Lifeblood (4 page)

 

 

C
arnegie hailed a hansom cab outside the offices of
The Informer
, and they headed back towards the centre of Darkside. The mild sunshine of earlier had been smothered behind frowning black clouds. Rain was pattering on the roof of the carriage. Inside, Arthur scribbled into a notebook, which looked child-sized in his chubby grasp.

Jonathan stared moodily out of the window at the damp world outside. Beside him, Carnegie had tilted his hat over his eyes, and was lying back against the seat snoring, mouth wide open. A thin line of dribble was running down his chin. Despite all that the wereman had done for him, Jonathan couldn't shake off a feeling of resentment towards Carnegie. He had been hiding things about Theresa, just like Alain. Why was everyone so reluctant to tell Jonathan about his mum? It made his blood boil to think about it. Worse than that, it confirmed what he had always thought before arriving in Darkside: he had no friends. Everyone was hiding secrets. No one was to be trusted.

Still, he had learnt one important thing. James Arkel had been murdered twelve years ago – the same year that his mother had vanished. Jonathan didn't know if there was a connection, but he was determined to find out.

“Arthur?”

The reporter looked up from his notebook.

“What was Harry talking about back there in the office? What's the Blood Succession?”

Digging into the pockets of his voluminous coat, Arthur pulled out a battered pamphlet and tossed it over to Jonathan.

“I thought you might ask me that, so I grabbed this before we left the office. After all, we can't have young Pierce lording it over you! This is only short but it's adequately written and should give you all the basic information.”

The pamphlet consisted of a few sheets of paper pressed together beneath a purple cover. Jonathan glanced at the title, “The Ripper Bloodline”, and couldn't help noticing it had been written by one “A. Blake”. He opened it, and began to read:

 

If someone wishes to follow the twisted branches of the Ripper family tree, they must first learn about the Blood Succession, the rite of passage that determines each ruler of Darkside. The Blood Succession was initiated under Darkside's first ruler, Jack, who in his diabolical wisdom decreed that his children should fight to the death to determine who was the worthiest heir.

 

Victory could be sought by any means, fair or foul, as long as one rule was respected: the battle was to take place on Lightside, after Jack's death. This was meant to remind the new Ripper of Darkside's origins, and of the weak-minded and fearful Lightsiders who had originally banished them from the rest of London.

 

To prevent the eruption of all-out war taking place before his demise, Jack further decreed that his heirs must live in Darkside under assumed names, and swear to hide their true identities until the day of Succession.

 

In this manner, when Jack finally passed away at the age of 77, his sons George and Albert revealed themselves, and travelled to Lightside to fight. At that time a great war was raging in London, and both Rippers nearly died in a bombing raid. However, George survived and returned to take his place on the Darkside throne.

 

Thirty years later, Thomas succeeded his father after surviving a chaotic four-way battle that left him at death's door for several days. Since that time, however, his iron-fisted rule has only served to prove the worth of The Blood Succession.

 

The rain was coming down more heavily now. The carriage had turned on to the Grand, where the pavements were more crowded and raucous. Distracted by the garish costumes and the foul-mouthed arguments, Jonathan folded up the pamphlet and stuck it in his back pocket.

The Midnight was situated in the basement of a large building on the north side of the Grand. Its entrance was hidden away behind a wrought-iron railing and down a flight of stone steps. The casual passer-by would have no idea it was there, and that was just the way the patrons of the Midnight liked it.

As the carriage came to a halt, Carnegie pushed up his hat and glanced around, instantly awake. He bounded out of the cab and tossed a couple of coins to the driver.

“Keep the change,” he barked.

The driver glanced at the meagre tip and made as if to say something in retort, but took one look at the hulking form of the private detective and seemed to think better of it. Instead, he gee'd up his horse and galloped away down the Grand.

