Splendors and Glooms (12 page)

Parsefall saw at once that something was wrong. There was a sense of heightened alertness about the man, as if he were a predator about to spring. Parsefall kept very still. He fixed his eyes on the carpet so as not to draw attention to himself. He was poised to duck, dodge, or flee.

But there was no need. Grisini passed between the children as if they were invisible. He strode into the bedchamber and slammed shut the door.

Parsefall let out his breath. He set his finger to his lips, cautioning Lizzie Rose to silence. He listened to the sounds in the next room. He heard rustles and thumbs, the rasp of wood scraping wood, the tinny rattle of drawer pulls. He wondered what Grisini was searching for.

Lizzie Rose wiped her wet hands on her skirt and went after Ruby. She knelt down and forced the shivering dog back into the washbasin. Parsefall cocked his head, still listening. Impelled by some instinct, he went to the window and peered between the soot-stained curtains. When he saw the policeman across the street, he nodded. He spoke in a low voice. “Lizzie Rose, there’s a copper out there. ’E’s watchin’ the ’ouse.”

Lizzie Rose lifted her head. He saw the fear come into her eyes — fear and comprehension and a look of guilt. She whispered, “Don’t tell Grisini.”

Parsefall shook his head impatiently. “’E knows,” he hissed back. “Don’t you see? That’s why —” He broke off, staring at her incredulously. “God strike me dead, Lizzie Rose, you never went to ’em! You never told ’em wot Mrs. Pinchbeck said!”

Lizzie Rose pointed to the door of Grisini’s bedchamber. The doorknob was turning. The door opened, and a stranger came out.

Lizzie Rose uttered a faint cry. Parsefall stared. It took him several seconds to realize that the stranger was Grisini.

He had changed his clothes. Grisini’s regular clothes were grimy and torn, but they had once been elegant; his tattered frock coat had been cut by a master tailor, and his hat was genuine beaver. The clothes he wore now made him look like a pauper. An overcoat woven of some heavy wool covered him from throat to knee. His boots were clumsy, and his trousers were frayed. The torn brim of a slouch hat cast his face into shadow.

And his posture had changed. He moved heavily, his shoulders bowed. His hands — Grisini’s long-fingered, theatrical, gesticulating hands — hung from his wrists like a pair of empty gloves. Here was a beggar like ten thousand others: a man so cheerless and commonplace that no one would give him a second glance. Only the eyes were Grisini’s: they were hawk bright and angry.

Grisini took Lizzie Rose’s jacket from the back of a chair. He flung it down beside her. “Go outside,” he said curtly. “Go and walk the dog. There’s a policeman on the other side of the street. You must distract him — speak to him —
fai la civetta;
play the coquette. Make him turn his back on the house.”

Lizzie Rose quailed. The color drained from her face. “I can’t,” she faltered. “Ruby’s wet. She can’t —”

“Ubbidisci!”
Grisini’s voice was a whiplash. “
Subito!
I need to leave the house — quickly and unseen. Obey me, or you will be the worse for it!”

“I can’t,” Lizzie Rose said desperately. “He won’t believe me —”

Grisini’s hand lashed out. His fingers curled like a hook, snagging one of Lizzie Rose’s plaits. He yanked her to her feet so violently that she lost her hold on the dog in her arms. Ruby fell to the floor, squealing with pain.

“How do you know what he will believe?” demanded Grisini. “What do you know of him?” He twisted both plaits around his hand and dragged her closer, peering into her face. There was a moment of utter silence as he glared into her eyes. Then: “Have there been words between you?” he inquired, sotto voce. “Have you betrayed m
e — perfida, ingrata
!”

“No,” gasped Lizzie Rose. “No!” Her voice rose to a shriek. Grisini forced her head down and slapped her viciously, striking at the back of her neck.

Lizzie Rose’s knees buckled. Her hands went out to break her fall, but Grisini jerked her to her feet. Ruby circled them, barking wildly. There was the sharp crack of a second slap. On the third slap, the ring on Grisini’s finger cut into Lizzie Rose’s neck. A long scratch appeared, beaded with drops of blood.

There was a queer, high noise, as piercing as a pennywhistle. Parsefall had no idea that it came from his own throat. He knew only that his whole body had been set in motion. He leaped like a cat onto Grisini’s back, seizing him by the collar. Grisini shook him, but Parsefall tightened his grip, keeping the stranglehold. He swung forward, chest to chest with Grisini. One knee shot out and kicked hard, landing squarely between Grisini’s legs.

