The Affair of the Porcelain Dog (15 page)

A lazy breeze billowed my robe up around my knees, reminding me I was as naked as a Scotsman beneath it. It wasn't cold enough for the brown tweed coat, and God knew, there was never a right time to wear such a revolting garment. But if the constable did double back and surprise me, and didn't bother to look at the bare shins and slippers sticking out beneath the tattered hem, he might just be prevented from jumping to unfortunate conclusions. Muttering to myself, I pulled it on.

I really could have used another cigarette. Unfortunately, the box and lighter were both back on the mantel in the morning room, sod it all. I listened to the hollow echo of my slippers on the landing. And then it came to me. A wood-soled velvet slipper would surely shatter the bedroom window, wake the neighbors, and bring the coppers running. But thrown carefully against the wall, the same might well rouse Goddard alone from his slumber and bring him to the window.

Stepping out of the beautiful, beaded house shoes that cost more than an entire night at Nate's brothel, I picked one up, took aim, and flung it. The slipper landed true, right beside the window--fabric side down, unfortunately. I watched it slide down the wall, landing with an insipid slap near the gated well that led to the neighbors' servants' entrance. I considered vaulting over the waist-high row of iron spikes to retrieve it, but no sooner had I balanced my one shod foot on the spikes than the neighbors' light came on below stairs.

The next-door butler was a sour-tempered fellow, a teetotaler, a God-botherer, and a vegetarian.

He and Collins were the best of friends.

"Cain!" I hissed again.

A light switched on in the main house next door, another below stairs on the other side, and again across the street. Our own under-stairs remained deliberately, stubbornly dark. Footsteps rang out.

In daylight, it would have been easy to explain myself. I was Goddard's secretary. I lived on the premises, a fact to which the neighbors would all attest. But in daylight, I would have been clothed and shod, washed of sweat and musk, the unmistakable marks of passion--of which Goddard bore a similar set--hidden beneath high collar and cravat.

Before my appearance could send us both to prison, I wrapped my coat around me and ran.

Regent's Park wasn't more than a few blocks away. I sprinted down Baker Street, and, before the constable could have made his way back to the lamppost, I was through the gate. Ignoring the pebbles bruising my feet, I ran past the lake, darted up the canal, and threw myself into the hollow beneath Clarence Bridge. Gasping and panting, I forced myself to take long, deep breaths.

There was a commotion beginning down on York Street. God only knew what people were saying. By now there were too many police about for me to return. If I somehow convinced them to wake Goddard, he would have a lot to explain. He'd do it without question, of course, but even if the police believed whatever story he came up with, he would forevermore carry the taint of suspicion. No, I would not do the blackmailer's work for him. At the same time, I couldn't very well wait until daylight to make my way back. Goddard might forgive me for prowling the streets of London in nothing but a robe, but the scandal of my return, in full daylight, in such a disreputable state, before God and the neighbors? Even the Duke of Dorset Street had his limits.

No, I would have to find a friendly place to sit out the rest of the night, and hopefully get my hands on some trousers. The clinic came to mind. Pearl always kept a few boxes of donated clothing for just such contingencies. But the clinic was five miles of rough road away, and my feet were already stinging. On the other hand, Nate's Fitzroy Street brothel wasn't more than a mile away, and I could stick to the park for most of it.

The question was, of course, whether Nate would be there. He had lit out of the Criterion with a scar-faced devil on his heels. But was that particular devil a minion of the brothel owner, whom Nate had so feared? If so, then Nate would be long gone from the place. On the other hand, if Scar-Face had been sent by someone else, Nate might well be holed up at the brothel, waiting for the smoke to clear. Either way, I thought, fingering the picklocks in my pocket, it was a roof for a few hours, even if I had to hide in a closet. Moreover, in a house full of men, there were bound to be trousers.

Slowly, painfully, I emerged from under the bridge. I picked my way along the banks of the canal, sticking to the shadows and trees. Thankfully, after dark, the park was peopled only by those who couldn't be bothered with my state of dress, once they'd determined I carried nothing of value. Eventually I came to York Bridge, and then the Outer Circle. I exited the park at York Terrace and turned left onto Marylebone. Gray had begun to creep into the edges of the night. As I turned onto Fitzroy Street, I was relieved to see the windows of the houses were still dark behind their lace curtains and aspidistras.