As they started down the steps, Carnegie placed a warning hand on Jonathan's shoulders. “It's pitch-black in here. You're not going to be able to see a thing, which means you'll have to rely on me to keep an eye out for you. One thing wolves don't have a problem with is the dark. So sit tight, leave the talking to me and try not to get into any trouble, OK?”

Jonathan nodded sullenly.

“Good. Let's go.”

At the bottom of the steps was a thick wooden door, next to a copper plaque bearing the pub's name. Through the entrance was a hallway leading to another door, which refused to open until Arthur closed the outer door behind them, plunging them into darkness. Jonathan felt his heartbeat quicken.

“They have to make sure no sunlight gets in,” breathed Carnegie. “Down here, people's eyes get so accustomed to the dark that even the slightest ray of light could blind them. Ready?”

He pushed open the door, and they entered the Midnight. The darkness was immediate and total. Jonathan couldn't even make out the vague outline of shapes around him. He was utterly blind. He walked slowly and cautiously forward, arms outstretched like a sleepwalker. Stripped of his sight, he had to fall back on his other senses to paint a picture of his surroundings. The smell was overpowering: a curdling odour of beer and unwashed armpits. His ears picked up a subdued murmur of conversation, the occasional clink of a glass or a glug of liquid from a bottle, the scrape of a chair leg across the floor.

A hand clutched Jonathan's arm. He jumped with shock.

“Easy, boy. It's only me. I'm going to lead you over to a table where I can leave you. I want to talk to the bartender.”

“Where's Arthur?”

“About to crash into the bar. I'll get him in a minute.”

“What does this place look like?”

“Put it this way, boy. I know why they keep the lights off. Now, come on.”

Jonathan allowed himself to be led over to what he presumed to be a quiet corner of the room. Despite Carnegie's guidance, he still managed to trip over the foot of a hidden drinker, eliciting a hiss of displeasure from out of the darkness. He felt safer when he was seated, especially when he heard Arthur's voice getting nearer.

“Look,” he was protesting. “If we're going to have to hang around in this dungeon, you might as well let me get a drink.”

“No time,” came Carnegie's growled response. “I don't want to spend any longer here than we have to. Now sit.”

Jonathan heard the sizeable thump next to him as Arthur was forced down into his chair, and then the sound of footsteps padding away from them.

The reporter drummed his fingers on the surface of the table. “This place leaves a lot to be desired,” he muttered.

“You feeling nervous too?” Jonathan whispered back.

“I'd feel a damn sight happier if I knew where the nearest exit was. I always make sure I know that when I enter any building. I've tried to memorize my steps back to the front door here, but I wouldn't like to put it to the test.”

“Me neither.”

The table fell silent again. While his vision remained nonexistent, Jonathan was convinced that his hearing was already becoming sharper and more discerning. Straining his ears, he could just about make out Carnegie's gruff undertone at the bar. There must have been a table nearby, because he could hear the long gulps of someone drinking, and the satisfied sigh that followed each draught. Somewhere to his left, he could hear two men talking nervously. Jonathan leant forward and tried to eavesdrop.

“. . . it's true, I tell you. I heard it from a butler who works for the Ripper. Thomas hasn't got long left. Months at best.”

“It's not that surprising. He must be getting on a bit.”

“Still, it's not good news. I'd be surprised if any of his kids turn out to be as strong as Thomas. Born ruler, he is. They reckoned that James might have turned out to be his father's equal, but look what happened to him. It was a black day for Darkside the day he was murdered, I tell you.”

“Keep your voice down! You never know who's listening. . .”

And with that, the volume of their conversation dipped below Jonathan's hearing. He sighed and sat back. The novelty value of the Midnight was rapidly wearing thin. He was grateful when he heard Carnegie padding back towards them. A hand brushed his arm.

“How did it go?” Jonathan asked cheerily.

