Constable & Toop (27 page)

‘Jack did it,' whispered Sam.

‘I had no idea what he had become,' said Mr Toop.

‘Did you ask him to do it?'

‘No,' said Mr Toop. ‘No . . . No . . .'

Each time he spoke the word it sounded more like he was trying to convince himself.

‘Were you pleased he had done it?' asked Sam.

‘Your mother and I were married a month later. She fell pregnant with you soon after that. It was what we both wanted.'

‘Were you pleased he did it?' repeated Sam.

‘It was a terrible, unforgivable thing to do. I know that. Had I been there I would have stopped it. But was I grateful for the result? Yes, Sam, I was. The result was you.'

Sam could feel his world collapsing in on him. He felt nauseous. Dizzy. He tried to make sense of what his father had told him, but there was too much to take in. Mr Toop said no more, but the ringing in Sam's head was deafening. He had to get out. He stood up.

‘Sam, please,' said his father, but he left the room and ran downstairs. He went through the shop and into the street. It was a cold day and Sam was not wearing his coat, but he liked how the wind numbed his exposed skin, making him feel on the outside how he felt on the inside.

He walked past the grocer's. Richard Gliddon was inside stacking shelves. Seeing Sam, he raised his hand in greeting, but Sam didn't stop. He walked onto the railway bridge. A train was pulling in. Steam billowed up from the funnel. Sam hitched himself up onto the wall to look down at the platform and saw three figures step off the train.

The steam dispersed and Sam saw Mr Tiltman. By his side was a woman Sam took to be his wife, but it was the third figure who drew Sam's gaze. Walking behind her parents, dragging her feet and rolling her beautiful eyes, was Clara.

As they emerged from the station Mr Tiltman spotted him and waved.

‘Master Toop,' he said. ‘What a small world it is.'

Mr Tiltman's words reminded Sam of the lie he had told during their last encounter and how strange he must have seemed running out like that.

‘I took your advice about this area. We are here to see a house,' said Mr Tiltman, speaking with as much ease and charm as before. ‘What brings you out to the surburbs?'

‘I'm visiting family,' replied Sam.

‘No chimneys to sweep today?' said Clara.

Sam stared back at her, uncertain what to say.

Mrs Tiltman coughed pointedly.

‘I'm sorry, my dear,' said Mr Tiltman. ‘This is my wife. Young Sam here sheltered from the rain while waiting for his master, Mr Compton.'

‘Pleased to meet you,' said Mrs Tiltman. She turned back to her husband. ‘So where is your estate agent?'

‘It would appear that he's late,' replied Mr Tiltman.

‘Perhaps I can point you in the right direction,' said Sam. ‘I know the area quite well.'

‘How kind,' said Mr Tiltman. ‘We're looking for a house called The Elms.'

‘I know that house,' said Sam. ‘I can take you there.'

‘We wouldn't want to put you out,' said Mrs Tiltman.

Sam was finding it difficult not to stare at Clara. ‘It's no trouble,' he said. ‘It's just the other side of the hill.'

‘Is there no taxicab we can take?' asked Mrs Tiltman.

‘There is a carriage service not far from here,' said Sam. ‘I could run and see about hiring one.'

‘What a helpful young fellow you are,' said Mr Tiltman. ‘But no, we are happy to walk, so if we're not putting you out, then please lead on.'

Sam led them up the hill. Due to the impracticalities of Mrs Tiltman's city footwear and the roughness of the road, she and her husband fell behind, while Clara and Sam walked ahead. He kept his eyes firmly on the road ahead of him.

‘Do you really work for Mr Compton?' asked Clara.

‘I . . .' Sam didn't want to lie. ‘Not exactly, no.'

‘And you really were talking to someone in our drawing room before I came in, weren't you?'

‘I told you, I was talking to myself.'

‘You're quite peculiar, you know. Coming to our house in the pouring rain, talking to yourself, then appearing here in the middle of nowhere with no coat on the coldest day of the year.'

A moment of uncomfortable silence fell between the two of them. Sam was unsure how to respond so he asked, ‘Why are you moving house?'

‘It is not my choice,' replied Clara. ‘It's a silly thing that brings us here.'

‘How silly?'

‘A girl was found in our kitchen.'

‘A girl?'

‘A dead girl. It was reported in the papers.'

