Beautiful Freaks (30 page)

His thoughts returned to No. 7. The place definitely contained a secret. She’d as good as told him that when she’d called him a fool. She’d made it clear that he’d be an unwelcome visitor after dark and he didn’t have enough evidence for a warrant. Not only that, it would be a political disaster. It was clear that the clientele of No. 7 were some of the wealthiest men in London; and with wealth came power.
‘God knows what vipers that
nest contains,
’
he mused.

As much as it annoyed him to admit it, he knew he needed professor Heartlock’s advice on the matter.
‘But not the boy – not the boy.’
The more he thought on it, the more he felt the same kind of discomfort about Kaspian Blackthorne as he did Miss Evangeline Valentine. If the two of them were lovers then the whole situation was a shade darker than it already was.

The fine foggy-drizzle of the late afternoon turned into a torrent of cold rain. The carriages clattered by, splashing sprays of muddy water onto the pedestrians and Steptree thought that in that singular moment he’d never felt quite so miserable. Seeing the doors of the chapel open, he dived inside, purely with the intention of standing in the porch until the shower had passed. He was being optimistic; it was the kind of rain that was settled in for the evening. Steptree didn’t care for churches that much
;
temples to intolerance and ignorance. He snorted out a laugh – he was hardly the sort to take on the bride of Satan. Surely fate should have thrown a priest in her way, or at least a young, able-bodied paranormal investigator. “A fine team of witch hunters we are going to make,” he muttered.

At just that moment, in somewhat comic timing, a chorus of angelic voices floated out of the church. He turned to see the choir were in practice; it was a beautiful sound. He reached out his hand, took hold of the handle and pushed the door open as quietly as he could. He let out a silent curse as the wooden frame of the door scraped across the clay tiles but the choir paid no notice. He took a seat on the back pew and allowed his mind to rest; he needed to move away from the demons that were haunting it. The strains of ‘Ave Maria’ washed over him and for the first time in his cynical adult life he understood, just a tiny bit, why man found solace and comfort in the idea of a god.

He sat there for over an hour as the choir practiced their recitals. He allowed his mind to return to the science of the crimes
;
the hard, cold facts of the case. He re-played the conversations he’d had with all those involved and recalled the expressions of Kaspian’s face at the morgue. He went back and relived the evening of Kaspian’s birthday dinner and remembered how the boy had disappeared with that man,
“What was his name
, Henry? Hughbert? Yes, Hugh
Denvers!”

Steptree’s eyes flared open with inspiration. There was something about Mr. Denvers that Steptree didn’t care for; the man was trouble.
How else would a young boy like Kaspian Blacktho
rne discover a place like No. 7
? Hugh Denvers hit the profile of a No. 7 client perfectly; he was lascivious, wealthy, and egotistical. Steptree gave a friendly acknowledgement to the God Almighty and left the church feeling like his old self again.

Within an hour Steptree had Hugh Denver’s address scrawled on a piece of paper and was knocking on the door. It was for an apartment in Bloomsbury. The smallest accommodation in one of the wealthiest areas; it told Steptree a lot about Denver’s situation.

Bloomsbury was a strange part of town. Not far in distance from the squalor of Soho and the bright but tawdry lights of the West End, it was a magnet for the slightly wild and bohemian. A group of infamous writers had moved into Russell Square, making it a sudden hotspot of intellectualism and cutting edge fashion. Steptree couldn’t see it
himself,
the whole area looked like it was teetering on the edge of respectability. Most of the houses looked more like whorehouses than respectable residences, and as he walked through the little green square he found it littered with cigarette ends, champagne bottles and ribbons, as if a spontaneous party had suddenly erupted in the middle of the square.

Denvers’ apartment was on the first floor of a large Georgian property. The door had been painted a brazen red colour. A brass plaque listed the various occupants. The names were littered with extra letters BA, BSC, DR, PROF, etc. Denvers’ was clearly in intelligent, if not ‘good’, company. A concierge answered the door and led Steptree up the sweeping staircase.

