The Emperor of All Things (16 page)

At that, Quare found his tongue again. ‘If you’ve harmed him …’

‘Oh, aye, what then?’ Aylesford mocked. ‘But ’twas not I who harmed him. I could not even find him in that blasted labyrinth! Yet it seems I was not the only one to seek him out. Some Theseus had threaded the maze before me. Or such was the rumour on every man’s lips. Why, even those liveried corpses you employ as servants spoke of little else.’

‘What are you saying?’

‘Is it not clear? Master Minotaur is dead. Someone – I know not who; perhaps Grimalkin himself, or a man dispatched by Lord Wichcote to retrieve his property, or a patriot like myself, or a French assassin; or one of the Old Wolf’s cubs; the man had no shortage of enemies who might wish him dead – visited the cripple in the night and slew him.’

‘You lie,’ Quare said, wishing it to be so but afraid in his heart that the man spoke the truth. Aylesford cast death about him the way other men cast a shadow.

‘I merely report what I heard. I do not vouch for its truth. But with that avenue closed to me, I came here, thinking I might find some clue to the location of the clock, or to its nature, in your belongings, before the watch beat me to it. Imagine, then, my surprise, when I found myself interrupted in my search not by some bumbling Charley but by a man I had left for dead scant hours ago! Ah, well, I suppose I shall just have to be more thorough this time.’

And with that, before Quare could reply, or even react, Aylesford’s blade spun through a dazzling series of moves whose result was to disarm him as easily as he might have plucked a wooden sword from the grip of a child. In the blink of an eye, or so it seemed, the tip of Aylesford’s blade hovered at his throat.

‘I do not think you will rise again from this death,’ Aylesford said with a satisfied smile. ‘But the priests do tell us that confession is good for the soul, Mr Quare. So may it prove for you. Tell me all you know of the clock, and I will make your end quick and painless. Perhaps I will even spare your life.’

‘I would be a fool indeed to believe that,’ Quare rasped, his mouth
dry
with fatigue and fear. ‘And even if I did, I would not tell you anything. Perhaps you should have questioned me more closely last night, while I was too drunk to guard my tongue. You know – before, as you claim, you killed me.’

Aylesford winced. ‘Aye, ’tis poor spycraft, I’ll grant you, to kill a man first and then put the question to him. My masters tell me I am too impulsive, and I do acknowledge the fault. Clearly I should have made more certain of your demise. But I can’t regret it, since I have the chance now to rectify my mistake. So, I’ll ask you but once more before I begin carving – what do you know of this marvellous clock?’

‘Go to the devil.’

‘Let us see if—’

‘Merciful heavens!’

This exclamation was followed by the sound of smashing crockery. Mrs Puddinge stood in the doorway, gazing at them in horrified dismay, her hands clutching the folds of her white apron. A serving tray and the shards of a teapot and cups lay on the floor at her feet. ‘Mr Aylesford! Mr Quare! What is the meaning of this?’

Taking advantage of the distraction, Quare swung his arm to club Aylesford’s sword point out of line. Before he could recover, Quare darted inside his guard, slamming his good shoulder into the other man’s chest to shove him backward. Aylesford reeled, cursing, a panicky look in his blue eyes. For a moment it seemed he would fall, but somehow he managed to stay on his feet and bring his blade back into play. Yet by that time, Quare had retrieved his own blade from where it had fallen.

‘Gentlemen,’ cried Mrs Puddinge shrilly, her face flushed with anger beneath her white cap, ‘put up your swords this instant! I’ll have no bloodshed here! Why, the very idea!’

‘He’s a French spy,’ Quare snarled out.

‘A spy? Lord help us!’ The landlady raised the hem of her apron to her face and peered wide-eyed over the edge of it as though looking on from behind the safety of a brick wall.

‘Get help, Mrs P – I’ll hold him here!’

‘It will take a better man than you to do that,’ Aylesford answered and rushed past the now-shrieking Mrs Puddinge. Quare started after
him
, but before he had taken two steps, Aylesford had thrown the hysterical woman into his path. She clung to him as fiercely as a drowning cat to a tree limb. In the moments it took him to calm her sufficiently to, as it were, retract her claws, Aylesford made his escape. As Quare moved to follow, she latched on to him again.

‘Don’t leave me, Mr Quare,’ she begged, shaking like a leaf in a storm.

‘I must make certain Aylesford has fled,’ he answered, disengaging himself from her grasp. ‘Stay here, Mrs P. You’ll be perfectly safe, I assure you.’

