The Affair of the Porcelain Dog (29 page)

"Perhaps we should save ourselves before taking on the international opium trade," I suggested.

The carriage turned left onto Bishopsgate, the wheels sloshing through abattoir sludge as we passed by dark-windowed warehouses. The slaughterhouse smells of Cheapside eventually gave way to the ambrosial fragrances rising from the carts and barrows serving theatre-bound crowds in Shoreditch. My stomach growled. Above us, the driver cursed loudly as traffic slowed to a crawl.

"The children are safe, by the way," I said. "I sent them to Stepney Street after pulling them out of the river. Not sure what Pearl's going to do with them, but they'll be fed and given a bed for the night."

"Is this why you stink like a barge full of offal?" she asked.

"I prefer to think of it as the strong smell of heroism."

Her lips twisted wryly. "Then I shall give you the porcelain dog with a clear conscience. And, since your presence here tells me Sinclair must be dead, I have no further need of it."

"Because you were using the evidence inside to blackmail him, to keep him from going to Acton while you and Nate got the children to safety," I said.

"We should have killed him a long time ago, but Nate wouldn't hear of it."

"You'll be happy to know that his death was most unpleasant," I said.

Once the streets cleared, it was a short, silent ride to Miller's Court. Foremost on my mind, of course, was exactly how we'd go about freeing ourselves once the statue was in our possession. Mrs. Wu had already demonstrated her fighting prowess. Knowing this, both Morrison and the driver had surely armed themselves--one with my own weapon. Though Acton's orders would make them think twice about shooting me, they'd probably leap at the opportunity to rough us up a bit. As for Mrs. Wu, Morrison had likely been planning her death since he made the mistake of tangling with her back at the warehouse.

Eventually, the carriage turned onto Dorset Street and came to a stop. The door opened, and Morrison's great, scarred face appeared in the window.

"You might be interested to know," Mrs. Wu said as she stepped onto the running board, "that my father pays the owner of this shop a handsome sum to store the opium that he was buying from Sinclair behind Goddard's back."

"Thank you," I said. Goddard would be most interested indeed.

She set her bag near my feet and hopped down. Morrison took her arm, holding her away as if she might bite.

"Forgetting something?" I asked, nodding at the bag.

"Keep it safe," she said. "I have a feeling you'll be needing it more than I will."

Once they disappeared into the alley, I eased myself out onto the running board to survey the situation. The driver was a stout fellow, but the stout that comes from chips and beer rather than hard animal bulk like Morrison. He was in his fifties, and looked as if he'd have given his left eye to be putting his feet up somewhere rather than babysitting the likes of me. It wouldn't take much to overpower him, provided he didn't draw the gun that bulged obscenely in his jacket pocket. And provided that he didn't raise a cry, for if he did, Morrison would put Mrs. Wu down like a rabid dog before running out to finish me.

I slid back onto my bench. My feet felt like hives of angry bees. My head pounded. I tugged at my collar. Jumping into the canal had been a mistake. The Thames was the toilet of London. Excrement, factory runoff, slaughterhouse remains--it all ended up there. I'd been careful not to swallow a drop, but in my haste to get to the boat before it drifted into the river, I'd forgotten how the afternoon's unaccustomed walking had turned my feet into an engraved invitation to any number of infections lurking in that vile soup. A shiver ran through me, even as a sudden flood of sweat ran down my neck. But this wasn't the time to indulge in panic. Once the porcelain dog was back in Goddard's hands, and Lazarus free from Acton's clutches, once Mrs. Wu had been released to fight the scourge of opium on every shore, only then would I have the luxury of worrying about some wretched infection.

