The Humbug Murders (16 page)

Then a plump maid in her fifties appeared in the doorway, saw Dodger, and beamed.

“I've saved you some scones, Dodger!” She pulled a small bundle out of her apron pocket, something warm that smelled of Christmas spices was wrapped in a napkin.

“Not right now, Princess!” exclaimed Dodger, pushing past the maid and beckoning us to follow. Dickens and I both squeezed past her, nodding politely as we brushed against her bosom. “I'm takin' these gentlemen to see the
Lycia
!”

“Ooh, Dodger, I don't think that's a good idea,” urged the maid, scurrying along behind us as Dodger, Dickens, the boys, and I moved into a large, open room veiled behind a fog of sweet-smelling smoke. “I don't think Fagin—”

“Never mind Fagin, Princess, never you mind nuffin'!” sang Dodger happily. “You jus' leave business to us businessmen. These gentlemen are lookin' for the very best!”

The room was dark, with oil lamps veiled by colored shades casting ghostly shapes on the walls. Large oak beds were lined against the walls, their pale-faced occupants lying about each other on their sides. They limply sucked on tubes while exhaling thick rolls of smoke, muttering unintelligible imaginings as they did. One man sat up suddenly and laughed into the heavy air.

“Well!” I exclaimed when I recognized the haggard face. “If it isn't Greville himself! Or should I call you Jasper? It seems neither our rail deal nor your choirboys are on your mind at present.”

The maid rushed to his side, kindling a new pipe by blowing into it with short, quick breaths. “Have another, Mr. Jasper, here.”

“Come on, then,” called Dodger from a doorway. I left Jasper to his opium-induced stupor, but not before Dickens had completed a rudimentary sketch of the abysmal scene.

“Hold,” I said, noting the gold and ruby ring on the fingers of Jasper and all the rest of Princess Puffer's “clients.” I turned to the woman. “Do you know a man named Thomas Guilfoyle?”

She shrugged. “Can't say that I do. But it ain't all of my clientele what are so wholesome and honest as Mr. Jasper. Some don't even give their true names, if you could believe such a thing!”

I described Guilfoyle, said he might have been in the company of a certain Miss Annie Piper, and attempted to ply her with coin, but she refused my overture.

“Ain't that the gent they say killed that nice old fella in Spitalfields? Humbug they call him, yeah? Well, to be fair, I don't know you, sir. Perhaps if you'd sample my wares . . . ?”

“Another time,” I said, and left it.

Dodger led us down a narrow corridor and out a back door, which opened into a dark court. The only light was streaming from a crack in the shutters of a building opposite.

“What's this, Dodger?” I demanded. “What are you playing at, bringing us here?”

“This, gentlemen,” said Dodger, his teenage chest puffed out with pride. “This is
Lycia
!”

It was a tall, dark loading shed with a crane protruding from an upper window, and its windows were boarded up. The stream of light from behind the shutters betrayed life inside. I wrinkled my nose. A waft of some acrid stench drifted down, but it was faint, and I couldn't put my finger on its origin. Chemicals, I believed. But what kind, and why?

“What's Lycia?” I asked Dodger. “That building?”

“Don't know nuffin' about that building, sir!” said the boy unexpectedly loudly, with a broad grin and with a sudden twitch of his head to right the slipping top hat. Then he lowered his voice to a whisper. “But there's rumors, sir, not that I've 'eard any of 'em, that there's somefing new coming to the Quarter, snuggled away right 'ere, in this secret palace they call Lycia.” He held his hand out, and I winced as I fished another coin out of my purse. “Remember this place when you return, sir,” he continued, stuffing the coin in his pocket, “and mind you drop Princess Puffer there one of them pennies, too; she don't like her boudoir being used as no thoroughfare.”

As the boys led us back through De Quincey's, where Princess Puffer was attempting to stoke life into her guests, I felt a ripple of unease. Whatever that building was that her opium den was being used to conceal, the strange smell and unusual description Dodger had provided left me with a sense of dread. Whatever Dickens was scratching in his notepad was undoubtedly of similar aura, for his face was dark.

“Now that building there,” the boy said after we'd circled back to where Shen had gone with the Nellie imposter, “that's the Doll House.”