Number 19 was quiet as the rest. The last of the clients appeared to have left the somber brown brick house. The young men who serviced them were now allowed to close their black shutters and sleep. The teachers, merchants, and tradesmen who made their homes nearby were genuinely ignorant of what went on under their very noses. The power of the human mind to ignore what it didn't want to see was nothing short of miraculous.

I let my gaze follow the plane of the facade, lighting briefly on each of the second-story windows. There was no way of knowing which was Nate's. And even if I had known, the copious pebbles on the sidewalk and street would make no noise at all against the shutters. Pity I hadn't my slippers with me. My eyes fell on the servants' stairwell. The houses on Fitzroy Street also had two entrances. Family and visitors naturally used the front door. Servants and tradesmen descended a gated stairwell to the left of the entrance. Mindful of the spikes, I carefully climbed over the gate and made my way down the stairs, while palming my picklocks.

The door gave way easily. I locked it behind me. Blinking, I gave my eyes a moment to adjust to the dim light from the street above. In Goddard's house, this would have been the kitchen. A male brothel wouldn't retain a cook or any other kind of servant. They might have a girl in now and then to clean, but anything more would have been too much of a risk. Past the unused kitchen table, there was a doorway on the opposite wall. I assumed beyond it were one or two small rooms that in another house would have been servants' quarters. Nate had said the "disturbances" he'd heard--muffled cries, bangs, crashes, words in an unrecognizable tongue--had come from the basement. But though I strained my ears listening, I perceived nothing but the stillness of a place left vacant for some time and the faint whiff of opium.

I followed the smell across the room to a hallway. Light from a small window at the end revealed a single door to my left. The door had once latched from the outside, but the latch had been forced. It now swung from the door on a single, twisted screw. Dents in the doorjamb and a black gash in the wood testified to the violence with which the job had been done. The smell of opium was stronger there, but no sound proceeded from the room--no crying, no one stirring in the arms of Morpheus. Cautiously, I turned the knob.

The hair stood up on the back of my neck as I opened the door. That the noises Nate had described had so spooked him--Nate, who had always been the one to comfort the younger children through the dark workhouse nights--gave me pause. But nothing rushed at me from the darkness. I was quite alone, save for the overpowering smell suffusing the mounds of clothes and bedding on the floor. I quickly crossed to the window and pulled down the blanket hung over it. The dim light creeping in made it easier to see, but the window had been nailed shut--there would be no relief from the smell.

Under the opium, the room smelt strongly of urine, sweat, and despair. My stomach rose. I rushed for the door, gulping air from the hallway until I was certain I would neither vomit nor pass out. There was no doubt now people had been brought here against their will and held. But who were they? Where had they gone?

In the corner a slop bucket lay on its side in a pool of filth. The largest opium lamp I had ever seen sat in pieces on the floor near the window. The chamber-pot sized base bore a dent that matched a long scratch on the wall above it. Before the glass bulb had shattered, it had been as big as my head. Opium lamps were usually no larger than my fist--the volume of smoke this one emitted could have kept an entire room of captives helpless and docile. There was a dark, spattered line from one end of the far wall to the other. A struggle had taken place--from the coppery note of blood mingled with the other smells, it hadn't been that long ago.

I stepped over a pile of limp, grimy sheets. Flashes of bright fabric caught my eye. A few garments were tangled in the sheets--eccentric in design, absurd in color, but anything had to be better than my current state of indecency. Kneeling, I began sifting through it all. The first thing I pulled out was an embroidered tunic with billowing sleeves, which I immediately discarded. It would have been too small, even for Eileen. There was a lovely piece woven from rough, colorful strands. I considered it for quite a while until I realized it was a skirt, and slim as my hips were, it wouldn't have fit over them. I eventually found a pair of pink drawstring trousers that only came down to my knees but just might hold if I didn't bend over. I shimmied into them, trying to ignore the delight of a regiment of lice, who wasted no time tucking into my sensitive flesh.

