The Arnifour Affair (5 page)

CHAPTER 7

T
wo days passed without Colin giving the slightest inclination of returning to the Arnifour estate. He had just gone off to seek his solace in a tub of hot water again when a sudden pounding drifted up from the front door. I strained to hear if it was Lady Arnifour come to rail at us for going missing for so long, but quickly caught the rapidly escalating tones of Mrs. Behmoth and either a young woman or boy. Whoever it was, they were fast matching Mrs. Behmoth's shrillness as their exchange rose up between the floorboards beneath my feet. “Is everything all right?” I called out.

“Does it sound like it is?” Mrs. Behmoth hollered back.

“I 'ave ta speak ta ya. Ya
gotta
lemme up.” It was a boy—an East End boy.

“You'll be speaking to the back a me ruddy 'and if ya don't get yer blasted arse outta 'ere!”

“It's all right, Mrs. Behmoth. Let him up.”

The sound of footfalls racing up the stairs told me that the youth wasn't about to wait for a second invitation. He rounded the landing in a flurry of scrawny limbs and as soon as he saw me stopped and snatched the cap from his head, releasing a pile of stringy black hair that fell to his shoulders.

“Don't send me out 'til I say me piece,” he pleaded.

I waved him into the room and caught a sour whiff of him as he rushed over to shake my hand. This boy, somewhere between thirteen and fifteen, was at home on the streets, his ready manners notwithstanding. He was under someone's tutelage and I knew I would be wise to keep an eye on his hands while he was here. I signaled him to a settee at the same moment Mrs. Behmoth hollered up the stairs, “Don't let the little shite sit on any a the furniture!”

“If you
please,
Mrs. Behmoth!” I growled back at her, offering an apology to the young man as he wandered over to the fireplace, twirling his cap in his hands. “She means well,” I bothered to say.

He shrugged. “It ain't nothin'.”

I offered a smile as I gestured toward the settee again, taking my customary seat across from it, but the boy only shook his head. “The lady's right, me clothes is dirty.”

I nearly choked on his use of the word “lady” to describe Mrs. Behmoth; this lad was well trained indeed. “Furniture, like people, can be cleaned. Please make yourself comfortable.”

He smiled, smudge marks on his cheeks separating like clouds before the sun. He headed for Colin's chair and I flung an arm out and said, “There,” like some monosyllabic cretin as I gestured to the settee again. “If you don't mind,” I added.

Offering an easy smile, the disheveled youngster happily settled himself onto the couch Lady Arnifour had occupied only a few days prior, making me wonder what she would make of that. “Me name's Michael,” he said, jutting his chin out with pride.

“Michael . . .”

“Jest Michael.”

“Well, Just Michael, I'm Mr. Pruitt. I'm Mr. Pendragon's partner.”

“Is 'e 'ere then?”

“I'm afraid he's indisposed. Is there something I can help you with?”

His face crinkled with confusion. “ 'E's wot?”

“Unavailable. Busy. He won't be able to see you right now.” The boy had finesse even if he lacked education.

“ 'Oo er you again?”

“Ethan Pruitt,” I shot back. “I'm Mr. Pendragon's partner. I've been working with him for the better part of a dozen years. Speaking with me is like speaking with him.”

“ 'Cept you ain't 'im,” he pointed out.

“Ah,” I smiled even though my patience was quickly thinning, “you are a keen one. So go on, tell me why you've come.”

He started twisting his cap again as he looked at me from beneath his lowered brow. “It's me little sister,” he said. “She's gone missin'.”

“Missing? For how long?”

“Since Sunday.”

“Six days?!” Anything less than three wouldn't have warranted a second thought among those of the East End, but six days meant something, especially for a young girl. “Did you notify Scotland Yard?”

“They don't care nothin' 'bout us that lives in Whitechapel. One less ta trouble themselves with.”

Of course he was right. “Has she ever disappeared before?”

His eyes flitted about the room and I knew what the answer was. “A day or two. Nothin' like this.”

I heaved a sigh, certain that she was either a pickpocket, prostitute, addict, or most likely all three. “How old is she?”

“Twelve.”

