The Sin Eater (22 page)

St Stephen's clock chimed six and there were movements from beyond the vestry. Evensong, thought Declan. Or at least some kind of evening service. He could not face it. He could not kneel in a church and chant the prayers that had been the fabric of his life – not when Romilly had died so brutally; not when he had again recited the sin-eating ritual over her dying body. But I'll confess it all, he thought. When all this is over, then I'll confess.

He went out of the church, his mind still on Colm. Might Colm be in Bidder Lane and the house where Romilly had died? Declan began to make his way there, but it took longer than he expected, because waves of dizziness swept over his head with a horrid pulsating rhythm.

Bidder Lane, seen in the sodden dusk light, was a bleak place, and the house where Romilly had died had a deserted look. When Declan knocked on the door there was no response. He peered through the downstairs windows. Of the two rooms visible, one had a couple of kitchen chairs and a deal table, the other had a sagging sofa and a bundle of old newspapers.

Despite the cold, he was starting to have the feeling that he was burning up inside – almost as if his bones were slowly heating up and as if the marrow in them might eventually start to boil. Had Father Sheehan felt this at the start of his terrible death on the Moher Cliffs? But Declan did not want Nicholas Sheehan's ghost gibbering at him, and he forced himself to keep walking, trying to ignore the grinding pain and the sick throbbing in his head.

He reached the intersection of Bidder Lane and Clock Street, where the man Bullfinch lived. Some of the street lamps had been lit by this time, and in the blurred light from them, he saw the unmistakable figure of Colm crossing the road, walking away from him. Declan was aware of instant relief, because Colm would help him to get back to their lodging house. He called out but Colm seemed to be too far away to hear, and so Declan went after him. Colm had vanished, but there was a break between two of the houses, and Declan made for this. As he got nearer he heard the river sounds – soft hoots from the barges, the occasional call of a man's voice, footsteps echoing eerily on the wet cobblestones. There was no sign of Colm, and everywhere was deserted. Declan could smell the dank river smell and see lights from moored river-craft. He went forward again, his footsteps ringing sharply on the wet cobbles, stepping carefully between scatterings of debris: odd lengths of rope and sodden bits of unidentifiable rubbish. Mist swirled around him, seeping into his throat and making him cough.

Directly ahead was a flight of stone steps. He went down them, and paused at the foot. A second flight went all the way down to the river itself, but he had reached a jutting shelf that extended along the quayside wall. About fifteen or twenty yards along was a massive circular hole with a brick surround, cut into the quay wall. It looked like the opening to a tunnel. Declan had no idea what it was. He stepped on to the lower steps, but his foot skidded on a pile of debris, sodden and slippery. He grabbed at the handrail, but pitched forward.

He fell in a helpless jumble of flailing arms and legs, banging against the hard edges of the stone steps. Through the tumbling confusion he managed to think he must be almost at the foot and that at worst this would mean a few bruises. Then his head banged against a jutting section of bricks; the world exploded in sick dizzying lights, and blackness closed down.

He clawed his way back to consciousness, at first aware only of the ache in his head and the fact that he was lying on something hard and uncomfortable. Then memory began to unroll in thin ribbons, and he remembered walking along Bidder Lane and Clock Street, trying to find Colm. There had been the river sounds – he could still hear them. He could still smell the river, as well, and there must be a tavern nearby because he could hear laughter and piano music.

He sat up, wincing from the pain where he had banged his head, still feeling shivery. But he seemed to be in one piece, at any rate, and he leaned back against the brick wall, waiting for his senses to return properly. He was not sure if he would manage to get back to the lodgings, but if only he could find Colm . . . Somewhere nearby a church clock chimed and Declan counted the chimes and was startled when the total was eight. It had only been a little after three when he set out to follow Colm and it had been six o'clock when he left St Stephen's. Had he lain here for two hours? His head throbbed and his skin felt as if a thousand red-hot needles were jabbing into it.

Near the top of the steps was the pile of rubbish he had slipped on. A coil of sodden rope and a few unidentifiable rags. There was a second, similar pile of rubbish lying at the foot of the steps, quite near him. It looked like a bundle of old clothes.

