The Arnifour Affair (7 page)

“I am a fine specimen of health and vitality,” he answered, nevertheless setting the dumbbells aside.

“Ya need more fat on ya. Ya oughta 'ave a bit a roundness by now like any good man.”

Colin screwed up his face as he went back to his chair and grabbed a fresh cup of tea. “Perish the thought. But what I'd really like to know is why you agreed with my earlier assessment of rotten things at the Arnifours'?”

She leaned over and carefully brushed off the settee where Michael had been before she sat down and slid her well-worn slippers from her swollen feet. “I 'ear things. Everybody says the son's a drunk, the daughter's a harpy, and the ol' lady's been flauntin' about with 'er stable man fer years. She got no use fer that 'usband a 'ers.” She shook her head. “But who can blame 'er? I ‘eard that Earl was 'avin' it off with some chippy. A woman never cheats first, ya know. It ain't in our nature.”

“I'm sure we could disprove that without much effort,” Colin said. “The most perfunctory peek into just about any titled family would garner us a host of women every bit as lascivious as their male counterparts.”

She waved him off. “Ya don't know shite about women.” She stood up and wriggled her toes a moment before stooping to pick up her slippers. “There's a difference between lyin' and cheatin'. Women are better liars than men—which is why we don't think a cheatin' first. It's nature's way a creatin' balance.” She padded across the room, her slippers swinging at her side. “Now I'm gonna go soak me feet. Some of us don't spend 'alf the day on our arses.” And with that final bit of truth she trundled out the door and down the stairs.

“Sometimes it's hard for me to believe she raised you from boyhood. What
was
your father thinking?”

“I'm afraid I didn't give him much choice. I suppose I was a bit hardheaded back then.” He laughed.

“Back then?!” I laughed.

“Well, you must admit, given the amount of gossip she picks up we almost could've stayed home the other day and learned as much about the Arnifours as we did going all the way out there. Though I did learn a great deal poking about their barn.”

“Did you? And is that what makes you so sure Victor is innocent?”

“I think Victor is innocent because he believes his son is guilty. And perhaps he is. I don't know yet. But the only thing Inspector Varcoe is going to succeed in doing is forcing Victor to confess to a crime he didn't commit in some misguided effort to save his boy. Which is precisely why Lady Arnifour hired us. She means for us to keep her dear Victor out of the hangman's noose.”

“But if she suspects who did it, why wouldn't she just tell us and be done with it?”

“Why indeed?!” He toasted the air with his teacup, grinning at me from over its rim.

“So just what did you learn at that barn?”

“I gathered a few details of the attack by poking through its remnants. As Victor pointed out and I'm sure your nose assured by virtue of the residue of kerosene, that fire was deliberately set. I should think the only reason someone would purposefully burn down an old, seldom-used barn would be to hide something.”

“Or perhaps to throw off the authorities. It could've been set for no other reason than as a diversion.”

“That's true.” He stroked his chin and snatched up his hunting knife and kerchief. “The only problem with that idea is that someone went to an extreme amount of trouble to make sure the barn burned all the way down to its barest bones. Think of it, our killer follows Elsbeth that night on his own horse. I'm certain of that given the second set of hooves left at the precise locations where both the Earl and Elsbeth were set upon. Which means this second person watched as Elsbeth met up with the Earl somewhere along the way, helped him up onto her horse, despite Lady Arnifour's insistence that he couldn't have done so, and then followed the two of them down to that barn.”

“How can you be so sure the Earl was able to get up on her horse?”

“The same tracks.” He stood up and went to the fireplace, his brow furrowed and his hands working madly on the sheen of the knife blade. “There were only
two
sets of horse prints evident near the barn. One set deeply imbedded in the earth—a horse bearing the weight of two riders—the other very much lighter. It was the second set, the lighter tracks, that I followed in order to discern the short distance the Earl was able to run before being struck down. The first blow came from atop that second horse. Once he'd fallen, the rider dismounted and delivered the mortal wound.”

I swallowed hard, chilled in spite of the firelight dancing off the sides of my face. “And Elsbeth?”

“Also struck from above.” He set the knife onto the mantel and gazed into the fire, his eyes gradually unfocusing as he stared at the gently licking tongues of flame. “But she'd gotten quite a bit farther by the time the killer turned his attentions on her. She was heading in a forty-five-degree angle away from the barn, back toward the woods. The killer remounted his horse, chased her down, and struck her full in the face.”

“Good god . . .”

