The Affair of the Porcelain Dog (24 page)

"Sinclair and I carried on like that for some time, until one day, the old man approached me. He'd known that we were up to something for some time, but instead of being angry, he suggested that I look into distributing in China. Opium had been legal there since Britain had forced that treaty down Prince Gong's throat, and demand was at an all-time high. He even offered to help me, provided I not tell Sinclair."

"Why not? I asked.

"He regarded Sinclair as something of an amateur. He was also deeply disappointed in him as a son-in-law. It turned out that Sinclair preferred the beds of certain male acquaintances to his wife's bed. Though Acton would never humiliate his daughter by bringing her husband's peccadilloes to the attention of the police, he did want to punish him. He did this by promoting me. The profits allowed me to expand my organization beyond my wildest dreams: brothels, gambling houses, opium dens--"

"Is that how you met Zhi Sen?" I interrupted.

He nodded.

"And now you're cutting him out, just like you did Sinclair."

"It's nothing personal," Goddard said.

I laughed. "More than ten years later, Sinclair's still out for revenge. Is that why he's blackmailing you?"

"In part," he said. "But what he really wants is revenge against Acton. Emily Sinclair is Acton's only child. According to Sinclair, Acton put a special directive in his will, stating that, in the event of his death or incapacitation, all of his property would revert to her. I have information that Sinclair has discovered some aspect of Acton's business that would send Acton to the scaffold. If that happens, then everything Acton owns--and it's quite a bit--would come to Sinclair's wife, thus, indirectly to him."

I knew exactly what Sinclair had discovered--but did Goddard? Was he ignorant of the nature of Acton's basement business, or just trying to protect me? I wondered, had Sinclair known how much Nate had discovered, or had he had been surprised when Nate had shown up last night in the basement intent on putting a stop to it all?

"Zhi Sen won't be happy when he finds you've left him out," I said.

"Zhi Sen is making too much money running my opium dens to care," Goddard replied.

"That's what you think. Acton has been supplying high-alkaloid opium to the young men at the Fitzroy Street brothel for some time. Sinclair has been cutting the opium with the regular stuff and selling the difference to Zhi Sen behind your back."

There was another flummoxed moment while Goddard puffed away on his cigarette and processed this information. That the information had come from someone purposefully kept ignorant did not sit well with him. If I had figured it out, he must have been reasoning, others had as well.

"I trusted him," he said after a moment.

"He trusted you."

Goddard began to pace.

"So you were correct when you said that his daughter took the dog from you. She and her father are working for Sinclair now."

"Maybe," I said.

He stopped. Frowned.

"Or maybe she has some other reason to want the thing," I said.

"I can't imagine what."

I thought about Nate and Mrs. Wu. It wasn't as if men and women mingled freely on the streets of London. Or English and Chinese. Or rentboys and respectable widows. Yet Nate had named her on his deathbed. Perhaps Nate's plan had consisted of more than breaking the Afghan children out of the basement. With her father's connections, Mrs. Wu might even have been in a position to get them out of the country. If Sinclair was on Acton's side in the matter, she could have used the dog to command his silence and his assistance.

"Cain," I asked, "Did you know about the children in Acton's basement?"

The subsequent pause lasted too long. He glanced at me furtively before looking away.

"I knew," he said. He pinched out his cigarette and threw the butt into the fireplace.

"And you were all right with that?"

"It's none of my business," he replied.

"How can you say that?"

He turned and looked me in the eye. "Acton imports opium. He sells it to me. Whatever else he buys or sells is his affair, not mine."

A cold and ominous dread gathered in my stomach.

"Did he offer you a stake in that part of the operation?" I asked.

"He did." Goddard shrugged. "I turned him down. With his connections, he can operate with impunity. For me, it wouldn't be worth the risk."

I opened my mouth to speak, but couldn't find the words.

"Profit and risk," I said after a moment. "That's all it comes down to for you."

