Horatio Lyle (17 page)

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Good.’ Lyle smiled, stood up in a single, brisk movement, clapped his hands together and said, ‘Then let’s go and do a little detecting, shall we?’

 

The evening had settled in for good, and now the only traces of light on the horizon were echoes of sunshine, and not the sunlight itself. The office was grand, all strange foreign wood, imposing portraits and, in one corner, a parrot that Tate growled at with unremitting hatred.

‘Mister Lyle, your request is an unusual one.’

‘Mr Granter, there are pressing circumstances.’

‘What sort of “pressing circumstances”, might one enquire, Mister Lyle?’

Lyle hesitated. ‘Security of the realm.’

‘Dependent on the sale of
lychees
?’

‘Erm
. . .
yes.’

Mr Granter looked from Lyle to Tess and finally to Thomas. The last made him sigh and relent. ‘Well
. . .
you are clearly a man of integrity.’ Thomas almost preened. When Mr Granter spoke, his eyes had been on
him
. Lyle tried not to seethe, the smile locked on his face.

‘You’re too kind, Mr Granter.’

 

Behind the cattle-thronged, chicken-covered, pig-packed streets of Smithfield, paved with the inevitable consequence of pushing thousands of live animals in and out of the market every hour of the day, was a small tenement whose smell of ancient, mouldering fruit immediately identified it. ‘That one,’ said Tess, pointing a triumphant finger at the smallest, darkest, smelliest door, lit only by the lantern Thomas carried.

‘Right,’ said Lyle, striding up to it. He hammered a few times on the door, which opened a crack.

A suspicious eye regarded him and a gruff voice said, ‘What d’you want?’

‘Mr Josiah?’

‘Who’re you?’

‘Special Constable Horatio Lyle.’

The door started closing quickly again, but Lyle had put his foot into it. From behind the flimsy wood, Mr Josiah snapped, ‘I ain’t got nothin’ to do with your kind!’

‘Mr Josiah, I’m not here about anything you might have done. I just need to know where you sell your oranges.’

‘I ain’t talkin’ to you!’

Lyle sighed. ‘Mr Josiah, I can get authority.’

‘And he can pay!’ piped Tess helpfully from behind him. The door opened an inch further. The eye returned.

‘You
pay
?’

Lyle glared at Tess, but muttered grudgingly, ‘I suppose I can offer a couple of shillings for the information.’

‘What d ’you want to know?’

‘I need to know who you sell your tasty, fruity boiled oranges to, which streets and which clients.’

The door opened a little wider. ‘Give me the money, an’ you can come in.’

‘Thank you.’

 

Half an hour later, Thomas realized he’d never been in London at this hour of night, not without a small army of servants to keep him safe, or unless he’d been to the theatre with his parents or his cousins or the girl from the estate in Hampshire he was supposed to marry. Though it was dark, he had to admit it was, in a strangely haunting way, almost attractively so. Each light seemed brighter and more vibrant for the thick dark surrounding it.

‘There’ll be fog tonight,’ muttered Tess, as the three of them huddled together under the lamps of Smithfield. Lyle didn’t answer, but Thomas immediately looked round at the streets leading into the market, searching for an oncoming tide of grey-ness up the narrow passages.

Lyle had a map unfolded and was tracing a route along one of its anonymous black and white streets. ‘Primrose Hill?’

Thomas glanced at the sheet of paper Mr Granter had given them. ‘Erm
. . .
no, sir, no clients on Primrose Hill, but there is a Mr Wedderburn on Oppidans Road, sir.’

‘No. Josiah doesn’t sell to anyone on Oppidans Road. His route skirts the top of Primrose Hill, then up along Fellows Road where he sells to the big estates, and then north all the way up to Lord Crispin’s Manor below Parliament Hill, and Kenwood where he ’s got an
. . . understanding
with the parlour maid.’

Tess nodded appreciatively. ‘Some prime slow’uns up that way, Mister Lyle.’

