Lifeblood (6 page)

 

 

A
hansom cab came to a clattering halt outside the front door of the Rafferty house. Alerted by the noise, Jonathan, Carnegie and Arthur headed outside, in time to see Lucien Fox climbing awkwardly down from the carriage. The editor of
The Informer
hobbled towards Arthur, a testy expression etched on his face.

“This had better be good. You know I don't like to leave the office.”

The reporter smiled grimly. “Oh, it's good all right. In fact, it's so good that I didn't think it was a good idea advertising it around
The Informer
. You might trust your devoted staff, but I certainly don't.”

They headed back into Edwin's glum front room, where the note from the safe had been left on the table. Lucien put on a pair of sharp-rimmed spectacles and began to inspect it thoroughly, the paper crackling under the touch of his fingers. He read the note several times in complete silence. Then he looked up, rubbing his neck thoughtfully.

“Well, it could be genuine,” Lucien conceded. “Paper looks old enough.”

Arthur beamed triumphantly, pressing the ever-present handkerchief to his perspiring forehead. “Unbelievable, isn't it? You know what this is, don't you? It's the first new clue to the James Ripper murder in over a decade!”

“I wouldn't get too carried away just yet,” Lucien replied cautiously. “This note's only a couple of lines long, and it doesn't exactly prove anything. It could be referring to something else entirely.”

“He's right,” Carnegie sniffed. “This isn't adding up yet. Are you really suggesting that Darkside's most infamous murder was carried out by
Edwin Rafferty
? That man couldn't have organized a punch-up on the Grand.”

Arthur frowned. “I know it could be nothing. But I've got the same sort of feeling I got when investigating the Claude du Pont murder. No one then thought the chimney sweep could have been responsible for such a fiendish act, but I soon showed them. When I get hunches, they don't tend to be wrong.”

“That, at least, is true,” Lucien acknowledged wryly. “But even if the note is something to do with James Ripper, where does it lead you? Ever heard of this Brother Fleet?”

“I can't say I have, but I can ask around. Someone on Darkside will know who he is. . .”

He was interrupted by Carnegie clearing his throat loudly.

“That's one way of carrying on. It's a bit random, though. There is another approach we could try.”

“What do you mean?”

“Look at the note again.”

Both Lucien and Arthur peered closely at the small slip of paper, frowning with concentration. After a few seconds the editor clucked his tongue with frustration.

“I give in. What are we missing?”

“Bet you the boy spots it.”

Arthur handed the note to Jonathan, who stared at it intently. Beneath the small, crabby handwriting, he could just about make out a faint pattern that was part of the paper itself.

“It's some kind of design. . .” he said. “Two letter Cs wrapped around each other.”

“Of course! A watermark!” cried Arthur.

“And which Darkside institution uses that particular design?”

The reporter thought for a second.

“Oh. Toffs,” he said glumly.

 

They headed west, towards the far end of the Grand. The locals were in a particularly hostile mood that evening, and Jonathan was glad of Carnegie's baleful presence beside him as they moved along the pavement. Arthur and Lucien followed a pace behind. Though ostensibly in conversation, they paid little attention to one another. Instead their eyes flitted restlessly this way and that, on a permanent lookout for new scoops and exclusives.

As they passed Kinski's Theatre of the Macabre, a scream ripped through the night. Jonathan turned to see a man being dragged by his heels through the doorway of the Aurora Borealis Exotic Candle Shop. Scrabbling frantically around for something to cling on to, the man's hands fastened themselves around a lamp post. He didn't scream for help; he must have known there was no point. The tug-of-war lasted for a few seconds, until the unseen creature from inside the Aurora Borealis gave a final wrench, and the man flew into the dark recesses of the shop. All that remained was his top hat, rolling forlornly around the pavement.

“They must really want to sell him candles,” Jonathan said.

“That's one way of looking at it,” Carnegie conceded. “Either that, or they really want to make him
into
candles.”

A look of horror flashed across Jonathan's face, making the wereman guffaw loudly.

“Darkside still shocks you, doesn't it? I'd have thought you'd have got used to it by now.”

“There's a fair bit to get used to!” Jonathan replied indignantly. “It might help if everyone in this place wasn't so damn crazy!”

“Where would the fun be then? Come on, this way.”