As soon as Denvers answered the door, Steptree knew he was guilty of something. Denvers tried to fake it by planting a nonchalant smile on his lips as Steptree informed him how he was there on routine enquires, et cetera, et cetera. It was a well-worn speech that neither man quite believed.

“Please, come on in. Let me see if I can be of any assistance,” Denvers said in a loud enough voice for the hovering concierge to hear.

Denvers’ apartment was exactly as Steptree predicted. It was like the lost and found office of St. Pancreas Station, and he wondered just how many of the items had been ‘borrowed’ or ‘gifted’. There was a large floor-to-ceiling bookshelf that housed a beautiful collection of leather-bound books – none of them looked as if they had been read. Every surface housed artefacts and exotic trinkets from lands Denvers had probably never visited.  The whole apartment was fogged with thick blue cigarette smoke.

“How can I help you, Inspector?”

“Routine enquiries. I’m working alongside Professor Heartlock and his charge, Kaspian Blackthorne.” Steptree paused and waited for a reaction. None was offered. “I believe you are acquainted with the professor and his charge, we met briefly at Kaspian’s birthday soiree but we didn’t get a chance to speak in depth as I believe you and Kaspian went out for the evening.”

Hugh sat down, inhaling deeply on his cigarette and flipping the lid of his silver Vesta case open and shut.

“Yes, I am acquainted with Kaspian Blackthorne and we did go out later that evening.”

“And do you make a regular habit of going out in each other’s company?”

Hugh didn’t like the way this routine questioning was going. His heartbeat was already racing and the questions were still in their polite stage. He thought back to that night at The Argyll, when everything had unravelled at a rapid pace. It had been just a silly, wild evening of play that had ended in a dead girl and the strange appearance of Kaspian’s guardian angel – only his guardian angel looked like she’d flown out of Hell rather than down from heaven.

“No, just the once.” Denver’s desperately hoped that the inspector believed his lie.

“How well are you acquainted with Mr. Blackthorne?”

Hugh noticed the change from the friendly first name terms to the more official surname; the shift made Kaspian sound like a criminal.

“Not that well. We’ve only just met.”

“Really? And whereabouts in town did you go?” Steptree noticed Denvers shift uncomfortably in his chair. Steptree continued, “I’m a little out of touch as to where it is fashionable for young men to go.”

Steptree watched Denvers scan his mind for the names of clubs that might not incriminate him. He shrugged, “Well, there’s Kate’s in the Haymarket, that’s popular or…” He removed another cigarette from his silver case and lit it “…or there is The Black Bull …  or The Argyll, I hear that is a popular place, although I haven’t been. To be honest, I find them all a little gaudy. I prefer to attend my own private gentleman’s club.”

Steptree smiled and then pressed his excitement back in. He didn’t want to scare Denvers off. “Oh, yes, and which one is that?”

“It’s a place called No.7 in the Haymarket.” Denvers smiled and then a shadow flicked across his face as he suddenly remembered the appearance of Evangeline Valentine at The Argyll on that terrible night.

Steptree removed his notebook and his pencil. He scribbled down a note to himself to collect a bar of soap on the way home. Meg had asked him earlier and he had nearly forgotten. He often did this – wrote down random memos in his notebook. It had a surprising effect on individuals being questioned. It was like it acted as a kind of key to a lock. Many times he had seen an individual buckle and pour out confession after confession just because he had written down a totally unconnected point.

Steptree saw that Denvers had shifted his position again so that he was sitting bolt upright in his chair; the man was certainly nervous. He was staring at the notebook as if willing his eyes to see though the leather binding and read what Steptree was writing. 

“Number
Seven
, is that the name of the establishment or its address?”

“Um, yes, the name,” Hugh flustered.

“And … exactly what kind of establishment is it?”