It was not old clothes at all. It was a person – an unconscious man lying in a huddle on the ground. Probably it was a sailor, too drunk to stand up, or a tramp who had lain down to sleep.
Out here?
said Declan's mind, disbelievingly.
With rain sheeting down for the last eight or ten hours?
He went forward, a bit unsteadily, and bent over the prone figure.

Oh God. Oh Jesus, Mary and Joseph, this could not be real. It was part of a nightmare – an illusion from knocking himself out earlier. But Declan knew it was not. This was real; it was a man, a jowl-faced man with thin sandy hair and pale, podgy hands. The hands were held out as if to ward off an attack, and the eyes were wide and glaring with terror and agony. Blood pooled under the body, glistening in the light from a street lamp. Still wet, thought Declan. Is he still bleeding? Is it possible he's still alive? He thrust one hand inside the man's jacket, feeling for a heartbeat. As he did so, a scarf tucked into the coat slid off. Declan gasped and recoiled. The man's throat had been slit – a deep, gaping gash that showed white glints – muscle, sinews . . .

He turned away, retching. When he'd recovered and looked at the body again he was conscious of an extraordinary feeling of pity that this was all any human being was made of. Skin and muscle, and life-breath that could whistle out of you at the touch of a knife's blade.

I'm so sorry for you, said Declan, very softly to the unknown man. You're lying there in your own blood and it's raining and lonely and your blood's trickled into the puddles.

He took off his jacket and laid it across the man's body, covering up the gaping throat wound. Then he stood up and looked about him, thinking he would have to find help – dead bodies had to be reported to the police – but not knowing where to go. It was then that footsteps sounded at the head of the steps and a figure appeared through the darkness.

Colm's voice said, ‘Declan, what have you done?'

Somehow Colm got Declan back to the lodging house, and wrapped a blanket round him. From somewhere he produced a mug of tea, laced with brandy.

‘I don't remember much,' said Declan, sipping the tea gratefully. ‘I went out to find you, only then I felt ill. I thought you might have gone back to Romilly's grave,' he said, ‘but you weren't there, so I went to the house in Bidder Lane. Then I skidded on the wet river steps and knocked myself out.' He cupped his hands round the mug of tea, letting the warmth seep into his fingers. ‘Colm – that man I found. We should tell someone.'

‘We should not,' said Colm, at once. ‘You know who it was, do you?'

‘Who . . . ?'

‘It's Bullfinch,' said Colm. Then, as Declan looked at him, his mind still foggy from the events of the day, unable to think who Bullfinch was, Colm said, impatiently, ‘The abortionist. The man responsible for Romilly's death. And if anyone finds out you were there with his body, they'll ask some very difficult questions.'

Declan found it difficult to take this in. He was slightly warmer, but his head was still opening and shutting on waves of pain, and he felt light-headed from exhaustion. He said, ‘How do you know it was Bullfinch?'

‘There was a wallet lying on the steps when I found you,' said Colm. ‘It was near the body. I thought it was yours so I put it in my pocket. But it isn't yours.' He indicated a small leather wallet lying on the bed. Declan saw with a shudder that it was dark with dried blood.

‘There's a letter inside,' said Colm. ‘Addressed to Harold Bullfinch at Clock Street. And if you think there'll be two Bullfinches living in that street . . .' He leaned forward. ‘Declan, if anyone knows you were there tonight, they'll think you murdered Bullfinch out of revenge for Romilly's death. You can't tell anyone about finding his body – you do see that?'

‘Yes,' said Declan slowly. ‘Yes, I do see that. What do we do?'

‘We leave here at once, that's what we do. We find somewhere else to stay.'

‘Where? We haven't any money.'

‘Yes we have.' The sudden grin lifted Colm's face. ‘Bullfinch's money in his wallet.'

‘We can't use that.'

‘We can.' Colm got off the bed and went to the window, to peer out. ‘It's stopped raining,' he said. ‘And I can hear a clock chiming two. If we go now we'll just vanish into the night and no one will be any the wiser.' He looked back at Declan, and something about him sharpened suddenly. ‘There isn't anything you left there, is there? Nothing that could cause anyone to connect him with us?

‘No,' said Declan, then stopped. ‘Oh God.'

‘What? Declan, what?'

‘My jacket,' said Declan. ‘I put it over him.'

