Tom All-Alone's (2 page)

The second officer comes up now and stands behind him, watchful but silent. Charles thinks he's seen him before, but can't remember his name. Clough, is it, or Cuss? Something like that, anyway. His face is as sharp as a hatchet and his skin as dry as an autumn leaf.

‘So what do you make of it?' the man says eventually, in the same level tone he might use to buy a brisket or order a beer. Is it indifference – or just an appropriate and commendable detachment? Charles can't be sure.

‘Can you tell me who found it?' he asks.

‘Couple of lads, playing where they shouldn't. I doubt they'll be back here in a hurry.'

‘And it was like this?'

‘Nothing's been moved. Not yet.'

Charles bends down and looks more closely, straining his eyes in the low light. Without a word, the man brings the
bull-dog
lower, and Charles feels its warmth on his skin. It's clear to him now what must have happened. Judging by the exposed knots of red yew root, the last week's rain has washed at least an inch of mud from the surface of the soil. And what it's revealed is the tiny body of a newborn baby, still wrapped in a dirty blue woollen blanket, a scrap of white cotton tangled about the neck. He may never have completed his medical training, but Charles knows enough to make a pretty shrewd guess how long these bones have been here. In this waterlogged London clay, probably three weeks; certainly no more than four. The eyes are long gone, but wisps of pale hair are still pasted to the skull, and the flesh is largely intact, though almost black with putrefaction and scored with the marks of
teeth and claws. Indeed, the rats seem to have done an unusually efficient job with this one. One hand is completely gone below the wrist, but the fingers of the other are curled as if to a mother's touch. When Charles lifts the edge of the sodden blanket, the gaping belly is swarming with larvae. But that isn't the worst of it. Underneath the body he can already see the buried blue of another coverlet, and the broken ribcage of another small child. He glances up at the officer. ‘Do you want to, or shall I?'

‘Be my guest. It's not a job I particularly relish.'

Charles takes a pair of gloves from his pocket, and the officer hands him a small trowel. Five minutes' careful digging reveals three bodies buried under the first, one next to the other, exactly aligned. Indeed, they look for all the world like infants in a cradle. Sleeping soundly side by side, carefully swaddled against the night air. Charles sits back on his heels. ‘So what do we think? Are we assuming it's a woman?'

The other man considers. ‘Most likely, in my experience.'

‘And the same one each time?'

‘Hard to tell for sure. Could be two of them. The body on the top's a lot more recent, but the other three are like peas in a pod. Probably all went in together.'

Charles is silent a moment, then shakes his head. ‘I disagree. The earth here's been turned over more than just once or twice. And surely even in this light you can see the difference in the bones.'

Not just the bones, in fact, but the flesh. One baby's face is smoothed almost doll-like – unnerving the first time, but Charles has seen many times what grave wax can do. The other two underneath are withering one after the other into parched cages of separating bones, their mummified flesh dried in tight leathery tendons, the closed lids stretched paper-thin.

Charles glances up. ‘Whoever this woman was, she seems to have been trying to give them a decent burial – or the nearest she could manage. This last one looks like it even had a handkerchief or something put over its face – as if she couldn't bear to look at it. And yet she kept coming back – kept reopening the same grave.'

He stares at the open pit, struggling for a word to help make sense of it, and comes up only with ‘tenderness'. It jars horribly with the evidence of his own senses – not just the sight of decomposing flesh, but the reek of decay eating into his skin and clothes – but the idea has caught his mind, and it will not go away.

The other man is dismissive; he's clearly had enough of this wild goose chase. ‘Come on, it's no big mystery. She'd have needed time, even for a shallow grave, and this is the only part of the cemetery where you're not much overlooked. It's just common sense. Nothing more sinister than that.'

Charles nods; the man has a point – he should have thought of that himself. ‘All the same, think about what that actually
meant.
Imagine digging over the same piece of earth time and time again, knowing full well what you were going to find. What kind of woman could do that? It goes against every idea we have of the sanctity of motherhood.'