Beckoning, he turned off the Grand and down a wide, secluded road. The crescent moon was low in the sky, and it shone down on a row of large white Victorian-style townhouses. Carnegie headed towards the largest of the buildings, smugly enthroned at the end of the street. A terrace of semicircular steps flowed up to the ornate front door, which was flanked by a pair of enormous marble pillars. A coat of arms had been set above the doorway, with the Latin inscription
Ego sum messor fratris mei
. Curtains prevented the prying eyes of the poor and the unworthy from seeing what was happening inside the building. Two hulking men had been squeezed into doormen's liveries, the tassels and braids perching uncomfortably on two bodies built for – and sustained by – violence.

“There it is,” said the wereman. “The Cain Club. The most exclusive private members' club in Darkside. Only the filthy rich can get in.”

Lucien coughed meaningfully. “On that point, now that we're here . . . how
do
you intend for us to get in? I'm guessing you're not a member?”

Carnegie eyed him narrowly. “My subscription lapsed.”

“Of course. It's just that the guards here aren't renowned for their amicable nature, and perhaps it would be wise to come up with a plan before we go any further.”

“OK. How about you shut up for a second and let me get on with it? You journalists talk too much.”

The editor blanched.

Jonathan looked over his shoulder and smiled. “Carnegie's not renowned for his amicable nature either. If I were you, I'd follow his lead on this one.”

As the wereman strode on, Lucien pulled Jonathan back and whispered in his ear, “Does he ever threaten you?”

“Most days.”

“I can't claim to know him that well, but I'm more than aware of his reputation. Are you sure he's the sort of character you want to be associated with?”

Loping up the steps of the Cain Club, Carnegie didn't bother to say a word to either of the doormen as he brushed past them. Shocked by his dishevelled appearance, they paused for a split second. It was enough. Carnegie lashed out with his left foot, kicking one of the doormen in the solar plexus and knocking him back against the pillar. The other doorman swung a clumsy fist, but the wereman ducked underneath its arc and kneed him sharply in the groin. Carnegie surveyed the slumped forms of the two men with mock surprise, and then turned and called back to his companions.

“Are you coming in, or what?”

Jonathan grinned at the editor. “Lucien, Carnegie's
exactly
the sort of character I want to be associated with.”

They moved carefully past the doormen into a grand entrance hall. There was no one in sight, and Carnegie was already striding across the black-and-white chequered tiles towards a set of double doors at the end of the hall. Above the doors the sign read “Main Lounge”. Jonathan glanced pensively at Lucien and Arthur, and then the three of them hastened after the wereman.

There was a brittle civility to the main lounge of the Cain Club that Jonathan hadn't ever encountered in Darkside. Men in black evening suits milled around the vast room, talking and drinking together in small groups. Their faces were almost entirely obscured by black masks, twisted into the leering features of goblins and gargoyles. Plush armchairs and green pot plants were wreathed in thick cigar smoke. On the walls, exquisite watercolour paintings depicted scenes of graphic violence. From time to time a high-pitched peal of laughter or the chink of crystal glasses rose above the general hubbub of conversation.

Heads turned at the sudden entrance of the unmasked and shabbily dressed arrivals. Jonathan couldn't see any expressions change beneath the masks, but could feel a sudden hostility chilling the heat rolling off the log fires. Beside him, Carnegie took great pleasure in beaming at the members, exposing his sharp canines.

Arthur tugged at his collar nervously. “What do we do now?” he hissed.

“We haven't got long until those doormen come back with some friends,” Carnegie replied out of the corner of his mouth. “Let's split up and look around. See if you can find anything connected with Edwin Rafferty.”

With that, the wereman barged off into the throng. Jonathan took one look at the members, and headed back the way he had came. The entrance hall was still deserted. Keen to put some distance between himself and any recovering doormen, Jonathan raced up the staircase, two steps at a time.

It didn't take many minutes of exploration upstairs before he came to the conclusion that the Cain Club was a huge rabbit warren. The upper levels were deserted, and Jonathan wandered through dining rooms and studies and billiard rooms without bumping into anybody. Nevertheless, every room was lit by gaslamps, and every dining table was laid, just in case any of the members wished to use them. There were framed photographs on all the walls, a gallery of rich male Darksiders laughing and joking and sneering. Of Edwin Rafferty, however, there was no sign.

Frustrated, Jonathan threw himself down on a sofa in a lavish library, where cavernous bookshelves were crammed with leather volumes. Looking up, he saw something that chilled him to the bone. Directly in front of him was a life-size portrait of Vendetta. The banker was dressed in a white linen suit smeared with bloodstains. A body was slumped by his feet. It felt as if the vampire's eyes were burning deep into Jonathan's soul. He had hoped that he would never have to see that face again.

