The King of Shadows, page 48
“Have you seen them lately? Have they been in during the day?”
“Seen not hide nor hair of ’em. Listen … whatever’s been betwixt you and them, I don’t care to have nothin’ to do with it. Now … buy a drink and a kidney pie, rest yourself a’fore the fire or go on about your business somewhere else. Hear me?” Mac heard, but he still continued to haunt the place by night and now also day. He came up with the idea of hiring Richard Herrald to find the pair but shot it down like a wild goose because in his investigation the problem-solver might uncover a connection between them and the incident on the road, which by his nature he would have to report to the law. Mac was aware that to his knowledge no London paper had mentioned the kidnap and murder, meaning that either Buckner intended to bring his own brutal justice against the criminals or that he was waiting for a ransom note.
Many days Mac walked along the Thames and considered a watery death, or passing by a druggist’s shop he recalled the bottle of clear liquid offered to ease Reuben from this world. How might he get a bottle of that? It would be a simple and painless way out, would it not?
But no … not yet … Nemesis and the apple … hope.
When nearly one month had passed after the shambles, with Mac a gaunt lurching figure that caused those passing him on the street to draw away whether they were conscious of it or not, he entered the Bell Ringer one dark evening. And there he saw Nick Trout sitting at a table in the back, playing at Twos And Rollers with three other men.
“Trout!” Mac gasped when he’d reached the table. “My God, man! We need to talk!”
“’lo, Mister Nemmings,” Nick said easily. “Imagine we do need to jaw a spell. Jus’ a minute, it’s my roll.” He threw the dice across a plain of worn green felt, they bounced off the wooden backstop and landed on a chalked square marked with the number seven. His dice adding up to six and being indivisible by his landed square, he scowled and looked up at Mister Nemmings. “You ain’t bringin’ me ill luck, are you?”
“We have to talk!”
“Alrighty then, we’ll talk. Gents, don’t sell my chair.” Nick plucked up his mug of ale and motioned Mac over to another table in a far corner where the lamplight was a shadow of itself.
“The girl. What of the girl? Please … what of the girl?” Mac babbled.
Nick took a swig. “Calm y’self. You need a drink. Or maybe not. When’s the last time you ’et? Beware the crows, they pick at skeletons.”
“The girl,” Mac repeated, as forcefully as his lungs could manage. “What of her?”
“Well now, that’s a right interestin’ question. See, Donnie and I started thinkin’. After all was said and done—in particular, done—we was askin’ ourselves why should a woman and a girl be travelin’ with such protection as they had? Oh for sure there’s been highwaymen out on that road, but you got three men with guns watchin’ over them cunnies … the driver, the fella on the horse and the one inside who for sure wasn’t the hubby ’cause his cock shrank down so quick. Donnie and me come to the thought that this wasn’t no ordinary snatch. No sir! One guard would be the usual, but three? See where I’m climbin’ to?”
“The girl.” It was spoken through gritted teeth.
“Oh yeah, her. Well, after we come to these thoughts Donnie and me decided we didn’t want no more part of this. Too hot. And after you done pulled the murder … there you have it.”
“Have what?”
“Have why Donnie and me sold her, couple ’a days after the grab.”
Did the world suddenly cease its turning? Did the room’s dirty lamps turn blood-red? Did the heart of Maccabeus DeKay stutter and crisp into a black cinder?
“Sold her.” His voice? A ghost? The devil itself?
“Got top price,” Nick said. He took another long drink and Mac restrained his arm from sweeping out and smashing the mug into the mug. “Top price for her condition, I mean,” the Trout amended, which further heightened Mac’s fury and dread. “Donnie got on that cunny first thing. He’s hung like a horse, proud of that damn tool. And then … well … he does like to rough ’em up a bit. Gets him all excited. Only time he ever speaks, really. Hollers out some verse from the Good Book … goes like ‘your name is oil and virgins love you.’ Know that one?”
“Insane,” Mac rasped. “Both of you … oh my God … insane …”
“Naw,” said Nick. “We’re just playful.”
Mac clasped both hands together on the table, for if one of them got loose the natural-born killer would murder again and this time he would enjoy it. “Sold … to who?”