Thomas stared at her with an appalled expression. ‘Forgive me, miss,’ he finally managed to stutter, ‘I don’t think I am aware of your
. . .
disposition.’

Tess stared at him with an intense frown. ‘What you do for money,’ translated Lyle helpfully.

A grin of delight and revelation split across her face. ‘’Course! I pinch bigwigs’ purses.’

Thomas stood in frozen astonishment for a second, then started to laugh, a slightly uneasy laugh made unnaturally loud by its falseness. Tess stared at Lyle again, with another questioning look. ‘He thinks you’re telling a joke, Teresa,’ he translated kindly, not glancing up from the map.

Tess grinned uncomfortably at Thomas. ‘Oh. Yes. ’Course.’

‘Does Mr Granter go anywhere near Belsize Park?’ asked Lyle suddenly, finger still hovering over the map.

Thomas hastily looked down at the map, assuming a serious expression again. ‘Erm
. . .
yes, sir. He has four clients there - Mr Shull, Countess Ascham, Lord Chetwynd and
. . .
oh.’

‘Oh?’ said Tess quickly, looking up with alert eyes.

‘Same question,’ said Lyle uneasily.

‘Lord Moncorvo.’

‘Who?’

‘Same question.’

‘He
. . .
he’s a friend of my father’s. He
. . .
’
Don’t look at the eyes, boy . . . and how much does Horatio Lyle know, boy?
‘He
. . .
’

‘Mister Lyle?’ Tess hissed, as a glassy expression slowly crossed Thomas’s face. She edged uneasily behind Lyle as he knelt down in front of the stricken boy and waved his hand slowly up and down in front of Thomas’s glazed eyes.

‘Thomas?’

‘Thomas, you’re not carrying another knife, are you?’

‘Thomas!’

Thomas jerked slightly, stared at Lyle and began to back away. He put one hand in his mouth and said through it, ‘Mnn!’

‘Thomas, use language!’

‘I
. . .
he came to the house and
. . .
’

‘Who came?’

‘Moncorvo! He was
there,
but I’d forgotten and
. . .
mnn
. . .
’

‘Eatin’ your hand probably ain’t helpin’, bigwig,’ said Tess kindly.

‘Teresa! Now is
not
the time!’ Lyle wrapped his hands round Thomas’s upper arms and shook him gently. ‘Listen, just tell me what Moncorvo said, tell me what happened.’

‘He
. . .
’

‘Thomas Edward Elwick, pull yourself together!’ he barked suddenly, sharply.

Thomas snapped automatically to attention. ‘Sorry, sir,’ he muttered.

‘That’s better. What did Moncorvo say?’

‘He said, sir, that you were evil, bad
. . .
that you had a heart made of iron and blood of iron and that you’d make the world a machine, sir.’

‘That ain’t true, is it?’ asked Tess in a little, worried voice.

‘Think of it as a metaphor, Teresa,’ muttered Lyle distractedly, still staring into Thomas’s eyes.

‘Oh well, if it’s a
metaphor
.’

‘What else did Moncorvo say, after the evil-aspect was fully covered?’ sighed Lyle impatiently.

‘He said
. . .
’ Thomas gulped.

‘Thomas, you’ve run at me with a knife already. Nothing you say or do might surprise me.’

Thomas’s voice was barely above a whisper. ‘He said that I should kill you, sir.’ Almost immediately he barked, ‘But I’m sure, sir, that it’s not important now, because I would never, sir, I
. . .
’

Lyle stood up quickly, without a word. Thomas felt himself starting to burn red again. He opened his mouth to speak, but Lyle got there first. ‘Lad, have you ever been hypnotized? ’

‘No, sir.’

Lyle didn’t immediately answer again.

‘Sir, I’d never
. . .
’

‘I know, lad. I’m thinking.’ Silence. Tess shifted nervously. At her feet, Tate yawned. Finally Lyle shook his head and said, ‘I’m out of my depth here.’

