The Alchemist in the Attic (6 page)

Atwood didn’t answer. He couldn’t.

She smiled. It was a pretty smile, but it wasn’t kind. “Was there anything else?” she demanded. “I have a great deal of work to do.” She paused. “Unless your friend would care to help me?” Her voice had softened slightly. “He seems quite taken with my collection.”

Walter had turned back to the herbarium, seemingly fascinated. Atwood nudged him sharply. “No,” he said. “Thank you, Miss Eastwood. You’ve been most helpful.”

“Have I?” she asked. “How nice.”

Atwood left with a final nod. Walter followed behind him reluctantly, with a final lingering glance.

The police station was a hub of frenzied activity when Atwood and Walter arrived. Men were running to and fro, and there was a steady hum of conversation. There was a feverish tinge to the voices and a pinched, worried look to the faces around them.

The desk sergeant knew Atwood on sight. He frowned at the reporters and shot a quick glance around the station. Atwood followed his gaze. More than a few of the other policemen were already sending him and Walter dark glances. There was a low-level undercurrent of hostility and a frightened, beleaguered violence that threatened to explode. Beside him, Walter seemed to wilt in on himself. It was as if they had entered enemy territory.

“Inspector Quirke is expecting us,” Atwood said. It was only partially a lie. He hadn’t made an appointment, but then he’d never needed one. Quirke was probably wondering why he hadn’t turned up sooner.

“This way, sirs,” the desk sergeant said after a moment, leading them deeper into the station and up a broad flight of stairs. Atwood felt distinctly unwelcome, even more so than usual.

“I know where Quirke’s office is,” Atwood said. The desk sergeant didn’t reply, but the angry stares were answer enough for him. Wandering around the station on their own probably wouldn’t have been prudent. Atwood wondered at the hostility. He hadn’t done anything recently to upset the police. His articles, so far, had been very favorable. He knew what side his bread was buttered on, after all, but something had clearly riled them up. He didn’t like not knowing. It was disconcerting, and potentially dangerous.

Inspector Quirke’s office was at the far end of a long, narrow corridor. The sergeant rapped on the oak door twice.

“Come in,” a voice called. The sergeant gestured for Atwood and Walter to remain in the hall, then slipped inside.

“Sorry, sir,” they heard him say. “It’s Atwood and Harel from the
Oracle
…” Then the door closed and the rest of the conversation was muffled and indistinct.

Atwood and Walter exchanged confused glances. Usually they were ushered inside immediately. Atwood had been a familiar face for years, and Walter was well on his way to developing his own contacts. Something had clearly changed. The ground was shifting under Atwood’s feet and he didn’t like it one bit. Finally the door swung open and the desk sergeant waved them inside with an apologetic shrug.

Quirke and Wry were pouring over a map of the Bay when they entered and appeared to be charting the currents, presumably trying to discover where the bodies had been dumped. Atwood took quick note of the places that were marked. Quirke and Wry were methodical, capable investigators. Atwood trusted their instincts, and it allowed him to proceed in his own less-than-orthodox manner. There was an old iron furnace in one corner; it smelled of coal and rust.

Atwood had spent a great deal of time there over the years and was intimately familiar with the faded wallpaper, filing cabinets, and, most importantly, the bottle of whiskey secreted in one of the desk drawers. They had shared a bottle many times, but this time Quirke didn’t offer.

“I wondered when you’d reappear,” he said, straightening. He was as well-groomed as ever, but his eyes were swollen with fatigue. “Hearst’s boys have been swarming the station for days.”

“Explains our warm welcome,” Atwood said.

Quirke and Wry eyed each other, but neither confirmed nor denied Atwood’s assumption.

“All those other newsmen,” Wry murmured with a sneer, “climbing over themselves for scraps, but you just walk in through the door.”

“Lucky,” Atwood said.

“It’s not luck,” Wry said.

“No, it’s business.” Atwood turned to Quirke. “Shall we?”

“Please,” Quirke said, gesturing for them to sit. Walter pulled out a small notebook and the four of them sat facing each other across the desk. For a moment no one spoke. Finally it was Walter, of all people, who broke the silence.

“Have there been any developments?” he asked. If Quirke was surprised that Walter had spoken first, he gave no sign.

“We’re waiting for the coroner’s reports,” he said.

“Have you identified the bodies?” Atwood asked.

“Two of them,” Quirke said.

“And?” Walter’s pen was poised. Quirke frowned at the notebook and turned to Wry, but the sergeant merely shrugged.

