Gideon Smith and the Mask of the Ripper (23 page)

Lizzie smiled. “How would you like to have a shot at Lottie? Not up the front, though. Around the back. Nicely slathered with this, mind. I don’t want you hurting her too much.”

Henry’s eyes lit up. “Really?”

“Really. But you treat her nice, right? For every bruise on that girl’s body I’ll break one of your fingers.”

He reached for the goose fat, but Lizzie snatched it away from him. “Not so fast. A treat like that don’t come for free. You’re going to have to do me a little favor first.”

“Name it,” he said, almost panting. Men were so weak and stupid. Give them the promise of a hole to pound away in for ten minutes and they’d pledge you the Earth.

“Do you know Salty Sylvia McMahon’s bawdy house, off Houndsditch?”

Henry suddenly looked guilty. “No. You know I’m a loyal customer of yours, Lizzie.”

“Oh, shut up with your wheedling, Henry. Salty Sylvia’s refusing to take part in the strike. Without her I can’t get to the tarts in Soho and the West End. I want you to get a few boys together, go and have a word. If you see what I mean.”

Henry tugged on his bottom lip. “I don’t know, Lizzie. You know Salty Sylvia’s under the protection of Gruff Billy. He’s a tough bloke, Lizzie.”

She raised an eyebrow. “And you’re scared of Gruff Billy? A big, strong feller like you? You could have him for supper.”

Henry nodded, seemingly mollified. Weak, stupid men. Lizzie pressed the advantage of her flattery. “And you know what else you could have for supper? All I’m saying is that Salty Sylvia’s is still open for business. Make sure by this time tomorrow it isn’t, and I’ll turn a blind eye to whatever you boys get up to while you’re there. Do you understand me?”

Henry frowned, then smiled. “Oh, right. Yes, I get you, Lizzie.”

“Good.” She tapped her finger on top of the jar of goose fat. “Then tonight could be your lucky night.”

Without so much as saying good-bye, Henry bolted from the kitchen. Rachel was still lurking by the pantry. Without turning around Lizzie said, “Out with it, girl. What you after?”

“Well, I was thinking … while we’re not working some of the girls are getting a bit restless. Might be nice if we went out for a bit of entertainment, Mum. Take our minds off it. I’ve heard there’s this German mind reader or some-such, over at the Britannia in Hoxton.…”

Lizzie sighed and dipped into the purse hanging from her skirts. “Oh, I suppose you’ve earned a bit of entertainment. But back by midnight, and no giving it away or coining it on the quiet. I’ll hear about it if you do. And you know what I can do, Rachel.”

Rachel touched her scar. “Yes, Mum. Do you want us to take the new girl?”

“You know full well she might be busy tonight, you cheeky brat,” said Lizzie. “And no blabbering on about what you’ve heard in this kitchen today. I don’t want it getting back to her before she’s ready.”

“Be a nice surprise for her, that,” said Rachel, unable to keep the glee from her voice. “Henry Savage up the back.” She took the coins from Lizzie’s outstretched hand and danced out of the kitchen.

*   *   *

Henry Savage hand picked seven hard men to go with him to Houndsditch just as the light was beginning to fail. They walked the whole way in silence save for the rhythmic tapping of the blade of Henry’s cleaver on his belt buckle. The cleaver was Henry’s weapon of choice, and it always hung on a loop of twine from a button he’d sewed himself on the inside of his old overcoat. It had done him good service over the years, that cleaver. And with every outing it seemed to shine all the brighter. It liked blood, that cleaver. Thrived on it.

Salty Sylvia’s was all shuttered up, in at least some mockery of deference to Lizzie Strutter’s strike. But if Lizzie said the old girl was breaking the embargo, then who was Henry Savage to argue. He hammered on the door with his meaty fist.

It was flung open by Salty Sylvia herself, a rotund woman with heaving, liver-spotted breasts that a whalebone corset that had seen better days—better decades, probably—barely held in check. She frowned at him. “Henry Savage?”

“Can we come in, Sylvia?”

She looked up and down the snow-covered street. “There’s a strike on, you know.”

He roughly pushed inside, his men following him. “Not what I heard,” he said. The last one in glanced around the street then quietly shut the door.

The parlor of the old house had been knocked through to what had once been the dining room to make one big room, lined with battered couches and chairs on which Sylvia’s girls lounged, looking up with frightened eyes at the party that trooped in. Sylvia regarded Henry with eyes heavy with kohl. “You after doing business, Henry?”