The man laughs. ‘Sanctity of motherhood, my arse. I thought they told me you'd been in the police? Most of the women round here have already got too many mouths to feed. Baby farms cost money; a pillow over the face is free gratis, and you know as well as I do that unless they're either very careless, or very unlucky, there's virtually no chance of getting caught. I've lost count of the number of dead babies I've seen fished out of the Thames, or found rotting in the street, but I can number the women we've prosecuted for infanticide on the fingers of
one hand. The courts have better things to do with their time. As have we.'

He turns and waves at Wheeler, beckoning him over.

‘Come on,' he calls. ‘There's nothing for us here. Just another routine child-killing.'

Charles sticks the trowel into the ground and stands up, his eyes glinting. ‘So if dumping them in the river is so easy, why go to all the trouble of bringing them here? Not to mention the risk. It‘s because this place is consecrated ground – that's the only explanation that makes any sense. And that alone means this is a very long way from being
just another routine child-killing.
'

There's a snort, and Charles looks round to see Wheeler staring down into the gaping grave, a half-eaten apple in his hand.

‘Jesus,' he says, taking another bite, ‘if this is your definition of consecrated, give me hellfire any day. Looks like the last one they put in over yonder had to be stamped on to get 'im in. The coffin's rearin' up out of the ground like the Last Trump's already blastin'. Though at least ‘e did
have
a coffin. Unlike these poor little buggers. Any use to you, Chas?'

Charles sees the other man's cool and quizzical eye; he's clearly been wondering all this time what right Charles has to be there, but has decided to say nothing. Charles shakes his head. ‘I doubt it. The last anyone heard of the child I'm looking for was sixteen years ago, when it was taken to an orphanage at three months old. These bodies haven't been in the ground anything like that long.'

‘You ain't got a lot to go on, if you don't mind me sayin' so,' says Wheeler, his mouth full. ‘What's the chance of findin' one solitary kid in a town this size – dead or alive? You might pass it in the street this very evenin' and never know.'

Charles shrugs. ‘I have a picture of the mother, and my client hopes the child may take after her.'

‘Your client,' says the other man softly, ‘must have money to spare – or a very poor understanding of the likelihood of success.'

The tone is purposefully neutral, but the implication is clear. Charles turns and looks the man squarely in the face. ‘My
client
refuses to give up hope,' he replies coldly, ‘even though I have explained very clearly that our chances are small. I am conducting as detailed an investigation as is possible after all this time, and doing so in the proper professional manner. I resent any suggestion,
Constable
, that it could possibly be otherwise.'

He sees Wheeler's eyes widen and realizes his mistake at once.

‘Last I looked,' says the other man, ‘my rank was
sergeant
. And if I were you,
Mr
Maddox, I would keep a civil tongue in your head and that temper of yours under control. It's already cost you more than you could well afford. Or so I hear.'

Charles feels the heat rush across his face under the man's steady gaze. The bastard knows. Of course – they
all
know. Charles has never learned the trick of coping with injustice – not as a small child, punished for something he hadn't done, and not now, as a man of twenty-five, unjustly dismissed from a job he loved. The official charge was insubordination, but he knew, and his superiors at Scotland Yard knew, that his real crime was daring to challenge the deductions of a
higher-ranking
officer – and challenge them as not just scientifically unfounded, but rationally unsound. Looking back, it might have been wiser to make his views known privately – or keep them entirely to himself – but a man's life had been in the balance, and he'd felt then as he does still, that he had no choice. It was no consolation, months later, to find that new evidence had come to light; by that time an innocent man had
already been taken to a place of lawful execution, and hanged by the neck until he was dead.

The eyes of the two men are still upon him. He turns, as pointedly as he dares, to Wheeler. ‘Tell Inspector Field that I will continue to be grateful for any information he might come across that could have a bearing on my case. I will detain you gentlemen no longer.'

He is out of sight in five yards, and out of earshot soon after, but all the same he keeps his anger in check until he is back at the Circus, then vents the full force of his fury on a stack of wooden crates outside the Horse-Shoe, sending glasses and bottles spinning and smashing across the cobbles, and spewing rank beer on the already filthy ground. He stands there breathing heavily for a few moments, then straightens his collar and pushes open the inn door.