Atwood waited. Quirke was not a man who responded to pressure, but he wouldn’t have let them in the door if he hadn’t intended to share something, at least.

“One of them is an old drunk. The patrolmen called him Biggsy, but we’re not sure if that’s his real name.”

“And the other?”

“A prominent merchant from the ironworks.”

Atwood raised an eyebrow. That was news. “Which one?”

“I’m not at liberty to say. Too many people saw you walk in.”

“Which ironworks then?” Walter tried. Atwood nodded in approval, but Quirke shook his head.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

Atwood sighed. “Can you at least tell me where they procured the bodies? Which graveyard or hospital?” It would be harder to track, but a lead was a lead.

“None of them.”

Atwood blinked and Walter’s pen stopped writing. “None of them?” he repeated slowly.

“That’s right.” Quirke met his gaze. “They were all alive last anyone saw them.”

“Fresh meat,” Wry added.

“Murder, you mean?”

“Yes,” Quirke said simply. “Murder.”

With a single word everything had changed. A chill shivered down Atwood’s spine. His thoughts were whirling. But there was opportunity as well as terror here, for both of them.

“This case could make your career,” he said to Quirke.

“And save yours,” the inspector replied immediately. Atwood was taken aback.

Quirke smirked. “Come now, Teddy,” he said. “I’m not blind. The
Oracle
is in trouble and so are you.”

“True enough.” Atwood smiled ruefully. “Perhaps we can help each other.”

“Perhaps we can,” Quirke agreed. “But we’ll need to tread carefully. Gage won’t be happy we’ve spoken. He’s out for your blood, and ours too when he learns we met you.”

“I thought you said you could handle him.”

“Only if you make it worth my while.”

“The usual arrangement then?”

“For now,” Quirke agreed. “But I will expect a bit more than your usual smoke and mirrors.”

“And I’ll expect more than your usual crumbs of information.”

“Agreed.”

“You could start by telling us which ironworks.” Atwood gave him a brazen smile.

“I could, but then you’d publish it.”

“It would be quite a scoop.”

“Yes, and then Gage would know I told you.”

“He is a spineless windbag,” Atwood said. “But he’s not an idiot.”

“A spiteful windbag,” Quirke added.

Atwood shrugged. “It was worth a try.”

“Always.”

“Be seeing you,” Atwood said. He stood and shook Quirke’s hand. Then offered Wry his hand. For his part, Wry pointedly ignored Atwood, but shook Walter’s after a moment. It was a petty snub, but it only amused Atwood.

“Gentlemen,” he said. “Good luck.”

As Atwood and Walter were leaving, however, Atwood turned as if a thought had just struck him.

“By the way,” he said. “Do you know anything about the robberies at the Academy of Science?”

“Robberies?” Quirke turned to Wry, who frowned.

“I think I heard something odd,” the sergeant said admitted. “Someone stole laboratory equipment, I believe.”

“And mandrakes,” Walter added helpfully.

Quirke narrowed his eyes. “I’ve just told you that we have a murderer on the loose, and you ask about stolen beakers and mandrakes?”

Atwood shrugged. “Professional curiosity.”

He left with Walter trailing behind. He could feel the inspector’s eyes on them as the door swung shut behind them. He had fulfilled his part of the arrangement. Information for information. Quid pro quo. The rest was in Quirke’s hands. Their deal only went so far, and they both knew it.

*

There was a cold bite on the wind, as Atwood and Walter headed back to the Oracle, and Atwood thought he could smell something feverish and rotten seeping in through the fog. Around them, men in long coats and tall hats were making their way home for the night, while others were laughing and shouting, as they prepared themselves for the evening’s entertainment. But Atwood caught a tinge of desperation in their merriment. Their laughter was a little too long, their voices a little too loud, and no one dared linger on the streets. The bodies found at the wharf loomed in every mind, no matter how hard they tried to forget. Atwood could see the fear in their gaits and hear it in their voices. This was a city on the edge, but fear and fascination went hand in hand and that was where Atwood lived.

A handful of newsboys in ragged coats and peaked caps were loitering outside the Oracle Building. Swifty and Little Jake were among them, but Atwood recognized a few of the others as well. Atwood had never known their real names. He doubted anyone did; even amongst themselves. This was who they were now. Not one of them was older than thirteen in years or younger than eighty in cynicism. They were the quick-tongued, light-fingered face of the paper, and if its sales were dwindling, it certainly wasn’t their doing.

