Beneath London (41 page)

St. Ives felt the muzzle of the pistol pressed against his back below his right shoulder blade, and when Jimmy grasped his collar in order to haul him to his feet, he stood up of his own accord. St. Ives decided that he would rather walk to the chair with some modicum of dignity and with his wits intact than be compelled by Jimmy. Pule reappeared after a minute and set about strapping St. Ives into the chair. St. Ives, for his part, set his mind to the task of thwarting Klingheimer’s attempts overcome his mind, for surely that was what the man intended to do.

Klingheimer, however, crossed the room to a collection of machinery and drew out a wheeled cart. Whatever lay on top of the cart was hidden beneath a cloth. As he rolled the cart toward the center of the theater, Dr. Peavy returned and without a word began to wash his hands at a sink. Klingheimer maneuvered the cart to a position in front of St. Ives, before pulling the cloth away with the flourish of his hand.

Beneath the cloth lay a device that was at first unidentifiable. In the center of it, suspended in the air, was a metal cylinder of sufficient diameter to settle over a man’s head, and below that was a wooden apparatus with supports that were obviously meant to lie on the shoulders of the victim.

“What you see before you is an electronic decapitator,” Klingheimer said to St. Ives. He had regained his composure, and looked almost jolly. “It was built by Dr. Peavy, whose talents never fail to astonish me.” He bowed in Peavy’s direction, nodding in appreciation. Peavy dried his hands on a towel. “It is a great improvement on the guillotine, which can splinter bone and which compels itself through flesh by mere gravitational force.

“You are not situated in such a way as to see the intricacies of the circular blade, Professor, so I’ll tell you about it. Electrical power causes the blade to spin, and as it spins, the circumference of the blade diminishes, the blade closing in upon itself. The blade is a simple spring, do you see, serrated and uncannily sharp, which maintains its shape as it is compressed. The compression of the blade is not absolute, however, and the last quarter inch of vertebra must be severed with a surgical saw. The decapitation is swift and clean, however, and the blade springs free of the incision when the electrical power ceases. The cylinder is raised an inch or two, Dr. Peavy wields the bone saw, and
hey presto!
, the man in the chair has lost his head, although the head remains supported by the cylinder, ready for the plucking. What do you say to
that
, sir? Not a great deal, I take it. No pretty speeches? Another stanza of ‘God Save the Queen,’ perhaps, falsetto instead of tenor? Ha, ha! Now then, you’ll note that the floor is clear in a radius of ten feet roundabout it. The saw makes for a regular Catherine wheel, but blood rather than sparks – quite an image, I dare say.”

The door that led out onto the alley opened now, and Shadwell walked in. “She’s here,” he said to Klingheimer, and then he grinned at St. Ives.

“Excellent news!” Klingheimer said, rubbing his hands together. “
Really
first rate. Escort the lady in, if you will.”

He turned to look at St. Ives now, and said, “I’m happy to say, Professor, that you’ll be reunited with your own dear Alice without further ado.”

THIRTY-TWO

B
eaumont unlocked the door to the cellar and went in, groping with his hand to find the ribbon overhead that switched on the electric lamp, and knowing at once that all had changed since yesterday evening when he had last been here. The cellar was utterly silent, the machinery quiet. The stink of the toads was diminished, mixed with the smell of lye now. When the lights buzzed and brightened he saw that Narbondo’s box was missing, although it was well past noon and should have returned from Peavy’s by now.

The lot of it was gone – the heads, the machinery, the barrels of toad fluid – all of it cleared out, nothing left. The room had been swabbed down. They had shifted wholesale to Peavy’s, giving Beaumont no part in it. They must have been at it all morning while the others were searching for Finn. He shifted his knapsack on his back, his coat hiding it somewhat – nothing left in the garret that was worth taking.

He stood for a moment calculating. He was out of a situation, and no doubt about it. Klingheimer had given him the day’s holiday because Klingheimer no longer had any use for Beaumont. How much time did he have, he wondered, before Klingheimer returned from Peavy’s and sent for him in order to have a squint at him through the spectacles, or simply to have him hit on the head with a lead pipe?

He was certain that Klingheimer hadn’t returned from Peavy’s yet. The house was in too much of a taking. Klingheimer’s influence in the house was absent, and had been since he’d turned his mind to Clara. There was a brutish air about the place, as if it was coming apart, everyone seeing to himself.

He turned in through the door of the storage room and switched on the light there. Plucking an empty flour sack from the heap, he set about loading it up with food. Drink they would find easily enough underground, but they’d get precious sick of eating dried meat if they couldn’t bring down a pig or a goat. He thanked God that he had stowed the rifle and plenty of cartridge in the hovel. When Klingheimer came for them, which he surely would, he wouldn’t expect the rifle.

He looked up and down the hallway before going out – empty in both directions – and he headed toward the stairs carrying the sack. On the second floor the hallway was again empty, although he heard a sneeze and then a blasphemy from within the card room, which had broad double doors, standing open now. There was low talk from within, and they would see him carrying the bag if he passed. Also, he wanted to have a look into the room, where there were odds and ends that he could nick. He stepped into a handy alcove and waited.

“My ear’s just about severed,” someone in the card room said. “God-
damn
that fat pig.”

“You should have murdered him straightaway when you got into the alley. That’s what I’d have done. Leave him for the dustman to find.” Beaumont recognized Smythe’s voice, and knew that the other must be Joe Penny, the two of them being pals, and Smythe having brought in the woman.

“He was on me like a shite-bird. I had no time to murder anyone. Now you’ve come home with the Bracken piece and I’ve got nothing but a bloody ear and two teeth knocked into the dirt.”