Jonathan rose to his feet and slowly approached the painting. He reached out and touched it, flinching in case it should bite back. By the side of the painting was a small plaque that read:
G. Vendetta, whose generous donations from his private library fill these bookshelves
. Jonathan shuddered. It was impossible to imagine Vendetta doing anything generous or kind.

He moved away from the painting and wandered round the room, running a finger across the gnarled spines of the books. All of the volumes appeared to be non-fiction: historical studies of feuds and wars, economic guides to financial scams and cons, and biographies of famous Darkside criminals. Portraits of exotic characters such as Charlie Redblood, Morticia della Rosa and Solomon Razzaq glowered up at him.

Eventually Jonathan's finger came to rest on a large, bound volume with a midnight blue spine. He pulled it from the shelf and read the title:
Regretts' Darkside Peerage
. Its pages were filled with hundreds of biographies of well-to-do Darkside families. On a whim, Jonathan leafed through the pages until he came to the letter “R”. He was faintly surprised to find an entry for the Rafferty family:

 

Rafferty, Ralph

 

The Rafferty family can boast of one of the most distinguished lineages in Darkside. Ralph Rafferty (d. DY62) was an Irish seaman who was one of the first criminals to be sent to Darkside. Using his Lightside links, Ralph constructed a smuggling empire at Devil's Wharf – which at that stage consisted only of a small jetty and two warehouses. His business acumen was such that, by DY45, it was estimated that over half of the products arriving from Lightside were transported by Rafferty's ships. Unsurprisingly, such success attracted the attentions of the Ripper, and Ralph was quick to place his smuggling network at Jack's disposal. Ralph's endeavours ensured his family have enjoyed close ties to Darkside's first family ever since. Upon his death Ralph was succeeded by his son Lionel, with Lionel's art-enthusiast son Edwin the heir apparent to the family business
. . .

 

There was a crash and a loud cry from the room next door, startling Jonathan into dropping the book. His natural instinct was to stay in the safety of the library, but the voice sounded familiar. Gathering himself, Jonathan raced out of the library through the connecting door, and straight into pandemonium.

 

 

A
midst a casual air of luxury, the aroma of velvet and wood polish, and the silver gleam of burnished candlesticks, two men were tearing each other to pieces by the fireplace. A heavy poker had smeared soot on the red carpet near them, tantalizingly out of reach. One of the men was dressed all in black, and had a purple handkerchief wrapped around his face. He had gained the upper hand in the scuffle, and was pinning down the other man – the editor of
The Darkside Informer
, Lucien Fox.

Lucien was straining every sinew to hold off his attacker, but his frail physique was no match for his taller, fitter opponent. With a snarl, the man broke free from the editor's grip and punched him in the temple. Lucien slumped backwards on to the carpet in a daze.

“Hey!” Jonathan cried out, and ran towards them.

The assailant whirled round, poised to spring at this new figure. Suddenly aware of the danger he was in, Jonathan took a pace backwards. Then a door crashed open on the other side of the room and Carnegie barrelled in, hat askew. He grinned wolfishly at Lucien's attacker.

“I can't believe you started without me! Tell you what. You finish off the boy, and then me and you'll play together. Does that sound fair?”

The man's eyes narrowed, sizing up the detective. As Carnegie flexed his claws he made up his mind, and raced back towards the window. Before anyone could stop him, the attacker had wrenched up the window and jumped up on to the sill. Then, with a final flourishing salute, he was gone. Jonathan and Carnegie ran over to the window and watched him scamper away over the rooftops of the surrounding buildings.

“Not bad,” Carnegie said, a note of approval in his voice. “We seem to be running into a better class of goon these days.” He turned to Jonathan. “And what were you planning to do back there? Chinese burn his ankles?”

“I hadn't thought that far ahead. I was pleased to see you, though.”

A noise came from behind them.

“Don't worry about me. I'm fine.”

Lucien was rubbing his head vigorously, and mumbling oaths under his breath. Jonathan went over and helped him into a chair. A series of coughs scraped the editor's chest, and he dabbed a trickle of blood away from his mouth with a handkerchief. Lucien looked up, and noted Jonathan's look of concern with a rueful smile.

“Tell me, young Starling, does
everyone
who works with you get hit over the head?”

