Lifeblood (9 page)

 

 

T
he carriage was silent. Watching Raquella as she anxiously chewed on a fingernail, Jonathan wanted to say something to reassure her and comfort her, but he couldn't think of anything. In a strange way he had been lucky – his mum had disappeared so long ago that it didn't feel like he had lost her, because he couldn't remember Theresa being there in the first place. How much worse must it be to lose someone you had known and loved for years?

Though his sympathy for Raquella was heartfelt, it couldn't quite stem the rising tide of excitement within Jonathan. He was certain that Theresa had discovered something about the Gentlemen that had tied them to James Ripper's murder. Maybe they had kidnapped her. It wasn't as if they
had
to kill her, Jonathan told himself firmly. Maybe she was imprisoned in a building nearby, waiting for someone to come and rescue her. Maybe he passed by her every day. He knew one thing for sure: one of the Gentlemen had to know what had happened to Theresa. If they could solve James Ripper's murder, would it lead them to his mum? The prospect was almost too enormous to entertain.

Alongside Jonathan, Arthur Blake stared thoughtfully out of the window. The portly reporter had bustled into Carnegie's office in a state of breathless excitement. Completely ignoring Raquella, he had launched into a speech.

“There's been another murder!” he panted. “Just like the Rafferty one. I was interviewing a ghoul with the Pierce boy down in Nowhere Street when I got the tip. A guy has been butchered inside The Last Supper. I managed to slip in round the back and see the body before it was taken away. Judging by the state of it, whoever killed James and Edwin killed this guy as well.”

Even Jonathan had heard of The Last Supper, and had walked past the heavily guarded entrance on several occasions. It seemed strange to imagine someone losing their life inside.

“What was his name?” he asked.

“The restaurant were trying to hush it up, but I slipped the maître d' a couple of shillings and he told me it was a guy called Humphrey Granville.” He looked at the wereman keenly. “Mean anything to you?”

Carnegie shook his head.

“Me neither. But it's a new lead, and someone's got to know who he is. Let's go!”

He made for the door, only to be stopped in his tracks as a hairy hand landed on his shoulder. Carnegie twisted Arthur round so they were facing each other.

“As exciting as this news is, you appear to have left your manners back at the restaurant. The young lady you've been ignoring is Raquella Joubert. She is a friend of ours.”

Arthur nodded a bewildered greeting at the maidservant. “Oh . . . h-hello there, miss. I didn't see you there.”

Carnegie pulled the reporter up to him so their faces were almost touching.

“Raquella's father has gone missing. Naturally, she's very upset, and we're going to see what we can do to help her. Then, maybe, we'll go and investigate this Granville fellow.”

“O-of course,” Arthur stammered, his feet scrabbling for purchase on the ground. “She is a f-friend, after all.”

The wereman grinned, and let the reporter drop to the floor. “Glad we cleared that up. Shall we go, then?”

And now they were pulling up outside a modest terraced house in the Lower Fleet. Further up the street, children were scampering across the cobblestones and playing on the pavement, but there was no one outside this house. Raquella climbed slowly out of the carriage and led them to the front door.

Jonathan felt more nervous about entering the Joubert house than he had done in almost any other place in Darkside. He felt like an intruder, especially with Carnegie and Arthur clumping alongside him. There was a mournful atmosphere in the hallway, echoes of private grief. A low murmur of voices was coming from the downstairs front room. Jonathan followed Raquella through the door, and gasped.

It was dark in the small room, and the faint sound of children's laughter drifted in from the street through the drawn curtains. Georgina Joubert was sitting on the sofa, cradling a small baby in her arms. Her drawn face spoke of a tearful, sleepless night. And next to her, calmly pouring out a cup of tea from the pot, was Marianne.

Instinctively, Jonathan tensed. The bounty hunter was dressed sympathetically in black, and her hair was an identical shade of burnished raven. The last time Jonathan had seen her was when she had dived into The Beastilia Exotica's Pool of Pain to rescue her henchman, Humble. He still remembered her white hair flashing in the lights. Though he should have hated Marianne – she was dangerous, and she had put both his and Alain's life in mortal danger – Jonathan had to admit on seeing her that his feelings were slightly more complex than that.

