The Aylesford Skull (26 page)

TWENTY ONE

ANGEL ALLEY

T
he fog was a godsend, if only it would hold steady. St. Ives and Hasbro walked along Wentworth Street, which had become a Jewry in the last year, now home to thousands of immigrants from across Europe, a world within the world that was London. They looked idly into the stalls and shops, while keeping up a steady pace, as if merely passing through. They weren’t apparently being followed, however, and with the thickening fog they proceeded more boldly, endeavoring to fetch the top end of Angel Alley at the same moment that their companions, proceeding now along Whitechapel Road, fetched the bottom end.

St. Ives considered the difficult business before him, but found no reliable answers. Shyness would avail them nothing, but there was the danger that a bold, surprising stroke might cost Eddie his life. Narbondo, however, was not only avaricious, but was also inhumanely cool. His most likely response to a surprise attack would be to scuttle away, taking Eddie with him and disappearing into the rookery. There was the odd business of Mother Laswell’s door to Hell to complicate the issue – to stay Narbondo’s hand or to make him even more murderous – but that could have no influence on tonight’s adventure, given that St. Ives had no understanding of its particulars.
Still and all
, he told himself,
nothing ventured, nothing gained
. Then the image of Eddie came into his mind, and the easy platitude was suddenly shameful.

He checked his pocket watch, a fine Swiss chronometer; Jack Owlesby carried a second, identical watch in his pocket. It was just short of the agreed upon moment when they entered the north end of the alley, departing the world of something like civil behavior for the stark criminality of the rookery. Both men had a hand beneath their coats where their pistols lay. There must be no doubt in anyone’s mind that they meant to use the weapons if they were pressed, which he hoped to God they wouldn’t be, not before he had discovered Narbondo’s lair and contrived a way in.

Ahead of them sounded the growling and snarling of dogs and the loud voices of men involved in some low sport. Slocumb’s comment about dogs having no fear of pistols came into his mind, and indeed he saw a stack of kennels now, a mastiff slamming into the iron bars as they drew near, anxious to have at them. The human noise of the rat baiting, the wagering and shouted encouragement, died away as they passed the knot of men who stood around a fenced ring. But no one threatened or insulted them. Most looked at them curiously. Several doffed their caps and winked. The whole thing was unnatural.

The two of them stopped at the corner of a courtyard where they were still hidden in the murky darkness, although the fog had thinned again, a breeze blowing up the alley from Whitechapel Road. From behind them the sounds of the rat baiting arose again, relieving the comparative silence. The open space ahead was strangely empty of people aside from several shadows waiting beneath a stone arch – the arch Slocumb had mentioned, no doubt, dividing the yard neatly in two. St. Ives could hear the mutter of conversation from the knot of men, who, if they looked sharp, would no doubt make out him and Hasbro lurking there, pressed against the dank bricks. But lurk they must, for they wanted Jack and Tubby and Doyle to make them out, and no mistake.

“Something’s amiss,” St. Ives whispered. “There’s been no offer either to rob or murder us.”

“Perhaps they assume that we have business with Narbondo, and that stays their hand,” Hasbro replied. “Their silence has telegraphed our arrival.”

Three stories above the courtyard stood a tottering wooden structure with a steep roof and a broad, mullioned window, built atop the wall with the arch in it – a variety of wall, St. Ives saw now, for it had doors set in the stones, leading to stairs, perhaps, and interior passages. The penthouse atop it might have been a pub in the last century. Oil lamps lit the interior of the room, in which stood a tall, heavyset woman, looking down at someone hidden by her bulk. Her back was to the window, her face averted, but her garish scarf and red hair gave her away utterly.

“God help us, it’s Mother Laswell,” St. Ives whispered. “There in the window.”

“Indeed?” Hasbro said. “Our neighbor from Hereafter Farm?”

“Herself. Clearly in conversation with her son.” St. Ives had refused to come to her aid, and this was the result – she had almost certainly come into London alone to murder Narbondo. Bill Kraken had warned him – just last night, although it seemed a week ago. He found to his own surprise that he was somewhat relieved. If Mother Laswell shot Narbondo stone dead, there would be an end to it.

He could hear her suddenly, her voice elevated. One of the men in the courtyard walked out into the open and looked up at the window – the ubiquitous George. He watched for a brief time and then walked back to where he had been, content to let his master contend with her, as was St. Ives, at least for the moment. But no sooner had he come to this conclusion than George shouted, “Look sharp!” for in that instant Tubby Frobisher, flanked by Jack Owlesby and Arthur Doyle, appeared out of the mist, running hard into the farther courtyard, their intentions made obvious both by their demeanor and by the fact that Tubby gripped his blackthorn cudgel halfway up the shaft and was even then raising it over his head in order to strike a running blow. St. Ives waited, counting the moments, watching the door beneath the arch, which surely led upstairs, a door which might not be locked, since the men were apparently guarding it.

