The Affair of the Porcelain Dog (11 page)

The papers were filled with lurid stories of young women, usually blond, wealthy, and virtuous, stolen away and turned to nefarious purpose. In reality, people disappeared all the time on the East End, but their fates, tragic as they often were, didn't sell papers. What didn't make sense was the shouting he described, the muffled crying in a foreign tongue. Anyone who'd grown up on the East End, like Nate, would have no problem distinguishing the sounds of Chinese, Italian, German, Hindoo, Gipsy, and Jewish. If the people being moved through the Fitzroy Street brothel weren't any of these, where had they come from? Wherever it was, the owner must have been getting a pretty price to make it worth the expense of smuggling them.

"You should tell the police," I said.

He laughed.

"Tell 'em wot? That in the course of me work in an 'ouse of buggery--stric'ly as a bookkeeper, mind--I noticed wot look like illegal activ'ty on the part of me employer?"

It was ridiculous when he put it that way.

The weight of this knowledge on his conscience was all too obvious in the heavy set of his delicate features. My introduction to Greek-style love hadn't been gentle, but it had been voluntary. Nate's hadn't. The bruises and lacerations were long healed, but behind his black eyes I could still see the young man sitting up nights in the children's dormitory, a sharpened spoon in his trembling hand, waiting for the warder who had assaulted him to come for someone else.

"'Sides," he said, setting his jaw. "Nick says wot the owner's got connections all the way to Buckin'am Palace. 'E prolly owns the bleedin' p'lice. Naw," he said with quiet determination. "I'm fixin' them bastards meself."

My heart stopped. Nate had been crossing some very powerful people, and he was asking for Goddard's help. Never mind Goddard had troubles of his own--the last thing he needed was to stir up more with people like that.

"Been keepin' me own set of books," Nate continued. "The owner give me the names in code, but I almost got it cracked. I got one name--a member of the bleedin' Royal Family--an' when I get the others I'm gonna make 'em pay. An' when they've paid enough to send these poor...'oever they is back to wherever they come from, I'm gonna drop the books off at Bow Street anyway. But I think someone's found me out. I ain't got much time, Ira."

He looked toward the entrance again and swallowed.

"Have you told this Nick of yours?" I asked.

"'E can't 'elp me. Wouldn't want 'im to. Brought it all on meself. But if your man's connected--"

"Not that kind of connected," I said. "I wish I could help you, but--"

"Then maybe I can stay wiv you. Jus' for a bit, until I get fings sorted out, like."

I let out a long breath. If there were ever a right reason to do the wrong thing, this was it. Nate had saved my skin a thousand times. Not half an hour ago, he'd offered me shelter. Now he'd put his own life in danger trying to help someone else. But Goddard had enough grief with our blackmailer without taking in a second "guest." And while Goddard could keep the police and any number of rival criminals at bay with one manicured hand tied behind his back, I doubted he was a match for the collective wrath of the English monarchy.

"I wish I could," I said. And did I ever.

"But--"

"I'm sorry."

"You mean you can't, or you won't?"

"It's complicated. Let me give you some money for a hotel. How much do you need?" I took out my wallet.

"They'll find me in an 'otel."

"Then leave town. Leave the country."

The solution seemed obvious to me. Goddard had a place outside of Paris for just such contingencies. I wondered whether he'd consider letting Nate stay there.

But Nate shook his head. "Wherever I go, they'll find me," he said. "And when they do..."

His eyes locked onto something beyond the palms. The color drained from his face. I took a handful of coins from my pocket and pressed them into his hand.

"There's close to three quid here," I said. "Take it."

Never taking his eyes from the entrance, he tucked the money into his pocket.

"Take this, too."

His fingers curled around the ruby stickpin, squeezing it as if for luck. I turned again and saw a large man between the potted palms. His face bore a jagged scar from temple to jaw, and his jacket was obviously borrowed.

"Please, Ira," Nate said.

Not a day has gone by since that fateful luncheon that I haven't felt an utter shit for what I failed to do. And yet I couldn't have acted otherwise. Goddard could have made a jealous suitor disappear. But Nate had taken a piss in the corridors of power, and if I dragged Goddard into that, not even Paris would be far enough for us to run.