She looked up as they entered, and smiled.

“Hello, everyone. How are we all?”

A low growl rumbled from Carnegie's throat. Marianne carried on talking as she filled a second cup.

“There's not enough tea for you all, I'm afraid. You should have told Georgina you were coming.”

“Marianne,” said the wereman, through clenched teeth. “I'm surprised to see you here.”

“I just thought I'd come round and see how the Jouberts were doing. This business puts such a terrible strain on a family, you know.”

“She's been ever so kind,” Georgina whispered. “Please, won't you all sit down?”

They arranged themselves uncomfortably on an assortment of chairs. Jonathan could see that Carnegie was inwardly seething. The weremen flexed his fingers, as if he was itching to throttle Marianne, and sent a volley of vicious glances in the bounty hunter's direction. If Georgina was aware of the threat of violence in the air, she chose to ignore it. She handed Raquella the baby and took a cautious sip of her tea.

“It's very good of you to come, Mr Carnegie, but I'm not sure what you could do to help us. My William's vanished into thin air, and I don't know why.”

“Raquella mentioned that there was a note mentioning some kind of secret.”

A shadow passed across Georgina's face.

“Whatever it was, he kept it well hidden from me. Oh, don't get me wrong, I knew that
something
had happened. We didn't always live like this.” She gestured at the cramped sitting room. “During the first years of our marriage, William had real prospects. He had a job lined up in the most lucrative bank in Darkside. He was going to be one of the most important men in the borough, and everyone knew it. The jealous looks I used to get when we went out riding in our carriage. . .”

Georgina smiled at the memory, then looked down at her cup. When she spoke again, her voice was brittle.

“And then we received a letter from the bank informing us that the job offer had been withdrawn. Just like that . . . it was gone. Something in William died that day. He tried to get other work, but everywhere he went doors were slammed in his face. It was as if someone was trying to stop him getting any sort of job. And it wasn't just work, either. All our friends turned their backs on us. No one would help. William couldn't even get into the Cain Club any more.”

Jonathan and Arthur exchanged wide-eyed glances. The reporter was about to ask a question when suddenly the door to the front room opened and Humble and Skeet entered.

Thinking about it, Jonathan should have known that Marianne wouldn't have come here alone. Even so, it was a shock to be suddenly confronted with them. The giant mute Humble's head brushed the ceiling of the room, forcing him to hunch over. His face was lined with jagged scars, a reminder of his brush with death in the Pool of Pain. Incongruously, a small child was clinging to his trouser leg. At the sight of Jonathan, his ever-present smile faltered, and malice glinted in his eyes. The feral Skeet followed closely behind, his bald head twitching with nervous energy. Both creatures were dressed in their usual undertakers' outfits, which seemed horribly appropriate given the funereal air of the Joubert house.

Instinctively, Carnegie sprang to his feet, claws at the ready. He would have charged forward had Jonathan not held his arm and gestured at Georgina, who was taking her baby back from Raquella. The wereman glared at the boy, but then sat back down. At the same time, Marianne looked over at Humble and shook her head.

“It's always nice when old friends meet,” she said cheerfully. “But let's catch up at a more . . .
appropriate
time, shall we?”

Behind Georgina's back, Humble made a throat-slitting gesture at Jonathan. Skeet made a small, impatient sound, his hands straying behind his back, where, Jonathan presumed, he had stored a weapon.

“Danny's not being a nuisance, is he?” Georgina absently asked the mute.

Humble shook his head, the grin returning to his face. He patted the small boy on the head.

“Humble gets on famously with children,” Marianne said proudly. “They love him.”

Arthur cleared his throat. “I'm sorry to press you, Mrs Joubert, but you mentioned something about the Cain Club earlier. William was a member there?”

