The Obsidian Dagger (Horatio Lyle) (17 page)

Lyle shouted, with a sense of futility even as he did, ‘Stop! Police!’ and was unsurprised when no one, not even the dock hands in the street behind, stopped. ‘
Right
,’ he hissed, and ran on. As he followed the figure towards the river the wooden walkway along the side of the workhouse became more ruinous, supported on a few struts sticking up from the frozen green mud of low tide. Swinging round a corner he saw the figure leap off the walkway on to the bed of the Thames far below, as if making the gentlest bunny hop, and heard the shattering of ice.

Lyle peered down, and made out the shape darting under the shadow of the walkway and into the mess of wooden struts and pillars, and frozen mud banks smelling of rot beneath the dockside buildings. Black water crawled through the shattered indent in the ice where it had landed. He cursed, slithered down off the edge of the walkway until he hung by his fingertips, and let go, feet sliding from beneath him as he dropped on to the ice. Getting back up was like catching a giant wet bar of soap while covered in grease; then keeping his balance was like trying to cycle with a cat on one handlebar, and a giraffe on the other. Lyle made for the support of a pillar and looked around for the figure.

He saw a black coat lying on the ice and slithered towards it. It was heavy, lined with red silk, and had the shortness and tight waist of a lady’s garment. The pockets were empty. He let it drop and turned to look for the figure.

Something caught his eye, standing on the ice, in a last outbreak of sunlight.

Lyle edged towards it.

The thing was a head shorter than him, off-white, and cold to the touch. One arm was raised in the direction of the sun, shielding its closed stone eyes; the other was stretched to one side as if to keep the thing’s balance. It was the statue of a fashionably dressed woman, with a tight face, all bones and skin, set in a cruel little smile. Lyle made his way past it, into the shadow of the wharves, then out on to the ice of the river itself, where the narrow passage of open water was shrinking almost visibly in the cold.

There was no sign of the fleeing figure. Lyle edged back into the shadows of the wharf, and knelt again by the coat, rummaging once more through its pockets, as much for something to do as in the hope of finding anything. All the while his mind raced. He was being, he felt fairly sure, stupid. Something obvious was happening, and he was refusing, without his knowing,
refusing
to see what it could be.

Lyle reached a decision. It was, he knew, totally irrational, but he had to check. He got up and slithered his way back towards the marble statue of the woman, standing in pale sunlight on the ice.

To where the marble statue of the woman had been. To where the marble statue wasn’t standing any more.

Horatio Lyle turned this way and that, mouth opening and closing in surprise and dismay. He stopped, controlled himself, and tried to think logical, sensible thoughts, while the sun crawled its way beneath the smoke-drowned horizon, and the body of old dead Edgar, in the abandoned building above, slowly dropped to the temperature of its surroundings.

 

Thomas woke, and immediately felt guilty, but that was normal: he felt guilty about most things all the time. That was fine; guilt was all part of responsibility, he told himself. He became aware of the cold, pouring through the cab like rising night-time fog. Then he felt a momentary spurt of fear, slow to arrive as the brain suddenly questioned what on earth he was doing here anyway, with Tate snoring peacefully under his feet, outside another mansion on another street that, in this part of town, looked like all the rest.

Fear briefly flared into terror as he realized he was not alone. A shape sat by him, a large hat pulled down over its eyes, hands buried under its armpits, legs crossed and stretched out in front of it, breathing low and steady. Thomas gave an instinctive ‘Eek!’ making both him and the figure jump.

Mister Lyle woke up. ‘What? Who?’ He saw Thomas, and relaxed. ‘Oh. What is it?’

‘Mister Lyle!’ Thomas squeaked.

‘Yes?’

‘You’re . . .
here
?’

‘Yes?’

‘Erm . . . when did you get here?’

‘About half an hour ago.’

‘And was your visit to the docks successful?’

A flicker on Lyle’s face, the slightest hesitation. ‘I . . . didn’t find Edgar, I’m afraid.’

Thomas opened his mouth to speak, then noticed something in Lyle’s face and voice that made him reconsider.

