Wild Boy and the Black Terror (11 page)

“Where’s her husband?”

“Highgate Cemetery.”

“My darlings!”

Lady Bentick came down the stairs, moving slowly to exaggerate the drama of her entrance. The trail of her muslin gown was so long that it still had several steps to descend as she tottered towards them across the chessboard floor. She held out her arms to show off the fat gemstones set in her rings.

“Oh, my darlings,” she repeated.

Earlier that evening, when Clarissa had met the Queen, she’d been surprised by how modestly the sovereign was dressed.
This
was what she expected. Lady Bentick was drenched with jewels – necklaces, earrings, bracelets – as if the contents of a treasure chest had been tipped over her. Her face was hidden by a layer of make up that gave her the appearance of a porcelain doll, and a heap of grey curls balanced precariously on her head.

Marcus took Lady Bentick’s hand and dipped his head to kiss her rings. Clarissa noticed him hesitate, briefly, as if to study her knuckles. She sensed that Wild Boy might have made something of that moment, but she couldn’t think what.

Again she felt that she should have stayed with him at the palace. She couldn’t imagine this posh old lady having anything interesting to say. But Lady Bentick was obviously stinking rich, so at least the grub would be good. Clarissa decided she’d steal some for Wild Boy and then scoff it in front of his face. That would
really
annoy him.

The turbaned servant gestured along the corridor with the sweep of a hand. “Dinner is served.”

“Ah! Wonderful,” Lady Bentick declared, as if the idea of dinner was a complete surprise. Marcus accepted her arm and escorted her towards the dining room.

“So are we on a case or not?” Clarissa whispered.

Her guardian glanced back at her. His golden eye gleamed and a slight smile curled the corner of his lips. The case was definitely on.

10

“
M
ove a muscle and I’ll blow your brains out!”

Wild Boy’s cry rang around the palace courtyard, frightening crows from the gatehouse turrets. He aimed a pistol at Dr Carew’s head, praying the Gentleman didn’t notice the weapon tremble in his hands. The antique flintlock was heavier than he’d expected when he snatched it from the Guard Chamber wall, and certainly not loaded. But Dr Carew was one of the Gentlemen’s Grey Hats, a scientist, not a soldier. Hopefully he wouldn’t realize he was being threatened with an ornament.

Dr Carew looked down from the seat of his cart. His face flashed from panic to confusion, then back to panic as the carthorse whinnied and stamped.

“What is the meaning of this?” he demanded.

Wild Boy didn’t have time to explain about Lucien’s warning, and his fear that Marcus and Clarissa were in danger. He just had to get to them, and fast. The gatehouse doors were open and he could see out to the street. It was past midnight and below freezing, but the city was still busy. Hackney cabs sprayed up slushy brown snow, night soil men shoveled steaming dung into their carts, and ladies of the night picked their way though the ice to clients who stumbled from supper clubs, cigar shops and gambling dens. If Wild Boy tried to get to Lady Bentick’s house on foot, he – the Wild Boy of London – would be mobbed before he made ten steps.

“This is a hold-up, doc,” he said. “I need that cart, which means you need to get off. Geddit?”

Dr Carew didn’t get it at all. His face was deathly pale. A bead of sweat slid over his spectacle lens. “You wish to steal this cart?” he said. “There is nothing of value in it, just Prendergast’s corpse.”

Inside the palace, the Gentlemen’s shouts grew louder.

“I ain’t asking again,” Wild Boy said. “You’re new around here, doc, so maybe you ain’t heard about me. I’m the Wild Boy of London, a cold-blooded killer. You gonna get down or am I gonna shoot you down?”

As he spoke, his eyes scoured the doctor for clues he could use against him, some form of blackmail to force him to help. But he saw nothing. Dr Carew did not drink or smoke, never gambled, and certainly did not take opium. All Wild Boy saw was the doctor’s same curious reaction, that glance over his shoulder, as if searching for a place to flee.

When Dr Carew turned back, the fear was gone from his eyes. It was replaced by an intense, almost wolf-like stare.

“I know you are not a killer,” he said. “Marcus said he trusts you, and I trust him. So tell me this: whatever you are doing, is it for a good reason?”

Wild Boy wanted to punch himself. He’d been so desperate to save Marcus, he’d not thought of appealing to the Gentlemen’s loyalty to him.

“Marcus is in trouble,” he said. “And Clarissa an’ all. I gotta get to Lady Bentick’s house in Berkeley Square.”

“Then get in the cart. And stop pointing that ridiculous antique pistol at me.”

Dropping the gun, Wild Boy scrambled over the side of the cart and under the tarpaulin. Fearing the Gentlemen might search for him, he then wriggled under the corpse. Prendergast’s rigid fingers clawed at his face. The stitches where the body had been sealed had burst open. Goo seeped from inside and onto Wild Boy’s coat.

Wild Boy forced himself to lie still as he listened to the Gentlemen’s footsteps rush closer. They were yards away, searching the courtyard. He held his breath, scared that the movement of the tarpaulin might give him away.

“Dr Carew!” one of the men shouted. “Have you seen the boy?”