“Indeed. And then . . . ,” a scowl crossed his face, twisting it with confusion, “. . . after all that, the killer went back to the barn, saturated it with kerosene, and set it ablaze. If he meant only to confuse the boorish inspector and his sycophants he could have tossed in a match and fled. It was old; it would have burned just fine. But that's
not
what he did. He took the time to deliberately soak that decrepit pile of timbers, so much so that nearly two weeks later it still
reeks
of kerosene. Why? It
has
to be more than sleight of hand. There has to be something we aren't supposed to find.”

“But what? What if it
is
just a deception?”

He slid his eyes back to me. “That
is
the question then, isn't it?”

CHAPTER 10

W
e disembarked from a cab the next morning earlier than the sun could be expected to properly infiltrate the streets and alleyways edging the tall, grimy brick buildings of Stepney Green. We'd set out from our flat at just after six thirty, which meant it couldn't be more than half past seven by the time we stepped onto the filthy cobbled street.

“Where do we go from here?” Colin asked, sidestepping some filth. “Wouldn't you think they could clean these streets once in a while,” he added irritably.

“Spoken like a man who never comes to the East End.” I chuckled. “It's over there.” I pointed toward an alley distinguished by a soot-covered arch. “But we'll be lucky to find anyone willing to answer the door at this hour.”

“The whole point . . . ,” he explained, delicately picking his way, “. . . is to catch these fine citizens unprepared. Lying is so much more difficult when one is still suffering the scourges of the previous night.”

“Certain we'll be confronted by lies then?”

“Absolutely.”

“Then it's good to see you've learned something from my tenure here,” I chided.

“Learned something?!” He scowled at me. “I saved your ass from this scourge.”

“Yes,” I said with all seriousness as I pulled up short. “You did.” And so he had. At the moment when I was more bone than flesh. When opium's numbing embrace soothed me more utterly than air or water, relentlessly driving every moment of my day and night, he had quite suddenly been there. That fierce, striking boy from the Easling and Temple Senior Academy who I was sure had not known my name had indeed, inexplicably, saved my life.

I gestured to the dingy brick tenement building in front of us enshrouded in soot from its belching chimneys. “This is it.” The entrance door was constructed of warped slabs of wood that appeared to have begun cracking long before Victoria took the throne, and was fouled with unimaginable matter. Distorted, yellowed windows dotted the face of the five-story structure, none without a spider's web of cracks.

“I don't believe for one minute,” Colin said as we stared at the building, “that no one in this hovel saw or heard anything. The business of others is the prime entertainment here.”

“Only until the sun has ambled off. Shall we?”

“After you.” He waved me on. “But let us start with the landlady. I'm most eager to disrupt her day.”

“You don't think we should see Michael first?”

“I'd much prefer to meet the proprietress of this fleapit. Call it a whim . . . call it morbid curiosity . . . but let's call on her first.”

I pushed through the fouled remnants of the door with the cuff of my sleeve and stepped into a musty hallway that was redolent with the scent of stale opium. It struck me like a blow to the face, beguiling my senses with a promise I had long thought relegated to a distant past. I must have faltered, because I felt Colin's hand grip my arm and heard him whisper, “You all right?”

“I'm fine.”

“You don't have to do this,” he said as I plodded forward. “I can speak to her myself.”

“I'm fine,” I said with greater determination as much to convince myself as him. I would not let that fiend manipulate me again. It could have no effect. I'd come too far, been through too much, to be lured by that beast anymore. So I turned my attention to the two dimly lit lamps and the threadbare carpet worn through to the under-planking in places as I kept moving forward. I banished the fact that the walls were stained yellow with age and opium smoke from my mind as I stepped to the first door I came to, noticing that it was standing the slightest bit ajar due to the bow along its spine that left it gaping at its outermost corners, and announced, “This has to be it,” though, in truth, I was only guessing.

“Good,” he said, staring at me a hair's breadth too long before adding, “Then let's have at it.” He stepped forward and pounded on the door with a bellowed,
“Hellooooo! . . .”
like some busybody neighbor come to call.

An instantaneous response blasted back in a shrill tone that sounded like a cat who'd just had its tail crushed under a boot. “ 'Oo in
'ell?! . . .
Oo in the
bloody
'ell . . . ?!”

I slid my eyes to Colin and found him wearing a dazzling smile of great joy. This, I realized, was exactly what he'd been hoping for.