“It’s a communal dining and smoking club. A place where men can escape the tedium of their wives and talk with other men.” Denvers let out a nervous laugh and when he saw that Steptree wasn’t laughing too, he turned it into a cough.

“I see!” Steptree raised an eyebrow in surprise. “I’m sorry, I hadn’t realised you were married.”

“Oh, I’m not,” he shook his head. “Which is why I go to there to eat. I have an allergy against kitchens.” He laughed an affected laugh.

“Hmm, I see. Does anything else go on at this club? I mean do they have a casino or cabaret?”

“Nope, nothing
like
that at all. It’s just smoking, eating, and drinking. No women on the premises.”

Steptree flicked through his notebook pretending to search for some information. “Oh, I was under the impression that there were female waitresses and that indeed the establishment was owned by a woman, Miss Evangeline Valentine.”

Denvers fidgeted in his seat, flicked his matchbox lid backwards and forwards. It was a habit that was beginning to annoy Steptree. Denvers pretended to look confused, “Well of course, I didn’t count the waitresses when I said that.
As for the owner, really?
I was unaware of that peculiarity. I’ve never seen her there.” He coughed nervously.

“And Mr. Blackthorne, is he a member of No.7 too?” Steptree moved over to the fireplace and feigned interest in a shrunken head.

“Yes, Kaspian is a member of No.7.”

“This is truly fascinating,” he said pointing to the shrunken head.

“Papa New Guinea,” Denvers said, as he stood and walked over to the decanter. He poured himself a large whisky; it was the measure of a condemned man. He nodded over to Steptree, inviting him to share a drink. Steptree smiled and shook his head. Denvers continued, “A friend posted it to me – as a joke. He thought it was time I settled down with somebody … well some head.”

“Your friend has an interesting sense of humour.”

“Yes, rather!” Denvers took a swig of whisky, clearly relieved that the conversation had switched
to
less dangerous ground.

“So tell me, what exactly is the relationship between Kaspian Blackthorne and Evangeline Valentine?”

20

KNOWLEDGE

Kaspian stared hard at the mirror and deep into the reflection of his
eyes;
the pupil swallowed most of his iris. It was a curious thing, looking deeply into your own eyes. He wondered if this was as how others saw them, if this was how Eve saw them.

A small flash of light hovered against the velvet blackness and it looked like a star. He never saw himself blink.

Kaspian licked his lips, watched the thick flesh of his tongue move over the pale pinkness, leaving them moist and glistening. His thoughts turned to Eve. The feel of the cold hard porcelain of her skin under his hands took on a new weight and his breathing slowed and deepened. There was something she did to him – it was like a drug. Sweet and addictive, but it might just kill you, tip you over the edge of the abyss.

He closed his eyes, retreated back into his imagination. He felt her hands stroke his cheek and her lips press against his. He kissed her deeply, grabbing at her hair and pulling her further into him, dragging each breath from her lungs.

Then he started suffocating.

He gasped for breath but it was as if the corridors to his lungs had been shut down. Panic surged through his veins; adrenaline made him lash out sending a pile of books flying off of his desk.

He opened his mouth to call out but it was more intent on gasping for air. His knees buckled under him, sending him crashing to the floor. He thought he was going to die, but before he could know if he was dead or not, he blacked out.

*

Steptree continued his interrogation with a renewed energy. Hugh Denvers was a frightened man – and he was frightened because he was guilty. For the first time since this investigation Steptree began to feel in control.

He had definitively found a link between Kaspian and Miss Valentine, and it was clear, that whatever its strangeness or immorality, they were tied into some form of ‘romantic’ relationship. He was also certain that No.7 held the key. When Steptree had asked Denvers about ‘The Palace of Beautiful Freaks’, he had been reluctant to talk about it, as if he were breaking a secret oath. Denvers’ hesitation told Steptree with no uncertainty that whatever was going on at No.7 was more than anybody was letting on.