Constable & Toop (25 page)

Mr Toop said nothing.

‘I can make life very difficult for you if I want,' said Inspector Savage. ‘I can start asking questions that haven't been asked for some time, investigating things that haven't been investigated, if you get my drift. Or you can co-operate and let me know everything you know.'

Mr Toop looked at his son, then back at Inspector Savage. ‘Not here,' he said. ‘We'll speak upstairs.'

Inspector Savage nodded.

‘Sam, finish off this coffin,' said Mr Toop. ‘I won't be long.' He led Savage up the staircase.

Sam turned to Mr Constable, but Mr Constable turned away and muttered, ‘Best do as your father says,' and allowed the door to swing shut behind him.

Tanner lingered in the air as Ether Dust, mixing with the smog and the fog and the stinking tobacco smoke that polluted London's air. Jack stood in the shadowy alleyway. Tanner swirled around his body, seeing now the stains on his grubby black frock-coat. The blood of his victims. Jack rubbed his hands together to warm them. His fingerless gloves revealed stubby fingers with blackened filth around the edge of the nails. In its leather sheath was the blade he had used to cut his victims' throats. In his pockets were a few coins they had been carrying, taken as souvenirs of their murders.

What kind of man chose murder when there were other options available? Tanner thought about that poor girl in the attic window. Now, he understood the look in her eyes. Not the sadness of a ghost imprisoned, but the bewilderment of a girl whose life had been taken for reasons far beyond her own understanding.

‘Come on out,' snarled Jack. ‘I know you're 'ere. I can smell you lot out. Death has its own stench, don't it.'

Tanner materialised in front of him, his fists clenched, his eyes burning with dark anger.

‘What's the matter with you?' asked Jack.

‘I know what you're doing,' replied Tanner.

‘What? Talking to you?'

‘You're killing people.'

Jack shrugged. ‘What d'you care? I'm getting you ghosts, ain't I?'

‘I never asked for murder.'

‘You asked for help and that's what you're gettin'.'

‘Help as a Talker.'

‘Talk? Who wants to talk to a whining ghost? You expect me to persuade and negotiate when there's short cuts available?' Jack pulled his knife out and jabbed it through Tanner's chest.

In spite of himself Tanner flinched.

‘Anyway, I'm only killin' them with no lives,' said Jack. ‘Drunks, urchins, whores. They should 'ang a medal on my chest. I'm cleanin' up London.'

‘They're calling you the Kitchen Killer,' replied Tanner.

Jack smirked. ‘Jack Toop, the Kitchen Killer,' he said with a wistful smile. ‘Yes, that'll do.'

‘They're closing in on you, Jack. The police have your name. Reeve told them you killed that copper.'

‘Did he?' breathed Jack. ‘He'll live to regret giving me up, he will. Then he'll die to regret it too. Give us another of your addresses and I'll drag his body inside. That way I can go visit his ghost and he can watch as I take over his empire.'

‘I will not be a part of this,' said Tanner.

‘Suit yourself. You've served your purpose now. I had my suspicions that it was him but I had to know for sure. Reeve's goin' to get what's coming to him. I want him to look into my eyes while the blood drains from his body.'

‘I hope they catch you.'

‘Don't be like that,' said Jack mockingly. ‘You should be proud of yourself. You're the first ghost that ever proved useful.'

Jack stepped into the street and was swiftly gone in amongst the crowds. Tanner thought about the five lives ended because of him. The dead liked to speak of being ghost-born to make it sound more pleasant, but Tanner knew that nothing could sweeten the violence of death. He remembered his own. He didn't know the name of the sickness that killed him, but the pain of death lingered on in his memory. Nothing that could happen in life hurt like the feeling of having it torn away. Refusing the Unseen Door and remaining a ghost was to retain the memory of that pain forever. That was why the pull of the door was so hard to resist; it promised to wipe away that pain.

Tanner turned. Something had caught his eye.

‘Who's there?' he called.

A ghost materialised. He was a well-dressed man, with a thin moustache, and greasy slicked-back hair. He smiled.

‘What do you want?' asked Tanner.

‘
Bonjour
,' said the man.

‘Eh?'

‘Typical ignorant English ghost,' said the ghost.