“Lady of the finest cathouse there is. Kittyhouse, you might say. Darrah Majestic, at the end of Limewalk Street. That’s a rich pickin’s over there, case you don’t know.”
Mac did know. Limewalk Street was four blocks north of his townhouse. “You mean to say … you sold a child … to a house of prostitution?”
“Oh, the deal wagered well enough. Mizz Majestic’s stock in trade is the young ’uns. Fact she takes a look at our cunny and says not only is the gal worse for wear but she’s knockin’ at the door of old age for what her customers crave. Only get two or three years out of her ’fore she’s done.” Nick grinned and tapped his forehead. “But I was ahead of Mizz Majestic, I was! Had Donnie drop his trousers and show the lady what that cunny’s been broke in on. Saved the day right then and there.”
Mac made no sound nor movement. He regarded with utter contempt the evil face that hung before him and still wore a demon’s grin.
“Now as to the profits,” Nick swaggered on. “Donnie and me figures we ain’t never to see you again, and we ain’t sure we want to. So hang the rest of what you owe us, we’ll just keep all the posh we got from the lady. Fair’s fair. Alrighty.” It was a statement, and a finality to their business.
Mac had one last question. “What’s the address?”
“Twenty-one twenty-two. Townhouse with green shutters and door. At the end of the street, like I said. Oh, do you want a sample?” Nick reached out to finish off his ale.
Mac grabbed the mug off the table. He stared into the other man’s eyes as he drooled into the last of the liquid. Then he banged it down, said, “Cheers,” stood up and walked out.
Forty-one
At the insistence of the brass knocker in the shape of a pineapple—a common symbol of hospitality—a viewslit opened in the lime-green door before him.
“Yes?” A man’s cold blue eyes and a man’s voice, colder still.
Sleet was coming down on this overcast afternoon. Wrapped up in his thick fearnaught coat, Mac said, “I want entry.”
“You have the wrong house, sir. This is a private—”
“I want to see Miss Majestic.”
There was a short hesitation before the cold voice spoke again. “Sir, you have the wrong—”
“Darrah Majestic,” Mac interrupted. “Entry, if you please.”
The blue eyes remained impassive. Then the viewslit closed quietly. Mac heard a latch turn. The door opened. Warmth flowed out around the tall, lean white-haired man who wore a dark blue uniform with gold buttons down the front. “Pardon my manners, sir,” he said, though his expression was that of smelling rancid cheese. He stepped aside and motioned the thin, dirty-bearded wretch inside, but at the same time another gent in uniform—this man younger, sandy-haired and as hefty as a human ox—immediately took a position on Mac’s other side when he had crossed the threshold.
“This gentleman,” the older one said, as if making observation not of a gentleman but of a diseased crab, “wishes to see the lady of the house.”
“Why?” asked the younger. “I have business.”
“Of what kind?”
Mac gave a thin smile. “Of a personal nature that I don’t wish to discuss with her underlings. I believe she would be very disappointed that you did not afford me an audience. And also that door should be shut. You’re letting out the heat.”
Time hung.
Then the younger man whose craggy face appeared carved from a chunk of ruddy stone nodded, the door was closed and the command given: “Follow me.”
They went to an immaculate oak-paneled vestibule through a parlor where a hearty fire roared in a white marble hearth, the walls were white trimmed with gold and the black leather furniture was obviously expensive and well cared for. Oil lamps of varied hues threw their shimmering colors. On the walls hung tasteful works of art in gilded frames and there were shelves holding many books. So far Mac saw nothing that would make this house any different from the other manors of the wealthy that stood along this street. A short hallway led past a staircase that curved upward, then toward the rear of the place and to a white door with a golden grip. The ox-like man rapped with his knuckles on the door. Mac looked above it and saw a sign burned on a rectangle of wood. It read: Abandon Hope All Ye Who Enter Here.
“Enter,” came a woman’s voice.
The man opened the door a few inches. “Someone is here to see you. Says he has business.”
“If he’s not buying, see him out.”
