The Affair of the Porcelain Dog (22 page)

"So you do trust me, after all."

The words caught me up short. Lazarus was sneaky, too clever for his own good, and I wouldn't put it past him to manipulate our situation to put me in my place. But he was fundamentally honorable. He wouldn't
intentionally
cause injury.

"I trust you to do the decent thing," I said. "I trust you to do what you can to help those children without sending Goddard and me to Pentonville."

He rolled his blood-flecked sleeves back down over his forearms and fished a pair of gold cufflinks from his pocket.

"A gift when I finished my training at the London Hospital," he said as he tacked his cuffs shut. "They remind me of happier times."

"I really do trust you, Tim," I said.

"I suppose I'm forced to trust you as well."

His tone said it was only because he didn't have a better choice.

"Ira, if you do find the dog, don't let Goddard use it to punish St. Andrews. He's a good man, and he was serious about letting bygones be bygones."

I believed him. I had believed St. Andrews when he'd said as much in the brougham. And after everything Lazarus had told me, I didn't think I could live with myself if Goddard's revenge sent old Tim to prison, too.

I held out my hand.

"Battlefield comrades?"

Lazarus clasped it with a grim smile.

"You have twenty-four hours," he said. "Leave the watch and the documents you took from Fitzroy Street. If you're not back here by noon tomorrow, I'll go to the police as well as to St. Andrews."

"You wouldn't!" I cried.

"If I want to clear my name," he said, "I have to deal with Acton. I intend to do this by handing over evidence of his crimes to the police and letting them do the dirty work. If the watch can give us any additional information about Acton, Sinclair, or Mr. Turnbull, all the better. But, Adler, if you double-cross me, I'll have no compunction about turning you over to them as well. And if Goddard isn't as happy to see you as he ought to be," he added, "you might appreciate a constable popping by to check on your welfare."

I swallowed. That was one angle I hadn't considered. As far as Goddard was concerned, I had accepted his ring before disappearing and turning up in his blackmailer's brothel. God only knew how St. Andrews had presented the situation in his message.

"Fair enough," I said.

Lazarus gave my fingers a squeeze and withdrew his hand.

"As for your friend," he said with a nod toward Nate, "Pearl will send for the coffin maker. It'll have to be St. Bride's, unless you can pay for something else. Now go home. You haven't slept, and you need to speak to Goddard. I'm sure he's itching to know how on earth you came to be arrested in a brothel raid."

Itching
. I winced at the reminder of my affliction. Goddard and I would discuss the future of the
soi-disant
butler as well. But first I needed a cab. I patted the pockets of the loaned trousers. Empty, of course.

"Don't suppose you've got cab fare?" I asked.

Lazarus rolled his eyes, fishing the requested coins from his pocket.

"I'll owe you," I said, reluctantly handing over the watch.

"I'll put it on your tab."

It took forever to find a cab. So when the dilapidated two-seater pulled up the curb outside the clinic, I fell on it. The roof and walls gave small relief from the heat, but the upholstery was soft with wear. As I leaned back onto it, the tall wooden wheels creaking on either side as the driver navigated us back into the flow of vehicles, I wished for all the world that I could switch off my thoughts and have a kip.

But of course it was not to be.

Two days ago, Goddard had sent me to retrieve a porcelain dog containing evidence incriminating him, Andrew St. Andrews, and Nick Sinclair--evidence to do with certain mistakes of Goddard's youth, possibly dating back to the three men's association at Cambridge. After Goddard's and St. Andrews's ignoble expulsion from the university, Goddard and Sinclair had gone into the opium business together with Zhi Sen. Goddard and Sinclair had fallen out, and Zhi Sen had been given custody of the dog by mutual agreement. Sometime in the past few months, Sinclair had got his hands on it, and was using the evidence inside to blackmail Goddard and St. Andrews--for what reason, Goddard had not seen fit to reveal. Mrs. Wu had the dog now, and whether she was working with Sinclair or on her own was unknown.

On the other side of the equation, there was my old friend Nate, currently laid out on a table in Lazarus's surgery waiting for the coffin maker. It had been chance he had contacted me again after years of separation. Perhaps our history allowed him to trust me with the details of his dire situation, and the fact I moved in higher circles now had given him the impression I was in a position to help him. His murder had been inevitable, though. When he chose to go up against Edward Acton, brothel owner, opium importer, and personal physician to kings and generals, he'd taken on the politicians and aristocrats for whom Acton was procuring Afghan children. Not even Goddard himself could have saved him.

Chance had crossed Nate's path once more with mine, but the more I thought about it, the more evident it became that Goddard's blackmail and Nate's murder were connected. Goddard's erstwhile business partner Sinclair had also been the manager of Acton's brothel--the brothel where Nate had worked.

And there was Mrs. Wu.

Two days ago Mrs. Wu had lifted the porcelain dog off me in Miller's Court. Nate asked me on his deathbed to deliver a message to her. But how on earth had he known her?

It had to be opium. Acton imported it, Zhi Sen distributed it, and Nate kept track of the opium transactions for Acton's brothel. Nate might have run messages between the brothel and Zhi Sen. Perhaps this was how he and Mrs. Wu had met. But Zhi Sen was Goddard's partner, not Acton's. He distributed the opium Goddard imported. And Acton supplied the brothel with his own high-alkaloid opium and didn't need what Zhi Sen could provide. So the brothel wasn't getting its opium
from
Zhi Sen, but perhaps it was supplying the new, stronger drug
to
him. This would make sense if Zhi Sen and Sinclair--Acton's distributor--were going into business together again with the intention of driving Goddard out.

But why go to the bother of blackmailing Goddard and St. Andrews if he and Zhi Sen had a superior product in sufficient quantity? They could easily put Goddard out of business--and St. Andrews had nothing to do with any of it.