“And I’ve been skewered in three places, the whore,” Smythe said. “I mean to teach her a lesson, is what. No woman treats me so and lives to gloat, I can tell you that.”

“Gag her. She’ll raise the house otherwise.”

“His majesty is out for the day. To hell with the house. In any case a woman can’t shriek once her throat is slit.”

“Well, I mean to look in on the blind girl,” Penny said. “You ain’t having all the fun.”

“You’re a stupid sod, Joseph Penny. The girl’s marked for his majesty. You’re worried about raising the house, and now
this
caper?”

“She can’t speak nor see. Don’t you know that? It’s no kind of secret.”

“It’s coming it pretty high, is what it is.”

“Well, I’m sick of this place,” Penny said. “I shouldn’t have come back this morning. If that fat bastard from the inn shows up and fronts Klingheimer like he said he would, it’s over for me. I might as leave have my way with the girl now, while I’ve got the chance.”

“It’s your funeral, then,” Smythe said. “We’re wasting our breath sitting here, though.”

There was the sound of the two men moving. Beaumont stayed where he was, well hidden, the two men going away toward the stairs to the upper floors. He peered past the doorjamb and saw their backs, and he took the chance of darting around into the now empty card room, where he plucked up six nice scrimshaw pieces on the mantelshelf, all of them carved in the last century if he was any judge, which he was. He looked around for something else, seeing a pair of silver candlesticks. He pitched the candles into the coalscuttle and put the silver into the sack before peering down the hallway again – empty. He returned to the hearth for the fireplace poker, heavy iron, and then trotted along to the stairs, seeing that they were clear before going up.

* * *

F
inn watched the brougham drive past on the street. He hoped that Clara was inside, although the angle was too steep for him to know. Mother Laswell hurried away in the direction of the Temple, carrying his message. He went to the desk and shoveled everything back into the creel, looked about to make certain nothing was amiss, and then slid beneath the bed, in among his things, nearly sneezing with the dust that lifted from the floorboards. He waited, listening hard, the time crawling past. When the key turned in the lock, the sound surprised him, and he held his breath, ready to move fast if he had to. Someone sat on the bed, however. The door closed and the key turned.

“Finn, is it you?” Clara asked, and Finn, elated, pushed out from under the bed and stood up.

“Yes, it’s me, Clara,” he said. “Are you… safe? Were you at Peavy’s? You’re dressed very elegant.”

“Yes, mostly. Klingheimer means to marry me, and tells me that this is my wedding dress. I’d rather be dead.”

“Don’t say so, Clara. It’s bad luck.”

“Professor St. Ives was there, Finn. They’ve captured him. I don’t know what they mean to do to him.”

Finn was silenced by this. “Was the Professor hurt?” he asked finally.

“No. Not that I saw. Mr. Klingheimer was talking away to him six to the dozen, telling him things, like he does. He’s full of himself, is Mr. Klingheimer. He’s a terrible man, Finn.”

“I believe you,” Finn said. “He nearly had me this morning, but I bolted. I found my friend Beaumont, and he let me into this room to hide me. I’ve been here for a time, wondering if you were coming back.”

“And I wondered whether you would be here when I returned. When we drew nigh to the house, I was sure that you would be. That’s why I said your name when I came into the room.”

“Tell me, Clara, Mr. Klingheimer must still be there? He’s not here? Not in the house?”

“Yes, he’s still there, lording it over them. I was brought home by the man they call Flinders. There’s great activity at Dr. Peavy’s. He sent me back to rest, but he means to come for me again tonight. I don’t know if…”

In the pause that followed, Finn heard footsteps in the hallway. “I’ll hide beneath the bed,” he whispered to Clara, and very quietly he slipped out of sight again. There was the sound of laughter from down the hall – men’s laughter – and then of a door banging open, and a woman’s voice saying something coarse. Laughter again, and the door closing, and then a moment’s silence before the metallic clinking of a key in their own door lock. Perhaps it was a plate of food being brought in…

There was the sound of someone entering, saying nothing, and of the door closing behind and locking. Finn saw boots moving, the man who wore them standing silently over the bed. “You’ve been waiting for me like a good lass,” he said quietly. “If you can’t hear, then I’m wasting my breath, but if you can hear, then you listen to me. If you call out, you’re dead. There’s no Mr. Klingheimer here to save you. Them that’s left in the house might come, but they’re worse than me. Do you understand me, girl?”

Silence followed, and then the man said. “It makes no matter, does it? You’ll understand well enough in a moment.”

Finn saw his trousers slide to the floor, then, and he yanked them off over his shoes. The bed slumped and creaked under his weight, and Finn very carefully slid out from under again, not making a sound, pulling himself around to the footboard. He stood up, grasped the handle of the water pitcher, and without hesitation, clubbed the man hard on the side of the head. The handle broke free, blood flew, and the pitcher thumped down on the bedside table with a loud bang. The blow had snapped the man’s head aside, and he slumped sideways off the bed now, falling onto the floor where he lay unconscious.

* * *

A
fter an hour of loitering, and despite seeing several men going in and out of Klingheimer’s carriage house – neither Smythe not Penny among them – Tubby had learned nothing useful except that he was prodigiously hungry despite having consumed two breakfasts this morning. He had spent an empty half hour looking over the wares in the nearby tobacco shop, while surreptitiously watching through the window, and had bought an envelope of headache powder from the chemist before going out into the wind to complete his third pass. He walked slowly now, taking an obvious interest in the great house beyond the wall. If Penny or Smythe saw him, his very presence on the pavement would dare them to come out. But neither Penny nor Smythe appeared, and it had begun to look as if he had sent himself on a fool’s errand. His anger and determination had quite drained out of him, leaving him with the unhappy dregs of defeat.