“
Shut up, you piece of filth.
”

The voice was not Carnegie's. Jonathan would have cried out, but he could feel the chill of a blade nestling against his throat. A dull thud next to him was followed by a groan from Arthur. An unshaven face pressed close to his. When he spoke, his assailant's breath was heavily, but not unpleasantly, spiced.

“All alone now. Who's going to help you?”

Jonathan started to reply, only to feel the blade pressing more tightly against his throat.

“No need to shout,” the attacker said soothingly. “We can have a very quiet chat, just the two of us.”

“What . . . what do you want?”

“I want to know what you're doing here. Sitting next to a reporter. Your friend – a private detective, if my eyes don't deceive me – asking questions at the bar. Personal questions.”

“You can see?” Jonathan gasped.

The man chuckled. “Oh yes . . . I see everything.”

From over by the bar there came a howl of rage, and Jonathan guessed that Carnegie's wolf-eyes had spotted what was going on. His attacker tensed, wrapping his arm around Jonathan's neck like a vice. Just breathing was a struggle.

“Better stay very still,” the man whispered. “I'd hate to slip.”

From Jonathan's left came the sound of rapidly approaching footsteps, and the sound of breathing. Not the regular exhalations of a human, but the ragged pants of an enraged predator.

“That's close enough, Carnegie.”

“Correlli? What are
you
doing here?”

“I could ask you the same question. You shouldn't be walking around here asking questions, poking your nose in matters that don't concern you. It makes people nervous.”

“People get nervous when they do bad things,” replied the wereman. “What bad things have you done?”

“Too many to count, my friend. And I'll do more before I rot.”

“Did you do anything bad to Edwin Rafferty?”

Correlli's arm stiffened, squeezing a cry of pain from Jonathan. “I'll kill the boy. Don't doubt that.”

“I don't. But if he dies, then I'll rip you apart and eat you. Don't doubt that either.”

The man chuckled again. It was as if he was enjoying himself. “Very well, my friend. When you are in unimaginable torment, and only seconds from death, do remember that I gave you this warning: stop asking questions – about Edwin Rafferty, about
anything –
or you will suffer the highest price. Let me enlighten you.”

Jonathan felt the arm loosen from around his neck. There was a flick of a match as it sparked into life. Squinting against the sudden light, Jonathan could see a huge man, shirtless underneath a red waistcoat, raising a flaming brand to his lips. Suddenly there was a roar, and the man breathed tongues of flames across the room. The light was piercingly bright, and men who hadn't seen the glare of the sun for months screamed as the brilliance singed their dilated pupils. Jonathan bunched his eyes shut, and felt himself flying sideways as his assailant cast him to one side. His head cracked against the cold stone floor. There was another roar, and more screams from the patrons of the Midnight. Panicky footsteps careered across the floor, as blind men struggled to find the exit. His head swimming from the impact, and the smell of burning in his nostrils, Jonathan thought he heard Carnegie bellow with pain, and then there was nothing.

 

 

N
icholas de Quincy strode through the door of a greasy spoon café in Finsbury Park and banged it shut behind him, making the waitress jump and earning a glare from the cook behind the counter. De Quincy ignored him. The long journey from Darkside to this part of North London had put him in a foul mood, and the sight of the café had only made things worse. This, he seethed, was the last time that he allowed Humphrey to choose the meeting place.

He rubbed his monocle on a black handkerchief and peered round the dingy café. The air was thick with the smell of fried food and the windows damp with condensation. Tinny music crackled out from a radio. It was late morning, and the green plastic chairs were empty save for one corner table, where Humphrey Granville was leading a ferocious assault on a huge pile of sausage, bacon, egg and baked beans. Rounds of toast were stacked high on a side plate, alongside a steaming cup of coffee. As de Quincy watched, Humphrey broke from his food to take a loud slurp, dousing his moustache in froth. A newspaper was spread out in front of him on the formica table. Engrossed in his reading, Humphrey didn't notice the beans spilling down his jacket as he shovelled them into his mouth.

