The Affair of the Porcelain Dog (31 page)

"Good," I said.

Lazarus smiled.

"I must admit to a most unchristian glee," he said, helping himself to coffee. "And relief. I can't tell you how relieved I am."

I could imagine. He had been hiding from Acton for nearly a decade. Now he could reclaim his name, start his own practice, and make a real life for himself.

"I'm sure your Bess will be happy that there are no further obstacles to your marriage," I said.

At the mention of her name, Lazarus's chest swelled, and his face flushed with pleasure. Perhaps there really was more to this marriage nonsense than the desire for respectability. He patted the waistcoat pocket where he kept her portrait.

"I spoke to her this morning. She's been ever so understanding."

"How understanding?" I asked.

I had no intention of making trouble for Lazarus. If he wanted to marry a carthorse, I wouldn't stand in his way. But he'd hidden his identity from Acton since the war; the degree to which it weighed on him was etched into his face. Was he prepared to hide from his wife for the rest of his life? It was possible, though I couldn't fathom it, that he harbored carnal desires for this woman. Even if he didn't, he seemed willing to put that part of himself aside for now. But would it ultimately be enough for either of them?

Lazarus met my eyes.

"Bess and I have no secrets, but we've agreed that the past belongs in the past."

"Then I wish you both the best." I mopped up a puddle of yolk with some toast and shoved it all into my mouth. "Are you going to call yourself Parker now?"

"Do swallow before you speak, Adler." He sighed. "Only my mother still knows me as Parker. Of course I'll set my civil records straight. But I've been Lazarus for so long now that I'm not sure I know how to respond to anything else. Perhaps I'll change it legally."

I made a noncommittal, food-muffled noise and shook the newspaper out in front of me. I was about to fold it over when four lines in the bottom left-hand corner caught my eye.

"By God," I said.

No doubt Lazarus had passed over the little article because it hadn't meant anything to him. It meant the world to me.

The body of a man shot dead two nights ago in Miller's Court remains unidentified. No witnesses to the shooting have come forward. Due to the position of the wound, the police do not consider the death a suicide. The pistol has not been recovered.

"She did it." I laughed.

Lazarus frowned.

"The body is Acton's man, Morrison," I said, slapping the paper. "Mrs. Wu got away after all. By God!"

"Well, then," Lazarus said with obvious satisfaction.

"Has she returned for the children?" I asked.

"No," he said. "Actually, Pearl seems to be taking your suggestion about starting an orphanage to heart--more of a shelter, really, for young people trying to make their way out of the flesh trade. She's already twisted the arms of a number of donors. I've volunteered my services as needed, and Bess trained as a teacher in America. Did you know that?"

"No," I said.

"The only thing left is to find a building and give it a name. Any suggestions?"

I took a thoughtful bite of bacon and washed it down with the rest of my coffee.

"Turnbull House," I said.

Lazarus's face broke into a grin.

"Yes. I think that would suit very well indeed."

He grinned at me for a moment more, and then, as if remembering himself, straightened his waistcoat and muttered something about crumbs in the bed. Nothing more remained of my excellent breakfast, and so, like the excellent host that he was, he stacked the plates neatly and set the tray back on top of the bedside table. St. Andrews's guest room was expensively furnished, though the thickly painted wood and the gold-touched curlicues were not to my taste. If anything, they reminded me how very much I was missing my own modest room.

"I meant what I said about going home," I told Lazarus.

He narrowed his eyes. He seemed to have resigned himself to my leaving, but there was something else bothering him.

"Yes," he said, chewing a nail thoughtfully, "about that... The thing is, Adler, St. Andrews sent Goddard a message the moment you were out of danger. He's sent two per day since then, but there's been no reply."

It took a moment for his words to register. My first thought was that Goddard had thrown the messages onto the fire unread. But Goddard wasn't stupid. He disliked St. Andrews, but, given the past week, he'd have recognized the importance of any communication from the man. My second thought was much worse: that following the explosion, Goddard was in no shape to respond.