The door jerked open as far as its accompanying chain would allow and a bloodshot eye presented itself in the space. “Oh! . . . A minute, love. . . .” The door clicked shut as best it could and the chain was hurriedly released before it was thrown wide to reveal a thin woman of indeterminate age—though I guessed her to be somewhere in her mid-thirties like me. She was tightly wrapped in a thin yellow robe that revealed more of her anatomy than was proper. “Didn't know I 'ad such a 'andsome gentleman calling.” She leered, batting her eyes a moment before spotting me. “This with you?” she asked halfheartedly.

“Quite.”

“Well, ya can both come in,” she stepped aside, “but I ain't one a those that plays it like that. I can take right care a you,” she winked at Colin as he moved past her, “but yer friend is gonna 'ave ta go upstairs.”

“Particular, are you?” I snorted as I crossed her threshold, glad to find the air inside her flat freer of the cloying scent of opium. “You don't see that often around here.”

“What would you know about what goes on around 'ere?” she sneered as she yanked her precarious robe closed. Her pockmarked face spoke of years of disease and poor health, which instantly made me regret that I'd been so cavalier.

Colin gave her a warm smile, but there was little real mirth behind his eyes. “What we're
really
here for . . . ,” he began, casually perching on the arm of one of the proffered seats as he dug out his usual crown and started rotating it between his fingers, “. . . is some information about two of your tenants: young Michael and his little sister, Angelyne.”

“ 'Oo?” Her face curled up as she poured two fingers of whiskey and downed it like a gulp of air.

“A boy of about fourteen and his sister . . .” He flicked his eyes to me.

“Twelve,” I said.

“Right. Twelve. They rent a room from you. Live in your basement. . . .”

“Oh. Them two,” she said with about as much enthusiasm as she'd shown me. “They're always late with me rent.” She downed another shot and actually looked a little better for it. “You 'ere ta make good for 'em?”

“Well . . . ,” he tossed me a quick glance, “we might be able to offer a little help. They owe you, do they?”

“Damn right they do. One pound fifty.”

Colin urged me with the look in his eyes and I begrudgingly handed over the money, all but certain that they didn't owe her a thing. She snatched the bills and stuffed them down the front of her robe. “What do you wanna know about 'em?” she said as she threw herself onto a well-worn chaise, sending a stream of undergarments and periodicals to the floor. “That Michael can be a stand-up lad when 'e ain't scammin' the rent.”

“And Angelyne?” Colin pressed.

“ 'Oo?”

“His sister . . .”

“Oh . . . 'er . . . She's about the size a me arm and as bright as me left tit.”

“Is she comely?” he pressed on.

“Oh!” She abruptly pushed herself up, allowing her robe to peek open again. “You like the young ones then, eh? The little girls?”

Colin froze, the crown stilled on the back of his hand. “The only thing I would like is to know whether you consider Angelyne pretty.”

“Pretty . . . not pretty . . . 'oo can really say?” She giggled. “There's somethin' fer everyone in this world. There are men 'oo will shag anythin', breathin' or not.”

“Have any of your clients asked about her recently?”

“I don't know.” She shrugged. “I can't 'member everythin' goes on round 'ere.”

“But you remember who pays and who doesn't,” I pointed out.

“ 'Ell yeah.”

“And I'll bet you remember when someone asks for something unusual. Something you can't satisfy . . .”

“There's a lot a nutters.” She looked right at me.

“And is the request for a twelve-year-old not something out of the ordinary?” Colin pressed.

She shrugged noncommittally.

“Miss Rendell—”

“Mademoiselle!” she snapped back. “It's French.”

“My apologies. I didn't realize that Rendell was a French name.”

She scowled at him and then abruptly bolted off the chaise and stormed across the room, pushing past me to yank open the door. “I've 'ad enough a this. I don't get paid fer sittin' round talkin'. Now get yer arses outta 'ere.”

Colin tossed the crown into the air and easily caught it, Mademoiselle Rendell's eyes locked on it the entire time. “As you wish,” he said tightly as we made our retreat back to the hallway. He turned at the threshold, eager to have the last word, but he had no such chance, as she immediately slammed the door in our faces. “What a deplorable woman,” he muttered to the battered wooden door. “Though thankfully an atrocious liar.”

“That's the truth.” I nodded. “It's a wonder she can be convincing with the blokes she entertains.”

“Well, they can't be a discerning lot.” He gave me a lopsided grin as he glanced at the dilapidated stairs that led down and let out a sigh. “You still okay?”

“I'm fine,” I said for the third time since our arrival even as I was struck anew by that ubiquitous scent. “Don't ask me again.” But as I followed him down to the basement, I became increasingly aware of the familiar lure at the back of my brain, whispering . . . beckoning me . . . promising to distill every concern . . . and suddenly I wasn't so certain anymore.