A Study in Silks (33 page)

Bancroft folded his umbrella, which was too wide to fit through the entrance. Then he felt for the hilt of his gun, listening to the street noise and trying to pick out stealthy footfalls or the whisper of drawn blades. After another heartbeat of procrastination, he angled sideways and slid between the buildings, careful not to brush against the sooty bricks.

After a dozen steps, the alley widened until it was almost a small street on its own. Unlike most of London, it was eerily empty. And it was very dark. Confident that he was out of sight of the main road now, he pulled a brass tube from his coat pocket and twisted it, then waited as chemicals mixed and a faint green glow began to radiate from the glass window in the side of the tube. When it was bright enough to see, he began walking again, scanning every shadow and niche. He could hear distant hammering, a man and a woman hurling heated words, and far away, someone squeezing out a sad tune on a concertina. But those noises were distant. In the alley itself, his only company was the sound of his own feet.
Grace walked here, along these very same cobbles
. The thought unnerved him more than he cared to admit.
Was she frightened?

The warehouse he wanted was on the right. The front was guarded by a large automaton—he could just make out the hulking shadow—so his instructions were to circle the warehouse and knock on the rear window. He rounded the corner, picking his way carefully through weeds and refuse, and then rapped on the dirty glass with the ebony handle of his umbrella.

A smear of light flared, as if someone had moved a light closer to the glass. For a brief instant, he saw the pale outline of a face, and then it disappeared again. In another moment, a lock rattled and a narrow door opened a few feet away.

“You’re punctual,” said Harriman as Bancroft entered. The man had stripped off his jacket and rolled up the fine white sleeves of his shirt. The silver buttons of his waistcoat glinted in the wavering light of the old oil lamp he held.

“I see no point in delay.” Bancroft looked around. A mop and bucket leaned against the wall close to where they stood. The rest of the warehouse was a cavernous jumble of packing crates, a few workbenches, and inky shadows. His gaze traveled back to the bucket. “I smell blood.”

“I was just cleaning it up,” Harriman said with a shrug, hooking the lamp over a nail in the raw planks of the wall. “Unfortunately, the wood is old and thirsty and the stain is
impossible to get out of the grain. I’ll scatter some sawdust from the crates to hide it.”

An uneasy tingle crept up Bancroft’s spine, making him scan the warehouse a second time. Suddenly, everything looked a good deal more sinister, especially Harriman.

“Whose blood is that?”

“Big Han was taking care of some details. I told him to keep it in the underground, but he let things get messy.” Harriman picked up a rag and wiped his hands. “Then I was left with the unfortunate task of mopping up.”

Big Han was the mountainous foreman Harriman had hired to look after the craftsmen who did the actual work. Bancroft had met him but once, and that was enough to last a lifetime.

“Is
details
your word for loose ends?” Bancroft asked. Perhaps he had underestimated Keating’s weakling cousin.

“Loose ends,” Harriman laughed uneasily. “If you like. We couldn’t risk them talking. I debated, you know, wondering how far I really had to go. There aren’t that many Chinamen in London to speak up if one of their own went missing. Still fewer officials who would care if they did. That’s why we used them.”

Used
. Not
are using
. Bancroft didn’t need a slide rule to figure out which way Harriman’s decision had gone. The twelve workers had died. It wasn’t just Grace anymore, but thirteen souls who had perished to buy his gold. A wash of dizzy nausea swamped Bancroft, but he let it pass through him. He’d had years of practice at this sort of thing. “All the workers were unknowns? There won’t be family pounding on the door?”

“No. The Chinese here are a transient group. Sailors—here one day and gone the next. Many of these were fresh off the boat. No one to recognize their handiwork, even if there was something in the replica pieces to recognize.”

“But surely master goldsmiths cannot be that common amid a population of sailors?”

“I’m not sure how Big Han found them. He has contacts that stretch back to Canton. But in any event, we only had
two masters. The rest were ’prentices and laborers plucked off the ships.”

Bancroft’s mind raced, looking for weaknesses in the plan. “All the workers are gone? All twelve?”

“As Han put it, he fed them to Mother Tyburn tonight. In pieces.” Harriman threw the rag onto a pile of debris stacked against the wall. “Come. I will show you.”