‘Your fault for takin’ the case, Mister Lyle.’

‘Teresa, if you say one more unhelpful thing I swear I’ll take you straight back to Mr Josiah and offer you as an alternative to the house packhorse!’

Tess wisely closed her mouth, and pouted instead. Thomas hung his head.

Lyle tried not to chew his nails. Finally, he shook his head and muttered, ‘There’s nothing for it now. We’re going to have to go and take a look at Moncorvo’s house.’

Thomas paled. A sudden abject terror curled up in his stomach, but he fought it down, telling himself that it was nothing; madness, nothing more. Tess looked thoughtfully up at the sky, then down at the ground. ‘Can I say something helpful, Mister Lyle?’

‘Try.’

‘Do you think seein’ that Moncorvo will make us happy?’

‘That wasn’t helpful, Teresa.’

‘But it were an improvement, right?’

He sighed. ‘I’ll find a cab.’

CHAPTER 11

The Moncorvo mansion was part of a new terrace of grand white houses, each one no longer than London Bridge and no higher than All Saints’ Church. Lights flooded out of each high window, and the front was busy with carriages. The hansom cab containing three humans and a dog stopped fifty yards away from the front door, which led out on to a green area of pond-dotted grass, across a sparkling new cobbled street, as white and polished and grand as the mansions themselves. The door to the mansion was open, and in and out of it glided ladies in dresses that trailed along in a rustle of silk, men who swept their hats off with the same grandeur with which they swung their canes, liveried servants with impassive expressions, expectant drivers and porters bearing lighted candles.

Lyle, Tess, Thomas and Tate watched this from the window of the carriage. ‘A party?’ suggested Tess, sounding none too pleased at the thought.

‘Perhaps.’

They sat in silence while the night wore on. Somewhere down the hill, an old stone church, lost in a world of urban expansion, struck ten. On the floor of the cab, Tate started snoring quietly. After a while, Thomas realized Tess’s head was hanging against one side of the carriage, her mouth slightly open and eyes shut. He looked up at Lyle, and found the man’s eyes fixed on his, a slight, almost fond smile around his mouth. Lyle struggled out of his own large grey coat, and Thomas noticed how the pockets bulged and how the inside had its own pockets and was cut just as the outside, but in black, not grey. Lyle laid the coat over Tess’s sleeping shape, then sat back against the seat of the carriage and watched the street, still in silence.

The clock down the hill struck quarter past. Thomas said, ‘Sir?’

‘Yes?’

‘May I ask a question?’

‘Of course.’

‘Why did you decide to become a policeman?’

Lyle glanced at him, saw his sincere expression, and looked slowly back towards the lights of the Moncorvo mansion. ‘I needed a job.’

‘The Lyle estate has plenty of money, sir. Your father built machines.
You
built machines. I went to one of your lectures. I didn’t understand much, sir, but when you talked about what might happen, about how machines might change the world, I understood that. No more pain, you said, no more poverty.’

Lyle smiled wanly. ‘I wouldn’t take it too seriously, lad.’

‘I wish it were true, sir. Do you think it can happen?’

‘Possibly. There is a mathematics in the universe, a symmetry in everything on the planet, that leads me to believe machines, tools and devices, are just an extension of nature.’

‘Then why a policeman, sir?’

‘Perhaps to see if there was mathematics in people?’

‘Is there, sir?’

‘No.’ He frowned at his own words. ‘Sometimes. You can say that a wrong plus a wrong will make an even greater wrong, but that’s really far too simple. A certain kind of wrong, plus another wrong, can make a wrong. Two “x”s added together makes two x. An “x” and a “y” added together make nothing satisfactorily singular that I can see.’ Thomas nodded to himself, and didn’t speak. Lyle shot him another sideways look. ‘You want to be a detective, lad?’ It was hardly a question.

‘I want to make a difference, sir.’