I cringed. “Do you have a room in a boardinghouse somewhere?”

“Yeah. Up near Stepney Green. We got a corner of the basement 'bout the size a yer entry run by an old slag wot thinks it were a palace. She don't treat nobody good 'cept them she calls 'er gentlemen callers. A bunch a drunken sots she gets upstairs and rolls. She's wicked clever though. Keeps a mess of 'em on a string.”

How well I understood the woman he was describing, for I had spent years under the thumb of someone like that myself. “Tell me about your sister.”

“Angelyne.” He smiled. “Named after the angels.” He described her as a freckle-faced girl with raven black hair who was not quite five feet tall. He said she was slight and hadn't even begun to reveal the shape of the woman she was on the verge of becoming. I only wished that might make a difference. “Last Sunday I 'ad ta go out for a while. I 'ad things ta take care of. I told her not ta go anywhere, but when I got back . . .” He dropped his eyes and rubbed the heels of his hands across them.

“Does she disobey you often?”

“Naw. She's a good girl. Never causes no trouble.”

“Did you ask the woman who runs your boardinghouse if she saw or heard anything?”

He screwed his face up. “That one don't 'ear nuthin' but 'erself mewlin' at all the men she drags 'ome.”

“Do you remember Angelyne complaining about anyone bothering her lately?”

“I'd a killed 'em if she 'ad. You can bet yer arse on that,” he blasted back, and I didn't doubt him. “So will you 'elp? You and Mr. Pendragon?”

“I'll have to speak with him.”

“Ya want I should wait?”

“There's no need for that.” I stood up. “Just tell me how we can get in contact with you. What's the address of your boardinghouse?”

Michael got up and stabbed his cap back onto his head. “It'll be easier if I come by tamorrow evenin'. That okay?”

I eyed him a moment, wondering whether his reticence was directed toward me or his own bit of subterfuge. “That'll be fine.”

I showed him out with a promise to receive him in twenty-four hours' time, all the while thinking how young he was to be dealing with such matters. It was a disgrace that this was the best our city had to offer these children, but then I was reminded that sometimes we create our own worst times.

“When ya go back up . . . ,” Mrs. Behmoth poked her head out the kitchen as I relatched the door, “. . . tell 'is Majesty not ta use up all the 'ot water. I wanna take a bath meself tonight.” She punched her fists onto her hips. “And 'urry up. 'E's 'ad it runnin' awhile.”

I tossed her a frown as I padded up the stairs and went to the bathroom. “It's me,” I said as I poked my head inside.

“Don't let the cold air in.” He was reclining in his liquid cocoon, a dozen candles scattered about, flickering a warm embrace.

“I've been commanded to tell you not to use all the hot water.”

“Ah. Dear Mrs. Behmoth. I would hate to begrudge her the occasional bath.” He rotated the spigot with his foot. “I think I'll require your warm body to keep the water heated up then. Climb in and tell me who was just here?”

“There's hardly room for two,” I protested halfheartedly.

“Don't I always make room?” He sat up and patted the water as though it were the cushion of a chair. “Come on.”

I did as bade, pleased to note the change in his mood and hoping that it might signify progress around the Arnifour case.

“Much better,” he said as he rested his chin atop my head with his arms hanging about my shoulders. “Now tell me who was here and I shall pay close attention.” But he didn't pay attention, and after a few minutes I stopped trying to tell him anything at all.

CHAPTER 8

“W
ho let you out of your hole, Pendragon? I'd like to know to whom I owe the displeasure of your company.”

“Oh, come now, Inspector.” Colin sidled up to the man's badly beaten desk piled high with its array of papers and binders, and plopped himself into the creaky chair beside it. “I've just come from a bit of sparring at the gymnasium. Worked my aggressions out. You should try it.”

He snorted. “We'll see if that even lasts the length of this conversation. What are you here for?” He glowered, his naturally opaque complexion deepening. Given his dazzlingly white hair he looked positively monochromatic except when moved to a mood. Tall and thin, Emmett Varcoe was the complete opposite of Colin in both form and function in spite of their shared passion for detection. “You'd best make it quick because I haven't time for you,” he added, rotating his chair so that we were left staring at his profile.

