The Dickens Mirror (32 page)

It is
, Black Dog murmured,
what you deserve
.

“Something wrong, Doyle?” Battle peered over his glass.

“No, sir.” Tossing back his tasteless drink, he inhaled through his teeth against a phantom burn, purely for show.
And damn you, Kramer
. “Very nice, sir. Thank you.”

“Not at all. So, this case,” Battle said, easily, as he refilled both glasses and then pushed to his feet. Crossing on a metallic jangle behind Doyle, Battle unlocked the drop-down cover of a pigeonhole and proceeded to riffle through slots. “What’s on your mind, Constable?”

“Well, sir,” he said, straining to keep the inspector in view. It was odd, and a little disorienting, having the man hover behind his back like that. A tad like Black Dog, come to think of it. “I don’t pretend to understand why you won’t let the doctor examine those bodies, but what about the girl?”

“What do you mean?” There was a creak and then the sound of a pigeonhole mount being locked. Wandering back round to his desk, the inspector picked apart a twine bow and began to unroll a thick tube of papers on his desk.

Was that a case file?
Must be; desk sergeant’s ledger records incidents, but the reports are filed in pigeonholes
. “She says she don’t remember exactly what she saw afore she went tearing out of … well, wherever she’d been held. But I was thinking that maybe those bodies might jog something loose.”

“Interesting idea, but out of the question. Only three of the corpses are recognizable, and to be truthful, they’re really quite upsetting. A touch macabre, actually. The fewer to see them, the better.”

“Oh.” The bodies must be horrors. How to find out where they were? “Well, perhaps a photographer? Make some pictures that we could take around for her to—”

“Are you pumping me for information, Doyle? You’ve never demonstrated such initiative before. Someone put you up to this.” Battle leveled him a look. “Kramer, wasn’t it? Come now, don’t lie. I’ll know if you do. The man’s obsessed.”

“No, sir.”
Shite
. He was smarting, too. No initiative?
Arse
. “That is … yeah, Dr. Kramer
did
ask. He’s very keen on those bodies. I guess they must be quite a puzzle.” He paused to allow for Battle to interject, but when nothing came, he pushed on. “I said I couldn’t help him. But his interest made me curious.”

“I see.” Battle’s mouth worked as if against a bad taste. Tossing back his drink, he played with his empty glass. “What did he offer you in return?”

“Offer?”

“Oh, don’t be coy.” This close, the light from the oil lamp washed Battle’s skin the color of bone. Only the man’s silvery eyes showed any life, and they were mirrors the lamp fired. “Kramer wants the bodies, and he’ll use whatever means necessary.” Battle ran a pensive finger over three interlocking metal circles that made up the intricate bow of a brass key. “He’d be prepared with a reward. So what did he promise you?”

“Food.” It was the first thing that came out of his mouth. Thank Christ, it also had the benefit of being plausible.

“You lack for victuals?” Battle’s gaze raked his body. “Yes, you’re a touch hollow-eyed, but aren’t we all. How did he take your refusal?”

“Wasn’t happy, but what’s he going to do? You might have a word with the desk sergeant, though, in case he takes it on
himself to come down to the station, maybe with that surgeon … Connell? Try and wheedle his way into the morgue.”

“He can wheedle until he’s blue. The bodies aren’t in the morgue. Too cold.”

“Oh.”
Really? Not in the morgue? Then where?
And why
not
the morgue? Should he ask?
Too cold … what did that mean?
All these questions would be natural enough, but … 
No
. Realizing he’d not yet touched his second tasteless drink, he threw it down, went through the motions.
No, shouldn’t press it. Could bribe the desk sergeant, though; he might know
. Yet the idea of engaging a man he wasn’t sure truly had a face gave him the jimjams. Besides, the sergeant might spout to Battle.

“Well, Doyle, if that’s all. You look better. Get some rest now.” Battle corked his bottle to put the period on their conversation. “I’ve work ahead.”

“Yes, sir.” He pushed out of his chair, thinking,
Shite, shite, shite
. If he could get a look at Battle’s papers, or his rooms, perhaps. As he turned for the door, with Black Dog circling in an ebony blur just out of sight, he said, “Thank you for the drink.”

“My pleasure. By the way, Constable, how is your arm?”

Uh-oh
. Black Dog prodded his arse. Careful.

He didn’t need a hallucination’s warning for that one. Rearranging his face into a suitably neutral expression, he turned back. “As you said, much more up to dick, sir.”