‘You consider the discovery of a murdered girl in your kitchen as a silly thing?' replied Sam.

‘How do you know she was murdered? I said nothing of it.'

Sam was thrown by this. ‘I . . . I suppose I must have read about Emily in the paper,' he said.

Clara stopped walking and grabbed Sam's arm. He glanced at her hand and she quickly removed it. ‘There was no name in the paper,' she said. ‘The girl's identity is unknown.'

‘Really?' In spite of the biting wind, Sam felt a bead of sweat form on his forehead.

Clara's face was animated now and her eyes so wide Sam wondered that they might not swallow him up. ‘You spoke to her, didn't you?'

Seeing Mr and Mrs Tiltman getting closer, Sam started walking again.

‘Were you speaking to my ghost?' said Clara, racing to keep up with him.

‘Yes,' said Sam, realising he had nothing to lose. ‘I spoke to Emily.'

‘How wonderful,' exclaimed Clara. ‘You could help me. You see, I've been writing about ghosts.'

‘A story?'

‘I'm writing about real ghosts.'

Sam usually hated talking about his ability, but he liked the way she had started looking at him since he came clean. He wondered if this was the feeling his father had spoken of, the feeling of being like a leaf on the breeze.

‘What can I do?' he asked.

‘We could interview the ghosts of London.'

‘Why?'

‘Because it's interesting.'

They had reached the gate to the house. Mr and Mrs Tiltman were catching up with them. Sam knew he was running out of his time alone with Clara. He had no interest in talking to ghosts, but if it meant he got to see Clara again, he would interview every spirit in the world.

‘Come to my house tomorrow,' said Clara.

‘I have a funeral tomorrow.'

‘I'm sorry.'

‘No, I mean, I have work.'

‘Sweeping chimneys and funerals? What an interesting business you're in.'

Sam smiled.

‘Then come the following day,' said Clara.

Pure joy bubbled up from Sam's toes and warmed his shivering body. Finally, something good had come from his terrible curse.

‘What are you two talking about?' asked Mr Tiltman.

‘Ghosts,' replied Clara.

‘Why can't you at least try to act like a normal human being for once in your life?' asked Mrs Tiltman.

‘I blame parental influences,' said Clara.

‘Thank you for showing us the way, Master Toop,' said Mr Tiltman, offering his hand.

Sam shook it. ‘It was on my way,' he said, inwardly swearing it would be his last lie to this family.

‘Also, you appear to have cheered up my daughter,' said Mr Tiltman. ‘So thank you for that too. Now, let's take a look around this house. I believe the housekeeper next door has a key. Although it will need to be nothing short of spectacular to justify that walk. I swear, a hill like that would either keep a man in good health or else kill him stone dead. And I fear with me it would be the latter.'

Lapsewood entered Colonel Penhaligan's office and locked eyes with the man he had spent the last ten years fearing.

‘Alice,' bellowed Colonel Penhaligan. ‘I don't recall scheduling a meeting with an escaped convict.'

‘No, sir,' said Alice, appearing behind Lapsewood. ‘I'm afraid he wouldn't take no for an answer, sir.'

Colonel Penhaligan turned back to Lapsewood. ‘Insisted, eh? That doesn't sound like the donkey I remember.'

‘I'm not a donkey,' replied Lapsewood.

‘So I'm told. Or perhaps you're simply a donkey with delusions of grandeur,' said the colonel. He dismissed Alice with a wave. She glanced at Lapsewood and closed the door behind her. ‘What do you want, Lapsewood?' he asked once they were alone.

‘The truth,' Lapsewood stated.

‘You'll have to be more specific.'

‘You knew about the Black Rot when you transferred me.'

‘What's led you to that conclusion?'

‘Why else would you have obtained the safety copy of the London Tenancy List?'

‘Perhaps you should tell me.'

‘You gave it to Monsieur Vidocq.'

‘Why would I do that?' he asked, reaching for a cigar.

Lapsewood took a deep breath. ‘I think you wanted to find a solution to the problem yourself so you could prove General Colt's incompetence and dismiss him. You told me yourself that you wanted to get rid of him.'

Colonel Penhaligan clipped off the end of the cigar. ‘If that was the case, why would I send you to help him?'

