silence before he spoke again. “And of course there was Niccolo,” he added. “Never knew if she actually wanted him, or if she just used him to make Lucien mad with jealousy. Either way, it worked.”

“Niccolo?” Crow repeated the name. “What was he like? Who was he?”

The young man stared blankly.

“Who was he?” Crow repeated with exaggerated patience.

“No idea.” The young man seemed to lose interest. Squeaky fetched more brandy, but it didn’t help. Their informant was beginning to drift off into a stupor.

“Who was Niccolo?” Squeaky said, his voice edged with threat.

The young man stared at him and blinked. “Sadie’s lover,” he replied, giggling in a falsetto voice. “Sadie’s other lover.” He started to laugh again, then slowly slid off the chair and fell in a heap on the floor.

Crow bent down as if to pick him up, or at least to try.

“Leave him,” Squeaky ordered. “He’s probably as well off there as anywhere else. You won’t get anything more out of him. We need to find this Sadie. Can’t be too many as look like her. C’mon.”

It was now past five in the morning, and there was hardly anyone left sober enough to give them any answers. They went out into the early morning darkness and the bleak easterly wind. Crow started to turn down toward the river, and his home.

“No yer don’t!” Squeaky said sharply. “We in’t finished yet.”

Crow snatched his arm away. “There’s nobody else awake at this hour, you fool!” he said impatiently. “It’s pointless looking now. Not that there’s much point at any time. I want some breakfast, then to sleep.”

“So do I. Come to the clinic and we’ll get both.”

“Yes? And how are you going to explain all this to Hester?” Crow asked witheringly.

“I’m not.” Squeaky was disgusted with Crow’s lack of imagination. “I’m not going to tell her anything. We’ll get a good breakfast, then find a couple of rooms there with no one in them, and she won’t know.” Then another thought occurred to him. “It’s warm there, and only a mile away.”

Crow gave in, pretending it was a favor to Squeaky. Then he gave one of his flashing grins, which was a mark of his good nature and slightly eccentric sense of humor. “Come on then. I suppose it’s really not a bad place at all.”