She nodded, seemingly incapable of further speech.

Quare edged out through the doorway, alert for an ambush. The landing was empty. At this hour, all the lodgers would be about their business in the guild hall and city. He continued down the stairs and then out of the house, still meeting no one. The street outside, and the broad expanse of Cheapside beyond, were more crowded and bustling than they had been when he had entered the house just moments ago. There was no trace of Aylesford. London had swallowed him up, not caring a whit that the man was no friend to it or to England.

Quare sheathed his blade and made his way back to his room, where he found Mrs Puddinge seated on the bed, wringing her hands together. Her tear-stained face rose fearfully as he entered, and she sprang to her feet. ‘What of Mr Aylesford? Is he …’

‘No sign of him, I’m afraid,’ Quare said. ‘But I doubt he’ll be back.’

‘To think that one of my young men should turn out to be a spy,’ she said.

‘What, do you mean that Aylesford was lodging here?’

She nodded, drying her face with the edge of the apron. ‘Since yesterday evening – Mr Mansfield brought him to me. Poor Mr Mansfield!’ And the tears began flowing again. ‘Oh, Mr Quare,’ she said between sobs, ‘do you suppose it was Mr Aylesford who killed him and the others?’

‘I’m afraid it rather looks that way.’ Quare moved to comfort her, patting her heaving shoulders as she wept into her apron. ‘There, there, Mrs P,’ he said. ‘There, there. You must try to get hold of yourself.’

She nodded, drying her red-rimmed eyes. ‘Such sweet young men,’
she
said. ‘Not an ounce of harm in any of them.’ She gave him a bashful, half-embarrassed smile that became a look of concern. ‘Why, you’re wounded, Mr Quare! Your shoulder … You must let me see to it at once!’

‘I’m perfectly well,’ he told her.

‘Nonsense,’ she said, already moving to divest him of his coat.

‘There’s no time for that, Mrs P,’ he said, attempting no more successfully than with Aylesford to keep her at bay. ‘I feel sure the watch will learn of my presence at the Pig and Rooster and come looking for me here. I will speak to them, but not until I have spoken to my masters at the guild and warned them of the spy in our midst. And before I do that, I must have a quick look through Mr Aylesford’s things. Will you take me to his room?’

‘Oh, aye. Just as soon as I’ve seen to that shoulder. Do not struggle so, Mr Quare! I know you are pressed for time, but bleeding to death won’t make things go any quicker. Now, sit down on the bed, sir. Sit, I say!’

Quare sighed grimly and gave himself up to her ministrations. In a flash, she had helped him out of his coat and waistcoat, both of which looked to be quite ruined with blood. The shirt beneath was in even worse shape. After her initial assertiveness, Mrs Puddinge appeared uncertain how to proceed, as if it had been a long time indeed since she had undressed a man.

‘Can you …’ She motioned with her hands, a blush rising to her cheeks.

Quare stripped off the shirt, wincing at the pain in his shoulder. Mrs Puddinge, meanwhile, had gone to a table across the room, where there was a wash basin and a pitcher of water, along with some folded cloths. She filled the basin, grabbed a cloth, and carried them both back to the bed. Setting the basin down beside him, she wet the cloth and began to wipe the blood away. He winced again at her touch, light as it was.

‘There, there, Mr Quare,’ she said as she cleaned the wound, seeming to have recovered from her earlier upset, as if caring for another was the best medicine for what had ailed her. ‘’Tis not so bad, after all. A nasty gash, to be sure, but not a deep one. You’ll not be needing a surgeon to sew it up. Here … Press the cloth to the wound, just there
– that’s
right. I’m going to fetch some clean cloths to make a bandage. I’ll just be a moment.’

And with that, she bustled out of the room.

Quare got to his feet and crossed to the table from which Mrs Puddinge had taken the wash basin. There was a fly-specked square of mirror hanging frameless on the wall above the table, and Quare now angled himself so as to be able to see his back reflected in the glass. Specifically, the area between his shoulder blades, where Aylesford said he had stabbed him as they lay in Clara’s bed.

The indirect light from the window, coupled with the awkward positioning necessary to see anything useful, defeated him. He groaned in frustration. But he could at least examine his shoulder. Lifting the cloth, he saw a long, shallow gash; a sluggish upwelling of blood accompanied the removal of pressure. No doubt there would be a scar, to go with the one that Grimalkin had given him. He had never imagined that a career in horology would mark him so. He thought of the grizzled old soldiers he had seen in taverns, swapping stories and matching scars over glasses of gin. At this rate, he would soon be joining them.