Tanner didn't like the way he looked at him. He began to turn to Ether Dust but felt two cold metallic hands suddenly clamp around his wrists, preventing him from escaping. ‘What you playing at?' he demanded.

‘I am not here to play, Monsieur Tanner,' replied the man. ‘I am here to work.'

The past few weeks had changed Lapsewood. After a lifetime, and subsequently a deathtime, of treading the careful path of conformity, he had finally been set free. He had walked amongst the living as a ghost, acted upon his own initiative, been thrown into, then broken out of prison. He had even found his way into the Central Records Library without being caught. If ghosts had reflections his would have looked very different now as he walked purposefully along the corridor with the Marquis by his side. Moving around the Bureau as an escaped convict was surprisingly easy. With the exception of restricted areas, no one asked for their papers. Of course, it did help that no one knew they were missing.

They stopped in front of an entrance to the Paternoster Pipe.

‘Thank you,' said Lapsewood, grasping the Marquis' hand. ‘You have been a great help.'

‘Spoken with such finality,' replied the Marquis.

‘The danger in which I must now put myself is for me alone and there will be no need for distractions. You can take the Pipe to the exit and find exile in the physical world.'

‘A very good speech and I will reluctantly agree to this parting,' replied the Marquis. ‘But I will save my final oration for the moment we are reunited.'

Lapsewood smiled. ‘I must go to speak with Alice. It's likely I'll be rearrested.'

‘Then don't do it,' urged the Marquis. ‘Find another way.'

‘No, this is the only way,' said Lapsewood. ‘If I'm the only one investigating the Black Rot, why did Alice get that list out of the CRL? No, something is going on.'

‘I can see you are determined to walk this path alone,' said the Marquis. ‘So, with a heavy heart, I wish you good luck and goodbye.'

The two men shook hands then turned to Ether Dust slowly so that, for a moment, all that remained were two hands clasped together. Then they flew into the Paternoster Pipe and parted ways. The distaste Lapsewood had always felt for the Paternoster Pipe Network did not seem relevant any more. He no longer felt the need to pretend he was still alive. Walking the streets of London unseen by the crowds of living people had made him realise he shouldn't be ashamed about being dead. The dead had as much of a role to play as the living. They had as much right to their existence. The physical world may have been home to the living, but it was the legacy of the dead.

Lapsewood materialised on the twenty-fifth floor and once more laid eyes on the unmatched beauty of Alice Biggins. She was sitting behind her desk, looking as beautiful as ever. She stared at him. He stared back. For a moment, neither spoke.

Then she uttered, ‘How can you be—'

He raised a finger to his lips, cutting her off mid-flow.

‘Is he in there?' he asked, pointing to Penhaligan's office door.

‘Yes,' she replied.

He had forgotten how that voice made him feel, as though all his energy had been sucked out and replaced with a soft, sweet contented mush.

‘I saw that you were arrested. Have you been released?' she asked.

‘Sort of,' replied Lapsewood.

‘I didn't like the idea of you being stuck down there,' said Alice. ‘Is it as awful as they say?'

‘I'm here about the list,' he replied.

‘The list?'

‘The London Tenancy List.'

‘Oh, that. Why do you care about that?'

‘Where is it now?'

‘He wanted it, didn't he?' She pointed to Colonel Penhaligan's door.

‘How did you get hold of it so quickly?'

‘Quickly?' exclaimed Alice. ‘It took me weeks to get that.'

‘Weeks? When did you take it out?'

‘I don't know. A month ago?' she replied. ‘I think he gave to Monsieur Vidocq.'

‘Vidocq?'

‘That's right. The Prowler. French, nice moustache.'

‘Yes,' replied Lapsewood irritably. ‘I remember him. Why would Penhaligan give the list to him?'

‘Don't ask me. He doesn't tell me anything. Oh, Lapsewood, it is nice to see you.'

‘You've . . . You've missed me?' Lapsewood felt wrong-footed.

‘Oh yes. The way Mr Grunt dabbed his neck all the time made me feel awful queasy. But he's gone now too, hasn't he?'

‘Has he?'

‘Yes, the last time I saw him I told him about you being in the Vault. I haven't seen him since.'

‘And what about Vidocq? Where is he now?'

