The Obsidian Dagger (Horatio Lyle) (13 page)

‘And whom did you talk to, Inspector?’

‘Mister Lyle, I’m a -’

‘
I’ve seen the papers, Inspector Vellum; don’t take me for a fool!
’

The vehemence that leapt out of Lyle’s voice and lashed across the room took the Inspector by surprise. He leant back, paling. Lyle bore down on him, a finger stabbing accusingly across the room. ‘You couldn’t resist it, could you, the chance to show what a wonderful detective you were, how you were the essence of mature, incisive investigation? You just had to talk to the press and let them see how good you were at your job, didn’t you? And now someone else has found out and the witness is dead, for
nothing
, a stupid, pointless act to prevent people telling us everything, every dirty little secret that might hint this way or that!’

Vellum’s lips trembled as he tried to answer in his steadiest nasal voice, ‘On the contrary, I have reasons to believe that no one told the police every -’

‘They didn’t tell
you
because
you
are a pompous little wart, a fungal eruption on the hayfever-ridden nose of a deranged anteater bitten once too often by its supper, and for knowing anything and being able to say anything they are now dead and . . .
and
. . .’ Lyle grabbed the Inspector by the scruff of the shirt, trembling with fury, and a little yelp escaped the Inspector, who screwed up his eyes tightly. Lyle hesitated. For a second he teetered on the edge, then let out a long breath and let go, stepping away and turning his back on the Inspector who, breathless and pale, slumped with relief.

Lyle stared morosely at the three bodies, hands buried in his pockets, head bowed.

Finally the Inspector said, in his more normal, grating voice, ‘You were in a passion, Mister Lyle. I am very understanding of weak men.’

Lyle didn’t move.

‘There is, I believe as you might say, a silver lining to this situation. ’

The only answer was a sour grunt.

Vellum’s voice rang out with more confidence. He was aware of making almost a formal address to an audience, and was proud of his insight. ‘The murderer has felt forced to show his hand again. I believe that we can deduce much from this new occurrence, and continue with renewed vigour to pursue this perpetrator of no less than three confirmed . . .’

‘Two.’

Vellum floundered, not used to being interrupted. ‘Mister Lyle, you can count?’

‘Two murders. The murderer who came up from inside the
Pegasus
and breaks necks with a single blow has killed two people for certain. Not three.’

‘Mister Lyle, are you quite well? Or is this a misconceived attempt at humour?’

Lyle sighed and said in an unnaturally calm voice, ‘Look at the way their necks have been broken, Inspector, and do try to draw a few conclusive insights of your own. The murderer of Fabrio and Stanlaw on the
Pegasus
was right-handed and broke their necks with a single blow of incredible strength. The murderer of Mrs Milner has also broken her neck with a single blow of incredible strength, but from the opposite side. Look at the bruising - Mrs Milner has broken skin on her neck where nails have dug in, unlike Fabrio and Stanlaw. And whoever killed her was left-handed, Inspector Vellum. Left-handed,
not
right-handed. You’re looking for two killers now, not one. And if you don’t find Edgar soon, you’ll probably have another corpse to prove that the lining really is silver. Good morning to you.’

And Lyle turned, not looking once at Vellum’s face, and swept out in silence.

 

‘Mister Lyle, where you been?’

‘Nowhere, Teresa. Erm ... what exactly has been happening here?’

‘Well, the bigwig here said how he was goin’ to make breakfast ’cos of how he was in charge, an’
I
said . . .’

‘For goodness’ sake, open a window!’

‘That’d be how he went and
burnt
. . .’

Thomas’s indignant voice. ‘It’s crispy!’

‘. . . burnt the bacon an’ then . . .’

An outraged squeak from Lyle. ‘Why is there
flour
everywhere? ’

‘I was comin’ to that . . .’

‘Sir, I can explain everything . . .’

‘And what the
hell
is that?’

‘Eggs, sir.’

