Josh and the Magic Vial (16 page)

“Regrettably, you think now?”

“Regrettably, indeed, sir.”

“How long have you been married, Mr. Skogs.”

“Lord it almost seems we've been hitched since before clocks were invented, but it's only been five years. They say time passes slowly in hell, sir, and I can attest to that.”

“Does Mrs. Skogs work for Blackstone?”

“No, sir. Least ways not directly.” Skogs licked his lips then took a deep draught of ale.

“What do you mean by that?”

“She's devoted to Blackstone, sir, as are many others I could name — influential people, men you wouldn't want to cross, if you know what I mean.”

“We'll get to that,” Puddifant said nonchalantly. “Can you tell me exactly what your wife does for Mr. Blackstone?”

Skogs frowned. “No sir, because I don't exactly know,” he replied bitterly. “When they want something done, they tell me to do it; as for their scheming, I'm not in on it, and thank heaven for small mercies.”

“You say your wife does not work for the man. What is her line of work, then?”

“She's a nurse, sir.”

A jolt of fear shot through Puddifant, but he maintained his composure. “Where?” he asked casually.

“The Great Ormsby Street Hospital. She's worked there nigh on fifteen years, and I imagine she'll be working there for the next fifteen years, too.”

“Perhaps,” Puddifant muttered. But he thought otherwise. Puddifant did not believe in coincidence, and this information about Elvira Skogs alarmed him.

“You said you do odd jobs for Mr. Blackstone. Can you describe the work, Mr. Skogs?”

The other shrugged uncomfortably.

“I know this may be difficult for you,” Puddifant commiserated, “ but do try to answer. It's obvious you've been pressured by Blackstone and your wife. Perhaps he's forced you to do things you regret. You have to tell me about them nevertheless, for your own sake, man, and for the sake of innocent children like Charlie Underwood. You
must
tell me, Mr. Skogs.”

“I've never done anything to no children!” Skogs cried in anguish. “Never!”

“Why were you at Charlie's funeral?”

The question landed like a punch. Skogs convulsed, a look of disgust transforming him into something not quite human. He shrank into the farthest corner of the booth. “He ordered me to go,” he spat.

“Why?” Puddifant pressed, praying the bond he'd established with Skogs would not snap.

“He likes me to tell him what's happened at the funerals,” Skogs bristled. “It's always children, sir — kids like Charlie Underwood. If I had the courage, I would tell him to go himself.‘You go, you slimy blackguard, ' I would say.‘You watch those poor innocents lowered into the grave, along with the hopes and dreams of their weeping parents.'But I'm a coward, sir, and cowards must do the bidding of evil men.”

Puddifant felt sorry for Skogs. If the man had been born anywhere but East London, he might have been a farmer, or a bank clerk, or a merchant. But here he was, a villain with a conscience.
That
would sink him one day. Skogs did not know it, but his life was already a ruin. Solace was all the inspector could offer, and solace was just what Skogs needed most in this cruel world.

“Attending funerals isn't your sole occupation, I assume.” .

“No sir.”

“Well?” Puddifant prompted after a long pause.

“I do a little recruiting, too,” Skogs confessed. “Blackstone is always on the lookout for young thugs, sir, boys who will do anything for a couple of shillings.”

“What kind of things does he get these ruffians to do?”

“Don't rightly know, sir. That's between him, the boys, and my missus.”

“You don't have any idea!” Puddifant exploded. “Think man! Surely you must have some information. If I'm not mistaken, lives depend upon it.”

Skogs blanched. For a second it appeared as if he might faint. Then, with a look of determination, he straightened himself and leaned forward over the table. “I do hear rumors, Inspector,” he began. “I've heard tell of how there are gangs in the streets of East London that set upon young men and women for no apparent reason.”

“Set upon whom?” Puddifant demanded.

Skogs shuddered. He'd gone farther than he intended, but couldn't back out now. The weight of his own testimony pressed in on him, demanding he speak.

“Courage,” Puddifant consoled. “Have courage, man, and see this through.”

Skogs sighed deeply, as if all the breath were coming out of him. “Charlie Underwood was a name I heard, sir.”

