The Somnambulist gave him a quizzical look, but the name had a very different effect upon the inspector. Aghast, he set down his drink untasted on the bar.
“You can’t be serious.”
Moon was already heading for the door. “I want to see him tonight.”
Merryweather and the Somnambulist traded long-suffering glances.
“Not possible,” the inspector protested.
“Make it happen,” Moon barked. “Call in favors. Pay whatever it takes to grease the wheels. I’ll see you both in an hour.” With an imperious wave of his hand, he was gone.
The Somnambulist scribbled a note for the inspector.
WARE WE GOING
Merryweather groaned. He seemed haggard suddenly, drained of all his good humor and mirth. “Newgate,” he said.
Chapter 9
Newgate squatted at the heart of the old city, Hell’s chief outpost on Earth.
At that time in its history, in its last few years of life before it was torn down and replaced with something less obviously Hadean, the gaol held only those criminals sentenced to death and awaiting execution — sinners for whom all appeals were past, all hope lost, whose only chance for reprieve lay with a higher court. It was a place without charity or love, an urban cancer whose every fiber and essence pulsated and trembled with death.
They arrived a little after midnight. The sky was black with storm clouds and it had begun to rain again, dolefully, a gray drizzle.
“Why is it always raining?” the inspector complained as they stepped from the coach.
“Hadn’t noticed,” Moon snapped. He strode toward the ebony gates of the penitentiary, Merryweather and the Somnambulist in two. The giant looked up at the immense, brooding structure and shuddered. Two guards eyed them truculently as they approached. Merryweather took the lead.
“I’m Detective Inspector Merryweather. This is Mr. Moon and the Somnambulist. We’re expected.”
One of the men nodded grimly, his face the same color as his grimy uniform. After much rattling of keys and pulling back of bolts and shutters, the trio were allowed to pass through a small inner door which nestled like a convict’s cat-flap at the bottom of the main gate. An empty courtyard lay inside, lit only the moon, shadows crouching in its every nook and corner. At its edge a man stood waiting. His appearance was incongruous. Dapper, well-dressed but severely balding, he wore what little hair he had left in a plait so long that it hung halfway down his back, greasy and unsightly like a moth-eaten pelt inexplicably stapled to his scalp. He waved in greeting.
“Mr. Moon.” He shook the conjuror’s hand with a warmth and clammy vigor that made the conjuror flinch. “Such a pleasure to see you again.” He turned to the others. “My name is Meyrick Owsley. Delighted to make your acquaintance. Barabbas is waiting for you.” He walked briskly away and the others followed — Moon by his side conversing in low, urgent tones, Merryweather and the Somnambulist lagging tactfully behind.
Owsley led them from the courtyard and down, down into the warren of Newgate. Every door and barrier they passed had to be unlocked, each of them guarded by a gaoler, heavily armed and with the flint-faced look of one who is every day confronted by the worst excesses of his fellow man. Owsley took them through corridors and passageways whose dingy walls dripped with fungus, damp and grime; past cell after cell peopled by the solitary condemned, their cries and lamentations filling the air, as choking and pephitic as smoke. Some peered out at the intruders between the bars of their cages, a few wailed or hissed obscenities, but most sat slouched in their own filth, too dissolute and jaded to care, resigned to their imminent appointment with the noose. The air was dank and close, and as the four men moved through the innards of the place, little things with fur and teeth skittered and scuttled past their feet.
No doubt you think I’m exaggerating, coloring the truth for dramatic effect, that even back then conditions in our prisons can’t have been quite that medieval. But it grieves me to admit that the above is an entirely honest and accurate account of the state of Newgate during the later years of its life. If anything, I have toned down my depiction in order to spare the delicate feelings of any ladies who may ill-advisedly be reading and for those of you who suffer from a nervous or hysterical disposition.
The Somnambulist gave Merryweather a meaningful poke in the ribs and nodded toward Owsley, still striding ahead of them, his long split of hair flopping comically up and down as he walked.
“Meyrick Owsley,” Merryweather said. “A former lawyer, and a good one. Chancery’s finest before he met Barabbas. Now, so far as anyone’s able to tell, he’s become his servant.”
Owsley must have overheard because he turned back and leered at the policeman. “More than that, Inspector,” he said, his eyes wide with fervor and belief. “I’m his
Merryweather cleared his throat uncomfortably. “I stand corrected.”
At the very end of the passageway they stopped before the final cell, tiny, bare, dimly lit by a stub of candle. They could just make out a figure within; an amorphous black shape slumped at the corner of the cell. Then they heard his voice, half-croak, half-whisper: “Meyrick?”
Owsley essayed a little bow. “Sir. I brought you a cigarette.” He passed something through the bars. Filthy fingers groped for it in the gloom before the cell was illuminated first by the scratchy flash of a match, then by the dull glow of the cigarette.
The voice again, rasping and hoarse, but with the merest hint that it had once belonged to a sane and civilized man. “Is he with you?”
Meyrick Owsley whispered back, “Yes, sir.”
There was something almost tender, the inspector thought, in the way Owsley spoke to the inmate — like a mother to her child, or a woman to her lover.
The prisoner spoke again but too faintly for anyone to make out what was said. Owsley seemed to understand.
“Barabbas will see only you, Mr. Moon. The other gentlemen are to wait at the gates.”
Moon spoke briskly. “Very well.”
Merryweather thought he ought to put up a token protest. “As a police officer I should be present.”
“Please, Inspector. This is important,” Moon insisted.
“Damned unorthodox is what it is.”
“This is the only way he’ll speak to me.”
Merryweather was relieved to admit defeat. “I understand.”
The Somnambulist touched Moon’s arm, his face a picture of concern.
“I’ll be fine. Wait for me outside.”
Owsley took a bundle of keys from his pocket and unlocked the cell. “I can give you fifteen minutes. No more.”
Moon stepped smartly inside and the door slammed shut behind him.
Owsley turned back toward the others. “Gentlemen. With me.”
Merryweather was grateful to follow him back down the corridor and escape into the sanctuary of the courtyard. The Somnambulist trailed silently, unhappily behind.
Barabbas lay at the furthest corner of his cell; corpulent, naked to the waist, his fleshy face framed by rings of Neronian curls. His belly was covered by an elaborate tattoo, its intricate design distended and rendered unintelligible by enormous rolls of pale white fat. He had grown an unkempt beard since his incarceration and at the sight of it Moon was reminded, with an uncomfortable start, of Mina.
Barabbas sucked greedily on his cigarette. “Edward,” he rasped. “You’ll forgive me if I don’t get up. I would