“I’m here to talk business, Sylvia,” he said. Salty Sylvia had once worked in Portsmouth before relocating to the capital. There was an old joke that the Royal Navy had named a ship after her, but it had gone down full of seamen. Henry Savage didn’t rightly get it. He didn’t do jokes. But he did violence very well. He reached into his jacket and pulled out his cleaver.

“Lizzie says you’re to shut down. No more shagging until the strike’s over.”

Sylvia crossed her pockmarked arms over her vast bosom. “I think Gruff Billy might have something to say about that.”

“Gruff Billy’s not here,” said Henry.

There was a noise behind him, a shuffle of feet, and the quiet click of a knife being opened.

“Oh yes he is, boyo.”

Henry turned to look at Gruff Billy. The Welshman was as wide as a brick outhouse, and his hands were like shovels. His hair was black as the coal he’d once dug in the South Wales Valleys. He held the knife out at Henry. “Take your boys and get out of here. Salty Sylvia’s is under my protection.”

Henry sighed. There was always the expectation of some measure of theater about these things. He could never be bothered. Quick as a dog after a rabbit, he brought his right arm up and across, the cleaver glinting in the low candlelight, a thick gout of blood leaping from Gruff Billy’s throat. There was a collective gasp from the girls as the Welshman looked at Henry with what seemed to be mild annoyance, before the light dimmed in his eyes and he slumped to the bare floorboards.

Sylvia looked dispassionately down at her former bodyguard. “Well,” she said finally. “You weren’t here to mess about, were you, Henry?”

He leaned forward and wiped the cleaver on Gruff Billy’s shirt. “There’s a lot riding on this, Sylvia. Now, let’s talk about the strike again.”

“No business here,” she sighed. “Tell Lizzie we’re in.”

He replaced his cleaver in his coat. “Good. Although…” He looked around. “I brought my boys all the way over here for nothing. They’re all pumped up, and I went and spoiled their fun.”

Sylvia sighed. “One on the house for everybody, Henry.”

Henry’s boys scrambled to get the girl of their choice, and there was a swift exodus to the stairs, some of the men already unbuttoning their breeches and hefting out their tackle before they’d even left the room.

“It’s been a while for them.” Henry smiled.

Sylvia moved in close, tugging down the front of her corset to show off her nipples, big as saucers. “What about you, Henry? I’m going to need a bit of protection now that Gruffy Billy’s gone.”

He pushed her away. “You’ll get looked after, Sylvia, don’t worry. But I’ll say no, if you don’t mind.” She glared at him, pulling up her top. Henry smiled. “Nothing personal. I’m saving myself.”

*   *   *

Bent had begged a lift in the constabulary steam-cab back to the Commercial Road station, Lestrade glaring at him all the way as Constable Ayres negotiated the blizzard that made the going slow in the darkness. “We’ll all be traveling underground like moles if Parliament has its way.” Bent chuckled. “Won’t catch me going on a steam-train in a tunnel beneath the streets. I won’t even get on the stilt-trains if I don’t have to. My center of gravity’s very low, you know. Need to be at ground level at all times.”

“Are you going to share your insight with us, Mr. Bent?” said Lestrade testily.

Bent shook his head. “Not yet, George. It’s only an idea. I need to do a bit of effing research first.”

Lestrade harrumphed. “Withholding information from the police is a crime, Bent.”

“It’s not information at the moment, George. Just a hunch. Soon as I can stand it up, you’ll be the first to know.” He bit his lip. “There’s something you can do for me, though.”

Lestrade sighed. “What is it?”

“Gideon Smith. He went out on Saturday night, and as far as I know he hasn’t come back yet.”

“And you are worried about him?”

Bent shrugged in the tight cabin of the vehicle. “I don’t know, George. He can look after himself, obviously. But it’s not like him to go off like this without a word.”

Constable Ayres let out a sigh of relief as he negotiated the cab into Commercial Road and brought it to a skidding stop outside the police station. There was another constable there, hopping about in the snow.

“So you want to file a missing persons report?” asked Lestrade, peering through the fogged-up side window at the policeman.