He crossed the room and sat down on the arm of my chair. With a patronizing smile, he cupped my cheek in his hand--hard muscle under smooth skin fragrant with bergamot and jasmine.

"That's all anything comes down to," he said.

And that included me, I supposed. A gamble, a calculated risk, judged to be worth the effort, at least for now. I jerked away.

"They're throwaways, Ira," he said as I pushed up out of the deep chair and stalked over to the window.

My heart pounding, I rested my damp palms on the mahogany desk, as familiar as my own boots, with inkwell and blotter lined up so precisely, the ivy snaking up from the pot on the corner the only bit of wildness Goddard would allow. And yet, as I ran my fingers over the thick pad of paper in its leather-cornered holder, I was struck for the first time since I'd settled in at York Street by the knowledge I didn't really belong there. Goddard wasn't trafficking children, and yet I couldn't reconcile myself that to him it was the moral equivalent of importing textiles. How could I trust my life to someone for whom life was just another commodity to be bought and sold?

"Their own parents sold them to pay off their debts," he continued. "No one misses them."

"Someone misses them," I said, thinking of the doll in the pocket of the tweed coat hanging in the vestibule.

"It's not like the same thing doesn't happen in London."

I turned.

I rarely talked about my childhood. Goddard knew my mother had abandoned me at the workhouse, but it was a common story and I couldn't imagine he'd given it much thought. He certainly had made the connection between me and the children in the basement of the brothel. And he didn't care.

"You don't have to tell me that," I spat. "My mother gave up everything for opium, including me. I could just as easily have ended up in some brothel basement myself."

"But you didn't," Goddard said. "You're here."

I shoved my hands into the pockets of my charity-box trousers and took a deep breath. Dust motes floated, suspended in a ray of light from the window.

"You can run the world, Ira," he said as I stared at the rack of unused rifles above the doorway. "Or you can try to save it. Saving it is a losing battle, and not nearly as much fun. But that's not for you to worry about." He narrowed his eyes. "Is it?"

"I don't know anymore."

Until St. Andrews had taken him on, Lazarus had lived on tea, stale biscuits, and the kindness of strangers--kindness he had freely shared with me. It couldn't have been easy living in hiding, and yet he not only managed, but thrived--not only thrived, but found a way to help people. I used to sneer at the fact he wasn't living much better than some of his patients. Yet, knowing what I had come to know about how Goddard made our living, the thought of going back to my cushy life made me want to vomit.

"Ira."

"She died in 1870, you know. That tainted opium nobody was ever able to trace back to its source."

Lazarus suspected Acton had been behind that, but as much as I wanted to pin it on him, there would never be conclusive evidence. Everyone had stopped looking a long time ago.

Goddard crossed the room. His hand on my back, his breath was warm against my cheek.

"You must be exhausted," he murmured. "Why don't you go upstairs and lie down? I'll join you in a bit. Then we can wander down to Piccadilly to find something to eat. The trip is long overdue, don't you think?"

Goddard in Piccadilly? Of his own free will? He
must
have been worried. Every fiber of my being screamed "yes"--but for the cold, hard lump of conscience at the pit of my stomach. He knew about those children. He knew how easily I could have ended up in a similar situation.

And it didn't bother him a whit.

"What's inside the dog?" I demanded.

"What?"

"The porcelain dog, Cain," I said. "That damned statue over which I've been beaten, jailed, and very nearly driven out of my home. What the devil is inside it? You could at least tell me that."

"I..." he stammered. "I'm...sorry, Ira. I...I can't."

"Right," I said. I unclasped his hands from around my waist and pulled away. I didn't know where I was going, but I wasn't staying there.

"You're not leaving, surely?" he asked as I gave the double doors a violent shove with my good hand.

Was I? I didn't know. All I knew was I couldn't be there right then. I didn't know if I'd ever be able to be there again--at least not in the same way. Whether this surprised him or me more was impossible to say. I pulled the tweed coat from the coat rack.