The four of them scattered now in several directions, drawing out weapons, one of them coming up with a wicked-looking dirk with a long blade, and another – George – finding a truncheon under his coat. The piratical giant from the Pilgrims Road was there, his arm in a sling, thank God, although St. Ives clapped a stopper over his thankfulness when the man drew out a long-barreled pistol and aimed carefully at Tubby, not fifteen feet from him, suddenly rushing to his doom. St. Ives shouted a warning even as he was sprinting forward, Hasbro beside him. The giant half turned at the sound of their running feet, and Tubby, seeing his doom distracted, pitched the blackthorn like a missile, the lead-weighted root-knob on the top striking the giant on the temple with lethal accuracy. The man pitched over, his pistol skittering away across the stones. St. Ives smashed his stick down on the back of George’s head, a glancing blow, and George turned, swinging his truncheon at the same time, although awkwardly, St. Ives blocking it with his stick and shocked to feel the weight of the truncheon, which jarred his arm heavily. St. Ives sprang toward George at once, ducking under a blow and snatching the man’s coat to yank him forward, but managing only to rip the coat open as George lurched away, wiping blood from his eyes, apparently not anxious to put up a fight. St. Ives flung away two buttons and cracked George on the forearm, hearing him grunt with pain. Still holding the truncheon, George turned and ran straight toward the door in the arch, flinging it open and slamming it shut behind him, a set of stairs revealed in the brief moment that the door was open.

St. Ives pursued him, hearing the sound of running feet and seeing with a sinking heart that the odds had shifted, that four more men had swarmed into the courtyard, all of them bruisers, holding short bats and moving with no hesitation at all. St. Ives swung his stick, cutting the legs out from beneath one of them, the man’s haste tumbling him forward so that he lay splayed out on the stones. St. Ives abruptly found himself on his knees, a shattering pain in his skull. He looked back, trying to stand, seeing that Jack grappled with the man who had hit him. St. Ives remained there on his knees, his head swimming, watching stupidly as Doyle batted the dirk out of his own opponent’s hand, apparently cutting himself, the side of his palm instantly awash with blood. Doyle danced on his toes, striking the man hard in the face and stomach, the man turning away from the onslaught, Doyle stepping after him and striking him a vicious blow on the lower back, over the kidney. The man shouted with the pain of it and staggered forward, falling to his knees, at which point Hasbro laid him out with the butt of his pistol. Jack was down now, clubbed by one of the newcomers.

St. Ives heard the muffled sound of a pistol shot – distant, perhaps from the room above. There followed a hail of shattered glass and debris on the stones of the farther courtyard. He staggered to his feet and made his way toward the door, stepping over the legs of the fallen giant, whose arm shot out like a snake, grasping his ankle. He fell hard onto his knees again, writhing around and spearing the man in the face with his stick, seeing that Jack was up again, tottering, but still holding the marlinspike, striking the giant a glancing blow.

St. Ives was suddenly free, although there was a man between him and the door now, waiting for him. Another pistol shot sounded, and the man fell, and St. Ives looked back, seeing Hasbro’s arm outstretched, his pistol smoking as he took aim at one of two men attacking Tubby, whose back was against the wall, moving nimbly given his great bulk, gamely waiting for his chance to swing the blackthorn. Another pistol shot, and one of Tubby’s attackers fell, the odds changing again as Tubby surged forward like a juggernaut, feinting with his cudgel and delivering the now-lone attacker a vicious butt with his forehead.

St. Ives took the door latch in his hand but found it locked. He rammed it with his shoulder, although encumbered by the man who had been shot and who was now half blocking the door. He stepped back, taking out his own pistol and shooting through the heavy oak boards, blasting the latch and locking mechanism through the back of the door. Still it held, barred from within, no doubt. A second entrance, surely...

But he was struck once again from behind, and in the same moment that he heard another pistol shot he collapsed onto the ground, the side of his face in a puddle of filthy water, and although he did not lose consciousness, he was too disoriented to do anything more than wonder at his failure, and what it might mean.

TWENTY-TWO

THE BEST-LAID PLANS

M
other Laswell saw the boy ahead, moving quickly, given that he was towing the child. The bridge shook and swayed, and she wasn’t as sure-footed as she once had been. In a moment the two ahead of her would disappear into the mists, and she very much wanted to keep up with them, but she was knackered – little strength left in her, her ribs perhaps cracked, given the ache in her side. She wheezed like a bellows and felt old and done.