"Oh, God," I whispered.

I wasn't sorry I'd chosen to go after Lazarus two nights ago instead of following Goddard's carriage home. Tim would have died horribly at Acton's hands. Mrs. Wu, too. And we wouldn't have recovered the porcelain dog. But I should have returned to York Street after delivering Lazarus into Fenwick's capable hands. Instead, I'd fainted like a lady and spent the last two days playing patient while Cain...God. My own selfishness was nauseating.

Where would I be without Goddard? Without his strength, his direction...without his companionship? Not to mention that I had no legal right to remain at York Street. If he was dead, where would I go?

And if he was alive, he needed me now more than ever.

"I've got to go to him," I said. "Stop me at your peril."

Lazarus took a step back at the violence in my voice. Then he nodded. "Then let's have a look at those feet."

I swung my legs to the side of the bed and threw off the blankets. As I did, an earthy odor of carbolic and sweat rose from the bedcovers. I'd been wearing the same robe for two days and a night, but the bandages had been recently changed. Lazarus found the end of the fabric strip and carefully unrolled the bandage from my left foot first, then from my right.

"Not bad," he said, nodding. "Not bad at all. Yes." He looked up. "You won't be comfortable, but the danger is over. I'll have Fenwick bring you some of St. Andrews's old clothes."

The larger blisters were still raw in the centers. The marks left by the leeches were unmistakable. But the smaller wounds and lacerations had healed under Lazarus's diligent care. Shoes would hurt, but I didn't have far to walk.

"Thank you," I said as he wadded the soiled cloths into a ball.

"All in a day's work."

"No, Tim," I said, pausing until he met my eyes. "Thank you."

∗ ∗ ∗

The short walk from St. Andrews's abode to my own felt interminable, but it gave me time, once my initial panic had dispersed, to think.

More than anything, I wanted to find Goddard unharmed. Bruised, perhaps, possessed of some lingering injury, which might inspire him to turn his attention to different facets of his business--or perhaps to remind him that the harm resulting from his actions might be visited upon his own house. If this were the case, then I could take my place at his side without reservation. But if he refused to acknowledge the suffering that he'd caused, then I'd no idea how I could be convinced to stay. It was an unsettling conclusion, for I couldn't very well repair back to Baker Street. And yet I'd never been more certain of anything in my life.

From the outside, the house looked exactly as it always did: clean red bricks, scrubbed steps, lace curtains, and unblemished windows. But the moment I stepped across the threshold, I knew that something was wrong. There were no flowers on the vestibule table. The air was thin and stale. Though Eileen hadn't allowed a speck of dust to settle, the house was clearly unoccupied. My stomach began to sink. Had Goddard been recovering upstairs, the vestibule would be filled with flowers and well wishes. Had he been on his deathbed, it would have been bursting with members of his organization jockeying for a position in the new hierarchy. Five unopened letters lay on the vestibule table where the silver vase had once stood.

"Mr. Ira, sir?"

I whirled at Eileen's voice behind me. Standing in the doorway to the servants' stairs, she wore a plain black dress with a black band tied around her upper arm.

"No," I whispered.

And yet the truth was all too plain. The house was deserted, the maid in a mourning dress. I felt the blood drain from my face. Shaking, I lowered myself onto the bench beside the hat rack as panic overtook me. Goddard was dead. How could the world go on without him? How could
I
go on?

"When, Eileen?" I demanded. "How? How on earth could this have happened?"

She frowned as if my questions were completely out of line. Eileen was only sixteen, and yet, between her severe expression and the contrast of her pale skin against the black, she presented a formidable figure. She smoothed down her apron indignantly.

"I 'as it on good aufority wot Mr. Collins ain't comin' back," she said, her voice defiant. "The master says wot I earned it."

"He says..."