‘Out in the physical world, I suppose. No idea where, though. You know what it's like with Prowlers. Everything's all so secretive, isn't it?'

‘I'm going in to see him.' Lapsewood looked at Penhaligan's door. That door had filled him with so much dread before. Now, it was just one more obstacle.

‘You haven't got an appointment. You know what he's like about unscheduled interruptions.'

‘The time for appointments is over,' said Lapsewood.

It was when Emily thought about her mother that she first made Clara's toy theatre move. As the pain of losing her filled Emily's body, she saw the paper actor twitch. A few more experiments and she realised she could maniplate it whenever she felt strong emotions. The trick was to feel the emotion without getting dragged down by her spiralling self-destructive thoughts.

Her motivation did not come from a desire to impact the physical world. Emily simply wanted to play with the most magnificent toy she had ever laid her eyes on. Only when Clara began to watch intently did she consider that she could use the theatre to communicate with her. Clara sat patiently for hours waiting for Emily to perfect her performance. Emily came to worry that she was taking too long and that Clara would lose interest, but eventually she got it right.

Her play opened when she pushed out onto the stage a little girl dressed in rags. Emily wasn't to know she had picked Cinderella to play the part of herself.

‘This is you?' said Clara, instantly understanding.

Ever so delicately, Emily reached her other hand into the theatre and tapped the back of the paper character's head, making Cinderella nod in answer to the question.

‘You're the poor girl from the kitchen.'

Another nod.

‘Do you know who did it?'

Emily shook the character's head to indicate
No
.

‘What happened?' asked Clara.

Emily had never laid eyes on her murderer, but she'd found the figure she felt best suited his rasping voice. The character she had chosen to play Jack was King Rat, the villain from
Dick Whittington
. Even the curling tail from his backside didn't seem out of place with how she imagined the man who had dragged her bleeding through the streets of London. Slowly she pushed him across the stage, behind Cinderella's back. He pounced and Cinderella fell.

Clara watched fascinated as King Rat dragged Cinderella off the side of the stage. She gasped when Emily plucked a red petal from a bowl of dried flowers on the window sill and allowed it to flutter down onto the spot where Cinderella lay.

‘He killed you and dragged you inside. Why?' whispered Clara.

Nothing moved; Emily could not respond to such open questions.

‘Are you able to leave the house?' asked Clara.

Emily pushed Cinderella into the back of the stage, demonstrating that the outside walls were as impassable for her as they were for Clara.

‘You're stuck here alone,' said Clara.

Emily brought another character onto the stage. It was Cinderella again, only now her tattered rags had been transformed into a beautiful gown. Emily knew that Clara understood what she meant when she saw a tear form in her eye. The transformed Cinderella represented Clara. Emily was showing her that she did not feel alone, because she had Clara for company.

‘If my mother has her way we will move,' said Clara sadly. ‘The fear is affecting her health. She gets worse every day. Father is worried about her. I am worried about her. I do not want to leave London, but nor do I want to see my mother suffer so much. Living in the suburbs one may as well be dead . . .' She stopped. ‘Sorry, that was thoughtless. It's just I cannot bear to be torn apart from this place. Tomorrow we catch the train to see a house my father has found. Somewhere south. I don't want to leave you, but I don't think I can stop it now.'

Emily wished she could cry too, but no tears would come and her dead eyes remained dry and clear. She let both Cinderellas flutter to the ground and found the mechanism which operated the theatre curtains. She lowered the red curtain in front of the stage to indicate that the play was over. If Clara left, Emily was alone in this house. Alone forever.

None of the revellers in the Boar's Head noticed Reverend Fallowfield return to the pub, as he slipped inside, a hood pulled over his bald head. Neither the living customers enjoying the warmth on that cold winter's night, nor the ghost of Paddy O'Twain saw him enter and find a seat in a corner. Had Mrs O'Twain not been so rushed off her feet she would have spied him, and reminded him that the seats were for paying customers only. But Mrs O'Twain was distracted by a gang of spirited young Irishmen, leading the entire pub in a rousing singsong. Paddy's was an unheard voice as he joined in with ballads he hadn't heard in years, while his wife was busy batting off one of the more amorous members of the gang. Paddy didn't mind this. He had never been a jealous man in life and was not going to start now. He was having the time of his death.