"I can't take you in," I said. "But if you can make it to the back door, I can give you a good start."

Hurt darkened his features. He lifted his chin, lips pressed together in a tight line, and gave a sharp nod.

"Rat!" I shouted, shooting out of my chair so violently it cracked against the crowded table behind me. "Rat! Great, huge stinking rat!"

I upended that table into the laps of four well-dressed men, clambering over it and barreling toward the man with the scar, still shouting. Scarface tried to step aside, but I shouldered him in the gut and ducked out of his thick arms as he tried to grab me. I sprinted toward the potted palms and looked back to see Nate darting through the crowd toward the kitchen. A strong hand gripped my shoulder as I shot into the hallway, but I twisted free. Giving silent thanks to the fighting arts practice which Goddard insisted upon despite my lack of enthusiasm, I delivered an elbow to a place that would leave the poor bugger thinking twice about doing it again. And then I ran for the street.

I arrived back at York Street near teatime, exhausted. My throat was full of soot, hands and face covered in a gritty film, my sensitive bits burning as if my undergarments were lined with stinging nettles. Giving every farthing in my pocket to a renter-cum-blackmailer fleeing from God alone only knew whom had left me to walk home from the Criterion in the heat. My old shirt was sticking wetly to my body, and there was going to be a nasty blister on the ball of my left foot. The last thing I was in the mood for was the first thing that greeted me when I let myself in.

"Ah, Mr. Adler," said the manservant. He glanced up from the round vestibule table, where he was arranging an armful of fresh flowers in a silver vase. "Dr. Hendricks stopped by. He was inconvenienced by your absence, to put it mildly."

"I'm sure he'll get over it," I said.

I hung my Whitechapel jacket and hat on the rack beside the door before removing my boots and lining them up by the wall. If Goddard had been at home, the manservant would have taken all three, not to mention opened the door for me.

But I had bigger battles to fight.

"I need a bath," I said. "And then I want my tea."

Nate had lit out from the restaurant like a bat out of hell, but that didn't mean he was out of danger. He'd probably head back to the brothel at some point to collect his things or to find his Mr. Sinclair and warn him. Nate could not possibly have stayed under our roof. But Goddard was the Duke of Dorset Street. There had to be something he could do to help. And that was what I intended to ponder, submerged in hot water and fragrant oil.

When I looked up, Collins had not beaten a hasty path up the stairs to run my bath. He was looking at me, a whisper of a smirk about his mouth.

"The master sent word to remind you about this evening's meeting of the London Society for the Oriental Fighting Arts. It begins in less than an hour."

Sod it. Between the storm in my mind and the inferno between my legs, I was not fit for being slapped about by overenthusiastic amateur pugilists in black pajamas.

"He said there would be a special announcement," Collins continued. "He was most insistent that you be there."

"He always wants me to be there," I said.

"But he told me that tonight, you must not be allowed to talk your way out of it."

I curled my toes against the tiles. The bones in my feet ached. I most decidedly did not want to put my boots back on. On the other hand, Goddard would be bursting to tell me about his new professorship. And there would surely be an excellent supper afterward.

"Fine," I said. "Bring me my
samfu
."

The manservant's smirk became more definite.

"Unfortunately, your fighting garment is being laundered at the moment."

I closed my eyes and counted to five. The only thing worse than the tongue-lashing I'd receive from Zhi Sen, the club's instructor and Goddard's long-time business partner, for showing up unprepared would be for my sharp words to inspire Collins to "accidentally" destroy the garment in some disastrous incident involving hot irons and starch. The manservant couldn't stomach the fact Goddard had scraped me from the gutter and installed me at his right hand, but it had only been in the last few weeks that he'd demonstrated this fact with such boldness. But never in front of Goddard, and never in any way that couldn't be explained away.

Come to think of it, Collins would make a credible blackmailer. He did have excellent penmanship. Even if he were innocent, seeing him get his comeuppance at Goddard's hands might well be worth the price of a bottle of lavender ink.