‘Mr Quare, come back to bed this instant.’

He turned to see Mrs Puddinge glaring at him from the door, her arms bearing enough cloths to swaddle a small army. ‘A man would have to be foolish indeed to reject that invitation,’ he replied rakishly.

She blushed again, but couldn’t suppress a smile. ‘Get along with you.’

Once he was seated on the edge of the bed, she tended to his shoulder with practised efficiency, first cleaning the wound again, then placing a folded cloth over it, which she secured with a long strip of cloth wound about his torso. He had intended to ask her to have a look between his shoulder blades, but, as it turned out, there was no need.

‘Merciful heavens!’ she cried out.

‘What is it?’

‘Why, another wound. A worse one. Much worse! Can you not feel it?’

‘No. Or rather, a slight discomfort only between my shoulder blades, like an annoying itch I cannot scratch.’

‘That would be the scab. Here, let me show you …’ She fetched the
mirror
down from the wall and returned to the bed, where she held it at such an angle as to give him the clear view he had been unable to acquire for himself.

What he saw both shocked and fascinated; it felt strangely removed from him, or he from it, as though he were looking at someone else’s body, or, as in a dream, gazing down at his own from a superior vantage like a ghost or angel. Nestled between his shoulder blades was a blood-crusted incision no more than an inch long. The skin to either side was as purple as the petals of a violet, yet also streaked with scarlet and yellow and a sickly, algal green. It was a wonder that his fight with Aylesford had not reopened the wound. A clammy sweat broke out on his skin, and he felt as if he’d swallowed a knot of writhing eels.

‘Are you all right, Mr Quare?’ Mrs Puddinge asked in concern at his sudden pallor.

He took a deep breath and looked away. ‘I’m well,’ he said, but the croak of his voice belied it. Obviously, Aylesford had failed to pierce his heart with his knife thrust in the dark. But even so, Quare felt sure that a wound such as this should have done more than merely itch. It seemed the sort of wound one might see upon a corpse. Yet there was not even a twinge of pain. His heart was beating strongly, rapidly, and his lungs had no difficulty drawing breath. He didn’t understand it.

‘I’m afraid that’s beyond my poor skills,’ said Mrs Puddinge, shaking her head. ‘You’ll need a surgeon to sew that up, you will.’

‘I’ll have it seen to at the guild hall,’ he promised; now that he wasn’t looking at the wound, he was able to think more clearly, though the nausea showed no sign of receding. ‘Can you just bind it up for now?’

‘I’ll try, but God help you if it opens again.’ She set to work. ‘This is older than the one on your shoulder,’ she observed as she twined a strip of cloth about his chest. ‘You must’ve got it at the Pig and Rooster, a craven blow from behind, in the midst of the brawl.’

‘No doubt,’ he said. Perhaps it was the sensation of her hands upon the skin of his back, but he began to feel the stirrings of memory; or, rather, it was as if his body remembered what his mind could not. He began to tremble.

‘There, there,’ Mrs Puddinge repeated. ‘Almost done …’

No, it was not memory. More like the way he had seemed, upon
being
shown the crusted wound, to separate from his own skin. So now did he see in his mind’s eye the stark tableau, lit by moonlight, of himself and Aylesford pressed close on Clara’s bed in a travesty of intimate congress. He seemed to feel the other man’s body cleaving to his own, his hand clamped over his mouth; saw, or imagined that he saw, the wide eyes of Clara gazing at them, and then her knowing smirk as she turned away into shadows and tangled bed-sheets.

He rose to his feet and rushed to the open window, arriving just in time to spew the contents of his stomach into the alley below. Ignoring Mrs Puddinge, who, after an initial exclamation, had hurried to stand at his side, one hand stroking his arm, her touch like sandpaper despite her kindly intent, he leaned forward, arms bracing himself on the sill, closed his eyes, and let the cool city air – carrying its quotidian stinks of coal smoke and river stench and the waste of animals and human beings, odours that had sickened him during his first days and weeks in London, but which were now as familiar as the smells of his own body, and as reassuring – play over his face and torso. He was alive, damn it. Despite Aylesford’s efforts. And he had work to do.

Taking a breath, he straightened and pulled away from Mrs Puddinge. ‘I’d better have a look at Aylesford’s room,’ he said.