The Aylesford Skull

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TWENTY-FIVE

LORD MOORGATE

Mother Laswell found herself crossing the mouth of Angel Alley again, following the disguised man. He headed up Whitechapel Road, and then very soon turned north onto Brick Lane, crossing Wentworth Street several streets east from where Mother Laswell had crossed it earlier in the evening. Abruptly she recalled his name: Nesbitt – Layton Nesbitt. She had a memory for names, especially names from the past, but she had to allow her mind to recover them by itself. If she actively sought them out, they’d stay hidden. There had been mention of Nesbitt in her husband’s logbooks – several, if she remembered aright – that seemed to reveal his generally low opinion of the man, although a generally high regard for the man’s money. Nesbitt had been a young man at the time.

The long day told on her joints, and she found she was limping on her right foot, her corns no doubt enflamed. She half expected Nesbitt to hail a hansom cab and disappear, leaving her to trudge back the way she’d come, a mile out of her way now, the entire adventure utterly pointless. Could she find her way back to Lime Street without entirely retracing her steps? Most of the street names meant little to her, but in her mind she could picture herself walking around the perimeter of a box. Currently they were moving dead away from the river. When he turned left again on a street called Hanbury, she was relieved to think that another left turn would take her in the general direction of Mabel’s. If he turned right again, they would part company. She didn’t have it in her to keep on at this pace.

Not long after this thought came into her mind, he turned abruptly into the shallow portico of a building with a bright-red door, hesitating for a moment while he fitted a key to the lock, then opened the door, and went in. She walked up to the building and stood looking at the facade. There was no sign of any sort – not an inn. A place, perhaps, where he kept rooms. Two windows fronted the street, hung with heavy velvet curtains. The interior was dimly lit. She peered past the curtain but could make little out, and she was acutely aware that she was merely loitering. She wondered what she meant to do. Beat on the door? What would she confront him with even if he answered?

It was long past midnight, and the street was very nearly empty. Two men hurried along down the footpath opposite, turning up an alley and disappearing. There was another man ambling along toward her, a few yards down. She felt perfectly aimless, like a top that had spun itself out under a chair. Had she gone about her business she would be at Mabel’s by now, taking her ease.

The door opened, surprising her, and Nesbitt reappeared. He was accompanied now by a young woman who seemed to be half his age. He had removed the disguise, which had given him a comical air, and there was nothing comical about him now. He had steel gray hair and an angular face despite his heavy build. In the gaslight his eyes were the same color as his hair.

“Who cares that you lost your ring?” the woman said to him. “You can buy another.”

“My signet ring,” he told her, stopping on the footpath to pull on his gloves. “Of course I can buy another. Money is not the issue. I wouldn’t want it found, do you see? Not where I’ve been tonight. The police would recognize it easily enough and wonder why I had been in that room.”

“You should have kept it on your finger.”

“I thank you for your advice. I found myself among strangers, actually, and so I put it into my pocket. Evidently it fell out. I wasn’t at ease in that damned rookery, I can tell you. And I don’t trust Narbondo. He’s done nothing to demonstrate good faith. It’s almost as if he’s mocking me. He’ll regret it if he is.”

The two set out again, in Mother Laswell’s direction, and in that moment Nesbitt looked straight at her. He blinked, as if in surprise, and then a slow, contemptuous smile formed on his face.

“You’ve followed me,” he said. “How tenacious of you.”

“You knew my late husband,” she told him, “many years ago. You’re Layton Nesbitt, I believe?”

“He’s Lord Moorgate now,” the woman said to her, a haughty look on her face. “You’d best curtsey, you old slattern.”

“And you’d be wise to find more savory company, young lady. Your Lord Moorgate has dangerous friends, my son among them.”

“Come now,” Moorgate said, “why have you followed me?”

“I really cannot tell you,” she said. “It was a sleeveless errand.”

“You cannot, you say? You underestimate yourself, or perhaps you underestimate me. This is your second sleeveless errand of the evening, apparently. That seems uncannily thoughtless of you. I believe that you know something more than you say, or that you believe you do. How you know it is a mystery, but mysteries bore me. I’ll just ask you to accompany us, ma’am, in order to come at a solution. We’ll chat further, in the company of one or two of my dangerous friends.”

“I will not, sir. I have no fear of you.”

The woman grinned abruptly, as if finding this amusing, and Mother Laswell moved back a step, holding her parasol before her like a sword. She had a premonition of real danger now – from the woman, and not Nesbitt or Moorgate or whatever he called himself. Running wasn’t in her, though. They would have her if they wanted her, no doubt about that, but perhaps she could poke one of them in the eye…

Moorgate lunged forward suddenly, taking three long steps and closing with her. He clutched her arm, wrenching the parasol out of her grasp and pitching it into the street. She attempted to twist away, but the woman came up beside her now and latched onto her other arm, and Mother Laswell found herself propelled forward, walking so as not to fall down. Quickly she decided that falling down was a better thing than going on, and so she slumped, her weight dragging her to the ground.

“I won’t go another step,” she said, sitting on the pavement. “I have nothing to say to you or your friends.”

“I believe that you do,” Lord Moorgate said, “and I believe that you will. Helen, convince her that I’m correct, if you don’t mind. I’m weary of this.”

The woman named Helen bent over in front of her and produced an ivory knitting needle from her sleeve. It had been filed to a sharp point, which she displayed for Mother Laswell’s edification. “Upon my honor you’ll come along willingly or I’ll put this in your ear, my lady.”

Mother Laswell stared into her face for a moment. You’ve trod on a hornets’ nest now, Mother, she told herself. Having no choice in the matter she struggled to rise, neither of the two lending her any assistance. They were talking again. The woman laughed aloud. Mother Laswell heard a rush of footsteps behind her now – someone coming at a dead run – and she looked back in surprise, as did Moorgate and the woman named Helen.

Mother Laswell was confounded to see Bill Kraken six paces away running and not slowing down. Lord Moorgate set his feet to meet the onrush, but was simply mowed down, his hat flying away, Kraken banking off the nearby wall, catching himself, and leaping forward to kick Moorgate on the knee. Helen, knitting needle in her hand, lunged at Kraken as Moorgate fell, but Mother Laswell threw herself forward and grabbed a handful of Helen’s dress and the woman tripped and went down, grunting audibly when her knee and hands struck the stones of the pavement, her knitting needle snapping in half. Mother Laswell leaned heavily against her as she got to her feet, stepping into the road to fetch her parasol, meaning to teach Helen a lesson in manners.

Moorgate leapt up and assumed a boxer’s stance, he and Kraken circling Helen, who rolled up onto the footpath, shielding herself with her hands and arms. Moorgate feinted at Kraken, who ducked backward as his opponent took a wild swing at his jaw, Kraken knocking his fist away, Moorgate bobbing toward him again, lashing out and catching Kraken on the chin this time, knocking him backward.

With room to move now, Helen scrambled to her feet and turned toward Mother Laswell, who rushed in at her, pummeling her with the umbrella, thrusting it into her face, Helen windmilling her arms to fend it off and fleeing into the street. Mother Laswell followed, her blood up now, and took a wild swing with the umbrella at the back of Helen’s head. The umbrella flew open, two of the ribs entangling themselves in Helen’s hair and bringing her up