“Yes,” Dr Carew answered. “Yes, I have.”

The footsteps marched closer.

Wild Boy braced himself. He’d punch the man in the nose and make a run for the gates.

“He ran past,” Dr Carew continued. “Into the West Guard Chamber room.”

The footsteps charged away.

Wild Boy lay back and breathed again. The cart shunted forward, riding through the gateway and onto the street.

Prendergast’s corpse pressed harder against his chest. The thick goo slid from its chest and stuck in the hair on Wild Boy’s cheeks. Worse was the smell, the reek of decomposing flesh. Wild Boy gagged each time he gulped for air.

A sliver of lamplight shone through the tarpaulin, illuminating Prendergast’s twisted mouth and grey, staring eyes. Wild Boy tried not to picture Clarissa and Marcus that way. Was that what Lucien had meant? Was whoever killed Prendergast after Marcus too?

They turned onto another street. It was quieter, darker.

“We are here,” Dr Carew said.

Wild Boy dared a look from under the sheet. This was a swanky part of the city. All the townhouses around the square looked the same, with crystal lanterns twinkling in tall windows. One house, though, was different. It looked more like an Indian palace, with ribbed marble arches, hanging brass lights and stone elephants by the door.

“Bentick House,” Dr Carew said.

Wild Boy spotted Marcus’s coach parked outside, but where was Gideon?

“Nothing seems amiss,” Dr Carew said.

“I gotta check.”

“You’ll forgive me, but I am not sure it is wise for you of all people to knock on a stranger’s door at this hour. Wait here and I shall investigate.”

Dr Carew climbed from his seat and neatened his suit. He glanced at Wild Boy, and then at his bag beside the cart seat, with his notebook and medical equipment. He grabbed the bag, shrugged. “Marcus said you were not a killer. He didn’t deny that you were a thief.”

Clutching the bag, he stepped up to the house and peered through the windows. Light from inside glinted off his spectacles. “All quite normal,” he said. “I suggest we—”

He stepped back, staring into an alley that ran down the side of the house. “That’s strange.”

“What?”

“I think I saw someone.”

The doctor stepped into the alley and was swallowed by the darkness.

This is stupid
. Wild Boy had to make sure that Clarissa and Marcus were safe. He leaped from the cart, ran to the door and yanked the chain. He pulled again, banged a fist against the door. Why was no one answering?

Something
was
wrong.

He rushed to the nearest window and climbed onto the railing that guarded the front of the house.

The light in the window went out.

Wild Boy jumped down, staring in disbelief as one by one the lamps in the house were extinguished. Darkness spread from window to window.

Something was
definitely
wrong.

He ran to the entrance and tore one of the hanging lanterns from its bracket. Racing back to the window, he hurled the light at the glass. The pane shattered, but there was no movement inside.

“Hello?” Wild Boy yelled.

No reply.

He scrambled over the rail and jumped the gap to the ledge. He tried to edge through the broken glass, but his coat snagged on a shard. Pulling it free, he tumbled inside and landed with a curse on a cold marble floor. He rose, looking down the dark corridor that led along the width of the house.

“Clarissa?” he called.

The only reply was a howl of wind through the broken window. But there was a light now, flickering dimly at the end of the corridor. Wild Boy moved closer, his heart beating harder with each step.

The corridor led to an extravagant entrance hall with a floor like a giant chessboard. Stuffed peacocks stared from niches, and a single brass lamp glimmered in the corner. A servant in an orange turban stood by it, leaning into the wall.

“Hey,” Wild Boy said. “What’s going on?”

The servant didn’t reply. Didn’t even move.

Wild Boy grabbed the man’s shoulder. The servant slid down the wall and slumped to the floor, rolling onto his back. His face was like Prendergast’s – chalk-white with inky black veins streaking up his forehead and under the fold of his turban. His eyes were wide and full of terror.

He was dead.

Wild Boy staggered back, wrapping an arm around his mouth to stifle a scream.

He bashed into someone else, whirled around in fright.

It was another dead servant. The man’s tunic had been taken off, revealing black veins on his arms and hands. A third servant lay beyond him, in the entrance to another corridor, convulsing on the black and white squares.

Wild Boy rushed to him and sank to his knees. He tried to control the man, struggling to pin down his thrashing limbs. “What’s happening to you?” he gasped. “I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to stop it.”

The servant’s hands rose to protect his face, as if he was being clawed by a tiger. His eyes stared into the darkness, at nothing and everything.

“No!”
he screamed.
“No, not that! Not again!”

Wild Boy had never heard a cry like it, felt the terror of whatever horrors tormented the man’s mind. He slid back, scared that whatever had caused it might get him as well.

The screams stopped.

The man lay still.

The house was silent.

Then, a creak.

Wild Boy stepped back against one of the corridor doors, hidden by its marble frame.

Another creak. Someone was coming this way.

Wild Boy sprang from the doorway, swinging a fist. But he was too slow. A hand grasped his arm and twisted it behind his back.

“Hey,” hissed a familiar voice.

A freckled face glared at him from the gloom. “What are you doing here?” Clarissa said. “Why weren’t you in the drawing room?”