“A member? He practically lived there – before he met me, of course. He was always spending time with those friends of his. A right gang of mischief makers they were, too.”

Suddenly everything fell into place for Jonathan. “He was friends with Humphrey Granville, wasn't he?”

Georgina looked surprised. “I wasn't meant to know, you understand. They were so secretive, wearing masks and calling each other ‘Brother this' and ‘Brother that'. But William told me about some of his friends – the Gentlemen, they called each other – and Humphrey was one of them. He was known as Brother Rake.”

Everybody sat up. Even Humble looked interested. Jonathan's mind was racing. If Raquella's father was tied up in all of this, it was little wonder he had fled. But where to? The killer had managed to track down both Edwin and Humphrey. Was anywhere in Darkside safe? The atmosphere in the room, already tense, had been electrified by the revelation. Georgina carried on talking, dreamily oblivious.

“But when things turned sour for William and me, his ‘friends' disappeared just like everyone else. It was a horrible time for him. For both of us.”

Raquella squeezed her mother's arm, who gave her a sad smile in return.

“Still, can't complain,” Georgina said, trying to put a brave face of things. “I've got the children to look after me.”

“Georgina,” Carnegie said softly. “This could be important. Can you remember any more of William's friends?”

She frowned. “It was such a long time ago. There were five Gentlemen, thick as thieves they were . . . William, Humphrey and . . . oh,
him
.” Georgina shuddered. “An odious man, he was. Came round to our house a couple of times, didn't have a good word to say about anybody. De Quincy, he was called. Nicholas de Quincy. A blackmailer. Why? Do you think he might have something to do with William going missing?”

“I don't know for certain,” Carnegie replied. “But we're going to make damn sure we find out. Do know where this de Quincy lives now?”

Georgina shook her head. “I haven't seen the man in over a decade. And I'll be quite happy if I don't see him again for another.”

Marianne finished the last of her tea and placed the saucer gracefully down on to the table. “Well, Georgina. I think we've imposed on you long enough.”

Producing a pen and a piece of paper, she quickly wrote something down and folded it up. Then she kissed Raquella's mother on the cheek. “If you need anything, don't hesitate to get in touch.”

She turned to the rest of the room.

“It's been lovely seeing you all again. Let's not leave it so long next time, shall we?”

Marianne dropped the piece of paper into a surprised Jonathan's lap, winked, and flowed out of the room. Humble gently disentangled Danny from his leg and followed her.

His hands trembling slightly, Jonathan unfolded the note and read Marianne's message.

“What is it?” asked Carnegie.

“Directions,” Jonathan replied. “She's told us where we can find Nicholas de Quincy.”

 

 

O
ne o'clock in the morning, and three figures were standing next to a carriage pulled over by the side of a dirt-track. They had travelled many miles south-west, away from the perpetual chaos of the Grand, over the haunted arches of Baelmonk Bridge and out on to narrow, rutted tracks that ran past the sickly brown hedges and saplings that passed for countryside in the borough. Even in the shroud of night, all three figures cast distinctive silhouettes: one tall and skinny, one small and round, while the huge outline of the third was crowned by a magnificent stovepipe hat.

Arthur paused from rubbing boot polish into his face to give Carnegie a peevish look. “Couldn't you at least leave the hat in the carriage?”

“Someone might steal it! Anyway, where I go, the hat goes.”

The reporter sighed, and put the boot polish back into a shapeless bag hanging from his shoulder. “We might as well make a start. The moon's behind some fairly thick cloud cover, which should help us.”

Carnegie looked at Arthur with interest. “Since when have you been an expert on burglary?”

He shrugged. “I'm a reporter. Sometimes you've got to go that extra bit further to get a scoop.”

“What, into people's bedrooms?”

“I have done in the past. After all, it was how I solved the mystery of the kidnapped Wilberforce twins. What's so funny?”

Jonathan was unsuccessfully trying to stifle a laugh. “I'm sorry, Arthur. It's just that . . . well, you don't exactly look like your average burglar.”