Says
, not
said
.

My heart leaped. My panic cleared. And for the first time I saw things as they actually were. The girl-of-all-work wasn't wearing a mourning dress at all. And Eileen was no longer a mere maid. She was clad in the crisp uniform of a housekeeper. After Collins's departure, she had stepped into his place.

And if Goddard were dead, he couldn't have promoted her. The armband was for Collins.

A small smile tugged at her thin lips. Her dignified coif, unmarred by a lowly mobcap, suited her. She was actually quite a bit taller when she held herself erect.

"Then...then...Cain is..."

"In Buda-pesth," she said. "Wot'd you think, silly? 'E weren't back 'alf an hour when 'e gets a message. 'Pack me bags,' 'e tell me. I say 'e don' look so good, maybe 'e should go lie down. 'Pack me bags,' 'e say again. I say ain't you gon' wait for Mr. Ira, and 'e says, 'Things is movin' too fast to wait. Tell Mr. Ira to meet me in Buda-pesth.'"

"Of course," I said with a nervous little laugh. "Of course. I knew that."

Weak-kneed I stood, my heart pounding with relief now rather than terror.

Goddard was alive and waiting for me in the flat he kept in Montmartre. He called the place 'Buda-pesth' because of the building's distinctive architectural style--and because telling someone as honest as Eileen where he was really going would have been like sending it in letters to whoever he believed was pursuing him.

"'E left this for you, sir," she said, producing a letter from the pocket of her new uniform. The wax seal was still intact. Fingers trembling, I ripped it open.

My dear boy,

Urgent business compels me away. I know you disapprove of EA, but if this succeeds, I shall personally drown your conscience in Perrier-Jouet. In the meantime, I am in most desperate need of your services. Come at once.

C

My heart sank again, and I sat back down on the bench.

A year earlier I'd have flown out the door without a second thought. But that day the note made my blood run cold. Knowing how I felt about Acton and why, Goddard had left on an errand for him. And though the news of Acton's death had, no doubt, reached Paris by now, it was all too clear how Goddard would respond when I insisted he leave the opium trade. I crumpled the note in my hand.

"Shall I pack your bags, then, Mr. Ira?" Eileen asked.

"No," I said, numb. What now? What now? Resignation settled over me as I realized what I had to do. I suddenly felt so tired. "Just set up my desk in the blue room."

I seated myself at the desk in my bedroom. I hadn't slept in the bed since that cold night so long ago. How I had delighted in the soft mattress, in the crisp, lavender-scented cotton that had surrounded me as I'd drifted off to sleep, safe for the first time in my life! How I had clung to that taste of security, vowing that I would sell my very soul if somehow I could remain there. I suppose I had done just that.

Pen in hand, heart in throat, I must have lingered over that empty page for an hour. How could I explain my desertion in terms that Goddard would understand? And how could I convince myself that I wasn't making the biggest mistake of my life?

In the end it came down to this: my life had been torn apart at an early age because of the business that made Goddard rich. One might argue, rightly, that the same business had later enriched me beyond my wildest dreams. But nothing came without a cost. I'd been able to avoid thinking about that for a long time. But when confronted with the people directly affected by Goddard's criminal activities, I'd seen the true cost of my unearned luxury.

Fate was perverse. Nate had tried to do the right thing, and had died horribly, while I, who had tried my damnedest to avoid difficult choices, had been spared. There had to be a reason. And though Goddard would have laughed at the idea, I knew better than to ignore it.

My farewell was short and to the point. I didn't tell him where to find me, because I didn't know where I would find myself. But wherever I did end up, my conscience would be clear. I folded the letter around my ring, slipped it into an envelope, and sealed it with wax. Then I pulled my portmanteau from underneath the bed. The corners were still sharp, and the leather creaked like new, though Goddard had purchased it over a year ago for our first trip to Montmartre. He wouldn't mind if I took it. He'd want me to have it.