I
t's late when Charles wakes, his head wooden with hangover, and the sulphur of fog still in his mouth. The curtains hang open as he'd left them, and a line of sunlight glances across the farther wall. He sits up slowly, as if careful to keep his brain from tilting, and then pushes his hands through his hair and kicks back the twisted sheets. He opens the door and calls to the landlady to send out for half a pint of coffee from the shop next door, and then goes to the wash-stand and pours a jug of cold water over his head and neck, eyed all the while by the cat, who is understandably disdainful of Charles' dismal efforts, having attended rather more thoroughly to his own ablutions some two hours before. As he's towelling his face dry, Charles catches sight of his letter, still unfinished, on his desk. If things had turned out differently last night he might have had something worthwhile to say – a reason to rip up his
mealy-mouthed
draft and begin again, but as always this case leads only to dead ends. And dead children.

The landlady knocks with the coffee a few minutes later, and as he's fumbling in his pocket for what's left of his money, he sees for the first time that there's a white edge of paper jutting out from under the trodden rope-matting which is all the room can boast of by way of carpet. Someone has slid something under his door. He looks down at it for a moment. He has no
memory of seeing it when he got home the night before – not much memory of getting back at all, if truth be told – but he knows it wasn't there when he left. Strange. He's on the point of calling Mrs Stacey back up, but recalls that Tuesday evening is her Harmonic Meeting, and the maid had probably taken the opportunity to sidle out the back and meet that greasy
pot-boy
from the Three Tuns. He bends down and slides the piece of paper from under the mat. It's a very superior kind of paper, he sees that at once. Fine-textured, heavy, and ostentatiously sealed with thick red wax. The paper of a very superior kind of man. The kind of man who does not expect to be refused, and does not care to be kept waiting.

Charles knows the name. Who, in his line of work, does not? A hard, gruelling and arid man; widely feared and rarely worsted. Such words apply to Mr Tulkinghorn, as they apply to many other eminent London lawyers, but Tulkinghorn of the Fields is, all the same, a man apart. There is hardly a noble family in England that does not have its name inscribed on one of the locked iron boxes that line his room. He speaks only when he
can charge to do so, and offers no opinion that has not been paid for, and handsomely. Little is known of him beyond his accomplishments in Chancery, and how he spends that portion of his time that has not been purchased is his private secret. There, he acts for himself alone, and he is never more careful than with his own confidences. To be consulted on a matter of business by Edward Tulkinghorn is an event of some moment, even for the great; to be – perhaps – employed by him, a professional distinction so distant that Charles can scarce allow himself to contemplate it. He has, in any case, very little time to do so. The appointment is less than an hour away.

He washes again – quickly, but more carefully this time – and retrieves a shirt from the closet. It's been worn, but not too often, and it's the best he has. He smoothes his unruly hair as well as he can, and retrieves his comb from where it is currently doing service as a bookmark in the second volume of Erasmus Darwin's
Zoönomia
(Charles has recently chanced upon a new work by the great man's grandson, but considers him, on this showing at least, to be far inferior to his illustrious forebear).

A quarter of an hour later he leaves the house. The difference in the day is dazzling, and the events of the night before begin to seem nightmarish and unreal, a hallucination of the poisonous air. It is hardly possible to believe that such a
hellhole
exists, on such a bright, cold morning. Charles retraces last night's journey as far as the Circus, though progress through the crowds is rather slower than it had been through the fog. Little boys tug at his coat-tails offering walnuts and apples, housewives pick over fruit and vegetables, and tiny children risk trampling to sift up the cigar-ends swilling in the gutter with the rest of the refuse and excrement. The local whores are out in force already, and Red Suke winks lewdly at Charles as he goes past. And it's hardly surprising – it's not just his clear blue
gaze and thick bronze curls, though they undoubtedly have their effect – there's something about the way he walks, a swagger that is not quite a swagger, that draws the eye and catches the attention, and has got him into trouble more than once. And even though you will never get him to acknowledge it, even to himself, that trouble is not always or exclusively of the female variety. Suke is clearly in a cheerful mood, having downed her usual three morning quarterns of gin and peppermint before presenting herself for paying custom.