Unless he and Goddard had something that Sinclair wanted. Information? Evidence of a greater crime? Or perhaps St. Andrews wasn't selling his silence so easily anymore...

The road smoothed out as we came to the well-groomed streets around Regent's Park--yet every stumble and creak rang in my bones. My eyes burned from lack of sleep. My head pounded. I could have murdered a rack of lamb right then. Or even a crust of bread and rind of cheese. But first I had to set things right with Goddard. The sun crept out from behind the clouds and danced for a moment across my ring. Goddard had to know I hadn't deserted him on the very night he had offered me loyalty, fidelity, and eternity. And if it was the last thing I did, I had to see that manservant sacked.

The cab pulled up in front of the house as the Great Clock struck one. I paid the driver and sent him on his way. The red brick structure had come to mean so much more than a place to hang my hat. It was security, permanence, a life I'd experienced only in vicarious bits and snatches through my clients' clean clothes, their soap-scented skin, their endearments and blasphemies murmured in apologetic middle-class tones. A feeling of foreboding descended as I put my hand to the iron railing. I'd only been gone a day--a day Collins had no doubt spent whispering all manner of slander into Goddard's ear. And, if that weren't enough, I hadn't my keys. Sighing, I rang the bell.

"I'm not going to ask your permission to enter," I said when Collins opened the door.

How fortunate the stained glass had obscured the manservant's view of me until it was too late. It was interesting to watch recognition dawn on his doughy face as he took in the threadbare shirt, rough pants, and worn boots from the clinic's charity box. In addition to recognition, his expression also betrayed surprise, and though he'd better control of his emotions than to let me scent fear, I could see him calculating furiously how best to be rid of me.

"Thought you'd frightened me off, did you? Clever business with the rose hips. It's almost a shame to spoil it by telling your master. Though I can't see how you'll remain in his employ after this."

The manservant lifted his chin slightly, but showed no intention of moving his massive frame aside. I might have been able to squeeze past, if he were distracted by a swift kick to the testicles. Of course, that might only have made the gorilla irate. There was a brief commotion in the background followed by footsteps on the stairs. My heart leaped when I heard Goddard call,

"Collins, who's there?"

"The master is not at home to salesmen," Collins said loudly. "And for future reference, you'd be well advised to present yourself at the tradesmen's entrance next time."

He moved to slam the door, but I'd a foot in by that point. He glanced back at Goddard. I slid in my leg. By the time Goddard came into view--burgundy smoking jacket, dark trousers, Chinese slippers, and a tumbler of whisky in one hand--I had half my body in.

"Cain, it's me!" I called.

"He came for his things," Collins said through clenched teeth.

He struggled to push the door closed, but I slid past him, pulling my left leg through just as the door crashed shut behind me. I managed one step toward the staircase before the manservant jerked me around by the shoulder.

I instinctively spun into the turn as all of the rage and panic of the past day came back to me. It burned a path down my left arm and my fingers came together in one magnificent punch. There was a crunch as my fist met the manservant's jaw. Collins stumbled back half a step and blinked. Then he lifted me by my shirt collar and heaved me into the door.

"Stop it, both of you," Goddard said as I slid toward the floor. There was a pause, and he added, "Have you any idea how much that stained glass cost?"

He stepped onto the checkerboard tile, sipping his whisky and frowning down at me. His clothing was clean and pressed but he hadn't been shaved that morning, and the shadow beneath his eyes told of his own sleepless night. Perhaps that was why he was indulging in a midday whisky--which he normally would have eschewed.

"Have you come for your things, then, Ira?" he asked.

"Can we talk about this alone?"

I rubbed at the back of my skull with my good hand. Goddard took another sip of whisky, rolling it around his mouth for what seemed like an hour before he said, "I don't see why not."

"But, sir," Collins began.

"Leave us," said Goddard.

The manservant made a show of straightening his shirt, shooting me a black glare as he made his way to the servants' stairs. Goddard shut the door behind him and helped me to my feet.

"The morning room?" I asked. My hands were trembling as I hung up St. Andrews's coat. Goddard didn't seem to have noticed.

"After you."

As he pulled the double doors closed behind us, I was overcome by a sense of deja vu. Despite the flourishes I'd added here and there, the decor was essentially the same as the day when Goddard had asked me to stay. The olive sofa still sat along one edge of the Chinese rug. The deep leather armchair before the fire had become two, but they were identical. Books lined the shelves. A desk sat before a tall window. The sill was set about with green plants in such a way so the light filtered through them, rather than flooding the room. And beyond the window, Goddard's prized roses basked in the summer heat, a mocking reminder of how I had come to be a visitor in my own morning room.

"Ira," he began.

"Your manservant," I said, turning from the window, "has been sabotaging my undergarments."

"I beg your pardon? Whisky?"

I nodded. Goddard topped off his whisky from a cut glass decanter on a cart beside the sofa. When he was finished, he prepared a second glass for me.

"He made an itching powder from rose hips and put it inside my drawers," I continued. "It's invisible and uncomfortable as the very devil. Rather like the symptoms of a venereal disease, though I wouldn't know from personal experience."

"You don't say."

He crossed the carpet to press a glass into my hand. He leaned against the back of his armchair, gesturing for me to continue.

"He's been doing it for at least a month, and the entire time, I've been worrying myself stupid about what you'd do if I turned out to be diseased. He's done it before. He didn't admit it, of course. He spoke of the legions of young men that you'd taken under your wing, who had subsequently developed similar symptoms, then vanished without a trace."

Goddard tapped his fingers on the rim of his glass. A vituperative diatribe against his manservant was probably the last thing he'd thought he'd be entertaining that afternoon. I could see him weighing my words against whatever lies Collins had been putting forth to explain my disappearance.