“Really now . . . ,” Colin replied with a snarky smile. “We've only come to share some information.”

“Oh, I'll just bet you have.” He swung around just as I sat down. “Don't get comfortable, Pruitt. The two of you are
not
staying.”

“Not to worry.” Colin leaned forward mischievously. “We're only here to let you know that we've been hired by the bereaved Lady Arnifour to solve the murder of her husband. I thought it only fair to—”

“Bloody hell!”
Inspector Varcoe bellowed, slamming a fist onto his desk. “That case is practically solved. Why is that ridiculous woman wasting her money on you?”

“Well, I should hardly consider it wasting—”

“Piss off, Pendragon. We're about to make an arrest. Nobody needs you slinking around stirring up a bunch of bollocks.”

“About to make an arrest, are you? That's not always worked out so well for you in the past—”

“How dare you!” he blasted, his voice elevating with the color of his face. “You pompous little twat. What do you know about working a crime? You're just a coddled diplomat's boy who attended independent schools and probably never even let his sacred little feet touch the streets of Bombay. How dare you come in here and look down on me.”

I could see that Colin's posture had become rigid as he said, “A bit jumpy about this case, are you?”

The inspector turned a steely glare on Colin. “If you're here to share, then what have you got so far?”

“Not that much, really.” He gave a tight smile. “Though I did notice a rather pointed lack of emotion regarding the Earl's death on the part of everyone in the household—with the possible exception of the housekeeper, Mrs. O'Keefe.”

“That old toad.”

“Ah . . . ,” and now he chuckled, “I must agree with you there.”

The inspector did not share his amusement. “What else?” he growled.

“Well . . .” I watched Colin pretend to ruminate a moment and fought to keep from rolling my eyes. “I believe Victor Heffernan is innocent.”

The inspector's left eye ticked almost imperceptibly as he managed to maintain his composure with a shrug before allowing, “Perhaps.”

“And I've a suspicion that Lady Arnifour has some notion about who may be involved.”

“That's absurd.” He waved Colin off.

Colin shrugged lightly as he dug a crown out of his pocket and effortlessly began rotating it between his fingers. “I'm betting you're circling Nathaniel Heffernan.”

“Damn right,” the inspector sneered with pride. “That Heffernan boy did this and his father ruddy well knows it too. That's called collusion.”

“But what of his motive?”

“Motive?! Bugger off about his motive. I'm not telling you anything, Pendragon. It'll be my pleasure to see you looking the fool on this one. Now piss off.” And with a flourish of rattling papers Emmett Varcoe let it be known that our time with him was done.

“Very well.” Colin palmed the coin as he stood up and gave a nod that Inspector Varcoe took no note of. “Perhaps you're right.”

“Oh, I'm right.” He spun back on us. “You watch and you'll see him deliver his son right into my hands.”

“Victor Heffernan? Deliver Nathaniel to you? Why would he do that?”

“Because in a few days when I arrest them both, he'll give the boy up like a rotten apple. That type would eat their young if they thought it would help.”

“That type?” Colin's voice sank precipitously.

Varcoe sneered at us. “You know exactly what I mean, Pendragon. Street rubbish like Pruitt here. They never lose the stink.”

“You know bloody well Ethan was raised in Holland Park!” Colin snapped back. I reached over and clutched his sleeve, not wanting him to do this, but he only shrugged me off. What nettled me was wondering whether he felt compelled to do it for my benefit or in defense of his own honor. “His father was the Deputy Minister of Education. Which makes Ethan a damn sight better bred than you, Emmett.”

“All the same.” Varcoe's face lit up with a satisfied smile, clearly well pleased to have riled Colin so. “My ruddy mum didn't go bleedin' starkers and off everyone. What kind of man lets his wife do that? Is it any wonder your Pruitt ended up a sniveling addict in the East End?” His grin widened. “He comes from rubbish all right.” He burst into harsh laughter as my heart seized and my stomach dropped below my feet. I opened my mouth to say something, to defend myself—my father—when I caught sight of Colin balling his fist out of the corner of my eye, so instead grabbed him and yanked him out of there.