Lyle checked the watch in his pocket. ‘Past your bedtime. Where’s Tess?’

There was a sound outside. A crunching of snow underfoot and a hasty pounding of footsteps, then a shadow moved in the fog. A second later Tess’s shining red face appeared in the cab doorway. ‘Coo-eee! Mister Lyle! You back from the docks then?’

‘Yes, Teresa,’ said Lyle as she climbed inside, feet stepping on feet with blind carelessness. ‘And how has your day been? Was this house of any use in finding Lady Lumire?’

‘It were all right,’ she said, opening up a bundle on her lap. ‘An’ the one before. There was this man what was called Cartil . . . there was this butler-type person an’ he said how I was a “poor neglected waif ” an’ how I clearly weren’t looked after right an’ . . .’

‘Did you get anything useful?’ said Lyle impatiently.

‘I got,’ Tess examined her bundle, ‘three apples, a loaf of hot bread, a packet of tea, four shillings, half a plum pudding, half a bottle of brandy an’ a pair of woolly socks.’

‘I’ll take the brandy,’ said Lyle, grabbing it. ‘You never know when ethyl alcohol will come in handy.’

Tess stared at him with the look of one on the edge of a profound revelation. ‘Mister Lyle, you ain’t never been normal, ’ave you?’

‘Teresa, haven’t I always taught you that generalizations within a subjective group context can never be accepted as theory? I suppose we’ll have to try the next mansion and -’

‘She ain’t there.’

‘Pardon?’

Tess was halfway through the plum pudding. ‘This Diane Lumire lady ain’t there. The butler said how she’d recently moved into this big house up on the hill after the old owner got arrested for conspir . . . for stuff, an’ how she’d sent a card round introducing herself as the new bigwig an’ he gave it to me ’cos
his
bigwigs were going to go an’ meet this lady person tonight at this big gathering for bigwigs, but how they’re off in this place what has lotsa things with big . . . goes on the head, all pointy . . .’

‘Horns?’

‘Yes, them with them horns.’

‘Deer?’

Tess bounced up and down. ‘Of course it’s deer, nitwit! I just said, didn’t I?’

‘Teresa,’ said Lyle in a voice so reasonable it crackled round the edges, ‘I appreciate the effort you’ve been to and accept that you really are a wonderful . . . character . . . but you’re also heading for a thick ear.
Did he know which house?
’

‘He gave me a
map
,’ said Tess smugly. ‘But I ain’t givin’ it until we talk about how I’m all neglected an’ how dom ... domes . . . home violence ain’t the right way in how you should . . .’

‘Teresa!’ barked Lyle.

She didn’t even blink. ‘. . . ’cos you know you’re my favourite not-normal person ever, Mister Lyle, an’ I’ve always looked up to you ’cos of the science and the thinkin’ thing an’ here you go, Mister Lyle. Hope it’s all right an’ all.’ A thought struck her. ‘You find that Edgar bloke what was in the docks?’

‘He’s all right, Teresa,’ said Lyle, not quite meeting her or Thomas’s eye, and there it was, the sick feeling in Thomas’s stomach. ‘He’s ... got nothing to worry about, I think. Just a false alarm.’

He turned to study Tess’s map, with a look of forced concentration. His eyes widened even as his eyebrows sank.

Thomas saw his expression. ‘Is something the matter, sir?’

‘I think I know this house.’

‘Sir?’

Lyle shook his head. ‘Let’s get there and see if I’m right before we start worrying, shall we?’

 

They got there.

Lyle was right.

The mansion was part of a new terrace of grand white houses, each one no longer than London Bridge and no higher than All Saints’ Church. Lights flooded out of each high window, leading on to a green area of pond-dotted grass, separated only from the mansions by the sparkling new cobbled street, as white and polished and grand as the new mansions themselves and the doors ...

‘We been here before, ain’t we, Mister Lyle?’ said Tess, a note of trepidation entering her voice. They surveyed the carriages moving outside the pillared monster. Lyle was quiet and tense. Thomas had turned pale, recognizing each stone and step, and fearing it more than he dared say.

‘Mister Lyle?’