"If it's about Collins," he called, "consider him sacked."

"I just need to think," I said. Collins was a significant olive branch.

Goddard came to the morning room door and leaned against the doorjamb.

"As you wish. But don't forget the opening of the Fighting Society building tonight. Eight o'clock sharp, at the warehouse on Narrow Street in Limehouse."

He couldn't be serious.

"Zhi Sen is scheming with Sinclair to put you out of business," I said. "You can't mean to spend the evening congratulating each other as if he weren't stabbing you in the back with your own dagger."

"There will be more than enough time to deal with him and Sinclair both," he said. "But tonight is about the Fighting Society. Ten years' hard work is finally coming to fruition."

Unlike his academic career, which was dead in the water, or his criminal enterprises, now mired in revenge and betrayal.

Or his personal life, which looked as if it were crumbling around his ears.

"It would really mean a lot to me if you were there," he said.

The arrogance was gone from his voice. Standing there amid the subtle splendor of his house, he looked diminished somehow--deflated, sad, and tired.

"Of course," I said gently.

I reached for the doorknob.

"And Ira?"

I looked back.

"It may be easier to love a poor man than a rich one, but life is much more comfortable with a rich one."

I felt a right bastard. But with the little Afghan doll a solid lump against my thigh, I knew if I didn't leave at that moment I'd have said something that I couldn't have taken back.

"I'll bear that in mind," I said.

I took my set of keys from the hook near the coat rack and shoved them into the pocket of St. Andrews's coat. I perched my bowler on top of my head. Mumbling something about cab fare, I pinched a handful of coins from Goddard's pocket. With one last backward glance, I pulled the front door shut behind me and descended the stairs to York Street, wondering whether it would be for the last time.

The afternoon was as hot and miserable as it had been the day before. A sickly yellow haze filled the sky. The air was humid, laden with grit. Blisters sprouted across my feet like mushrooms as I wandered the city streets. I was light-headed from fatigue. Yet once I'd walked off my anger, an unaccustomed elation came over me. Two years ago, my choice had been between sleeping in alleys and being someone's pet. But now that my paralyzing fear of syphilis had come to nothing, I realized this was no longer the case. I no longer had to leave York Street to avoid Goddard's wrath. If I chose to leave on my own accord, Goddard had equipped me with the skills to carve out a respectable life. He'd taught me to read, write, and speak as someone born to the educated middle class. I now understood how to run a household and could manage basic bookkeeping. I had no references, but the right employer might overlook that. I was also still an accomplished housebreaker. I wasn't planning to leave York Street--not yet, at any rate. But it was quite a revelation to realize I could, and it wouldn't necessarily mean a return to hiring out my arse for six shillings a go.

On the other hand, I wasn't ready to go back to Goddard's house. Doing so would have been tantamount to declaring the matter of the brothel children closed, which it certainly was not. Though I was no longer bubbling over with rage at Goddard's indifference to a grievous wrong so close to my heart, I knew ignoring the problem wouldn't make it go away. One way or another, Goddard would have to end his involvement with Edward Acton if he wanted me to stay. And it was the realization I could actually entertain such conditionality, that I had the luxury of considering my own scruples, which buoyed me along as I wandered the streets of London, frittering away in daring contemplation the time remaining before I was expected in Limehouse.

At half-seven I found myself on the far side of Regent's Park, near the Royal College of Physicians. Well-shod horses clip-clopped past through the lengthening shadows while I made my way through the throngs of well-heeled Londoners stepping out in search of evening entertainments. In the gathering dusk, the combination of St. Andrews's coat and my expensive hat allowed me to pass through them unnoticed, though scrutiny would have quickly revealed my charity-box clothing beneath the tweed. What I really wanted was supper. Unfortunately there was no time for a proper restaurant meal, and no street vendor would dare sully these posh avenues with his humble spring-barrow. So though my stomach was protesting loudly, I found a cab instead.