“Is this something I really need to see?” Bancroft asked warily.

“If you want your gold,” Harriman answered. “If I had to mop up blood all night, the least you can do is take a look at the pit I’ve been suffering with for all these months.”

Bancroft bristled. Harriman had been the workhorse while he had been the instigator of the plan. That had been the deal, and the man had no grounds for resentment. But all too often, that wasn’t how things worked—especially now that Bancroft was having difficulties with Harriman’s powerful cousin. It was far more expedient to appease Harriman than to try to put him in his place, so Bancroft made himself nod. “If you wish.”

Harriman gave a derisive laugh. “Good of you, Your Lordship.”

He kicked aside a pile of sawdust, exposing an iron ring in the floor at least three hand spans across. It clattered as he gripped it and then, with a grunt, he heaved a trapdoor open. There was a light on below, because a faint yellow wash illuminated a crude flight of wooden steps. Bancroft caught a dank waft of sewer stench.
It stinks as badly as the rest of this
.

Harriman watched him closely. “You have no taste for what lies below the surface?”

“Are you trying to be metaphorical, Harriman?” Bancroft growled. “Leave it to poets.”

The man had the gall to smirk. “I’ll go first.”

Harriman’s footsteps echoed on the stairs. Bancroft followed, one hand on his pistol, the other holding a handkerchief to his nose against the acrid smell. “Does this lead right to the banks of an underground sewer?”

“Not quite. That’s some ways off.”

“I hear water.”

Harriman reached the bottom and turned. “We’re near the Tyburn down here, or that’s what the locals say.”

Now Bancroft could see the basement clearly. It seemed to wander far beyond the confines of the warehouse—less part of the warehouse than a cavern under the street. There were proper walls on two sides of the space, but ahead of the stairs and to the right, the space seemed to wander on forever. It looked as if the street might have been raised at some point, covering over older levels, or perhaps man had simply added to nature’s plan for underground caves. The ceiling was rough stone, higher in some places than others. “I had no idea this was down here.”

“London is full of surprises.”

And some of them are nasty
. Bancroft reached the bottom of the stairs and froze. Now he could see what Harriman had referred to as the pit. It occupied the space directly under the warehouse. Here the ceiling was high, showing the wooden supports of the building above, and lighting was in place. Gas lines ran along the wall and supplied a small generator. A series of workbenches made a loose square. A forge, equipment for electroplating, a kiln, and a plethora of other tools neatly lined the work area and hung from the rafters above. Had it been upstairs in bright sunlight, it was the sort of workshop Bancroft might have used himself in long-ago days. But that was not what caught his attention. It was the row of cages that ran along two sides of the room. They were the source of the stink—the combined odors of unwashed humanity, airless quarters, night soil, and despair.

Wordlessly, Bancroft walked toward them. On some level, he knew Harriman—or rather, Han Zuiweng—had kept the workers secure lest they run away or tell someone they had been forced into an outrageous forgery scheme. He just hadn’t let his imagination conjure what keeping them secure might mean.
Caged. Forced to slavery. Killed. Welcome to the Empire
.

A coldness took root in Bancroft’s belly, spreading like frost through every vein. Despite his years of supping with
villains, he shuddered. Then he hated himself for the weakness. “Is this what you wanted me to see?”

“There is one final detail.” Harriman crossed the floor to stand beside him. “We have taken care of the workers, but there is still Han.”

Bancroft remembered the conversation they’d had at Hilliard House.
I wondered why you insisted that I come in person, and now I’m about to find out
. “What do you want me to do?”

“Han is more dangerous than the rest put together.”

“So kill him.” But Bancroft knew that was more easily said than done. Big Han, Han Zuiweng, Drunken Han, Han the Devil—whatever one called him—was a huge creature who stood a head taller than Bancroft and was at least twice his weight in solid muscle.

Harriman paled. “If you help me, I’ll make good what was stolen from your girl. I’ll share my cut of the gold.”

Despite himself, Bancroft’s pulse skipped. He stood a bit straighter, but was careful to keep any emotion out of his voice. Harriman was the underling, the one who should be taking orders instead of giving them—but this was clearly the kind of detail he couldn’t manage. If Bancroft wanted Han silenced, he would have to get his hands dirty. “Do you have a plan?”

