Phantom of Blood Alley (3 page)

Above my head, a vast swirling flock of starlings, gathering for their winter migration, flickered through the air. They darkened the sun and filled the sky with their metallic cries. For an instant I joined them, flying through the air from a soot-encrusted cornice to the flat roof of a brick warehouse in a classic Peabody Roll.

Jumping to my feet, I glanced down at the street below and saw Laurence Oliphant striding down the crowded street. Then, as I
watched, I was horrified to see him do the most extraordinary thing.

Head down and shoulders hunched, he shot out the hand clutching the cane and tripped a passer-by, an elderly gentleman in a grubby overcoat, who toppled into the street and straight into the path of an oncoming coal merchant’s dray. The driver of the dray tugged hard on the reins. The dray swerved to avoid the gentleman and collided with a cart laden with barrels of apples, leaving both vehicles on their sides.

Still in harness, the felled horses whinnied with terror, their eyes rolling and hooves kicking uselessly at the air. Sacks and barrels had spilled their contents. The driver of the dray lay on the road, blood pouring from his head. Crowds swarmed round the accident, some stopping to help out, others seizing the opportunity to stuff their bags, pockets and aprons with free coal.

Laurence Oliphant continued through the
gathering mayhem, his cane swinging like a constable’s truncheon, clearing a path before him. He paused once, looking behind him, and I thought for an instant he might have been regretting his action. But he merely stooped down and retrieved a bright-red apple from the pavement, which he rubbed on the lapel of his fustian overcoat and bit into as he continued on his way.

I followed him, leaving the chaotic scene behind, feeling sick to my stomach with what I’d just witnessed. I was beginning to suspect that Clarissa Oliphant’s fears for her brother’s mental state were well-founded. As we went deeper into Gastown, the buildings became increasingly rundown and ramshackle, with cramped living quarters built on top of dark sweatshops and filthy workhouses. I had to take care not to miss my footing on the cracked roof tiles and crumbling brickwork. At the end of Blue Boar Lane, Oliphant turned abruptly onto a narrow alleyway, and stopped
in front of the battered, padlocked door of a squat building halfway along. He rummaged in the pockets of his breeches for a key.

Blood Alley. Of all places!

Of course, I knew Blood Alley by reputation. The place was notorious. It lay at the centre of Gastown, the dark heart of the grimy district. Of course, there are other seedy parts of the city, each with their own problems, from the grinding poverty of the Rats Nest to the brutal gang violence of Gatling Quays. But Gastown was different. It was a sinister, brooding place, full of shuttered workshops and ominously boarded-up buildings, behind whose facades all manner of disreputable enterprises were rumoured to take place. And of all the tightly packed streets, Blood Alley’s reputation was indisputably the worst.

Apparently, years earlier, tanneries had lined the alley on both sides, the red dyes and acid chemicals of the so-called ‘odiferous trade’ sluicing down the gutters like blood. It
was this foul effluence that gave the alley its name. These days, the tanneries, along with their foul vats filled with stale urine and stinking dung, were gone. The buildings had been turned into two rows of industrial lock-ups, bolted and shuttered against prying eyes.

The infamous Gutrot Gang were rumoured to produce the foulest, most intoxicating stevedore brandy in Blood Alley, while it was said that the Mog Shavers, the largest gang of cat-skinners in the city, manufactured their ‘ermine’ fur coats here too. Counterfeiters, document forgers, scammers, skimmers and hot-toddy merchants lurked behind every locked door, each one a fortress against the raids of the city constabulary, which were few and far between.

Laurence Oliphant disappeared hurriedly inside the building and pulled the door shut behind him. I heard bolts slamming into place. There was a small window next to the door, but as I lowered myself onto a wedge-shaped
roof opposite, I saw that, unsurprisingly, it had been boarded up. I shinned down a rusting drainpipe and landed lightly on the cobbles. In front of me, to the right of the lock-up, was a dank ginnel, which took me to the back of the row. Each of the lock-ups had its own high-walled back yard, screening them from view.

Carefully, I eased myself up the wall, my fingertips and the points of my boots finding purchase in the crumbling mortar between the brickwork. It was slow work, but after a couple of minutes I was able to peer over the shards of broken glass that crenellated the top of the eight-foot wall.

I glimpsed an untidy yard, strewn with dented zinc tanks and twists of greening copper. There was a window to the right of the back door, glazed rather than boarded. Taking care to avoid the razor-sharp glass, I was attempting to get a better view when all at once there was a bloodcurdling roar,
and in a blurred rush of glistening slaver and glinting teeth, a monstrous hound reared up at me and thrust its snarling mouth towards my face.

I recoiled, almost losing my grip on the wall, my heart hammering with fright. The creature dropped back down out of sight, only to reappear a moment later as it lunged up at me.

Transfixed, I stared at the hideous beast, my legs trembling. Up on its hind legs it must have been six feet tall at least. It was lean and muscular, and its rough, matted fur bristled as it jumped repeatedly at the top of the wall, only to fall back again. It eyed me furiously from beneath bushy wire-like eyebrows, its eyeballs rolling in their sockets. Frothing drool dripped from yellow fangs as its scarred jaws opened, and a low, menacing growl emerged from the back of its throat. I knew that it would have liked nothing better than to tear me limb from limb.