“I am buying!” Mac said to the disembodied voice. “I wish to buy one of your … ladies.”
“Conrad, take the man’s preference and his money. I have work.”
“I mean actually buy!” Mac persisted. “We can start bargaining at a thousand pounds.”
Silence from the room.
A pale, long-fingered hand snaked out in the width between door and jamb and pushed the door wider. Standing on the threshold was a tall, slender and strong-featured woman in her mid-fifties, wearing a man’s white suit with a gold-colored waistcoat and cravat and a light blue blouse. Her curly steel-gray hair was pulled back from sharp cheekbones and a formidable square jaw. Below full, arched brows, the color of her eyes startled Mac, for the right one was hazel brown while the left was very nearly a dark yellow. A wolf ’s eye, he thought, but he kept his mouth sealed.
She looked him over, head to foot and back again. Her face, which bore not a trace of the usual womanly makeup, was naturally pale and at this moment without expression but for the slightest curl of the lower lip.
“You have no such money,” she scoffed.
“I beg to differ. My name is Maccabeus DeKay. My father—Reuben—founded and managed the—”
“The lamps in the front room were purchased from that company,” she interrupted. “Also the lamps upstairs.” She angled her head slightly to one side. “I understood there was some research being done on lessening the oil’s fishy aroma?”
“Some research, but unfortunately no progress. You might know that after my father passed away two summers ago I sold the company.”
“Yes.” She nodded. Her eyes were still wary. “It was sold to the South London All Bright Company, its representative a Mister Jerome Thorin. He bought it under my direction.” She allowed herself the faintest of smiles but only with the mouth, not reflected in either eye. “I am having that research continued, and I can say there has been a little progress. I have always enjoyed beautiful lamps, sir. And of course the light they afford. Surprised?”
Mac shrugged, though he was indeed surprised. “The company had to sell to someone.”
“I made the better offer as soon as I heard it was up for sale.” Again she took stock of his condition. “And here you are, the wandering son.”
“Wandering?”
“You appear to be a rootless vagabond who hasn’t shaved or bathed for two years, and whose diet has for that period of time consisted of a few sprigs of grass and an acorn or two. I love the quality of your—my—lamps, but just what the hell are you doing here?”
“Exactly what I’ve said. I wish to buy one of your ladies.”
“Not ladies, exactly.” The eyes now challenged him.
“Haven’t you heard of my dove collection?”
“I have heard.”
Darrah Majestic cast her gaze upon the ox-man. “You can leave us, Conrad. It seems we do have business, after all.” When the door was closed she seated herself behind a large white desk decorated on the front with a painting of cherubs at play. Mac took one of the cowhide chairs situated before it in an office whose windows were guarded by heavy wine-colored curtains and illuminated by colored lamps made by the company. She said, “Tell me.”
“I wish to buy the girl the Trouts brought in. That would’ve been a month or so ago.”
“Why her?”
“My own reasons.”
Did the yellow eye suddenly give off a sharp glint? “Not good enough.”
“A thousand pounds.”
“Still not good enough.”
“What’s your figure?”
“What’s your reason?”
Mac drew a long breath and slowly released it. Then he reached into his coat, brought out the second of his father’s pistols and rested it—very carefully indeed—against his chest. “I mean to take that girl out of here one way or another,” he said. “I will pay up to three thousand pounds to take charge of her right now. The money will arrive here by messenger in the morning. You have my word. Above that, I’m putting this gun to your head and we’ll do it the hard way.”
The woman’s face was immobile.
Then she laughed … a chortle, actually. She made the laugh sound both derisive and haughty.
“The hard way!” she said. “Dear boy, do you even understand the hard way? The hard way for you is my reaching one inch from where my hand now rests under this desk and ringing the very loud and strident bell that hangs there. The sound of it will bring Conrad from where he’s standing at the end of the hall. Conrad has been a champion prize-fighter in his prime, and I can assure you that if you leave here alive no one will ever bear to look at what remains of your face, so—” She suddenly stopped. Then: “Just a minute. Hold that pistol up.”
He did. “It’s loaded.”