“Generally it's just the boy,” Carnegie replied. “What happened?”

“I'm not entirely sure. I was poking around this floor for clues, when suddenly that guy jumped out from the shadows and tried to brain me with that thing.” Lucien nodded at the poker, wincing with the pain the sudden movement caused. “Given the size of him, I was lucky he missed.”

A thought occurred to Jonathan. He turned to the wereman. “Do you think it was that guy from the Midnight?”

“Correlli? Hardly. He doesn't hide his face. He likes people to know who they're dealing with. No, this was a different person trying to kill us.” The wereman cocked his head. “But what was he doing hiding in here?”

Scratching his head, Carnegie moved across the room in search of clues. As the wereman began tapping the walls for secret doors, Jonathan noticed that there was a gap in the series of photographs that dotted the wall near the fireplace. Moving an armchair out of the way, he saw the broken shards of a picture frame strewn across the carpet.

“Hey, look at this!” Jonathan held up a piece of glass and showed it to Carnegie. “Looks like that guy was trying to get rid of some evidence.”

Dropping down on to his hands and knees, Carnegie peered into the fireplace. Whatever had been thrown on the flames had long since burned down to ash, save for a scrap of singed newspaper that had fluttered away to the side of the hearth. The wereman snatched it up and glanced over it.

“Perhaps this wasn't a waste of time after all. Now, let's get out of here. Where's Arthur?”

As if in reply, there was a cry of pain from downstairs.

Lucien frowned. “That sounds like him. I presume the doormen have woken up.”

Sighing, Carnegie pushed his hat back on to his head, muttered the word “journalists” as if it were a swearword, and marched purposefully out of the room.

 

It was some time after three in the morning, and the offices of
The Informer
were quiet. The latest edition had been finished and placed in the eager hands of the young street hawkers. The rusty beasts of printing presses that spent the days growling in the basement slumbered now. Most of the journalists had left the building in search of new stories or other, darker, distractions, leaving only a small circle of people grouped around a desk in the editor's office. Their shapes cast long shadows in the candlelight.

“I guess it's a lead,” Arthur was saying, “but what now?”

The reporter's eye was swollen shut. Carnegie had made it down to the ground floor just in time to save him from receiving further punishment from the doormen. Their exit from the Cain Club had been hasty, and accompanied by screamed threats and thrown chairs. After the bedlam of the last couple of hours, the dim quiet of
The Informer
offices came as a welcome relief for Jonathan. He stifled a yawn. He felt as though he hadn't slept for a month.

Trying to stay alert, he leaned in over the table and read the cutting again. Within the blackened edges of the paper it was just possible to discern the following words:

 

The cream of Darkside society was present for the masked ball at the Cain Club celebrating the anniversary of Thomas Ripper's accession to the throne. Among those present were five eligible young men calling themselves “The Gentlemen”. (See photo above. From left to right: Brother Heart, Brother Rake, Brother Spine, Brother Steel and Brother Fleet.)

 

Without the accompanying photograph, it didn't tell them much. Jonathan tried to think positively.

“Well . . . we know Brother Spine was Edwin, and we've heard of Brother Fleet before. At least we know the names of the rest of the Gentlemen now.”

“Which is all well and good,” Arthur replied. “It would be nice if we could see their faces, though. I'm guessing that's why our mystery man set fire to it.”

Lucien scratched his beard. “It's not all bad news, you know. The clipping looks like one of ours, after all – something from the society pages. I'll get someone to go back over the archives and try and find when it's from. Then we could get our hands on the original photograph.”

Arthur sighed. “Have you seen the state of our archives recently? That could take years. If only Theresa was here.”

“Why do you say that?” asked Jonathan.

“She used to cover the society stuff.” He fingered the scrap of paper thoughtfully. “This could even have been one of her pieces.”

Immediately Jonathan was wide awake, wild thoughts racing through his mind. His mum had known about the Gentlemen. Was it possible that she was connected to this mystery? He was about to speak when a creaking sound stole up from the main offices below. Carnegie shot a questioning look at Lucien, who shook his head.

“Everyone's gone,” he said. “There shouldn't be anyone down there.”

The wereman got up from his chair and opened the door an inch. He peered down the staircase.

“There is now,” he reported. “Let's go and see what they're up to.”

He headed out on to the staircase, his feet padding softly on each step. Behind him, Jonathan marvelled at how such a huge creature could move so stealthily. He wondered how many Darkside villains had lived to rue that fact.