Atwood was always careful to treat them with respect. He never ruffled their hair or spoke down to them. They knew the city and its hidden places better than anyone, even him, and more importantly, they didn’t just hawk the news, sometimes they saw it, so it paid to cultivate them. It didn’t cost much—a few pennies here and there for butter cakes and ale, and most of all, mutual respect. It had proved a useful arrangement, and he hoped it would serve him well again. Walter had never learned the lesson.

“Is this really necessary?” he muttered darkly to himself. “It was just supposed to be you and me.”

“It is just you and me,” Atwood said with an aborted smile. Walter’s petty feud with the newsboys was long standing, and fueled by misplaced jealousy. “That’s the problem. We’ve both been doing our best to find McManus and Keeler and it isn’t enough. Unless there’s some special insight you’d like to share?” He narrowed his eyes. “I don’t suppose you’ve been holding out on me, have you?”

“No!” Walter protested. “I would never!”

“Neither have I,” Atwood replied softly. “So we need fresh eyes, and theirs are the freshest.”

Atwood gave the newsboys a friendly nod, one professional to another. Swifty returned the gesture with a crooked glint in his eye.

“He’s just a newsboy,” Walter protested weakly.

“
I
was a newsboy,” Atwood said. “And sometimes he reminds me of myself.”

“Yes, but your father…” Walter bit his tongue, but it was too late.

“What about my father?” Atwood’s voice was suddenly cold. “Has someone been telling stories?”

“No, I…” Walter trailed into silence. “I didn’t mean…”

Atwood took a deep breath. “Don’t worry about it,” he said. “It’s not your fault.”

“I shouldn’t have said anything. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t mention it,” Atwood said. It was part reassurance and part warning. For a moment they studied each other in a silent, awkward apology.

“All right,” Walter said after a moment. “But you’re paying that little shit.”

Atwood said nothing, but hid a smile behind his hand so that Walter couldn’t see.

“I’ve been expectin’ you,” Swifty said as they approached. “Though I thought you’d come looking sooner.”

“I was delayed,” Atwood said.

“So I see.” Swifty glanced at Walter, who was watching him with a none-too-friendly glint in his eyes.

“I have a job for you,” Atwood said nodding to Little Jake, who had ambled over to join them, sensitive to the sound of money. “Both of you. I need you to keep an eye out.”

“Lookin’ for something in particular?” Swifty asked. “Whoever gave you those bruises maybe?”

Atwood touched his face gingerly. The swelling was only starting to go down. “No.” He shook his head.  “Not them. I can handle them.”

Swifty and Little Jake said nothing, but they wore their skepticism plain on their faces.

“For now,” Atwood admitted after a moment. “But that’s not the sorta job I had in mind.”

Swifty and Little Jake glanced at each other.

“You’d tell us if we should be worried, right?” Swifty asked.

“I would,” Atwood agreed.

“So,” Swifty asked after a moment. “Should we be?”

Atwood shrugged. “I’d have jumped ship by now if I could,” he said honestly. They would have known if he had lied.

Swifty nodded. “Well,” he said. “In that case, always happy for work, ain’t we, Little Jake?”

“Could be,” Little Jake said. “Could be. But I find it’s hard to think on an empty stomach.”

“True.” Swifty nodded solemnly. “Very hard.”

Walter bristled, but Atwood merely smirked. “Butter cakes and coffee all around?” he asked, as if the thought had just occurred to him.

“That’s very generous of you,” said Little Jake.

“Uncommon decent, that’s what it is,” Swifty added, looking perfectly grateful.

“I know just the place,” Little Jake said.

“I’m not paying,” Walter muttered under his breath, but not quietly enough. Swifty and Little Jake shot him a pair of wicked grins. Atwood patted him on the shoulder and then followed the laughing newsboys out into the night.

*

Swifty and Little Jake had a reputation as the most industrious of the newsboys and they proceeded to prove it, negotiating the terms of their arrangement over a late supper. The butter cakes were piping hot, though they tasted of sawdust, and the coffee was lukewarm, but they ate carefully, treasuring each bite, and pocketing a cake each. They were stockpiling for the winter.

Atwood and Walter watched them across the table, waiting. Atwood remembered his own lean, hungry days, the hole in his stomach that could never filled. The thought of those days drove him, lent his thoughts a starved, desperate edge. He could feel himself sliding back closer and closer into the embrace of those days, and this time his father wouldn’t there to help. It was only him. He couldn’t let that happen. He wouldn’t.

Over copious amounts of coffee, the newsboys quickly agreed to the job in principle. They were old hats at finding people who didn’t want to be found. The question of payment, however, required some negotiating.