Grisini swore. Parsefall tightened his grip and kicked again, aiming for the same place. He had learned to fight in the workhouse, and his methods were simple and vicious. He went on kicking until the puppet master doubled over. Then, like Ruby, Parsefall tumbled to the floor.

He was back on his feet in an instant. Lizzie Rose was at his side.

“Quick.” Parsefall seized her hand. “Out.”

They swooped for the door with Ruby at their heels, and flung themselves headlong down the passage to the stairs. There was no time to strike a light, or hold on to the guard rope, but it scarcely mattered. Neither Parsefall nor Lizzie Rose had ever been more sure-footed. They reached the ground-floor landing and hammered at Mrs. Pinchbeck’s door.

“Old Pinchbeck!” bellowed Parsefall. “Mrs. Pinchbeck, let us in!”

The door was bolted shut. Behind it, the dogs were enjoying a frenzy of barking.

“She’s drunk,” Parsefall said bitterly. “Damn her eyes, she’s drunk. I should’ve known —”

“Parse —” gasped Lizzie Rose, and she pulled him around to face upstairs.

There was a shadow at the top of the staircase. Grisini stood there, swearing softly in Italian. At any moment, he would fly down the stairs and strike them dead. Parsefall flattened himself against the door.

What happened next seemed to happen very slowly. The children heard footsteps, followed by the sound of wood splintering: a crack like a pistol shot, knocks and thuds and a scream like a woman’s. The stairwell reverberated like a drum. Then the sounds were muffled, duller: the thud of a man’s body as it tumbled and slithered down the steps.

The door behind the children opened. Mrs. Pinchbeck stood white-faced, with a candle in her hand. “What ’appened?”

Parsefall answered at once. “Grisini.”

“He fell. Down the stairs. We’ve killed him,” said Lizzie Rose, and burst into fresh tears.

“We might ’ave,” Parsefall said hopefully. “He was after Lizzie Rose and she runned away. An’ then he came after us and the stairs fell apart.” He strained to see up the dark staircase.

Mrs. Pinchbeck put her hand over her mouth. The words came out between her fingers. “He’s fallen?”

“Down the stairs,” repeated Lizzie Rose.

Mrs. Pinchbeck took a deep breath. The children watched her, prepared for an outburst. But when she spoke, her voice was surprisingly calm. “I suppose we’d better ’ave a look at him.” She paused, gathering her thoughts. “There’s a looking glass on the chest of drawers in my boudoir. Go and fetch it. Don’t let the dogs out.”

Parsefall obeyed. In a moment he was back in the hall with the mirror in his hand.

“That’s good,” Mrs. Pinchbeck said levelly. “Now, if you’ll hold the candle, we’ll see whether ’e’s still breathing.”

She pinched the skirt of her dressing gown and started up the steps, clinging to the rope with her other hand. Parsefall followed with the candle and the mirror. Mrs. Pinchbeck stepped over Grisini’s legs, squatted down, and fumbled for his wrist, seeking a pulse. “Now, give me the glass.”

Parsefall surrendered the hand mirror.

“His ’eart’s beating,” said Mrs. Pinchbeck. “A little more light on the face.”

Parsefall raised the candle. The shivering light passed over Grisini’s features. His face glistened with blood. There were a few curly hairs growing out of his nostrils.

Parsefall shuddered.

Mrs. Pinchbeck adjusted the mirror so that the glass was beneath Grisini’s nose. She stared down at the clouded surface. “He’s breathin’,” she said in a bemused tone of voice, “but he’s bleedin’ like a stuck pig. Which of you clawed ’is face?”

Parsefall curled his fingers into fists. He wasn’t sure what he’d done during those frantic moments of attack. “’E’s a bleeder,” he said evasively. “’E bleeds more’n other men.”

Mrs. Pinchbeck wedged her hand underneath Grisini’s skull. When she pulled her hand free, it was coated and dripping with blood. “Ooof,” she said, wiping her hand on Grisini’s coat. “I suppose we ought to send for a surgeon.” She looked from Parsefall to Lizzie Rose. “I don’t suppose one of you children’d go? Seein’ as ’ow I’m in me nightdress?”

Lizzie Rose gave a great sob and sat down as if her legs would hold her no longer. Ruby leaped into her lap and tried to lick her face.