‘Where's you off to in such a rush, Charlie? Got y'self a sweetheart, have yer?'

When he turns and grins at her, she hoots with laughter and replumps her ample décolletage in his direction.

‘You can al'as fall back on me, Charlie boy. Though falling for'ards might be more to the purpose.'

The air is raucous with hawkers' cries, and heaving with the hot smell of open-air cooking. For someone who's had nothing to eat since lunchtime the previous day, the aroma of sizzling fish is too much to bear. Charles decides he will indulge himself, just this once, even if it means no eggs for breakfast tomorrow. Though on this showing, it may not surprise you to learn that he goes without his eggs more often than he has them. The decision made, he shells out a penny for a toasted bloater wrapped in bread and eats it greedily in three bites, licking the salt from his lips and wiping the butter from his chin with the back of his sleeve, having forgotten until it's too late that he no longer owns a handkerchief. As one would expect, none of the usual pickpockets are yet abroad – thieves are alone in loving the fog, and weather like this is no environment for profitable dipping. A couple of the Fenhope lads are making faces at themselves in the boot-maker's window, but the next moment they're gone, disappeared into the huddle of women gathered
round a stallholder's table. At least we must assume it is a table, since no square inch of the surface is actually visible under the jumble of teapots, crockery, artificial flowers, plaster of Paris night-shades, clothes-horses, tea-caddies, and tins of rat poison. It looks like some absurdly over-elaborate version of the memory game – as if at any moment the proprietor might whisk across one of the much-darned sheets drooping over his head and challenge his customers to name every rag and cast-off. Then again, you might well counter that this dishevelled display bears more than a passing resemblance to our own young man's muddle of assorted curios. But if you were to say such a thing to Charles, he would merely look at you blankly: he collects scientific specimens; these people trade in trash.

A scatter of crows cackle into the sky above his head as he crosses into Holborn and heads towards the City. The crowd thins a little but the traffic is as heavy as ever. Wagons and hackney-coaches rumble past him, and he's relieved, in the end, to turn into the relative tranquillity of Lincoln's Inn Fields. Mr Tulkinghorn has not specified a number, trusting, perhaps, that a man like Charles should either know it, or be able to find it without undue exertion. If it is any sort of a test, then Charles passes it easily and presents himself at the impressive and oddly Egyptian-looking facade at precisely five minutes before eleven. The door is unlatched before he has raised his hand to knock and swings open to reveal a middle-aged clerk, a little out at elbows, who is showing out a bald, timid-looking man with a shining head and a clump of black hair sticking out at the back. Having completed this task, the clerk turns to Charles, who does not, apparently, need to give his name.

‘Mr Tulkinghorn is expecting you. Follow me, please.'

They pass the high pew where Charles' guide normally sits, and proceed at an appropriately ponderous pace up the
imposing staircase to the first floor, where Mr Tulkinghorn is sitting in state behind a large writing-table, at the far end of a room painted the colour of blood. The blinds are drawn and the green lamp is lit; the bright day clearly has no business here. Mr Tulkinghorn seems not to have noticed Charles' presence, though the creak of the floorboards must have given him away the moment he entered. The air is close with the must of old paper, but Charles is uncomfortably aware that there is also a distinct under-tang of fried fish, which can only be his own personal contribution. All the same, it is at least another slow minute before Mr Tulkinghorn lowers the paper he has been reading and removes his spectacles. Charles makes sure to keep his eyes fixed upon him, all the while making his own private map of the precise configuration of the room. To the left, a cabinet of parchment scrolls and leather-bound law books, the lettering all but dissolved into the spines; to the right, the shadowy portraits of eminent and anonymous men, ranged one by one between the long windows; and on the wall behind Tulkinghorn, a rack of iron boxes in niches that resemble nothing so much as a
columbarium
, a last repository for cases long dead, and a hiding place for secrets still very much alive. The surfaces are dusty, like Charles' own; but clear, unlike his own. There are no papers visible, aside, of course, from the one Tulkinghorn has been reading. ‘Has been' being the phrase, since the lawyer has now placed that paper carefully on his desk and raised his eyes to meet his visitor.