“Well you’d be a fool not to have it loaded, wouldn’t you? I see there’s a very interesting attachment beneath the barrel. Would that be a sheath for a spring-loaded blade?”
Mac didn’t answer. His own alarm bell had started ringing.
“Oh my God!” Darrah Majestic said, with a mixture of awe and incredulity. “The girl! Oh my God! Is that … Buckner’s daughter?”
Still no answer from the fool in the room.
She laughed again, this time a real gut-guffaw. “The Trouts! Those two idiots! And you? Took Jenny Buckner out of that coach? And for a whole month she’s been here? Oh this is too much, I can hardly breathe! Oh … oh … wait … it was you who killed Laura?” She laughed with wild hilarity once more, her merry minute becoming a maniac’s madness for Mac.
He forced himself to speak: “What … what are—”
“Oh, this is priceless, dear boy!” So much so that she smacked the top of her desk with the same hand that had been poised to ring Conrad’s bell. “Don’t you know? Well, you wouldn’t. How could you? A farmer found a very unique pistol in his field not far from the scene, and he turned it over to one of Buckner’s men who were asking questions all around. They’re out right now hunting down the gunsmith to find out who bought it or ordered it made. I expect your name is on the ledger for two pistols, and when they find that … I fear it will be the hard way for you!” She grinned gleefully, but once again her eyes remained coldly distant from the mirth.
Somehow this affair had gone as sour as last week’s kipper hash. Mac simply stared at the woman, truly unable to utter a word.
“You shouldn’t go home, if you have one,” she said when her full control had returned. “Wherever it is, they’ll find you. I swear you had me swanned … you don’t look the killer. But why in the name of Jesus’ blood did you have to take Giles’ daughter?”
Giles, Mac realized she’d said.
Giles.
A first name … the name of an acquaintance.
“He’s out of his mind over the girl,” she continued. “He didn’t care so much about Laura, but the girl … she’s been his best joy. Except for those damn horses he’s gotten involved with. Oh, he’s in a terrible state. Can’t eat, can’t sleep … just tormented by it. By you. So what’s the tale?”
“I’m taking the girl out of here,” Mac said, as if everything spoken in the last few minutes was a whisper in another room ten miles away.
“Do you need a drink? I have some excellent rum. Perk you up. You look near a swoon.”
“I’m all right. I said I’m—”
“Dear boy, you are definitely not all right. If Giles’ men get hold of you, the first thing they’ll do is carve your balls off with a dull blade. Don’t you understand your position?”
“If I’m in such a bad position,” Mac said, regaining the power of anger, “you’re in the same place! You’ve had Jennifer Buckner here for over a month and I’m sure she’s not been playing at Leapfrog with your customers! What’s Buckner going to say about that? He’ll bring down on you every Hell the Three Corners can imagine!”
“I don’t think so,” she calmly said. “What?”
“I don’t think so. You see this suit I’m wearing? I own the tailor’s business. This blouse? I own the cotton warehouse and the indigo dye company. And the shipping company that brings the indigo to England. And a portion of the company that builds the ships as well as other concerns I won’t beleaguer you with. This business here I conduct because I receive pleasure … from being needed, I suppose. Would it shock you to know that the great majority of girls I currently possess or who have passed through this house think of me as a mother figure, who feeds them and tends to their needs, when the world outside has beaten them to pulps and tossed them aside? Yes, they do! Now I’m not the kindest woman in the world—far from it, and I can be as hard as the last nail if it comes to that—but my girls are dressed well and kept well, and I can tell you that many places in this city grind their girls into the dirt but I don’t. No sir, I don’t. I respect them. For being survivors, Mister DeKay. Hear me? Survivors. Every one of these girls—all right, children, yes, children!—have been through the hard way, sir! The hardest way you could ever imagine in your worst nightmare! Here’s the drunken father who creeps into the daughter’s bed at night … here’s the mother who sells her girl for the price of a bottle of gin and don’t think it doesn’t happen because it does, and every day! Here’s the brute who beats the girl until she can’t walk and says she can’t eat until she swings her tail for a shilling! Here’s the abandoned orphan with dead mother and father, and the world just waiting to eat her alive!”