I'm not sure how long I sat there, fingers pressed to eyelids, trying to replace morbid thoughts with a workable plan, but when distant chimes tolled one, I sat up. We had left Acton's club a little after midnight, by my estimation. Even allowing time for travel, Mrs. Wu should already have found the statue. The storeroom simply wasn't that large. Above me, the driver let out a long sigh. The carriage rocked as he shifted in his seat. This was taking too long. Acton had said that Lazarus had two hours before he lost consciousness. In the meantime, who knew what he was going through? I considered making a run for Miller's Court, but that would have only given the driver an excuse to shoot me. Instead, I took a deep breath and lifted Mrs. Wu's bag into my lap.

There was something heavy inside the rough black sack. My heart leaped with the thought that it might be a gun, then sank, when loosening the drawstring revealed a bundle of most decidedly the wrong shape, wrapped tightly in rags. I cursed under my breath. What on earth could she have thought that I'd need at this point more than a weapon?

I brushed a damp clump of curls back from my forehead, then addressed the complicated series of knots. Whatever it was, someone had trussed it up like a mummy. Perhaps I'd manage to unwrap it in my afterlife. A few moments later, I lifted away the last of the rags, and the porcelain dog fell into my lap, grinning, its gold-touched eyes aflame with gaslight.

"I'll be damned," I said.

Something rattled inside. A note? A photograph? Documents? My heart raced. Whatever it was, was the only known evidence that could be used to convict Goddard of criminal sodomy. I felt around the statue for some way inside, but the hole in the bottom had been plastered over. I was about to smash it on the floor when shots rang out in Miller's Court.

Shoving the statue back into the bag, I slung it over my back and crept to the door. Above me, I heard the driver cock his gun. Were I to run for the storeroom, I'd have a bullet in my back before I hit the alley. And if I somehow escaped the bullet, I'd either find Mrs. Wu dead and Morrison standing over her with another bullet ready, or Morrison with a hole in his skull and Mrs. Wu vanished like the wind. I'd done what I could for her. I had the dog. Now I had to concentrate on getting Nate's documents and springing Lazarus.

I slid silently to the ground, wobbling on numb feet. The driver was peering down the alley, the gun resting on his thigh. Before I could change my mind, I swung up onto the coachmman's step. He gaped for a second before I smashed his nose with a quick punch. I shoved his pistol into my waistband, then half dragged, half pushed him over the side. I slapped the reins. As we tore off down Dorset Street, he began to shout.

∗ ∗ ∗

Stepney Clinic wasn't far. Once I got the horses going in a straight line, it couldn't have taken long at all, though urgency made every moment feel like an hour, and every block like a mile. When the horses finally stumbled to a stop at the mouth of the alley, I was nearly blind with panic.

"What took you so long?" I demanded when Pearl opened the door.

"Could be them four patients you sent me," she said as I pushed past. "Who are they, anyway? Where'd they come from?"

The clinic was empty, but in the stillness, I could hear the faint sound of hushed breathing coming from the infirmary. It amazed me that they'd be able to sleep in a strange place after what they'd been through. On the other hand, I didn't dare sit down for fear that I'd do exactly the same.

"Poor mites," she went on. "They look like they ain't ate in a week. Have you seen the doctor, by the way? He had the night shift, startin' at nine o'clock, but as you can see, he ain't here." She narrowed her eyes. "Don't have nothin' to do with you, by any chance?"

It had everything to do with me, but no good would be served by admitting as much. If Pearl murdered me, then Lazarus was worse than dead.

I pushed past her and hurried toward the dispensary. Lazarus hadn't told me where he'd hidden Nate's documents, but I had a good idea. Pearl followed, close on my heels.

"I know you don't have a lot of room here," I said, turning suddenly. My fingers brushed against the little Afghan doll as they rifled through the coat pocket for coins. "Perhaps this will make things easier until Mrs. Wu comes to retrieve them."

Her eyes went wide at the stack of coins I pressed into her hand.

"If she comes," I added. "By the way, do you have the keys to the dispensary?"

"But what...who...what..." She stared at the lump in her hand as if she'd never seen money before. Then she looked up. "The dispensary?"

"Never mind."

