“No, thank you, sir,” Finn said. “I ate this past hour.” The lie wasn’t a grievous sin, and he could buy his own sandwich on the street. He was in a hurry, and all the more so as evening drew near.
Davey nodded his head, paused a moment, and said seriously, “I wondered were you dead, Finn. One day you were an oysterman and the next gone away without a word to old Davey. Now here you are, your own self. Come back to the oystering trade have you?”
“No, sir,” Finn said. “But I miss it. I was just recollecting those spring mornings at Whitsable, sir, with the baskets heaped with oysters. I haven’t forgot that – the dredge coming up so heavy the rig nearly snapped.”
“Then come along with me in the morning. There’s the boat for a kip tonight. It’s snug enough.”
“I wish I could, sir, and might one day. But I’ve got to look into something, and it can’t wait. I wonder if you can tell me about a man. He used to be seen here, seemed to have his way with the place, a swart man to look at, although not in color, but dark in spirit, so to speak, and in his clothes and hair. So much evil in him that you could feel the wickedness if you were standing across the street. A hunchback, middling small, mayhaps in a black cape.”
“Oh, aye,” said Davey, lowering his voice and looking around carefully. There were two men drinking nearby, although one was asleep with his face on the table, and the other was dribbling a glass of gin into his mouth two- handed, one hand gripping the wrist of the other to steady and guide it. “Your man is known as the Doctor hereabouts, although no kind of real medical man, I’d warrant. A blackguard of the worst sort. Devil’s spawn. What of it, Finn? You don’t want nothing to do with the likes of him. You ain’t looking for a situation? It ain’t come to that? I know you were quick with your hands, but were always an honest boy, Finn, never a foist.”
“No, sir. I learned what I know in the circus, for amusement. A man loves to have his pocket picked for show. Anyway, I don’t need work, especially from old Scratch. I’m growing hops out in Kent. But there’s a man – a friend of mine – whose son’s been kidnapped by the Doctor, as you call him, and it came to me that the Doctor was thick with the man they call the Crumpet. You remember the Crumpet, sir?”
The old man stared at him for a moment, as if searching his face, then cast his voice even lower and hunched forward. “Someone nearly did for the Crumpet with a knife under the bridge, Finn, the night you run off. I tell you that plainly, for what it’s worth. I’m not the only one as knows it, although no one’s sorry for it.”
“
“Aye, a near-run thing. They say he lay in a fever down the way from this very pub for a week. It was the Doctor who sewed him up and saved his worthless life. They were in some manner of business together, although I haven’t seen neither one along the docks this past year. You remember Spry Jack, the dim-witted boy who hauled rubbish out of the market? He disappeared one night some months after you left. He was seen with the Crumpet down in Spitalfields, Whitechapel Road, the two of them walking hand in hand like father and son. The Doctor lives thereabouts, or so I was told by old Benson, the whelk man, who had a natural fondness for the boy, unlike the Crumpet, whose fondness ain’t natural by a long chalk. Benson looked around the rookery with half a dozen friends, but nothing came of it. No one knew the Crumpet nor the Doctor, you see. No one had seen anything nor knew anything. They live in main fear of the man. Jack never came back to the market, and yet he’d been born there, in among the whelk casks, and lived hereabouts his whole life, which means he’s dead or been taken away. Someone will put an end to the Crumpet for good and all, Finn. He’s past his due. Like as not he knows full well who put a knife in him under the bridge, and he’ll serve that person out if he gets a chance. Do you ken what I say, boy?”
“I do, sir. And I thank you for saying it. Whitechapel Road?”
“Spitalfields. Just below Flower and Dean, which is a sort of Hell on Earth, Finn. But if Benson and his lot couldn’t find the precious Doctor, then he doesn’t want to be found. It’ll do you no good to go into the rookery.”
