Phantom of Blood Alley (8 page)

The adjacent room was at the back of the house, directly above the drawing room. It was where I’d heard Laurence Oliphant pacing about on my first visit. The door was closed, and I paused and pressed my ear to the dark-stained wood. Silence. I waited for a moment or two, then, gripping my sword firmly, I seized the door handle and marched into Laurence Oliphant’s bedchamber.

I looked around. There was a wall lamp to the right of the door. I pulled a box of vestas from my pocket, struck one and lit the gas. As I adjusted the mantle, a golden yellow glow filled the air, banishing the shadows to the corners of the room–but failing to reveal any intruder lurking there. Nevertheless, I felt ill at ease, every fibre of my body tense and braced as I took in my surroundings.

Unlike the rest of the house, Laurence Oliphant’s bedchamber was stark, with bare boards and empty walls. Heaps of boxes and crates stood piled up on both sides of the
room, with various pieces of what I took to be photographic equipment nestling between them. Everything was covered in a thin layer of dust, and a faint tang of chemicals hung in the air.

Beneath the window at the far end of the room was a small metal-framed bed, with crumpled blankets strewn across a thin mattress. An easel stood at the end of the bed behind a varnished wooden screen. It had what looked like a painting propped up against its angled struts. My curiosity aroused, I went to inspect it more closely and was surprised to discover that it wasn’t an oil painting at all, but a photographic image mounted on thick card. I pulled the easel round until the lamp glow fell upon the picture.

The big ears and small eyes. The snub nose. A strand of silvery hair that had come free from the bun and hung down across a fleshy cheek. The high-collared jacket, buttoned at the neck …

It was the likeness of Clarissa Oliphant, captured in a beautifully modulated black and white image. But it wasn’t just her features and clothes that I recognized, it was her expression. The lofty superiority of her steady gaze. The parsimonious tightness in her lips. It was as though I wasn’t merely looking at a likeness of Clarissa Oliphant, but at the essence of the woman herself. It was more life-like than any painting I’d ever seen.

I leaned forward, my sword lowered. Laurence Oliphant’s looped signature filled the bottom left-hand corner; below it, there was a date. The picture, I realized, was over a year old, with the image as crisp as the day it had been produced.

‘An oliphantype,’ I murmured.

As if in response, I heard a faint hissing noise, like the expelling of air. My body tensed. I spun round, brandishing my sword, but the room was empty.

Just then, in the flickering glow of the lamplight, and for the briefest of moments, I thought I glimpsed a half-formed, spectral shape by the doorway. It was translucent and indistinct, yet there was the suggestion of the tip of an ear, the curve of a shoulder.

‘Barnaby!’ It was Tilly, calling up from the foot of the stairs. ‘Barnaby, are you all right?’

Suddenly, the door slammed shut. The next moment, Tilly screamed, her cries of terror echoing round the empty house.

‘Tilly!’ I shouted back. ‘Tilly, I’m coming!’

I hurtled across the room, tore the door open and dashed along the landing. From the top of the stairs I could see her. She was lying at the foot of the stairs, her mobcap beside her and her hair unpinned. I slid swiftly down the banister, and landed beside her.

‘Oh, Ba … Ba … Barnaby,’ she stammered, looking up. Her sobs caught in her throat as I helped her shakily to her feet. ‘Something brushed past me. It knocked me aside.’

‘That’s the thing,’ she said, her face taut with fear. ‘I didn’t see anything, Barnaby.’

‘It?’ I said. ‘What did you see?’

‘That’s the thing,’ she said, her face taut with fear. ‘I didn’t see anything, Barnaby.’

Just then, more sounds came from the drawing room. I pulled away from Tilly and, sword before me, raced across the hall. I burst into the room and froze. Behind me, Tilly let out a little cry.

The large sash-window that led out into the back garden was open, and the curtains were flapping in the wind. I strode across the floor and pulled the window down with a rumbling thud. I fastened the catch.

‘Whatever it was,’ I told her, ‘it appears to have gone now.’

‘Look, Barnaby! Look!’ Tilly’s horrified voice sounded from behind me.

I turned to see her staring at the wall opposite the window. The landscape painting that would have hung there was propped up against the wainscoting beneath, while the strongbox it had concealed was open, the
heavy iron door hanging back on its hinges, and a key protruding from its lock.

‘What was in it?’ I asked.

Tilly turned to me, her face white with shock. ‘The mistress’s gold sovereigns,’ she said, confirming what I’d feared. ‘Her inheritance from Lord Riverhythe!’ Her face crumpled. ‘It was her nest egg, Barnaby. She depended on it, and now it’s gone. She’s ruined!’

T
here was no question of Tilly staying in the Oliphants’ residence after the strange events of that night, and I escorted her to her aunt’s house in Mulberry Court, not far from my rooms in Caged Lark Lane. Despite the lateness of the hour, one look at her niece’s terrified face convinced the old fishwife that this was indeed an emergency, and she was happy to take her in.

I returned to my rooms, exhausted and disturbed by the day’s events in equal measure, and went straight to bed. I fell almost immediately into a deep sleep, only to be plagued by nightmares of a hideous
apparition emerging from the lock-up and pursuing me down Blood Alley. Suddenly, I was cornered, and it pressed its appalling face close to mine, its fetid breath suffocating me. I tried to raise my hands, to push away the unseen head that was pressing closer and closer into my face. But I couldn’t move. I couldn’t get away.