‘You have been recommended to me.'

It's not the opening Charles expected, but it is, all the same, a promising one. He waits; Tulkinghorn waits. There's a chair on Charles' side of the desk, but he's not invited to use it.

Tulkinghorn picks up a piece of broken sealing-wax and weighs it in his hand. ‘It is a – somewhat delicate matter.'

‘Most of my work is.'

Tulkinghorn raises an eyebrow. ‘You mean the Chadwick case? That, if you don't mind me saying so, is a waste of your time. I would say a waste of your talents, but I am not sure, as yet, how far those talents extend. You will never find that child, as more seasoned police officers than you have already discovered. If the earth has not swallowed it, this city has. Even if it lives, it will be as depraved and degenerate as the rest of its class. You could not find it, even if you searched every thieves' den and rookery lair in London.'

Charles has his own views on that score – and reasons of his own that we may yet discover, for his dogged persistence in continuing with the case – but he elects not to share them. And if it surprises him to find Tulkinghorn so well informed, he is not going to pay his interlocutor the compliment of showing it.

‘You said there was a recommendation?'

‘Ah yes. It was Inspector Bucket. Of the Detective. I believe you know him?'

It's like a blow to the gut.
Bucket?
There are, undoubtedly, people who might have mentioned Charles' name in Tulkinghorn's hearing, but the list is not long and Bucket, surely, is at the furthest and most remote end of it. What on earth can possibly have induced him to do anything to advance Charles' interests? Indeed, Charles would have laid a good deal of money he does not possess on the inspector doing everything in his power in the opposite direction. It was Bucket who'd had him dismissed from the police – Bucket whose judgement he'd questioned with such disastrous consequences. His mind is racing, and he is all too aware that Tulkinghorn is watching him with extreme though concealed attention. Does Bucket, perhaps, feel guilty? Even the famously infallible inspector must have accepted by now that he made a terrible mistake in the
Silas Boone case. Perhaps he feels, now, that if he'd listened to Charles, the man might never have hanged. So is this his way of making reparation? Boone is beyond even Bucket's long reach now, but Charles is alive and has to earn his bread somehow.

‘I am aware, of course,' continues Tulkinghorn, ‘of your family antecedents. Inspector Bucket was, I believe, something of a protégé of your great-uncle in his youth?'

Charles nods. ‘He worked for him for a time, before joining the Detective, and I dare say he owes much of his subsequent success to my uncle's methods. As, indeed' – this with the slightest bridling that the lawyer does not fail to register – ‘do I. Mr Maddox has been my teacher and mentor since I was a boy.'

‘Indeed so. And now you are a young man. A young man, moreover – or so I have been informed – of intellect and discretion. The matter I wish to discuss with you requires both qualities, but it is the latter that is my paramount concern.'

‘I understand.'

Tulkinghorn eyes him. ‘Possibly you do. But I shall repeat the point nonetheless. Discretion in this case is all in all. My client in this affair is a man with an unimpeachable reputation. A man trusted with the confidential business of the highest in the land.'

For one wild moment Charles thinks the lawyer is referring to himself, but Tulkinghorn has not finished.

‘You will have heard, I think, of Sir Julius Cremorne?'

As Tulkinghorn is to the law, so Cremorne is to high finance. The latest in a long family line to head one of the City's oldest and most astute merchant banks; a prime enabler of imperial trade, and lender of first resort to the country's largest corporations. Even – it's rumoured – an adviser to the Queen. Yes, Charles has heard of Sir Julius Cremorne, but he cannot begin to imagine what such a man could possibly want with him. His bafflement must be legible in his face, because
Tulkinghorn gives the ghost of a smile. It is not an expression that finds an easy home on his impassive features.