‘Eggs?
Eggs?
Is it chemically possible or even probable that something that cruel, unnatural and unlikely could possibly have befallen an egg in this modern age of Newtonian science?’

‘Sir, I can explain about them too . . .’

‘I mean, what can you conceivably have done to an egg with the equipment available to create something so ... so . . .
biological
?’

‘. . . an’, an’, an’ then he tried addin’ flour an’ he slipped ’cos it were high on the shelf, Mister Lyle, an’,
I wanna have breakfast
an’ it went everywhere an’ then Tate slipped on it and tripped over his own ear an’ . . .’

‘How do you even begin to dispose of eggs like that? I’m not sure if ordinary processes of decay even apply to something quite so . . .’

‘So I says how about a bit of bread ’cos I’m thinkin’ by now maybe I don’t want to be pushin’ my luck with breakfast this morning an’
I wanna have breakfast
an’, then he says do I want to have it all hot an’ -’

‘Perhaps we could develop the eggs into a potential biomass energy generator? A few electrodes and a suitably deep pit somewhere where no noses dare sniff, or sell to crackpot alchemists as the missing link in Darwin’s evolutionary chain . . .’

And a cry rends the air, full of pain and desperation. ‘
I don’t know how to cook! No one ever told me how!
’

Silence, as the flour settles. ‘Well, lad,’ says Lyle kindly, ‘why didn’t you just say so?’

 

There were people walking on the Thames. Snow had fallen on the thick ice that covered the river, the only really white snow of the city, everything else already made mucky by the passage of too many carts, boots and horses. Children played around boats that were trapped in the middle of the river like statues frozen in the ground: a maze of barges and yachts and even a few small frigates that had crawled upriver as far as London Bridge. Some enthusiastic soul had already begun sweeping away the snow below Westminster Bridge to create a small ice rink between the boats where braver souls skated on bone, and very occasionally iron, skates.

Lyle, Tess, Thomas and Tate stood together, elbows on the Embankment walls or, in the case of Tate, nose on Lyle’s shoe, and ate greasy pies in contemplative silence.

‘I ain’t never seen it freeze like that before,’ said Tess. ‘It looks all pretty.’

‘What are we going to do now, sir?’ asked Thomas.

Lyle pulled out the crumpled note from his pocket. ‘Find Father Ignatius Caryway, I’d say. The man who hired Captain Fabrio to bring in our mysterious passenger.’

‘The mysterious passenger what was the killer?’

‘So we suspect.’

‘How will we find him?’

‘At the moment, I’m not entirely certain. But there was someone else mentioned in the letter. And I think I know where we can find
him
.’

CHAPTER 8

In the plush suburb of St John’s Wood, the Church of Our Blessed Lady stood far enough out of town to keep the smoke of the city’s factories off its new, especially pointy, especially knobbly spire, while close enough to Regent’s Park to attract a certain kind of gentry: the kind who understood that Church was a social as well as a religious experience.

To an artist of certain taste, the church was a monstrosity. The stone arches along the centre aisle were well enough, and it was doubtful if fault could be found with the simple wood benches. However, the gargoyles that clung with pointed talons to every corner and stuck out their long, thin tongues in a perpetual leer, and the cherubs who smiled angelically from every wall, with bloated cheeks and huge popping eyes, had an unhealthy disproportion about them, not to mention, as Lyle would have pointed out, a certain aerodynamic unsoundness. The stained-glass windows, showing this saint dying horribly or that angel blessing this bishop, or this virtue overcoming that sin, or this sinner burning for all eternity, or that demon doing something unhygienic with a particularly pointy poker, were at best tackily graphic.

Into this church on the edge of the city and the edge of the country, a boundary defined by prim houses and manners, walked Horatio Lyle and Friends at eleven a.m. on a cold, snow-covered morning.

‘Father Fornaio?’ Lyle’s breath was visible in the chill of the nave. The light crawling through the windows was meagre, and most illumination came from giant candles.