The candles had burned low in the main office, and it was only possible to make out the shapes and outlines of desks, coat stands and drawing boards. Someone was rifling through the drawers of the desk in the far corner of the room. With a jolt, Jonathan realized that was where his mum had worked. A spar of anger stabbed him in the chest.

“Hey, you!”

The figure spun round, to see Carnegie throw himself forward, cutting off his escape route. He could only stand there as the others came closer. Lucien held up a candle and swore, his shoulders slumping with relief.

“Harry! What on Darkside are you doing here?”

The reporter was quick to regain his composure.

“Hello there, boss. Didn't realize that anyone was still in the office.”

“What are you doing going through my mum's stuff?” Jonathan demanded.

Harry airily adjusted his cuffs. “All that talk of the Ripper murder got me thinking. I was going to write a follow-up piece on how no one's come close to finding out who did it. Arthur told me once that Theresa spent a lot of time covering events at the Cain Club – I thought I'd see if she'd written anything about James Arkel.” He looked squarely at Jonathan, a flicker of amusement in his eyes. “No need to get all excited.”

“That's her private stuff! You shouldn't be going through it.”

Rage boiled away inside Jonathan. At that moment the urge to hurt Harry, to wipe the smug smile from his face, was overwhelming. He squared up to the larger boy, who looked down with unfeigned amusement. Eventually Jonathan felt a heavy hand on his shoulder, pulling him away.

“Enough of that, boy. You've been spending too much time in Darkside for your own good.” Carnegie eyeballed Harry. “And you're as stupid as you are cocky. I get nervous when people start creeping around in the dark. I tend to eat first and ask questions later. You understand me?”

Harry nodded.

The wereman gestured at the door. “Good. Now get out of here. And leave the Ripper murder alone!”

When he had left, Lucien shook his head. “That kid is more trouble than he's worth. I might fire him anyway.”

Jonathan sat himself down in his mum's chair and began tidying up the mess, handling notebooks and clippings as if they were ancient relics. His hand settled on a newspaper in her top drawer that boasted bold headlines and pictures of beautiful celebrities. It was an old edition of a Lightside newspaper – and compared to the grim, dense print of
The Informer
, it was a carnival of colour. He held it up.

“Check it out! It's a newspaper from my part of town.”

Arthur and Lucien exchanged arch glances.

“I'm surprised Theresa wasted her time reading that sort of rag,” the editor said stiffly. “Vacuous nonsense.”

Arthur reached over a pudgy hand and began flicking through the newspaper.

“You mind if I borrow this? It's a fairly good example of how
not
to write a headline.”

“Be my guest.”

Jonathan drummed his fingers on the table, thinking. It felt as though pieces of the puzzle were floating around inside his head – if only he could fit them all together.

“When was James Arkel murdered again?” he asked slowly.

“I told you,” Carnegie replied. “Twelve years ago: 24th of January, DarkYear 106.”

“That's the same year my mum disappeared, isn't it?”

The wereman nodded. “Theresa vanished a couple of months afterwards.”

And with that, two puzzle pieces slotted neatly into place. Jonathan leapt up and waved the singed clipping in Carnegie's face.

“Don't you see? James's murder and my mum's disappearance are connected. This article proves it! She must have found out that the Gentlemen had something to do with the murder. They must have tried to silence her!”

Jonathan stopped short, his stomach suddenly lurching. If Theresa had discovered the Gentlemen's secret, what would they have done to keep her quiet? Both James Arkel and Edwin Rafferty were dead, murdered in the most dramatic and visible way. But no sign of Theresa had ever been found. She had just . . . vanished.

Arthur laid a hand on his arm. “Listen, Jonathan,” he said softly. “It's only natural you want to find out what happened to your mum. But this scrap of paper doesn't prove anything. If Theresa did somehow find out who killed James, why didn't she tell anyone about it? Why didn't she speak to me or Lucien? It's the first rule of investigative journalism, son: don't try and make the facts fit your theory.”

“I can't explain it – it just makes sense! It's like one of your hunches, Arthur. I know I'm right.” He looked at Carnegie. “Did my dad ever say anything to you about this?”

“Boy, I haven't seen Alain since your mother vanished. I don't know where he lives in your London, and if he's visited Darkside, he hasn't seen me.”

A shiver of excitement ran down Jonathan's spine.

“That settles it, then. Time to go back to Lightside.”