I’d been stupid. Careless. Most of these lock-ups were likely to be guarded by savage dogs, and I should have known that Laurence Oliphant would want to protect his own secrets from prying eyes. As if to confirm my thoughts, the yards along the alley erupted in a cacophony of angry barks and howling as the chained beasts within them joined the chorus.

… a monstrous hound reared up at me and thrust its snarling mouth towards my face
.

From inside the lock-up, there came the sound of a door slamming. I let go of the wall and dropped to the cobbles below, hitting the ground running – but not before I saw the face at the window.

It was scarcely human. One disembodied eye, grinning teeth, wisps of hair and patches of skin, all disconnected, as if half the face had been ripped away. But worse, far worse, I realized as I ran back down Blood Alley and round the corner, was not that I had seen this hideous creature, but that it had clearly seen me.

I
sat myself down on the flat roof of a six-storey brown brick tenement block on Prospect Avenue, where Gastown borders the more upmarket Bishopsgate, my legs dangling over the side. I was still shaken up by the events in Blood Alley, and had decided to take a moment to collect my thoughts before I continued back to Clarissa Oliphant’s house.

I’d been confronted by watchdogs before of course. It came with my line of work. Scruffy mutts and mongrels for the most part, ill-fed and bad-tempered. But the dog I’d encountered in Blood Alley was not one
of these. I’d recognized it as a pedigree Moravian boarhound, a noble breed usually associated with country estates rather than Gastown lock-ups. Good-natured and loyal as a rule, this one must have been brutally treated to turn it into the vicious beast I’d encountered.

Had Laurence Oliphant done this? I wondered. Or did the creature belong to the hideous apparition I’d glimpsed at the window? And if so, then who was that foul, deformed monster? Questions were buzzing around my head, when all at once I heard the sound of desperate wailing …

I looked round and noticed a cat on the adjacent fire escape. It was clinging hold of a cast-iron rung, its ears pinned back and body trembling, caterwauling for help. I guessed that it had been running from the unwanted attentions of a watchdog when it had taken to the stairs of the fire escape, leaping up the cast-iron rungs to safety – until its confidence
had run out, that is. Now it was stuck, unable to return the way it had come and incapable of making that final leap onto the roof; a manoeuvre that any self-respecting tomcat would have managed without a second thought.

But this was no alley-cat, no ratter, no sleek pigeon hunter or backstreet mog. No, the quivering specimen before me was clearly a lap-cat. A Persepolis blue, if I was not mistaken; a plump and pampered household pet, and with a pedigree every bit as impressive as the Moravian boarhound’s.

The cat’s wailing hit an agonized crescendo. It stared at me pitifully, as if pleading for my help. I didn’t have the heart to ignore it.

‘All right, you win,’ I told it, as I headed back along the roof. ‘I’m coming.’

This was easier said than done, as I soon discovered. Though petrified of the yawning drop below, the cat seemed even more terrified of yours truly. As I lowered myself onto the
first of the diagonal iron stairs of the fire escape, the stupid creature yowled and shrank back. I stopped at once and leaned down.

‘Shhh,’ I whispered. ‘It’s all right. I’m not going to hurt you …’

The cat trembled. I took another step, trying hard not to make the metal stairs vibrate. It let out a cry of terror and scrabbled back awkwardly along the rusted rung.

‘It’s all right,’ I repeated, stopping a second time. ‘Just stay where you are. There’s a good cat.’

But the cat remained unsure. Claws out and fur on end, it went rigid as I got closer. I paused on the rung just above it, twisted round so my back was to the ladder and looked down. The creature stared back, bared its teeth and hissed. I crouched and, whispering reassurances, reached towards it, ready to scoop it up.

All at once, with a terrified screech, the cat lashed out, its claws slashing at my
outstretched fingers. I withdrew my hand just in time and straightened up, ripping the front of my poacher’s waistcoat on a jutting bolt as I did so. I heard something hard clatter down the metal flights of stairs below me, and saw half a dozen business cards flutter away …

The cat squirmed round, braced itself and took a flying leap off the edge of the ladder and onto the adjacent window-ledge. I glared at it furiously, and had half a mind to leave the ridiculous creature where it was. But then it mewled piteously, staring at me with those wide panic-stricken eyes.

Taking a deep breath, I lowered myself to the rung below and edged closer to the window-ledge. The cat eyed me suspiciously, its fur on end.

‘I’m going to rescue you, whether you like it or not,’ I told it.

Gripping the side of the stairs with my left hand, I pulled my coalstack hat from my head with my right. I stared ahead, calculating the angles, and counted down from five. When I hit zero, I tightened my grip on the stair rail and swung out into midair. As I drew level with the window-ledge, I brought my hat down over the cat and dragged it towards me. Then, just as it reached the edge of the sill, I twisted my wrist, flipping the hat round so that the cat dropped down inside it, and swung back to the fire escape.