“Hmm, I don’t think that would go down too well if my erstwhile colleagues in Fleet Street got hold of it. They’d have a bloody field day with that. The Hero of the Empire needs his arse wiped for him? No, I think I’d just appreciate it if your boys kept an eye out for him. He was last seen going to the Britannia on Hoxton Road, to see a show by Markus Mesmer, the hypnotist.”

“Yes, I’ll put the word out,” said Lestrade. “I’ve never had the pleasure of meeting Mr. Smith—does he look like the illustrations in the penny bloods?”

“Pretty much,” said Bent. “Dark curly hair, fit as a butcher’s dog. Too handsome by half. He don’t talk proper like me, though—he’s a Yorkshireman.” Bent paused. “Speaking of your boys, that lad out there seems keen to get your attention.”

Constable Ayres eased himself out of the driver’s seat into the snow and opened the door for Lestrade. The other constable, snow clinging to his helmet and making him look comically like a snowman, thought Bent, bobbed his head in.

“Been some trouble in Houndsditch, Inspector. Gruff Billy’s turned up with his throat slashed. Found dumped in an alleyway. Word on the street is that Henry Savage’s gang might be responsible.”

“Uh oh,” said Bent.

Lestrade looked at him. “What?”

“Henry Savage is the enforcer for Lizzie effing Strutter, ain’t he? And Gruff Billy was known to frequent Salty Sylvia’s. Last I heard, Salty Sylvia was refusing to take part in Lizzie Strutter’s little strike. Sounds like things are turning nasty out there, and I don’t mean the effing weather.”

*   *   *

Bent let himself into 23 Grosvenor Square with a booming “Hello!” that fell on deaf ears. There was a fire in the parlor hearth, but the house was empty. He shucked off his overcoat and ventured into the kitchen, following the smells of cooking, but Mrs. Cadwallader was absent. She had left a note on the table, though.

Mr. Bent,

No sign of Master Gideon, I am afraid. Miss Maria went out on an errand of her own this afternoon, and I have not heard from her. It is my night off tonight, and I am on a social engagement. There is a lamb stew in the oven. Please remember to turn the gas off when you have removed the dish. I shall be back by ten.

Mrs. Cadwallader

A social engagement? Where had Mrs. Cadwallader gone off to? And where the eff was Maria? He remembered then that he’d promised to go to the Britannia Theater with her, to see if Gideon had indeed been to watch Markus Mesmer on Saturday night. Bent squinted at his pocket watch. It was after seven already. He cursed and dithered near the stove, breathing in the wonderful smell of the lamb stew.

“Oh, eff it all!” he said, heading back into the hall and grabbing his coat. If Maria had gone to tackle Mesmer herself, who knew what trouble she could be getting into? Pausing only to dash into the parlor and take a swig of brandy straight from the decanter, he headed out once more into the snow, hollering for a steam-cab to take him to Hoxton Road.

I
NTERMEDIO
: W
EAVE
, W
ARP
, W
EFT

Things were never what they seemed. Few knew that better than he. But perhaps … perhaps there
was
a pattern to the killings. Perhaps he was too close to the pattern to see it properly, but he knew it was there. As surely as the warp and weft came together to make the weave, the pattern was there.

It had been cast off in the darkness, when a woman had been killed and her brain stolen. This much he knew. It wasn’t until later that he had truly become part of the weave, that he had set to work to add his own design to the greater pattern. But he was a part of it, that much was sure.

And just as the pattern had a beginning, so it must have an end. And that end was close. He could almost sense it, like an ancient shaman divining the future from still-warm entrails.

The woman outside the theater troubled him. The way she had looked at him … she could not know, of course. That was impossible. But there had been something in her eyes, a brief flash of connection. Less than a conscious recognition of his physical appearance, more an acknowledgment of kinship.

He resolved to go back to the theater and its masses, with half a mind to seek her out. Not for murder, no, because he felt deep inside him there was something special about her, something powerful even, perhaps even too powerful for him.

It was more that he needed some kind of … validation, that it was all
real
. Because when he was in the intermedio, he gave up his knowledge of what was right and what was wrong, what was solid and what was make-believe. He was like a quiet berserker, such as the Norsemen used to have, a
hashishin
treading on shadows. He didn’t know what was flesh and what was phantom.

Until he saw the blood.

But as each design came to an end, as each loose thread was tied off … what then? What came next? The pattern was near to its close.

What would become of him then?

For now his black soul had tasted blood, it hungered ever more. Even when this was finished, his soul would still cry out for that which fed it.