De Quincy removed his top hat and ran a hand through his stiff, spiky hair in an attempt to collect himself. Then he made his way over to the table and squeezed his long frame into a seat.

“Granville,” he said, in a voice several degrees below freezing.

Humphrey's broad face broke into a smile. “Nicholas! You made it!”

“No thanks to your directions. Why on Darkside did you make us meet in this pigsty?”

His voice echoed around the deserted café. Humphrey winced.

“I do wish you'd keep your voice down when you say things like that, Nicholas. It tends to get people's backs up. Try the food.” He waved at his fast-emptying plate. “It's the finest fry-up in all of London, and they serve an uncommonly good portion.”

“I'm not hungry,” came the icy reply. “Can't you keep your mind off your belly for one minute, you stupid man?”

Glancing around, de Quincy caught sight of the waitress hovering uncertainly nearby.

“Coffee,” he ordered curtly, and then turned back towards Granville, who was glumly mopping up the final streaks of yolk and ketchup with a piece of toast. De Quincy pointed at the newspaper. “Taking a sudden interest in world events, are we?”

Humphrey shook his head. “It's an old
Informer
. I kept this one for . . . obvious reasons.”

He pushed the ageing newspaper towards de Quincy, who cast an eye over the front page. Immediately he recognized it. All Darksiders remembered this story.

 

 

 

D
ARKSIDE WAS IN a state of shock today following the announcement that James Arkel, murdered president of the Cain Club, was in fact the son of Thomas Ripper, grand ruler of the borough. Arkel's savaged body was discovered by a young kitchen hand on the roof of the private member's establishment two nights ago. He had been a prominent and popular figure in Darkside society, and news of his death was initially greeted with incredulity by the wealthiest men in the borough. And now, with the revelation of his true identity, the shockwaves have spread to the ordinary men and women in the street. For the first time in Darkside history, a Ripper heir has been murdered before the Blood Succession.

Speculation is rife as to the motive for the killing. Was it simply a random attack, or had Arkel's reputation and standing made him a target for jealous rivals? Another, darker rumour flying around the drinking dens of Darkside is that Arkel was murdered because someone had uncovered his true identity.

 

 

What is certain is that the Ripper's private force of Bow Street Runners are running an investigation that is unprecedented in its scale and violence. In just forty-eight hours over a hundred Darksiders have been brought in for questioning: as yet, none have been released. One officer said that, “Thomas will do whatever it takes to catch his son's killer. He'll tear apart the foundations of Darkside if necessary. No one is safe.”

Sources close to the Ripper have confirmed that there are now only two heirs left to contest the Blood Succession. Their identities and whereabouts remain the most closely guarded of secrets.

 

“Sensational stuff,” de Quincy remarked mildly, tossing the newspaper back to Granville. “I hardly need reminding of the details, though. After all, we were the ones who did it.”

Humphrey waved his arms in a shushing gesture. “Keep your voice down, man!”

“I think we're probably safe. Even a Bow Street Runner wouldn't be mad enough to eat here.”

“This is no joke, Nicholas!” Humphrey paused as the waitress returned, placing a cup before de Quincy. When she had gone, he resumed speaking in a hushed whisper. “I'll admit that we were the ones who lured him up on to the roof. But we didn't know he was going to be torn to pieces up there! We didn't know he was a Ripper!”

“Well, we knew that Arkel wasn't going to come back
down
from the roof, and it was unlikely he was going to be tickled to death. If you are going to be so squeamish about this, Granville, you should never have got involved in the first place.”

Humphrey drew himself up in his seat proudly. “Brother Fleet asked for our assistance in disposing of Arkel. We were all Gentlemen – the elite of the Cain Club. We were obliged to help!”