“It’s murder he’ll commit again if he can’t be found, and my fault, sir. I tell you that plainly.” Saying this out loud brought the truth of it back into his mind, along with a vision of Alice. He couldn’t bear to face her after Eddie was gone. Her sadness was his doing, or close enough, and would be his undoing if he didn’t shift himself. He pushed the thought away so that he could speak. Remorse was best saved for later, when damnation was certain.
“Then I’ll go along with you, Finn,” Davey said. “I’ll just fetch Lobster Wilson and the two Gulleys. We’ll tackle it tomorrow, but in the light of day.”
“I guess not, Captain Davey. I have a way about me that makes me hard to see, sir, if I don’t want to be seen. I’d best go alone.”
Davey shrugged. “It’s a fool’s errand, son, but the Lord bless you. You were always game. You watch yourself with that lot, though. You’ll want humble clothes in the rookery, not that finery you’re wearing now. Rags and tatters is what you need, and your money in your crabshells, although not those as you’ve got on your feet. They’ll put a knife in you for a pair of quality shoes. You won’t find help if you need it, not there, and the worse you need it the less you’ll find it. There’s nought there but thieves and cutthroats. There ain’t but one honest lodging house, and that’s Smith’s. Look it up first thing, and find shelter in it if you’ve got a need. They’ll take you for a sneak straight away, but when they’re a-giving you the bum’s rush, ask for Mr. Sawyer. If he’s in, and ain’t too far gone in drink, tell him you’re a friend of Square Davey, and he’ll do you right. But don’t go asking him about the Doctor or the Crumpet or anything else that’ll put a knife in his back, or yours.”
“All right. Sawyer it is. At Smith’s.”
“And one other thing. I can tell you that the Doctor’s been seen on the river. Not much happens on the river that I don’t hear of sooner or later. Could be he’s turned pirate or smuggler or both down around Egypt Bay, back in the marsh. More than one boat’s been lost out there on a black night this last six months, one just a few weeks back, or so says a boy who was fished out of the river. Two others who were fished out dead weren’t so talkative.”
SIXTEEN
“I wonder if your master is in,” St. Ives said to the boy who was sweeping the footpath in front of Slocumb’s Millinery in Cheapside. “I owe him a small debt. Perhaps you would step inside and tell Mr. Slocumb that Langdon St. Ives would like to settle up. Tell him it has to do with the business of the illustrations by Joseph Banks. Can you remember all that?” He handed the boy a shilling to cement his memory and then sent him inside. St. Ives made himself visible in the sunshine, so that Slocumb might glimpse him through the window. He wanted to put the wind up the man.
There were dozens of hats on display in the window, hung on wooden hooks and perched high on top of wooden heads. The shop was gaily painted and well kept: no dust, no dead flies behind the glass. The prices were genteel. From what St. Ives could see there were no customers in the shop, and he wondered whether the manufacture of hats turned any sort of profit, or whether Slocumb depended on more interesting pursuits. St. Ives studied his own reflection in the bright glass, not entirely happy with what he saw, but he assumed that Slocumb was also studying it, unhappy for other reasons entirely.
He heard footsteps approaching behind him, and he looked back into the surprised face of the very woman to whom he had given five crowns, whose husband was now a two-weeks-old memory. She stopped and stared at him, as if trying to make sense of his presence, just as he was trying to make sense of hers. And then she shifted her eyes and stepped past him and into Slocumb’s without a word spoken, her presence both a mystery and a complication.
St. Ives had only a moment to contemplate this before there sounded a whistle from the back of the shop, and he set off at a run around the edge of the building, where he found Hasbro holding a resigned Slocumb by the collar some few feet from the rear door. Slocumb was a nondescript man, of medium height and build, the sort of man one might glance at but not really see – a useful anonymity if one were describing him to the police. He wore spectacles that were contrived to make him appear owlishly studious, worn low on his nose, which gave him an appearance of condescension. His demeanor changed again when he removed the spectacles, as he did now. It seemed to St. Ives that there was no fear about him, however, but something more like resignation.
“That wheeze with the notebooks fell out badly,” Slocumb started to say, no denial in his face or tone, when
