The Candle Man (36 page)

S
ir Henry Rawlinson’s carriage turned off Clarendon Road onto Holland Park Avenue. He felt a burning indigestion in the pit of his stomach.
He hated haste. He hated being in a hurry. It upset him. Especially directly after eating so heavily.

If there was one lesson in life that he’d learned thoroughly, it was that great haste preceded many an error. A hurried plan was little more than deferred chaos. Nothing worth anything in
this world was ever conceived or constructed in haste. And if it was, then it wasn’t long before it started to unravel.

‘Nearly there, sir.’

Rawlinson nodded at Robson sitting opposite him, rocking from side to side as the carriage barrelled along the street, faster than city ordinance allowed. A common hansom rattling along at this
sort of pace would probably have been waved down by a copper by now, but Rawlinson’s carriage – black lacquered and impractically long – was a caution to any young man in uniform
not to waste the time of the Very Important Person inside with some finger-wagging.

Robson’s boxer’s hands absently played with the cylinder of his revolver. It clicked as chamber after chamber circled past the tip of the hammer. Good man, Robson, according to
George Warrington. Glacially calm in a crisis. Apparently he’d seen a fair bit of action before leaving Her Majesty’s service. Ostensibly, he was just a doorman for their little club.
More than that, of course; he was their Lodge’s sergeant at arms. He acknowledged even the higher members with a grumpy, grudging parade-ground demeanour that they all found rather amusing
and vaguely charming.

Rawlinson was satisfied that the broad-shouldered man – with a chest and stomach like a cider barrel, still managing to maintain army fitness despite his middling years – was going
to be enough, with his revolver, to deal with the Candle Man. This hired killer was, after all, just a ruddy man.

Robson shifted in his seat to look out the carriage window, scanning the numbers on the doors along the avenue.

‘Sixty-seven, wasn’t it, sir?’

Rawlinson nodded.

‘We just passed fifty-nine. We’re getting close. Perhaps best if we stop a little downwind?’

‘Yes, quite right, Robson. Don’t want to spook the game.’ He leant forward, pulled aside a hatch and tapped the driver’s back through it. ‘Just here is fine, Colin,
if you please!’ he called out.

‘Right y’are, sir,’ the driver bellowed back, before reigning in the horses and clucking at them to settle down. The carriage came to a halt and Robson reached for the door
handle.

‘Robson?’

‘Sir?’

‘If he’s inside, don’t waste a single second. Do you understand? You fire your gun the instant you set eyes on him.’

Robson looked uncertain. ‘It’s quite busy right now, sir. Lot of people are going to hear a gun shot—’

‘That’s not your concern.’ He offered the man a reassuring nod. ‘Nothing we can’t tidy up later on.’

‘Right you are.’ Robson nodded. ‘Shoot first it is then, sir.’

‘And you be sure to shoot for a
kill
. We have absolutely no need at all to talk to this gentleman. Do you understand?’

Robson pushed the carriage door open and stepped smartly out into the road, the revolver tucked discreetly into his coat. Rawlinson followed him out and together they stepped up onto the busy
pavement, their eyes picking out the dark front door of 67, thirty yards ahead.

They made their way towards the property, stepping aside for a pair of young nannies pushing prams side by side and lost in their conversation, then weaving around a coal delivery man as he
hefted a sack of coal past them and down a metal stairway into a basement entrance. A child’s toy fell from one of the prams and Robson instinctively reached down, scooped it up and handed it
to one of the young ladies with a tip of his hat.

Rawlinson tutted. Now wasn’t the time for a theatrical display of good manners. He jabbed his man in the back with his walking cane.

‘Come along, Robson,’ he hissed as they stepped aside for a couple striding past; a tall, lean, middle-aged gentleman, laughing merrily at something the frizzy-haired young lady on
his arm had just said. They strode past, oblivious, full of joy, her pretty oval face the very picture of youthful exuberance and excitement.

Lovers
. Henry winked at them as he stepped aside. Long time since
he’d
had such a delightful creature as that on his old arm. The man smiled back at him.

Finally they were looking up six steps to the front door of number 67. Rawlinson nodded at Robson and they quickly climbed the steps. At the top, Robson reached out for the door knocker.

‘Whoever answers, we push our way in, Robson.’ Rawlinson glanced at the busy street behind him. It was busier than he’d have liked. ‘Better we do what needs to be done
inside, behind a closed door.’

‘Right you are, sir.’

As Robson reached to knock, he noticed the door was slightly ajar. ‘It’s already open, sir.’

Rawlinson gave him the nod to go in. ‘Be careful.’

Robson pulled the gun out of his pocket, shielding it from any curious passers-by with his back. He pushed the door open.

Argyll flagged a hansom on the opposite side of the street. The driver touched the peak of his cap and pulled over on the far side as he waited for them to cross the busy
traffic and join him. Climbing aboard the open fronted cart, Argyll gave the driver instructions to take them to Euston station.

The carriage began to clatter down Holland Park Avenue and Argyll turned in his seat to watch those two men they’d just passed by, now taking the steps up to their front door.

A Mason and his foot soldier.
He’d noted the older man’s cravat pin. A square and compass.

He managed to contain a gasp of relief. Good god, a moment or two more fussing around inside and they would have been caught in the house.

‘John? John?’

He realised Mary had been saying something to him. ‘I’m sorry?’