“I suppose there was that,” de Quincy mused. “I simply thought it would be fun. And it gave me a hold over Brother Fleet that I thought might come in handy later on. Of course, it turned out to be an even bigger hold than I could have dreamed of. When we found out that he was a Ripper too, and that he had killed his own brother. . .” His thin lips twisted into a smile. “Well, it was like all my birthdays rolled into one. Which brings us neatly back to the present, and our current business.”

A pensive look crossed Humphrey's face, and he took a nervous quaff of his coffee. “Look, you may be happy, Nicholas, but I'm worried. When I agreed to help you with this scheme, you promised me that there was no way we could get hurt.”

De Quincy's eyes narrowed. “You look well enough to me.”

“But after what happened to poor Edwin. . .”

“After what?”

“Haven't you heard, Nicholas? They found his body in an alleyway yesterday.”

“Oh.”

“Is that all you have to say? Don't you understand? Edwin's dead! Word is he was murdered!”

De Quincy took a sip of his coffee, winced, and pushed it to one side. “Look, if no one else had killed Edwin Rafferty, I would have done it myself.”

“Nicholas!” Humphrey cried, shocked.

“Face facts, Granville. The man was a walking liability. Who knows how much he's drunkenly blabbed in the Midnight? We should never have included him in the first place.”

“But he was one of us! He was a
Gentleman
!”

De Quincy grimaced. “I would have thought that recent events would have proved to you that the Gentlemen don't exist any more. It's just me and you, Granville.”

“But if they can kill Edwin, who's to say they can't kill us?”

The blackmailer snorted. “I wouldn't worry just yet. We don't know
what
happened to Rafferty. Maybe he tripped over his own shoelaces and banged his head. And if it was one of the Rippers, so what? It's a warning shot, nothing more. Rafferty was little more than a bargaining chip.”

Humphrey looked down at his plate. “I suppose you'd have said the same thing if I'd been the one who was murdered.”

“Come, come, Granville,” de Quincy said, patting him with a bone-cold hand. “I told you. It's just me and you now. We have to stick together. Look, the plan is progressing exactly as it should do. We have contacted both of the Ripper's remaining children – our old friend Brother Fleet, and Marianne. They are now keenly aware that we know their assumed identities, and will happily divulge this information to whoever pays us the most money. Now let's see how high we can drive the auction.”

“Do you think they'll pay?”

De Quincy bit back an oath. “Granville, we're offering them a passport to the Ripper's throne. No Blood Succession, no risk of a painful death. All they have to do is bump off the other in some dingy corner of Darkside, and wait until dear old Thomas dies. They'll pay, all right. For pity's sake, hold your nerve. Within a week this will all be over, and you'll be one of the richest men in Darkside.” He rose, fitting his top hat over his paintbrush hair. “Time to leave this wretched hovel. Are you coming?”

Humphrey shook his head vigorously. “After what happened to Edwin? No fear. Darkside's too dangerous right now. I'm not going back until this deal is done and dusted.”

“As you wish.” De Quincy looked around pointedly. “Though for the life of me I can't understand how you can spend time in Lightside.”

“Oh, if you only tried it,” Humphrey replied, his eyes suddenly shining, “you'd see that there's so much to do. Everywhere I go, every street I walk down, I see these beautiful restaurants, menus crammed with dishes we've never even heard of. Do you know what a curry is, Nicholas? Or chicken chow mein?”

De Quincy shook his head.

“Every mouthful is an experience here. And even if I dined out every day, it would take me years to eat in all the restaurants here.”

Humphrey sat back in his chair with a dreamy smile. Not trusting himself to say something pleasant, de Quincy nodded stiffly and hurried out of the door. Seeing that the coast was clear, the waitress returned to the table and began clearing up the plates.

“Anything else?” she inquired.

Humphrey checked his pocket watch and glanced up at the menu board. It wasn't as if there was anything important he had to do today.

“I'll have the same meal again, please. With mushrooms this time, I think.”

As the waitress bustled back towards the counter he unfolded the ancient copy of the
Informer
, and began to read the front page again.