it: springing up beyond the table, making for the second room, confounding his Lordship with exploding crackers, and then back out through the window with Eddie and away across the bridge.
Narbondo fiddled with the skull now, which suddenly came alive, the eyes glowing brightly. The ghost of the hanged boy was reflected in the glass of the window opposite.
Conversation abruptly heightened in the courtyard below. Someone shouted, “It’s him!” and someone else said, “Of course it is, you goddamn sod.”
Finn couldn’t see the ghost from his vantage point, but it was obvious to him that it must emanate from the skull on the table – the dead boy’s skull, no doubt. Narbondo canted his head and narrowed his eyes, as if listening hard. Finn heard nothing at all aside from the chaos of noises below. After a moment Narbondo fiddled with the skull again. The ghost was drawn back into its prison, the skull fell dark, and Narbondo sat back in his chair looking tolerably satisfied.
NINETEEN
The evening was wearing on when St. Ives and Hasbro found themselves walking through the door of Billson’s Half Toad Inn on Fingal Street, Lambert Court, Smithfield, near enough to the top end of Shoe Lane so that Chatterton’s unhappy ghost still haunted the neighborhood along with the ghosts of the Smithfield martyrs. They took a table in their accustomed corner, which was luckily empty and where an open window let in the evening breeze, the fog drifting past outside. William Billson himself served them an ewer of ale and then went back after two more empty glasses in anticipation of the appearance of Jack Owlesby and Tubby Frobisher, St. Ives’s companions in arms. St. Ives hoped that they had received his hastily telegraphed message from Gravesend. If they hadn’t, then he and Hasbro would go on alone into the rookery in Spitalfields within the hour.
“This business of a ransom might be an utter fraud, sir,” Hasbro said to St. Ives. “Narbondo wouldn’t scruple to murder a child while swearing that he was playing a fiddle – please forgive me for speaking plainly. Narbondo’s word, such as it is, means nothing to him.”
“Nor would he scruple to take my money into the bargain,” St. Ives said. “And thank you for speaking plainly. This is no time to mince words out of a specious regard for euphemism. I agree with you utterly. Take the case of Mary Eastman. The woman was no real threat to Narbondo, but he murdered her anyway. He sprinkled hemlock on Alice’s pike for no conceivable gain. He made a bargain with Harry Merton, and then took the first opportunity to betray him – to steal his money – and then to insist that Merton pay him for the ill treatment. Whoever suggested that there was honor among thieves knew precious few thieves.”
St. Ives paused for a moment, contemplating, and then said. “That rather puts me in mind of our friend George. There was something about his demeanor there in the alley that was damnably strange. It came over him at the end of our conversation.”
“Something tolerably close to honesty, it seemed to me,” Hasbro said. “Perhaps regret. I can’t make it out, unless George isn’t entirely whom we take him for.”
“Lord knows we’ve taken him for any number of things today. One thing’s sure: he doesn’t know Narbondo as we do – by his acts, as the Bible says. If it turns out George has a soul, he might find himself in deep water. I’ll have no dealings with Narbondo in any event. I mean to strike tonight, for good or ill.”
Hasbro nodded, took a contemplative drink of ale, and said, “There’s some small chance that your agreeing on tomorrow morning’s rendezvous will put them at their ease. Do you believe in the existence of this alleged Customer?”
“Probably the man who commissioned another of these lamps from Keeble,” St. Ives said. “That would be my guess. It’s senseless as mere invention when the threat of murder is entirely enough to force my hand, given that it’s Narbondo who’s making the threat. There’s no need for him to fabricate a more elaborate story. An actual customer would give a rational explanation to the kidnapping, a sensible motivation.”
“His presence might perhaps lend us some time. Narbondo is certainly as avaricious as he is murderous. Merton suggested that the man was highly placed, but that’s scarcely surprising, since wealth would seem to be a requirement, given the cost of the merchandise.”
“Keeble might shed some light on the man’s identity,” St. Ives said.
At that point the door opened, and three men walked in, Jack Owlesby, Tubby Frobisher, and a third man, whom St. Ives didn’t recognize – about Jack’s own age, which is to say twenty-four or -five. He wore a heavy mustache and had a fit look about him, as if he spent his time on a rugby pitch. He looked around the room appreciatively, taking in the high, oak wainscot that had been put up half a century before Dr. Johnson had made his occasional visit to the inn, and a century and a half before William Billson would buy the inn and rename it the Half Toad. The place was a marvel of homely perfection: the candlelight, the paintings of sailing ships on the walls, the enormous joint roasting on the spit, the tap boy drawing pints of ale, the satisfied patrons stowing away vast quantities of food and drink, and Henrietta Billson moving cheerfully and efficiently among it all, as if conducting an orchestra.
St. Ives found the presence of the newcomer tedious, however, regardless of the man’s sensible appreciation of the place in which he found himself. Surely Jack had understood from the nature of his message that there was perilous work to be done. St. Ives had no intention of entertaining strangers, tonight of all nights.
Tubby saw the two of them and angled toward their table, a dark look on his usually jovial face. He carried a heavy blackthorn stick, which gave him a rough and ready appearance. St. Ives was heartily glad to see him. Tubby’s stick was a cudgel rather than a cane, and with the top hollowed out and filled with lead, a more deadly weapon, perhaps, than St. Ives’s true Irish shillelagh, although St. Ives in his youth had learned to fight with it in the Irish manner, and he much preferred its length and weight – more versatile than a cudgel, and without the lethal appearance.
Jack, a comparatively young man, was sometimes frivolous in his speech and actions, and rather too inclined to be whimsical and hyperbolic, but was utterly dependable. He was an aspiring writer, who had sold pieces to
“I’d like to introduce the two of you to my particular friend,” he said. “Arthur Doyle. He’s a doctor, University of Edinburgh, with a new practice in Southend. He’s also a literary man, in London to speak to his publishers. I met him today at the offices of the
“Very pleased to meet you both,” the man said, his Scottish accent moderate.
His illuminated smile and the evident pleasure in his eyes were genuine, St. Ives noted, and he wondered what kind of writerly swill Jack had been filling him with this afternoon – apocryphal tales of grand exploits, no doubt.
“I’ve long wanted to meet you, sir,” Doyle said to St. Ives. “We have a mutual friend at the university. You know Joseph Bell, I believe. He speaks highly of you.”
“I do indeed,” said St. Ives with happy surprise. “I had the pleasure of meeting with him a year ago, when we were in your country, in Dundee, looking into the Tay Bridge disaster. We went considerably out of our way to consult with Dr. Bell, although to no avail, despite our concurring on the issue of Thomas Bouch’s culpability. The rail bridge was indeed badly engineered, although not so badly that it collapsed without, shall we say, nefarious encouragement. Please, sit down. We’re about to take some supper, although we haven’t much time to enjoy it.”
“Thank you, sir,” he said, and the two seated themselves. Tubby had already sat down and was familiarizing himself with the ale. “I’ve heard of this Narbondo,” Doyle continued. “Highly interesting man, and I don’t doubt but what he had a hand in the Tay Bridge disaster, and has the blood of those seventy-five passengers on his hands. He