The reporter glared at him. “I was breaking into mansions on Savage Row while you were still soiling nappies. You just worry about yourself.” He consulted Marianne's note again. “Now, if the bounty hunter's right, de Quincy's house should back on to these woods here. Follow me, and try to watch where you're putting your feet.”

Arthur moved into the woodland with surprising stealth, while Carnegie padded silently along behind him. In contrast, Jonathan had to concentrate on each footstep, trying to avoid treading on the brittle twigs and crackling leaves. Around him, tendrils of mist drifted dolefully around slender tree trunks. Removed from the factories and chimneystacks that dominated the centre of Darkside, the air in the wood was cleaner and crisper than Jonathan was used to. His breath made frosty patterns in the air.

He was beginning to lose track of the time they had spent tiptoeing through the wood when suddenly Carnegie placed a warning hand on his arm. Through the darkness, Jonathan could discern a high stone wall looming up in front of them. The woodland had been cleared from around it, preventing anyone from gaining easy access via the trees. If the edifice was not imposing enough, sharpened spikes had been placed on top of the wall.

Carnegie shook his head. “De Quincy
really
doesn't want any visitors.”

Arthur reached into his bag and pulled out a length of rope, attached to a small grappling hook. “I imagine the wall's the least of our problems,” he said.

Paying out a length of rope for himself, he swung the grappling hook round in a couple of practice arcs before casting it up and over the wall. With a cold, clinking sound, the grapple caught on one of the spikes and stuck in place. Carnegie nodded with approval.

“Nice shot. You're wasted on journalism.”

Arthur spat on both hands, took a firm grasp of the rope, and began to climb. Jonathan looked on, open-mouthed. He would never have thought it possible, but somehow the reporter was able to haul his bulky frame up the wall. Arthur's arms had to be remarkably strong. Jonathan was reminded what a dangerous life he led, and how many assassination attempts he had survived. At times it was easy to underestimate the reporter, but beneath the rolls of flesh lay a will of iron.

At the top of the wall, Arthur manoeuvred himself into a perched position between two of the spikes. He checked that the coast was clear before nodding to Carnegie, who pulled himself up with ease. Jonathan took a deep breath, and began his ascent. He had never been the most adept at gym in school, and the mist had made the rope slippery. One step at a time, however, his feet sought out footholds in the wall, and he found himself making slow but steady progress up it. Eventually the spikes hove into view, and a strong arm was lifting him into a sitting position.

“Not bad for a first time,” said Carnegie.

Jonathan nodded, too out of breath to reply. Beside him, Arthur was peering out over the grounds like the lookout on a pirate ship. Jonathan followed his gaze.

“What on earth is that?” he breathed.

Before them loomed a circular domed structure in the middle of a vast expanse of gravel. Forbidding metal walls rose high up into the air. A dead shell of a building, it was lined with rows and rows of blank windows, many with smashed panes. No lights were visible anywhere.

“Of course!” Arthur replied. “The Panopticon!”

“Pan-what?”

“Panopticon. It's a kind of prison. It was built by the authorities before Darkside was cut off from the rest of London. They thought it might help cut the crime rate, but it didn't work.”

“Why not?”

Arthur gave him a sideways look. “Darksiders aren't huge fans of prisons. There were so many people on the outside trying to help the prisoners escape that the place fell under siege. The wardens scarpered when Darkside was founded, and it's been disused ever since. To be honest, I'd forgotten it existed.”

Jonathan examined the foreboding structure again. “And Marianne reckons de Quincy
lives
here?”

The reporter shrugged. “It's not exactly homely, but you can bet it's secure. Shall we go and investigate?”

Out of the corner of his eye, Jonathan noticed something moving. “Hang on a minute. What's that there?”

He pointed at two shapes bounding across the grounds in their direction.

“Oh. Dogs,” said Arthur. “I don't like dogs.”