“
I
ain’t going,” Parsefall said defiantly.

Lizzie Rose buried her face in Ruby’s coat and went on crying.

“Well, then,” Mrs. Pinchbeck said, “I suppose it’ll ’ave to be me. It’s a pity it’s so late, because they always charge more if they come after dark.” She eyed the body dubiously. “I suppose we could take ’im straight to ’orspital.”

“How’d we get ’im there?” demanded Parsefall.

Mrs. Pinchbeck considered. “We’d ’ave to get an ’ackney coach. An omnibus would be cheaper, but he’d bleed, and we’d ’ave to prop ’im up.”

Lizzie Rose gave a little gurgle of hysterical laughter. Mrs. Pinchbeck eyed her narrowly. Then she hauled herself to her feet and descended the staircase. She went to Lizzie Rose and settled back down on the floor, pulling the crying child into her arms. “There, now, you mustn’t take on so. The surgeon may be able to put ’im right.” Then, “’Ere, now!” she said in quite a different tone of voice. “You’ve a nasty scratch on your neck! Where’d you get that?”

Parsefall spoke up. “Grisini slapped her. He was bashin’ ’er about.”

Lizzie Rose pulled away from Mrs. Pinchbeck’s embrace. “Parsefall defended me.” She smiled through her tears. “He was as brave as a lion, Mrs. Pinchbeck.”

Parsefall felt his lips draw back in a smirk of pride. He couldn’t help it.

“That’s a very good thing,” Mrs. Pinchbeck said approvingly. “Shame on ’im, striking an ’elpless female!” Her face hardened. “Serve ’im right if he falls down the stairs. He ought,” she added incoherently, “to ’ave ’eld on to the rope.”

“He was chasing us,” Parsefall explained. He squatted on his haunches and peered at Lizzie Rose. “I nobbled ’im good, didn’t I, Lizzie Rose?”

Lizzie Rose nodded vigorously. Then a cloud passed over her face. “Where will we go?”

Mrs. Pinchbeck looked blank.

“We can’t go upstairs,” Parsefall explained. “The staircase broke.”

“You can stay in my rooms for the night,” Mrs. Pinchbeck said after a moment’s thought. “Lizzie Rose can share my bed, and you can sleep on the sofa.”

“Will you lock the door after you leave?” entreated Lizzie Rose. “In case he wakes up — and is angry —?”

“I’ll lock you in,” promised Mrs. Pinchbeck. “No matter what ’appens, you’ll be safe from him tonight.”

L
izzie Rose was awakened by Mrs. Pinchbeck’s snores. She smelled the yeasty odor of spirits and saw a large blanket-covered mound beside her. At some point during the night, Mrs. Pinchbeck had crept under the covers and oozed into the center of the bed. Ruby, who had fallen asleep on the pillow, had moved to the floor.

Lizzie Rose squeezed her eyes shut and tried to go back to sleep. Her stomach felt queasy. As the events of the night came back to her, the queasiness increased. Grisini had found her out and struck her. Parsefall had rushed to her defense. The staircase had broken, and Grisini had tumbled down and hurt his head. At the thought of Grisini bleeding on the stair treads, Lizzie Rose began to tremble. She wondered why none of them had tried to stanch the bleeding. If they had, would it have helped him? And if they hadn’t and he died, were they to blame?

She couldn’t lie still any longer. The snores of the landlady struck her as jarring and even disgusting. Lizzie Rose eased herself out of the bed and tiptoed over to the washstand. She would have liked to wash, but there was no water in the pitcher.

She saw Mrs. Pinchbeck’s looking glass lying on the chest of drawers and picked it up. She twisted, trying to get the glass to reflect the mark on her neck. There was a long scratch that ended in a scab. She thought that her neck looked bruised, but in the dim room it was hard to tell. If she combed out her plaits, no one would be able to see the mark. Lizzie Rose wasn’t sure whether to hide it or not.

She was ashamed that Grisini had beaten her, but she wanted someone to see what he had done and be angry on her behalf. She thought of what her father would have said, and her eyes filled with tears. Never in her life had she been treated so roughly. She had seen Grisini cuff Parsefall, but she had been spared such punishment. Lizzie Rose had never liked Grisini, but neither had she feared him. Now she grew cold as she thought of what he might do to her once he recovered consciousness.