I felt something wet graze my chin and draw slowly up my grimacing face; over my nose, across my forehead. Then again. And again …

My eyes snapped open. ‘Kaiser!’ I exclaimed.

The dog cocked its head to one side, then leaned forward for another lick.

‘Kaiser! Down, boy!’

Shamefacedly, the huge hound stepped down from the bed and sat on the floor, staring back at me expectantly. I sat up and patted his head, then glanced across at my clock.

It had seemed like a good idea the night
before, having the guard dog in my attic rooms, sleeping on a blanket by the door. Now, wide awake at only half past six on a Sunday morning, I was beginning to regret my decision. Rolling over and going back to sleep was out of the question. I pushed the covers back and climbed out of bed.

‘Just give me half an hour,’ I told the dog, ‘and I’ll take you for a walk.’

I don’t know for certain whether the creature recognized the word
walk
, but his tail started thumping noisily against the floor. I washed and dressed quickly, and was putting the kettle on to boil when there was a soft knock at the door.

My heart missed a beat, and I had to remind myself that, as a general rule, phantoms don’t knock on doors. With Kaiser standing alert at my side, I unlocked the door and opened it.

‘Barnaby,’ came a familiar voice, and Will Farmer, his wheelboard clamped under one arm, stepped into the room. ‘I thought …’
His gaze fell on the dog. Grinning broadly, he crouched down and looked into the dog’s eyes. ‘And who are
you?’
he said, stroking and patting his head, and then laughed as Kaiser licked his face and neck.

‘His name’s Kaiser,’ I told him. ‘He belonged to Laurence Oliphant, the brother of that client I was telling you about. The
late
Laurence Oliphant,’ I added.

Will looked up in surprise.

‘Laurence Oliphant has been murdered,’ I told him. Just then, a low, flutey whistle filled the air as the kettle came to the boil. ‘We’ll have a cup of tea,’ I said, ‘and I’ll tell you all about it.’

Will Farmer seemed bemused as I outlined the bizarre events of the previous day. He shook his head as he placed his cup back on its saucer.

‘Who do you think the intruder at the Oliphants’ house was?’ he asked, his eyes wide with wonder.

I’d witnessed more than my share of the supernatural over the years, from werewolves and evil skulls to a legion of undead zombies, and I’d learned to keep such things to myself as much as possible. It didn’t do to go about scaring the good citizens of this great city any more than one had to.

‘I’m not sure,’ I told Will, ‘but I plan to find out, starting first thing Monday morning.’ I stretched and yawned extravagantly. ‘Now, what plans do you have for this fine day of rest?’

Will grinned. ‘Since it’s Sunday,’ he said, tapping the wheelboard, ‘I was going for a spin in Centennial Park, and I wondered if you’d like to join me.’

‘Excellent idea,’ I said, ‘and I’ll bring Kaiser. He could do with a good run.’

We set off ten minutes later, with Will babbling on about the fine adjustments he’d been making to that wheelboard of his, as well as the various moves he was beginning to
perfect. The early morning mist was soon burned off by the autumn sun, leaving the streets pink and golden, though still bitterly cold. At the bottom of Waverley Avenue, Will took a left turn.

‘I thought we were going to Centennial Park,’ I said.

‘We are,’ Will replied, and grinned sheepishly. ‘But I thought I’d see whether Molly fancied accompanying us. It’s such a lovely morning.’

‘Molly Gosney?’ I said, twitching Kaiser’s leash to stop him pulling ahead. ‘What makes you think she might be interested in you?’

Will’s grin broadened. ‘Because she told me herself,’ he said, and winked. ‘At the Alhambra music hall last night …’

‘Why, you sly old rascal,’ I said, throwing back my head and laughing.

As we rounded the corner of Prospect Avenue, Gosney and Daughter homed into view. The shop was shut up and in darkness,
but when Will rang the bell, Molly soon appeared at the door to let us in.

‘Will,’ she said, blushing charmingly. ‘And Mr Grimes.’

‘Call me Barnaby,’ I told her.

‘Barnaby,’ she repeated and nodded. ‘My mother’s going to be very pleased to see
you
. She’s just been putting the finishing touches to your poached egg waistcoat.’

Both Will and I burst out laughing. Molly stared at the pair of us, one after the other, her brow lined with confusion. ‘What?’ she said. ‘What did I say?’

‘It’s a
poacher’s
waistcoat,’ Will explained, and kissed her lightly on her forehead.

‘Well, whatever it’s called,’ said Molly primly. ‘It’s ready.’

She called up the stairs to her mother, who emerged a moment later, the newly completed waistcoat hanging over her arm. She smiled at me warmly, and gripping the garment by the shoulder seams and holding it out before
her, crossed the shop floor towards me.

‘I only hope it fits,’ she said anxiously.

I removed my jacket and slipped the waistcoat on, and Mrs Gosney clucked and tutted as she did up the buttons at the front, tightened the buckle at the back and smoothed down the shoulders. She turned me round and steered me towards a full-length mirror, where I paused and looked at my reflection.