To Jonathan's mind, the word “dogs” didn't really do justice to the hellhounds galloping towards them. They were nearly the size of small ponies, and their movements rippled with a muscular ferocity. With every bark, they displayed slavering jaws bursting with teeth. On reaching the section of the wall the three intruders were balancing upon, the hounds began pawing at it, their claws ripping chunks out of the brickwork. Jonathan drew back in horror. One slip now, and he would be ripped to shreds.

Without a word, Carnegie dropped down from the wall, one hand clamping his hat down on to his head, and his overcoat flapping like bat wings in the breeze around him. As the wereman landed, the beasts made to lunge at him, only to pause in bewilderment. They stopped barking and pawing. One sniffed him gingerly, and then nuzzled his leg with its head.

Carnegie looked up at his companions, smiling. “Come on. It's all right. They're crossbreeds – half wolf. They won't hurt you while I'm here.”

Arthur paid the rope out down the other side of the wall and lowered himself down to the ground. After a dubious pause, so did Jonathan. The hounds eyed them both with interest, but no malice. Carnegie stroked the dog on his left-hand side.

“See? They're fine.”

At that moment the moon was unveiled from behind the clouds. The grounds of the Panopticon were bathed with a pale light, which picked out a silhouette moving along the skyline.

“What on Darkside?” muttered Carnegie.

A figure was swinging arm-over-arm across a rope that stretched between the perimeter wall and the Panopticon. Despite the fact that one false move would send him hurtling to his death, he moved through the air with the graceful ease of a ballerina.

“It's that guy from the Cain Club!” Jonathan exclaimed.

“Impressive,” Carnegie said grudgingly. “In a showy sort of way.”

“But if he's the murderer, we've got to get inside right now! Come on!”

Jonathan set off like a greyhound towards the building, his feet biting into the gravel. Focused on the Panopticon, he dimly registered the presence of Carnegie and the hounds hurtling along near him, and heard Arthur wheezing painfully at the rear. The gravel seemed to go on endlessly, and Jonathan ran till his lungs burned and his legs ached. Above his head, the intruder swung almost lazily along the rope, narrowing the gap to the dome of the prison with every stretch.

Suddenly Jonathan was under the cold shadow of the Panopticon. Up close, the prison was even more forbidding. Constructed on a foundation of desperation and madness, it had none of the dreadful elegance of other buildings in Darkside. In years gone by the pockmarked walls had repelled outsiders as mercilessly as they had trapped the screams of its inmates. Now they stood impassively silent. The front entrance was a thick metal door, whose primary function was to deny entry rather than allow it.

Jonathan shook his head and turned to see Carnegie and the hounds jogging up to him.

“This place is a fortress. Can we go through one of the windows?” he asked.

The wereman shook his head. “They're cells. You'd just end up behind bars. We'll have to go through the front door.”

Carnegie sized up the metal entrance and made as if to shoulder-charge it, when a ragged shout behind him pulled him up short.

“Wait!”

Arthur staggered up to them, exhausted. “You'll never get in that way. Let me try.”

Dipping back inside his bag, the reporter pulled out a leather wallet containing a set of long, thin pieces of metal. He got down on to his knees and began inserting different combinations into the lock. Looking upwards, Jonathan saw the intruder reach the end of the rope and haul himself on to the side of the dome.

“Hurry, Arthur!”

The reporter grimaced. “This isn't any ordinary lock. It's going to take a bit of time.”

Sweat was running down Arthur's face like a waterfall. He paused to mop his forehead with a handkerchief, and then attacked the lock with renewed vigour. Slipping one wire into the top of the lock, he jiggled a second around in the bottom, hoping to catch the mechanism.

Carnegie growled with frustration. “We haven't got all night.”

“Well, if you just let me concentrate I might be able to. . .”

There was a loud click.

“Gotcha!” Arthur cried.

The door swung open to reveal a dark corridor leading deeper into the heart of the Panopticon. The hounds sniffed the dank air cautiously, and then took several paces backwards. Jonathan glanced nervously at Arthur.

“That's not a good sign.”

From inside the building there was a prolonged bloodcurdling scream, and the definitive report of a pistol.