‘Yes we have, Teresa.’ Lyle’s voice was reassuring, though his face was pale. Almost to himself, he muttered, ‘It’s at times like these that a decent sceptic begins to question his lot. They raise all kinds of interesting questions about probability against unpredictable malign forces.’

‘It’s Moncorvo’s mansion.’ Thomas shuffled uncomfortably, memories rising in a sickening tide, things he’d managed to forget or tune down, irrationalities he’d managed to rationalize, coming back to haunt him. He remembered bright green eyes, he remembered running, he remembered seeing the storm and the figure fall from the dome of the cathedral and ...

‘This ain’t the right address, is it?’ said Tess edgily.

‘It is. It makes sense in a way: a fine address on the borders of Hampstead Heath, the previous owner mysteriously carted away, property up for sale . . .’ Lyle’s voice had the nervous edge of someone trying to convince himself and failing.

‘But . . . the bigwig . . . what was
evil
an’ did all the things with the stone thing what weren’t proper stone but was all evil an’ ... an’ he lived here!’

‘Probably a coincidence,’ said Lyle, smiling reassuringly, but speaking just a bit too loudly. Thomas glanced at him, and for a second, just a second, saw the lie behind Lyle’s eyes, and the sidling fear that sometimes - rarely - raised its head from behind Lyle’s determined scientific objectivity.

‘Let’s find out, shall we?’

CHAPTER 12

A brief view of a house, back to front, eight p.m., winter.

Back, carriages being driven out of the rain, horses neighing, hooves stamping on cobbles, servants bustling, this bag there, that coach here, who’s seen Ellen, why’s Ellen never where she ought to be, snow thick on cobbles and disturbed by footsteps, baskets of fruit and food frozen in the cold, back door open, blast of hot air to pass inside, corridor, long, gloomy, kitchen white with suspended flour drifting through the air, stoves black and belching with their labours, chimney newly cleaned (the boy didn’t fall this time), washing area, buckets from the pump: best to boil the water first, don’t want madam’s white silk to come out Thames brown; stairs up, doors opening, doors closing, thick carpet, huge paintings of heroic figures across wind-swept landscapes (no relation, came with the house), bustling noise, darling, welcome, welcome, do tell me all, was the dance really
that
ghastly? Candles everywhere, although, darling, I hear that there’s this wonderful little man researching something called a
bulb
, fuelled by
electricity
, white gloves on white hand, turn up the lamp James, do you smell gas, let the servants sort it out, up again, lay the table for dinner, silver and glass, see how it gleams and sparkles, snow piles up against the glass outside, trying to get in, a thousand cold, delicate crystal moths drawn to a hundred burning flames, race down the corridor, ever a-ringing, come to her ladyship’s dance, and pull back the giant double doors and bow and straighten politely and prepare to take the coat and ...

‘Welcome, my lord, to her . . . Oh. Good evening, sir. May we help you?’

Thomas swept in. ‘Well, you may take my coat, naturally; careful,
don’t
crease it, and my hat, oh - and do ensure that you keep it separate from the other hats. I don’t want it picking up dust. Has my family arrived yet? I was told that dinner tonight was to be rather swimming.’

‘Are you here for her ladyship’s gathering, or is it a private visit, sir?’

‘How dare you address me in that impertinent manner? Don’t you know who I am?’

‘Forgive me, sir.’

‘I am Thomas Edward Elwick, son and heir of Lord Thomas Henry Elwick, Order of the Magpie, Cross of the Sallow Oak, Knight of the Daffodil, and I am here to partake of her ladyship’s most humble hospitality.
Now
do you know me?’

‘Why, yes, sir. Forgive me, I had no idea that . . .’

‘Well, then,
announce
me. Oh, and show my man where to put my belongings.’

A man, much taller than Thomas, standing behind him, touches his forelock respectfully. He’s holding a single, small bag that looks like no kind of lordly belongings that the butler has seen before and contains more lumps and bulges than can be comfortably conceived. As the butler watches, one of the bulges moves. He looks up in slow horror to the grey eyes of the servant man, who grins a bright, nervous grin.