Although he'd suspected as much, Puddifant was puzzled by this information. He frowned. “But I questioned his parents, and they never said anything about an assault,” he muttered.

“That's not so surprising, sir,” Skogs put in. “They would hardly have connected an assault that happened six months ago with their present sorrow.”

“This attack took place that long ago?” Puddifant snapped. He felt himself go crimson. “Stupid!” he spat. “I've been blind. Time is one of the fundamental dimensions of an investigation. Time makes magicians of master criminals. They can make things disappear into one rabbit hole then appear out of another. Good God! How could I have been so easily fooled?”

This information complicated things and — Puddifant had to admit — weakened his theory. If the attack on Charlie Underwood had taken place six months earlier, then Blackstone must have discovered a peculiar poison indeed — one that did not take effect for half a year. Puddifant had never heard of such a drug. How, after such a long delay, could the warlock have predicted accurately when the poison would become active and his victims begin showing symptoms? How could he time it so they would die on the night of the new moon? Unlikely as that scenario seemed, it made more sense than Professor Wizer's preposterous explanation, and Puddifant refused to change his line of inquiry. “It's poison,” he thought doggedly. “I know it and I
will
prove it.”

For a moment he let the raucous celebrations of the Marble Arches wash over them, a tide that carried in laughter, yelling, the thump and clink of glasses. They were immersed in the careless patter of the pub, yet it all seemed foreign to Puddifant, as if he had somehow landed in a new and dangerous world.

“Are there any other names?”

Skogs shook his head.

“What about these thugs you've hired. Can you connect me with any of them? Can you identify those who roughed up Charlie Underwood?”

“I know one of 'em for sure,” Skogs said. “A yob by the name of Jeremy Hansen, sir — as tough as they come. Bound for the gallows, that one, I'd say.”

Puddifant entered Hansen's name into his notebook, then closed the dog-eared pad and stuffed it into his jacket pocket. “We need to end our interview, Mr. Skogs,” he said. “But we need to keep in touch.”

“Keep in touch?” Skogs croaked, recovering partially with a swallow of ale.

“Are you familiar with the term ‘police informant' Mr. Skogs?” Puddifant asked.

“You're not asking me to be one of those, are you, sir? Not against the likes of Sirus Blackstone!”

“Yes, I am asking, and yes, it will be dangerous.”

“But I haven't done anything!” Skogs protested.

“You
are
an accessory to his crimes, Mr. Skogs,” Puddifant corrected. “But I don't see anything in your actions that you could hang for, that's true. If you agree to this, it will be because it's the right thing to do, Enver, not because anyone has forced you. I cannot pay you for the work, and it
will
be dangerous.”

Skogs closed his eyes and thought. Puddifant watched, aware that the man opposite was in purgatory just then, his mind a chaos of shame and fear.

“What do you say?” he coaxed at last.

“Yes!” Skogs agreed angrily. “I'll do it. But you are a damned slippery character to deal with, Inspector Puddifant, and I shall never forgive you if you get me killed.”

They smiled grimly, then Puddifant said, “You realize you may be implicating your wife in a serious crime?”

“Her abuse of her husband is a serious enough crime, I suppose,” Skogs growled. “If she's involved in this, then she shall have to look out for herself.”

“We're done for now, then,” Puddifant said, extending his hand.

“Done,” Skogs agreed, shaking firmly.

Puddifant gave his new informant a card. “You can contact me at that number and address,” he instructed. “Just leave a message if you want to meet.”

He stood up to leave, pulling on his coat. “By the way,” he said, “destroy that card once you've remembered what's on it. Destroy anything that might link you to me. Understood?”

Skogs nodded, bewildered at the turn of events that had placed him in the position of police informant.

27

M
ost of the nurses at the Great Ormsby Street Hospital hated graveyard shift; Elvira Skogs preferred it. In the witching hours she could go about her business undisturbed. While the children slept, she watched over them, but not with the tender concern that distinguished her vocation. No, Elvira Skogs watched over them in the same way a hawk might watch over a field, waiting attentively for the right kind of prey, and just the right conditions for her to strike. When she had a victim in mind, and the ward slumbered, and not a sound creaked down the deserted corridor, then she would make her move.