I fished my picklocks from the other pocket. There was a tobacco canister on the top shelf of one of the cabinets where Lazarus squirreled away precious oddments that had no other rightful place. I let myself into the dispensary, made quick work of the cabinet lock, and then found myself a stool.

"No, the doctor doesn't know," I said as Pearl opened her mouth to protest this invasion. "But I can't imagine that he'd object. Excellent," I said, as I lifted the lid and saw the familiar reddish brown cover of the client book.

Both ledgers were there, as well as the letters, and, to my surprise, Nate's watch. The papers went into my right coat pocket. I dropped the watch into the left with the picklocks. I was about to close the lid on Tim's little treasure box when my eyes fell on something that I couldn't imagine anyone would consider worth saving. And yet as I plucked it from beneath an extra set of house keys, it was painfully obvious why Lazarus had.

After nearly four years, the cork was shriveled and dry. Yet it was still redolent with the scent of the mid-priced bottle of Bordeaux that Lazarus had bought for my twenty-second birthday. We had shared it, and a small spread of bread, sausage, cheese, and liquor-filled chocolates, on a wobbly table in the sordid little room that Lazarus had called home at that time.

"Ira?" Pearl asked.

Feeling a strange combination of nausea and guilt, I dropped the cork back into the canister. I replaced the canister on the shelf and hopped down.

"Lazarus won't be coming in tonight," I said.

"But--"

"I don't know when he'll be back. Is there a relief doctor?"

"Yes, but--"

"Then send for him. One more thing," I said.

The one thing that had kept Acton from putting a bullet in me was the threat that his crimes would be exposed if he did. It was an idle threat, but now that I had the documents in my hand, there was no reason it had to remain one. Aside from the client book, Acton had no idea what manner of documents Nate had been keeping. And the client ledger and the opium book looked much the same, both inside and out. I tucked one of the letters into the client ledger and thrust it into her hand before she could say a word.

"Make as many copies as you can," I said. "If Lazarus and I don't return by first post, send them to all of the major newspapers and to Scotland Yard."

"But what about the children?" she asked.

"You must have ten quid in your hand, Pearl. If Mrs. Wu doesn't come for them, you can open a bleeding orphanage. Oh, and there's this." I handed her the doll. "I believe it belongs to the little girl. What time is it?"

She frowned at the watch pinned to the front of her apron.

"Half past one."

Good God, Lazarus had half an hour left. And that would depend upon how much of the poison was in his system, and how much blood it had caused him to lose. I remembered Lazarus's description of the Afghan prisoners at Bala Hissar and shuddered. He might already be dead by now, and it would be my fault.

"Ira?" she called as I half ran, half stumbled toward the front door.

The stinging sensation in my feet had been replaced by an ominous cold, but the carriage was still there, unmolested, to my surprise, quite frankly.

"I'll explain it all later," I said as I clambered into the driver's seat.

Pearl had followed me to the mouth of the alley, muttering objections the entire way. Now she stood on the sidewalk, arms folded under her substantial bosom, features stony with the disapproval that covered worry.

"I don't like the look of that limp," she said as I pulled the carriage away from the curb.

"First post," I repeated. "Then send those letters to every news-paper in London."

∗ ∗ ∗

The Great Clock was striking two when I shambled up the front steps of the East India Officers' Club. The door swept open before I could raise my fist, and the doorman didn't so much as raise an eyebrow as I stumbled past him down the corridor to Acton's office. The door was open. Acton looked up from his desk as I slumped against the jamb.

"Ah, Mr. Adler, right on time. Dr. Parker will be happy to know you're as good a friend as he thought you would be, if he wakes up."

Lazarus was unconscious, as Acton had predicted he would be. Blood had crusted along the bottom of his face and his neck, and every now and then he twitched in his chair, as if poked by a hot needle. Something dark and dangerous stirred inside me. I touched the pistol through the stained tweed of my jacket.

"The antidote," I said.

I shook out one foot, then the other. My face felt like it was on fire. I could smell my own sweat above the stink of the canal.