‘He wanted a Prowler. You sent him someone unqualified for the job, someone who hadn't set foot in the physical world since becoming a ghost, someone who . . .' Lapsewood faltered. ‘A clerk who had fallen behind with his paperwork.'

‘So you're saying I sent him a useless deadweight,' said Colonel Penhaligan, smirking.

‘Yes, sir,' said Lapsewood. ‘But you underestimated me.'

‘Finally, something we agree on. I did underestimate you,' said Colonel Penhaligan. ‘But I am sorry to tell you that apart from that, everything else you have said is a matter of purest fancy. The fact that General Colt is a lazy, American oaf is precisely why I recommended him for the role in Housing in the first place.'

‘You recommended him?' said Lapsewood.

‘Oh yes.' Colonel Penhaligan smiled and lit the cigar. ‘A competent man would have spotted the problem much earlier on. I needed someone who was too busy practising his golf swing to bother with the business of actually running a department.'

Lapsewood felt thrown by this confession. ‘But . . . what about the Black Rot?'

‘Like I said before, I've been a ghost a long time. When I saw what happened in Paris I saw the potential. But in Paris there was no plan. I saw that if I could provide this exorcist with a list he would be able to act much more efficiently in ridding the city of its Residents.'

‘You mean you put the list in the hands of a living person?' Lapsewood couldn't believe it. Not only had Colonel Penhaligan done something far worse than any of his transgressions, but he was openly confessing to it. What was more, he appeared to be enjoying Lapsewood's horrified reaction.

‘Lapsewood, you really have proved to be the most entertaining donkey I have ever encountered. I certainly did underestimate you. The role you have played in this has proved to be utterly invaluable.'

‘Invaluable?'

‘Utterly so.' He blew a mouthful of smoke into his face. ‘I presume you've learnt by now what happens when an infected building is left untended for long enough?'

‘The chateau in Paris drew something from the Void,' said Lapsewood, remembering what the Marquis had told him.

‘Exactly. Formless spirits feeding off the souls of ghosts. The one in Paris devoured every ghost that entered. Even the living could sense there was something wrong with the place. But it was unable to get out, you see. It was trapped in that chateau, devouring all who entered. In the end it took fifteen French Enforcers to force it back through to the other side. The whole thing was a right old mess. But you and your Rogue friend, Tanner, found a way to unleash the one we cultivated in Shadwell. You got the demon out. Cigar, Lapsewood?'

‘No thank you. I don't understand, sir.'

Colonel Penhaligan snapped shut the lid of the cigar box. ‘The anomalies. Brilliant. Without souls, the hounds make perfect vessels for the demon to travel inside. You created a hell hound, Lapsewood.' Colonel Penhaligan grinned. ‘That's not an official name, of course. We're some way off properly classifying it.'

‘We did what?' said Lapsewood, aghast.

‘Don't look so worried. It's a good thing.'

‘With respect, how can it be a good thing to create a hell hound, sir?'

‘What you're failing to see is that the Black Rot isn't a disease. It's a cure.' Colonel Penhaligan tapped the cigar into an ashtray. ‘In time, all of your dogs will go the same way. As we speak, the Shadwell hound is roaming the streets, devouring Rogues. Soon London will be overrun with the creatures, wiping out every wretched Rogue ghost in this overpopulated city. I'll succeed where Hardknuckle's Enforcers have failed.'

‘We can't let this happen,' exclaimed Lapsewood, so angry that he felt he could have knocked a door off its hinges. ‘You're mad, sir.'

‘Ee-ore,' brayed Colonel Penhaligan, with a low chuckle.

‘Then I'll do something.'

‘What will you do?'

‘I'll go over your head.'

‘Over the head of the Head of Dispatches?' barked the colonel. ‘You, an escaped convict? You don't understand, do you? I am on the verge of solving London's Rogue ghost problem. I'm the hero in this story.'

‘But—'

‘Would you like to hear another interesting thing?' Penhaligan interrupted. ‘Since this is the last time we're likely to see each other? Do you know why you fell behind with your paperwork?'

‘No,' admitted Lapsewood.

‘I tripled your workload,' proclaimed Colonel Penhaligan. ‘I needed an excuse to send General Colt the worst possible person for the job. That was you. So I redirected more work into your office than you could handle to make it look as if you were falling behind. Now, if you'll excuse me. I've a letter to dictate. Alice!'