She glanced around, listened, and then hurried over to the bedside of a girl named Amanda Clark. Briskly, Nurse Skogs scanned Amanda's chart. “Good. Very good,” she murmured. The patient had made a complete recovery from the severe pneumonia that had brought her dangerously close to the brink. In six months time she would be healthy again — a fit offering for Vortigen. Then Sirus would cast his spell and the girl would take ill. From this second illness there would be no recovery. The prognosis was quite clear. Amanda Clark was doomed.

Sirus would be pleased. Elvira allowed herself a prim little upturning of the lips.

No one would mistake Amanda for a true candidate, of course. The girl had shown only average intelligence, and she was far too shy. In her favour, Amanda Clark was pretty, and strong, and of a friendly disposition. She would make a useful addition to Syde's growing population and Lord Vortigen would know who had found this particular specimen. He would know and reward his servants Elvira and Sirus.

Elvira chuckled, her wicked laughter insinuating itself into every corner of the dimly lit ward. Who would ever suspect a nurse? That was the brilliance of her scheme. Her white uniform and professional manner concealed everything. She had access to a never-ending stream of perfectly respectable candidates. Not the type of children who were likely to ever sit in Syde's second throne, but good enough to curry favour with Vortigen. After all, not everyone could rule. A civilization needs people to dig, and build, and cook, and clean, and take care of the ruling classes.

Elvira Skogs intended to be among the elite of Syde. As for Amanda Clark, she would be giving up the drudgery of one world for the drudgery of another. She was ordinary in every way, incapable of imagining anything other than a perfectly ordinary future. Syde would be an improvement on her prospects.

Sirus sought out candidates, too. He was more ambitious, though. He hoped to find
the
candidate. The One. The Heir. Failing that, he would send strong children to Syde, the kind who might make warriors in the nether realm. How he watched for signs after each of his offerings had been accepted by Vortigen! How he raged when they turned out to be as ordinary as the youngsters Elvira selected from her hospital ward! His impatience frightened her. She feared he would become reckless. Clues about Blackstone's activities lay scattered about East London. All it would take was a keen mind to put them together and figure out what was going on. Inspector Puddifant had a keen mind. Keen enough to see through the clumsy antics of her useless husband.

“Bah!” she spat.

So far Blackstone had not ventured outside the poorer neighbourhoods of Whitechapel and Wapping, where child mortality rates were high and parents were resigned to sudden illness and lasting sorrow. The authorities were not over zealous in tracking down the causes of death in such cases. But if he began stalking children of the well-to-do, things would be different. Blackstone had complained that he'd never find Vortigen's heir “amongst the rabble of East London” . Elvira took that to mean he intended going farther afield. She dreaded that, feeling certain it could only lead to disaster.

Amanda Clark shifted in her sleep. Reminded of her mission, Nurse Skogs withdrew a pair of scissors from the pocket of her uniform. She snipped some hair first, the easiest part of the operation. Then she took a few chips of nail. Drawing blood was the most difficult part. The victims often stirred, and sometimes even awoke if they were not in a deep sleep. Using a needle, she pierced Amanda's arm — just enough to draw blood, which she swabbed into a gauze cloth. This she tucked into her pocket along with the hair and nails. The girl moaned a little.

“There, there,” Nurse Skogs consoled.

Elvira smirked, watching her patient drift back into sleep. People were so easily fooled. A few soothing lies smoothed over almost any sin, if you were smart about it. But if you were stupid — again, she thought of her husband — you could rouse the mob in no time. Then they'd hound you to the grave.

To think she had saddled herself with the man Skogs and his ridiculous name! And that now he'd brought the police down on them. Elvira reddened. The time had come to
do
something about Skogs, she thought. She had already talked to Blackstone about it, and she would talk to him again that very morning, after her shift. If only she could find something — anything at all — to incriminate Skogs, then she'd have him. Sirus would wring his scrawny neck if she gave him half a reason, and Mrs. Skogs intended to do just that.