"Very well." I sighed, reaching for my hat. "Send for a cab."

Muttering fantasies of revenge under my breath, I pulled my boots back on, lacing them tight against further blisters. I opened the door. As I reached for my jacket, I spied a single-horse vehicle turning onto York Street. It scraped to a stop in front of the house.

"I believe that's a cab approaching now. But considering the importance Dr. Goddard placed on your presence tonight, you'd be well advised to consider a change of clothing. Might I suggest the brown suit?"

∗ ∗ ∗

It was a short ride to the London Athletic Club in Fulham. As my cab passed through fashionable Mayfair and out of Chelsea, the scrubbed bricks, whitewashed columns, and tree-lined streets gave way to dour gray stone and dark little pubs. Fulham had once been a playground for the debauched rich. The rich had gradually been taking their perversions elsewhere, though, and now the once-festive streets were looking shabby and a little hungover. The area was still neither as colorful nor as vicious as Whitechapel. All the same, I was grateful not to be on foot in my weakened state, especially with the sun hanging low in the sky, casting an evening glow on the taverns and shops.

The club was located at Stamford Bridge: six and a half acres of playing pitches, with a running track and a covered area for spectators. Off to the side stood the modest sports hall where the Fighting Arts Society held its twice-weekly practice. Before his dismissal from Cambridge, Goddard had been a member of the rival Amateur Athletic Association. Had he still been in the university's good graces, he'd have set up the Fighting Arts Society in its lofty halls. However, the L.A.C., which admitted laborers as well as lords, had the advantage of providing Goddard a suitable pool of men from which he had recruited some of his finest nobblers, bodyguards, and bludgers. Goddard's disgrace and exile might have taken its toll on his pride, but it had given him a stunning array of opportunities to build his criminal organization. He had used them all to best advantage.

The sky was warm with the last rays of daylight when I paid the entrance fee and made my way inside the sports hall. The main corridor was quiet and dark. Few lamps had been lit. Most summer sports carried on out of doors, and those that didn't took advantage of the facility's generous windows. The room where Goddard and his students met was at the end of the corridor. I followed the muffled booms, cracks, and squelches of hand-to-hand combat to a door shut fast to preserve the delicate sensibilities of the staff. Cracking it open, I slipped inside.

The students had already worked their way through the forms--the sets of movements that show how strikes, sweeps, and blocks fit together--and were well into their sparring practice. The air was ripe with hard-earned sweat. I hated sparring. I could already fight my way out of most situations, and it seemed pointless to limit the techniques at one's disposal for the sake of aesthetic continuity.

What's more, I always seemed to get paired with some zealot one could just tell had grown up grinding the faces of weaker boys into the mud.

Watching others fight was another matter. When one wasn't personally being pummeled, it was a beautiful dance--and Cain Goddard was a magnificent dancer. I lined my boots up with the others and sat cross-legged against the wall. On the other side of the room, Goddard was working with a ginger-haired man. The other man looked as if he should be all elbows and left feet, but under Goddard's tutelage his movements took on an astonishing fluidity. Goddard had only been to China once, on business. The mark it left on him was plain to anyone who had ever seen the burden rise from his shoulders when he took up his long staff, heard the tenderness with which his tongue caressed the improbable syllables of the language, or witnessed the uncharacteristic patience with which he ministered to his students.

I might have lost myself in watching him, had not my attention been drawn by the stealthy creak of the door. I turned in time to catch a glimpse of dark hair and the rustle of silk skirts before the woman hastily pulled the door back shut. Curious. As far as I knew, the club didn't employ females--and club employees didn't wear silk. I rose and edged toward the door. The woman had been looking for someone, and she'd disappeared when she'd seen me turn toward her. However, she hadn't disappeared completely. The hallway lamp was still casting a woman-shaped shadow against the window on the door. I slid along the wall until my right side met the doorjamb. Soon enough, a face breached the entrance once more. This time I was ready. Before she could slip away, I caught her arm. Her almond-shaped eyes met mine, and the surprise on her porcelain features must have been similar to that which was squeezing the breath from my chest.