Harriman gave a reptilian smile, but it faded quickly. Sweat dewed his temples. “Yes. I drugged his wine. It made him compliant enough that I could lead him into a cage before he passed out. But he’s been sleeping for hours, and I don’t think the drug will last much longer.”

He waved a hand toward the last cage in the row. It was deep in shadow, but when Bancroft squinted he could just make out a shape slumped against the rough stone wall. “What do you want me to do? Shoot him?”

Harriman made a helpless gesture. “Someone has to. Hiring another killer to take care of it would merely complicate matters.”

“Why not you? You could have done it the moment he fell asleep.”

Harriman’s helplessness turned to steel. “I’ve done enough.”

“And if I do the shooting, then I’m implicated further. Another reason my silence is guaranteed and you are protected.” Bancroft nearly laughed. “Oh, don’t look so abashed. These moves are as predictable as a cotillion. I’ve been at this far longer than you. And none of this is more than my word against yours if you don’t have witnesses.”

Harriman’s eyes flickered. “Well, I wonder if you
predicted
that I put your share of the final payment of gold in the cell with Han. If you want it, you need to deal with him. I told you to bring a pistol tonight. I hope you did.”

A spike of fury blanked Bancroft’s vision for an instant—an anger so acute that he sucked in a hiss of breath. Bancroft considered shooting Harriman instead, and gold be damned. Unfortunately, he didn’t want Keating to get curious when his cousin turned up missing. “You have no idea who you’re playing with.”

“Oh, I do. And I’m taking no chances, milord.” Harriman’s voice was icy. “And you’re quite correct. I shall make sure that you keep your part of our bargain.”

Bancroft stopped before the cage. The bars were old, rusted iron woven in an ornate pattern that made him think of an antique menagerie. But what he’d thought was a sleeping man was just a pile of old clothes. “Harriman, what is this?”

The man had gone pale as a mushroom. “Dear God, he’s loose.” He grabbed the cage door and swung it open. “He broke the lock clean off.”

Bancroft swore under his breath. “Suggestions?”

The shadows seemed suddenly thicker, as if they were congealing into smoke. Harriman wheeled around, as if trying to look in every direction at once. “Bancroft, listen to me. Han has a pet.”

“A pet?”

“A creature to call. It guards this place, but somehow he controls it.”

Bancroft was growing irritated. The cavern seemed to be growing darker. “A dog?”

“No, it’s a thing. A foreign thing. He spelled it into the warehouse to keep out thieves.”

“You’re making no sense,” Bancroft snapped.

“Harriman,” a voice growled behind them. “You broke honor.”

They spun, and there was Big Han. He had moved as silently as the shadows that wreathed him. His only garment was loose-fitting trousers, leaving his massive chest bare. Heavy leather bracelets studded with brass clasped his wrists. He was bald as a rock, but thick black mustaches drooped past his chin. His eyes were dark and cold as a December night. Bancroft had no trouble believing Han had torn a dozen men to pieces and tossed them into the Stygian waters of the hidden river.
I should never have let Harriman handle the hiring
.

Everyone froze, as if unwilling to see what would happen the moment after the tableau dissolved. Tension screamed up Bancroft’s neck. He longed to reach for the Enfield, but he forced himself to wait. Timing was all.

The darkness began to crackle, as if something burned. All around them, the smoke roiled, starting to solidify, and it became clear what Harriman had meant about Han’s pet—it was some sort of conjured beast. A clawed foot raked the air, a hairbreadth from Bancroft’s head. Bancroft swore, barely getting out a single pungent syllable before terror clogged his throat. Violence and blood he could bear, but not sorcery. Every man had a private fear, and magic was his. He felt himself begin to shake.

Without warning, Harriman shoved Bancroft toward Han and bolted for the stairs. Bancroft stumbled, losing his hat and falling to one knee with a painful crack against the stone. Han lunged for Harriman, catching the man’s shoulder in one huge hand. Harriman spun, limbs flailing like a doll tossed by a child.

Harriman dangled in the air as Han stomped a foot into Bancroft’s face. Bancroft toppled backward, trying to draw the pistol but flopping helplessly from another brutal kick before he could reach it. Harriman landed in a heap beside him, his lungs emptying in a wheeze.