“A lock that those rings open,” Dickens ventured. “Tell me, lads, does the name Thomas Guilfoyle mean anything to you?”

A sea of blank stares.

I went on to describe Guilfoyle, but to no avail.

“What about George Sunderland?” I asked. “Striking black whiskers, twice as wide as Father Christmas. Fancy dress. Or the Colley Brothers? Do they frequent—”

Dodger rattled his chains. “It's best not to be askin' such questions, sir. Healfiest by far to see to your own welfare and leave it as that. 'Spectable gentleman have needs, and the Doll House here is for it.”

“A common whorehouse?” I asked.

“Cor blimey! I ain't never 'eard nuffin' so contrary! Ain't nuffin' common about that place. Seen any plays lately, sirs? Seen
Lady of Shalott
?”

“I haven't yet had the misfortune,” I mumbled.

“Wrote a stellar review on it last week,” said Dickens.

“You dream it up, any woman you could possibly want, you'll find her there.”

“Or at least a woman who looks just like her,” Dickens suggested.

“Just the way, just the way,” boasted the boy about the palace Shen and the fake Nellie had vanished into. “Whores clad just like famous ladies of this or other times? Almost as delightful as Princess Puffer's scones. But nuffin' compared to what's coming. Somefing new, sir, not like nuffin' you've seen, sir! A thrill like no other, like magic, except it's quite real!”

I dug in my pocket for another coin. But instead of dropping this one into his dirty palm, I held it up. A tuppeny bit—shiny and new. Dozens of young, eager eyes grew wide and wet with greed.

“Find me Annie Piper. She has qualities I'd like to sample. Be back here within ten minutes with her location and you shall all have one.” The words almost lodged in my throat, but business was business, and the sorry state of my purse was collateral damage.

The boys all scattered like cockroaches at dawn, all but one. One boy, taller than the rest but just as slight, remained behind in the shadows. I squinted into the darkness and spotted the large brown cap sliding off the side of the boy's head. It was the same lad who had run away earlier.

“Well?” I barked at him. “I need all men on the ground. Find the whore!” The boy looked around, clearly scouting for a getaway. But just as he was about to bolt off in the opposite direction from where the other boys had gone, the cap slid forward and a rich, chocolate curl fell from the nape of his neck. In fact, the “boy”—upon closer inspection—had curves even the baggy clothes couldn't hide.

My heart stopped as my eyes locked with an all-too familiar gaze. “That's Miss Owen!”

Realization dawned and Dickens beamed a most delighted grin. He flicked open his notebook and began to sketch the sight of the woman dressed as a boy. He would be of no help to me, so I moved towards the shadows, inching my way towards Adelaide.

She could tell I'd seen through her disguise. Her eyes rolled, she got up, stuffed her hands in her pockets, and shuffled over to me, kicking pebbles.

“What by God's name are you doing here?” I hissed, grabbing her arms and giving her the slightest shake. She was unfazed.

“Looking for the prostitute of course!” she said. I released her, and she brushed off the enormous blue man's jacket she must have acquired from some charity shop.

“Of course,” answered Dickens, still scribbling in that dratted notebook. “Makes perfect sense! She thought we were only interested in Smithson and would let the Annie Piper lead falter, so she came here to do something about it herself.”

“Can you conceive of how dangerous your behavior is?” I asked. “That Shelley woman has put mad and dangerous ideas in your head.”

“Don't be so soft,” she trilled. “Women and children own these streets. Look around you! You're in the minority here, Scrooge. Ah, Mr. Dickens! I do beg your pardon, how very lovely to see you again. How do you do, sir?”

“Very well, thank you,” answered my companion, removing a newly lit cigarette from his mouth just long enough to kiss her hand.

“You don't belong here,” I interrupted. I spun Adelaide around so she was facing the square. Prostitutes cackled some way away. Vile hawkers pimped their disgusting services. A door opened, spilling light and music into the square, and a drunkard was thrown out, landing on his back with a sickening crunch. “These are not savory people.”

But Adelaide turned back to me, her beautiful green eyes flaming under a tightly knotted brow. “I don't think you can know much about what is savory and what's not, Scrooge,” she chided. “I have seen the world from both extremes; you will not educate me.”