‘Why are we in such a hurry? You said something about being in danger? Please tell me . . . Where are we going? What’s going on?’

He looked out at the driver sitting on the jockey board in front of them, the bouncing flanks of the horse, the rhythmic rise and dip of its head.

‘Not here, not right now, Mary,’ he uttered quietly.

‘John . . . this is all . . . Why are we in danger? I’m frightened.’

‘We’re safe for the moment.’ He held her hand. ‘I’m taking care of
you
now.’

She shook her head, a buzzing beehive of questions. ‘You said your memories have all come back? You said that back in the house.’

He nodded. ‘I know who I am now. And I’m going to tell you all about me. Soon. We’re going to find somewhere else to stay. Then I promise you I’ll tell you
everything.’

Everything?

No. Just as much as she needed to know, but not all. She would run from him if she knew all the things his hands had done. Run for her life. There was much of it now he’d be happy to leave
behind as well, to forget about. He was running
from
his life.

Today was going to be a new beginning. A goodbye to everything that came before.

‘I’ll tell you everything,’ he said again. ‘I promise.’

She nodded, prepared to accept that for the moment, watching the street widen as they entered Notting Hill. The traders were beginning to close their stalls as the late afternoon traffic was on
the wane.

‘It’s awful!’ she said suddenly. ‘I only know you as John. It’s the first name I could think of,’ she said guiltily. She shook her head. ‘It’s so
strange. You
are
John to me, but what’s your real name? Can you remember it?’

He nodded.

‘Tell me! What is it?’

He had a name, but not one anyone had used in years. He had pseudonyms aplenty; ‘Babbitt’ just one of many. Names he’d invented, names and identities he’d stolen from
dead men’s wallets. All part of the craft, the art of being what he’d been: an executioner for hire, an extinguisher of human rubbish. But his name, his
real
name, was all that
he had left of ‘before’. And the last person who’d ever spoken that name out loud had been Olivia. Not even spoken; it had been screamed.

Another time. Another life. He closed his eyes and closed a door on all of that.

‘Mary . . .’ He chewed his lip in thought. ‘I really don’t want to be who I was. Could you and I agree that I’m John Argyll?’

She frowned, mock-serious. ‘Oh, come on. I want to know all about you.’ She squeezed his hand. ‘I love you. That’s all I—’

‘Please?’ His smile was a plea. ‘You know, I rather like this name. I’ve grown used to it.’

She studied his face for a moment, her eyes narrowed as a faint smile twisted the corner of her lips. ‘John, you’re even more of a puzzle to me now than you were.’

He shrugged an apology.

‘Will you at least tell me where we’re off to and why the rush?’

‘I was . . . in London on important business.’

‘What business?’

‘Business,’ he said firmly. ‘Best I leave it at that. But there are men who, let me just say, don’t want me to conclude my business.’

‘John? Please, you’re scaring me!’

‘Not now. I can’t explain it all now.’ He smiled, reached for her hand. ‘You and I, we’re going to travel. See some places. And then when we find somewhere we like,
we’ll start again. A new life.’

She nodded.

‘So, where would you like to go?’

Her eyes widened. ‘Anywhere?’

‘Anywhere.’

‘Oh . . . I . . .’ She shook her head. ‘I suppose we could get a train down to Southend-on-Sea?’

He sighed and waggled his hand as if the idea sounded boring. ‘I was thinking somewhere further afield.’

She gasped and her jaw hung. ‘You don’t mean
Brighton
?!’

Argyll stroked his chin. ‘I was thinking more along the lines of . . . America?’

She sputtered and laughed. ‘Oh, go on with you!’

‘I’m quite serious.’

Her lips clamped shut and there wasn’t another word from her all the way to the station.

Robson came down the stairs. ‘All empty, sir. It looks like he’s done a runner.’

Rawlinson mouthed a curse. This matter could’ve been wrapped up here and now. He could have laughed out loud at his wise old musings of ten minutes ago.

Not bloody hasty enough this time, ol’ son.

‘He wasn’t living alone, sir. There’s lady’s things upstairs in one of the rooms. Must have left in a hurry; not much taken and it’s quite a mess.’

Rawlinson turned his back on Robson and wandered down the hallway, deep in thought. So this morning they’d learned their man was actually very much alive and well. And now on the run. That
made him even more dangerous. If he felt he had nowhere to turn, he might just do something very foolish. Something very public.

He wandered into the kitchen at the back of the house, still considering their options. Perhaps a much larger settlement. Five or ten times the original fee. A grand gesture of contrition on
their part for mistakenly assuming he was no better than a common shiv-man. The New York Lodge had said he was a complete professional. Utterly reliable. Utterly confidential.

‘Dammit,’ he spat under his breath. Their little committee had been too eager to have this matter tightly parcelled up.

Robson entered the room behind him, giving the kitchen a quick and cursory second glance. He opened a door that led onto a small pantry: just empty shelves.

‘Feels like a household closed down for the summer,’ said Robson. ‘Do you think, sir?’

Rawlinson nodded. Yes, it had that feeling. The vague smell of mothballs and dust about it.

‘Hang on.’ Robson strode across the kitchen and reached for something on a shelf. An envelope. ‘It’s a letter, sir. Says on the envelope, “For
George”.’

‘Let me see, please?’

Robson passed it across the table to him. The envelope wasn’t glued down. He lifted the flap open and impatiently pulled out the letter inside.