‘Truly? Mother of God, you're raving mad. Why would you do such a thing?' said Colm, a note of anger in his voice.

‘I don't know. He was lying there all bloody and dead and rained on. I wanted to cover him up,' said Declan defensively.

‘Was there anything in your jacket with your name on? Letters? Your own wallet?'

‘Yes,' said Declan, at last. ‘Oh God, yes there was. The ferry ticket – it had my name on it. And we brought birth certificates with us if you remember – we didn't know if we might need them for anything over here.'

‘You
fool
,' said Colm. ‘Oh God, you madman.' He stood up. ‘We'll have to go back for it,' he said. ‘Before it's found.'

‘But I didn't kill Bullfinch,' said Declan.

Colm turned round and looked at Declan very directly. In a very soft voice, he said, ‘Can you be sure of that?'

Declan said, ‘Yes. Yes, I can.' But even to his own ears his voice sounded false.

‘I left you here just before three o'clock,' said Colm. ‘And it was nearly nine when I found you. What were you doing all those hours?'

‘If it comes to that, what were you?'

Suspicion flared in the small room, then Colm said, ‘Don't be stupid. If you must know, I was at Holly Lodge. With the Totteridge.'

‘Were you really? How sordid.'

‘I'll be as sordid as I like. Especially,' said Colm, ‘if it means getting out of this fleapit and getting my hands on some real money. Declan, this isn't what we came to London for.' He made an angry, impatient gesture, taking in the cheap shabby room. ‘Rotten rooms like this, and scraping up the money for the next meal. You're sick from hunger – that's why you feel so ill. When did you last eat?'

‘Breakfast this morning,' said Declan. ‘And I didn't eat more than a couple of mouthfuls then.'

‘I had a very nice supper with the Totteridge. Smoked eels, oyster and beef pie, then some kind of pudding the likes of which I'd never seen. She sent out for it and it was brought to the house and set down before us. She's rich, that one, Declan, and if she's handled right . . .' He gave a wry grin. ‘D'you feel well enough to come with me to get your jacket now? We'll use some of Bullfinch's money and get a hansom cab.'

‘I'll come,' said Declan, who did not feel well enough to so much as walk down to the street and who would prefer not to touch a farthing of Bullfinch's money. But he could not leave Colm to do this and they did not have any money left of their own.

‘We'll buy a couple of penny pies and hot potatoes on the way so you don't collapse from lack of sustenance. And while we eat we'll pray the body hasn't been found.'

But it was found, thought Benedict. It was the first of the murders, and it
was
found, and although the case didn't get much publicity – probably because it was overshadowed by Jack and his butcher's knife – Harold Bullfinch was the first of the Mesmer Murders.

B
enedict collected the photocopies of Holly Lodge's Title Deeds from the solicitors next morning while Nina was delivering fifty stuffed pigeon breasts and a sushi platter to Russell Square for the cocktail party opening of a new art gallery.

Coming out of the solicitors' offices, the large envelope tucked firmly under one arm, he hesitated about returning to the flat. Nina would not mean to pry, but if she realized he had the deeds to Holly Lodge, she would want to discuss it and speculate on its former owners. Benedict wanted to speculate on its former owners as well, but not with Nina leaning over his shoulder.

The thought of going out to Holly Lodge nudged his mind. The key was on his key ring; he could go out there now and study the deeds entirely uninterrupted, and at some point he could phone Nina to say he had met a friend and not to expect him back until later.

Moving with decision, he headed for Tottenham Road tube. He suspected this was as much about proving to himself he was not afraid of the place as anything else, but he would do it anyway. In any case, whether Declan was an alter ego or a full-blown ghost, he had been able to reach Benedict just as easily in Nina's flat as he had in Holly Lodge.

On the way there he tried to dilute Holly Lodge's eeriness by turning it into an over-the-top setting for a horror film. This cartoonish mental image pleased him so much he whiled away the rest of the journey by sketching in a few details. Vapour trickling along the ground and a scantily clad heroine appearing out of the mists, pursued by some nameless evil. Yes, he would have his shrieking heroine; especially since there had not been any scantily clad females in any of his visions so far, unless you counted Romilly Rourke, which Benedict was not inclined to do. Not that Romilly had existed. Not that any of them had existed.