much pain and deprivation, on our doorstep. London is in greater need of the cleansing light of revelation even than the darkest recesses of the Congo. Our work is done here amongst the forgotten people, those abandoned by the city, left to rot in the slums and in the hopeless places.”
“We’ve heard enough.” Moon turned smartly on his heel and headed for the door. “Come along, Inspector.”
“You will let us know if there are any developments?” McDonald asked, his voice dripping spurious concern, ersatz sympathy. “Mrs. Honeyman is in my prayers.”
The inspector followed Moon from the room. “Didn’t believe a word of it,” he said once they had emerged onto the street. “Man knows more than he’s telling. You?”
“I’m not sure,” Moon admitted. “This latest development is — I confess — unexpected.”
“What was all that business about the plaque?”
“Coleridge,” Moon said mysteriously.
“Is there some significance?”
“Are you a poetry-lover, Inspector?”
“Not seen a word of the stuff since school.”
“Then at least you’ve learnt one valuable lesson today.”
“What’s that?”
“Read more.”
Later that evening, lulled by the rhythmic snoring of his wife, just as he was about to go to sleep, Inspector Merryweather would think of rather an amusing retort to this. But he would know that the moment had passed, and would roll over instead and hope for pleasant dreams.
Moon seemed excited. “Did you recognize the flower beneath the crucifix?”
“Seemed pretty unremarkable to me.”
“We found the same sigil outside the Human Fly’s caravan.”
Merryweather shrugged. “Coincidence?” He looked about him. “Besides, aren’t you forgetting somebody?”
“Who?”
“The Somnambulist.”
Regretfully, Mr. Skimpole put aside his fourth cup of tea since he had left the Directorate for the day, reflecting as he did so that the sound of a teacup clinking into its predestined place on a saucer was one of life’s small but perfect pleasures. There was something indefinably comforting about it, something soothing and warm and British. “Are you sure you don’t know when he’ll be back?”
On hearing the question, Mrs. Grossmith felt a deeply uncharacteristic urge to unleash a scream of rage and frustration — in part at the albino’s bloody-minded persistence but also at a bottled-up lifetime of tireless obedience to the whims of infuriating men. She restrained herself. “No,” she said, trying not to let her irritation show. “I’ve no idea where he is or when he’ll be home. Mr. Moon’s quite capable of disappearing without warning for days or weeks at a time. Once, when he was investigating that Crookback business, he was gone for the best part of a year.”
After the unpleasantness of the morning, Skimpole had wanted to speak to Moon, only to find him vanished. It was at times like this that he regretted honoring his promise to retire the conjuror’s shadow.
“More tea?” Mrs. Grossmith asked, secretly willing the man to refuse.
Skimpole waved the offer away and relief showed immediately in Grossmith’s face.
“I’ve outstayed my welcome, haven’t I?”
“Not at all.” The housekeeper’s smile was strained but still in place. Strange to think that there was a time when she had found this man a figure of menace.
The albino heaved a maddening sigh and sank further back in his chair. “Changed my mind,” he said. “On second thoughts I’d love another cup. Is there any chance…?”
“Of course,” Mrs. Grossmith said wearily.
As the housekeeper ministered to the teapot, Skimpole murmured: “I almost died today.”
“Sorry?” she asked, palpably uninterested. “What was that?”
Before he could reply, Arthur Barge strolled into the room. “Still here?”
“Evidently.”
“It’s just that I was planning to take Mrs. G. up to town. Give her a little treat. I reckon she deserves it. We’re both men of the world, Mr. Skimpole. I’m sure you understand my meaning.”
“Not entirely, no.”
“Lord knows if Moon will be back tonight. If I were you, I’d go home.”
Grudgingly, Skimpole got to his feet. “Then I’ll go.”
“I’ll be sure to tell him you were here, sir,” said Mrs. Grossmith.
“I’ll be back first thing tomorrow. It’s imperative that I speak with him.”
Barge ushered their guest to the door. “We’ll see you then, sir. I’ll look forward to it.”
The albino had barely stepped from the room and the door closed behind him before the air was filled with squeals of delight, shrieks and wails of lascivious pleasure — the earthy sounds, strangely troubling to Skimpole’s ears, of senescent romance. He rolled his eyes and headed home.
Home, as it happened, was Wimbledon — an hour distant and a world away from the silver-plated comfort of Moon’s hotel.
Unlike Mr. Dedlock, Skimpole had never fancied himself a glamorous or powerful man. Dedlock liked to put on airs, to dress up his job as something exotic and exciting, but Skimpole was happy, proud even, to be seen for what he was — a Civil Servant, and a damn good one. His colleague swaggered through the world as though he was the most important thing in it, but Skimpole had always remained content with his life of quiet duty and routine. That this duty and routine often involved arson, blackmail, espionage and state-sponsored murder seemed not to occur to him.
The Service offered a respectable if hardly generous salary and Skimpole had been able to afford a modest terraced house situated a street or so from the Common. An hour after leaving Mrs. Grossmith in the saggy arms of her suitor, Skimpole let himself into his home and winced at the sounds of revelry emanating from next door. The walls were thin and Skimpole’s neighbors fonder than he of raucous company and popular music.
Above that noise, there came other, more welcome sounds: a persistent tap-tap, a metallic jingle and with it a series of fitful stammers, gasps and wheezes. Skimpole hung up his hat, and for the first time that day, he actually smiled. Limping toward him was a sandy-haired boy, eight or nine years old, sickly and pallid, his progress severely impeded both by the metal calipers which encircled and armored his legs like a homemade exoskeleton and by the two heavy wooden crutches on which he leant for support.
“Dada!” he called plaintively, his voice shivery and hoarse from his exertions. He stopped short, have a pitifully feeble cough and, caught off balance for a moment, tottered uncertainly on his feet. The albino bent down to steady the child and kissed him tenderly on the forehead.
“Hello,” he said gently. “Sorry I’m so late.” He removed his pince-nez from the tip of his nose and filed them away in his jacket pocket.
“Missed you,” the boy murmured.
“I’m home now,” his father said and rose cheerfully to his feet. “Hungry?”
The boy laughed. “Yes! Yes! Yes!”
Skimpole ruffled his hair affectionately and was about to head for the kitchen when, without warning, he was struck by a terrible wrench of pain in his innards, a blistering burst of agony flaring deep in his guts as the poison began to stir. He bit down hard on his tongue to stop himself from screaming, lost for a second in the most acute agony he had ever known. Mercifully, the sensation disappeared as quickly as it had arrived.
He was in no doubt, of course, as to what it signified.
Poleaxed by grief and fear, Mr. Skimpole surprised himself by weeping. Racked by noisy sobs, he stood in the hallway of his second-rate home, hot, shameful tears running down his face while his son gazed up at him in quiet bemusement all the while.
Meyrick Owsley was pleased with himself. He had waited a long time for this, counting down the days and