Father Fornaio, still in the robes of his morning’s duty, examined the visitors from where he’d been restoring the altar to its original pristine glory. Lyle approached down the aisle, followed by the children at a cautious pace. Tess’s eyes darted off every gold chalice and candlestick with a hungry gleam, and Thomas shuffled along with the suspicious glare of a religious critic.

‘Can I help you?’ The priest’s voice took Thomas by surprise. Father Fornaio, a short, neat man, oddly proportioned in his voluminous robes, had an East End accent, close to Tess’s but twisted by an educated refinement that gave Thomas the feeling of being trapped in a schoolroom. The priest smiled politely as they drew nearer, until Lyle stopped, just below the altar, looking up at him.

‘Are you Father Fornaio?’

‘I am.’

‘Confessor to Captain Fabrio?’

The smile remained, though a frown flickered across the priest’s features. ‘I know the Captain.’

‘Sir,’ said Lyle in a restrained voice, ‘I am with the police. May we talk?’

 

In the vestry and without his robes, Father Fornaio looked, to Thomas, a lot less intimidating.

‘You are an interesting policeman, who brings two children and a pet . . .’ Tate growled ‘. . . on your investigations.’

‘Yes, well, it wasn’t safe to leave them in the kitchen,’ said Lyle meekly.

‘I hope you understand, even if the Captain had told me anything, I would not break the confidences of the confessional.’

‘Did he tell you anything?’

‘No. I haven’t seen the good Captain for nearly two months.’

‘Did he come to this church often when in England?’

‘Very rarely. I used to see him more frequently down in the docks. He was not a wealthy man.’ Thomas glanced at Lyle, who shook his head very slightly. Thomas looked away again, and wished he knew how much money a giant gold cross was worth, and how much a loaf of bread would cost in comparison.

‘What were you doing in the docks?’

‘I serve the Italian immigrant community in that area, as well as any other souls who can’t find a guide of the appropriate denomination. The city has grown so rapidly in that direction that I fear the Roman Catholic Church has been too slow in catching up with the needs of the people. I sometimes fear, Mister Lyle, there is more than enough danger and dirt and darkness in that maze for religion to cure. It is sometimes enough to make a man doubt his faith.’

Lyle hesitated, then said in a less brisk voice, ‘Are you Italian? You don’t sound very -’

‘My parents were Italian, but I was raised from birth in this city.’

‘Did Fabrio trust you as a fellow Italian, or as a fellow Catholic?’

‘Both, I hope. He was a friend as well as a member of the flock.’

‘Do you know where he went on his last voyage?’

‘I believe it was back to Italy. On the Church’s business, so he claimed, although I never entirely believed him - the Captain was a good soul, but . . .’

‘Flamboyant?’ suggested Lyle politely.

‘That is one way of seeing the matter.’

‘Have you heard of an island called Isalia?’

Surprise passed across Fornaio’s face, followed by an answer that was just a bit too sharp. ‘Why do you ask?’

‘It was where Captain Fabrio last sailed. We believe he was paid to go to Isalia, collect something from the island and return it to London. You know of Isalia?’

‘There is a monastery there. Nothing more.’

‘Father Fornaio,’ said Lyle, smiling a little, pained smile, ‘forgive me for saying this, but it hardly seems like nothing more.’

‘What gives you that impression?’ Even Thomas heard it - the priest’s reply was too fast. At his feet, Tate began to growl.

‘The way your hand went to the cross around your neck the instant I mentioned it, sir.’

A heavy silence. ‘Are you trustworthy, Mister Lyle? Are these children secretive, will they do what you say?’

‘I don’t do
nothin’
unless I want’a,’ said Tess firmly. Lyle glared at her. She shrank back into her usual slouch and mumbled, ‘An’ today I want’a be all secret.’

‘Sir, it would be my honour and privilege to guard any secret until my death, whenever that may be, and give you my word as a gentleman that, no matter what may -’