The lice and the constriction of my bits might have been tolerable, if not for the lump of something now attempting to dig its way through the small of my back. I prodded it gingerly at first. Soft. A wad of fabric balled into a pocket. Yes, there was a pocket--my fingers felt the edges of the pouch. But there was no opening. Frowning, I felt around the edges again. My fingers eventually found a bit of stitching that was slightly coarser than the rest. Not a pocket, then, but something sewn into the garment--something hidden. A chill swept over me as I ripped open the stitching. When I pulled out the object that someone had gone to such great trouble to conceal, I wanted to vomit.

It was a doll: a child's doll, no bigger than my palm. The eyes and mouth were black stitches on a face made from faded cloth that had probably come from a parent's worn-out garment. A bit of multicolored silk had been wrapped around the doll's body for a tunic. Its hands and feet were knots. A simple urchin's doll, such as I'd seen a hundred times, fashioned from scraps for the comfort of a small child. Someone had loved this doll. And someone had loved its owner enough to sew what was quite probably her only toy into her undergarments before sending her to meet her fate.

I ripped off the pantaloons and flung them away. Someone was moving children through a brothel. My stomach was empty but my throat was burning with bile. Shaking, I sat back on the pile of sheets. It wasn't unknown, even in London, for parents to sell their children--or their children's favors--to settle a debt. I suppose I was fortunate my own mother had put me in the workhouse when my upkeep became too much of a burden. Part of me liked to think even when up to the eyes in her opium habit, she wanted to make sure I'd be cared for. Where were the parents of these children? What sort of debt could have amassed that they would have sold their little ones to bondage in a foreign land?

And judging from the clothes, England was very foreign, and very far away...

I pushed back the flood of thoughts that followed. I had to keep my head. Nate hadn't mentioned anything about children during our luncheon, which meant he hadn't known then. Had he figured it out? I glanced at the broken opium lamp, the trail of blood, the ruined latch swinging from the door. He must have. And the moment he did, he'd marched down to the basement with a crowbar, ready to smash in the door--or the skull of anyone who tried to stop him. But whose blood was on the wall? And where were the children now?

I drew a shaky breath, looked stupidly at the doll in my hand, and shoved it into my coat pocket with the picklocks. Above me, the house was still silent, though morning's light was beginning to push through the dirty glass of the windows. The shuttered rooms upstairs and the late hours kept by their occupants would buy me some time. I had to find the extra set of books Nate kept. If I was too late to help him--it was certainly too late to help the last group of children who had been through here--at least I could finish what Nate had started and turn his records over to the police. Shivering, I wiped my mouth with my sleeve.

Leaving that miserable little room, my foot struck something hard hidden beneath a wad of bedding. I kicked it free of the sheets, and it skidded across the floor with a metallic hiss, coming to rest near the door. It was a watch, I realized, bending to pick it up. Attractive but inexpensive, hammered too thin, and much the worse for wear, I recognized it immediately. It was the token given to Nate by his Mr. Sinclair. I was certain Nate would have sooner died than been parted from it.

I bolted out of the miserable little cell, found the servants' stairs, and lit upstairs as fast as my bare feet could carry me. I was certain Nate had come back to the brothel after our luncheon. There had been a struggle, and he'd lost his watch. But when had the struggle taken place? Who had been there? And where were Nate and the occupants of that room now? I had to find Nate's room, and I had to get my hands on those ledgers before someone else did.

Eight seconds later, I was standing in the vestibule of a very posh brothel. So posh, they hadn't turned off the lights to save gas, as Goddard insisted we do at York Street. As a result, the ground floor was cast in perpetual twilight, unrelieved by the rising sun pushing at the thick curtains of the front window. The black and white floor tiles were exactly the ones Goddard had chosen for his own vestibule, and there was a hat rack beside the front door. The similarities to our home stopped there. The decorator's flamboyant taste would have sent Goddard fleeing, from the curvaceous vase of black ostrich plumes on the spindly table to the gilded lamp in the form of an angel with the wings of real doves to the intricate scarlet and gold wallpaper and the framed sketches on the wall.