“Enough! You will leave this place immediately, or—”

“Or what?” came a voice, thin and chilling. I turned.

Before me stood an enraged man well past the prime of his years but not yet decrepit. His little eyes flashed and darted between me, Dickens, and Adelaide. His matted hair, of which there was a vast quantity, was as red as his pointed beard, and poking out from under his flat hat. His mouth was twisted into a villainous sneer.

The boys had all returned, but they were standing some way away, some of them sporting bloody noses and swollen lips. Dodger stood directly behind the man, a welt spreading across his eye and cheek.

“Is this gentleman bothering you, my dear?” the man asked. He unbuckled his belt, stripped it out of his trousers with a flourish, and wrapped it around his hand. “Bothering a nice young lad who might want to learn about the opportunities offered in joining my enterprise?” Adelaide's disguise had fooled him.

“That's gonna earn someone a batty-fang, it is!” He cracked the belt against the cold cobbles to underline his promise of a thorough thrashing. It rang out a sickening thwack and sprayed slush on my trousers. Adelaide backed away from him until she was pressed up against me. I could feel her warmth despite the chill. With one arm I swept her behind me and stepped forward. The man was grinning wildly.

“Easy now, Fagin,” muttered Dodger. “Don't go gettin' yourself tangled up in noffin' serious, now. We needs you, Fagin. We needs our leader, can't have you taken off for the 'ang.”

Fagin spun around and clocked Dodger in the face with the back of his hand, then immediately turned to face us again.

“Enough from you, Dodger, my dear,” he said with a smirk, his eyes studying mine. “Giving strangers a tour of our world, telling our secrets, all without asking your master first. What if this man is a copper? Are you a copper, sir?”

Just as Fagin raised his arm above his head, Dodger reached up, grabbing the other end of the belt and yanking it. The man lost his balance, lost his belt. Quick as a flash, Dodger whipped the belt through the air like a lasso, and I caught the buckle end of it.

“Enough,” I said, yanking the belt from the lad. I tossed it away. “You've saved Mr. Fagin here from making a terrible blunder. If he's wise, he'll thank you.”

“Thank him for what?” Fagin demanded.

“Wotcher, Fagin,” said Dodger. “These gentlemen are ever so wealfy! We've just been offering a service, just like you taught us, Fagin. Nuffin' more.”

“Is that so?” said Fagin, his face twisting into a sickly grin. He climbed to his feet. “Well, then that changes the situation! That's a fine thing, a good thing, it's what we're here for, yes, we provide services. And coppers, no, they are not so quick to part with coin, not at all, so these 'uns, they're in the clear. But mind now, gentlemen, my dears, you had better be safe!” He put his hands together in prayer, like he was begging us, and his face was set in a sniveling humility that divulged no substance. “Pay my boys handsomely for their fine service, but pray, don't ask questions now. Don't ask about no Smithson, and you can have any girl you want, any at all.”

“Splendid!” shouted Dickens, and slapped the old man amicably on the back. “We want Annie Piper. I'll have my assistant here pay your men presently. Well? Pay them!”

I did not share Dickens' sense of humor, so I shot him a glare as I grabbed practically the last coins in my purse and chucked them into the slush. Fagin and the boys dropped to their knees and started gathering up the cold money, not in the slightest ashamed.

“Oh, thankee, sir, thankee, yes, very good,” groveled Fagin, still on his knees. “Any girl at all, except that one. Any at all!”

“We want Annie Piper,” continued Dickens. “Only she will do.”

“Right, yes,” said Fagin, scratching his beard. “There would be considerable cost, my dears, quite a high price . . .”

“No obstacle. Arrange an audience with Piper, and my assistant here will pay you beyond anything imagined in your most colorful midnight trances.”

“Lovely to hear, my dears, lovely to hear. I'll see about it, sir, you have my word.” Fagin scrambled to his feet.

“How do we find you?” I asked.

“Oh, no, no need for that, good sir. I'll send a boy when Annie is ready for you, we provide services, you see. Yes, we know your faces, no worry at all, we'll find you.” He turned to his boys. “Well? Off with you, my dears! Off and don't come back till your pockets are filled with treasures! Jewels, rings, coins, and brooches, go and find them, my good boys!”