“Ah. Excellent.” Battle waggled a finger. “Let’s see how our doctor did.”

Poppet …

“Certainly.” His mind was already flying through the necessary calculus. He would have to remove his uniform coat. That, in itself, was no disaster. So long as he took care with his left
cuff.… Tugging his right arm free, he draped his coat over the back of the visitor’s chair, then began rolling up his sleeve.

“Here.” Coming round his desk, Battle gestured. “Let me work those pins for you. Difficult to do one-handed … Ah.” As he unrolled the linen bandage, Battle nodded. “Nice job for a doctor. Stitches are even, edges are very clean. Here.” Battle jerked his head toward his desk. “Let’s take a look in the light, shall we?”

What’s your game?
His heart was a sledgehammer against his ribs. He felt Black Dog rear up to place a paw on either shoulder, as if wishing to peek round for a better view. The ladder of Kramer’s stitches climbed the bruised skin of his right forearm. His death hound tattoo looked on with a silent, frozen snarl.

“Yes.” Battle smoothed Black Dog with a thumb. The gesture was curiously gentle, as if he really were caressing a beloved pet. “Kramer was right. This is quite exquisite. That mate aboard ship was very skillful. Justifiably proud of his work.”

“Yes. Well, you know … long days at sea, nothing to do. No seals or whales, or we’re locked in ice and …” He was babbling.

“Yes, and this
date
.” Battle still had a hand around his wrist. “On your arm? The year? You know what’s truly mystifying, Doyle? It don’t tally.” He nodded toward the papers on his desk. “According to your application, you were in school, not at sea.”

The surprise was so sudden, his brain went empty. He couldn’t think what to say.

“I probably wouldn’t have noticed, except I’d pulled your papers when you found Elizabeth. So you can see why I’m so puzzled.”

He said nothing.

Battle tapped the death hound with a forefinger. “Six years
ago, you were fourteen, and your letter of reference says you were a student at Stonyhurst, not a deckhand aboard a whaler. You can’t be in two places at once, Doyle. So the only logical conclusions one can draw are that you’re spectacularly forgetful, which seems unlikely, or that either the letter or the tattoo’s a forgery. Now I can’t fathom a single reason why you’d forge a tattoo.”

Beg forgiveness
, Black Dog said.
This is a time when half a fiction is best
.

“You’re right, sir.” Setting his shoulders, he pulled himself straighter. For the briefest of moments, he thought that Battle might not relax his grip, but then the inspector’s fingers slackened. “I lied,” he said, taking his arm back. He rolled down his sleeve with extraordinary care, buying himself a little time. “I needed the job, but sailors haven’t the best reputations. I
did
go to Stonyhurst, but I had to leave.”

“Why?” Battle’s tone was flat.

“Money. My parents were dirt-poor. My mother had to beg for a space, and that shamed me, it did. I didn’t like being a charity boy, but I stuck it out for my mam.”

“And?” Battle’s face betrayed nothing. “What happened?”

The one thing every excellent liar learns is
when
the right time to look away presents itself. That old saw about an honest man looking you in the eye? So much shite. Only a bad liar locks in, because that’s a man always nervous he won’t be believed. Want a lie to work? Look away.

“My father.” Doyle held Battle’s gaze a split second, then let his eyes fall. “He drank the family to ruin and then disappeared. That left my mam, seven sisters, a brother with nothing. So I quit school and went to sea. Sent all my money home. My mam took
in lodgers. When I was sure they were provided for, I left ship and came here and …” Shrugging, he buttoned his cuff. When Battle was silent, he said, “Am I sacked, sir?”

“For this?” Battle shook his head. “I’m not a monster, Doyle.”

In all this madness, Doyle thought this was true. “Thank you, sir.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” Battle said. “Let me see your left arm.”

His lungs went airless. “Sir? My …?”

“You must think me a fool. I know the symptoms of withdrawal. Sweats, nervous twitches. Your guts have been playing quite the melody all day,
and
you’re right-handed. Besides, liars are like murderers. The first time’s always the hardest. So I must insist, Constable.”

“Then what?” Doyle said, a little surprised. But then again, he was nearing the end of his tether. In a few more seconds, nothing he said would matter. He stood, loose-limbed, hands by his sides. “You get your gander, and then …?”

“You may be a liar, Doyle. You may, in fact, be many other things. But you’re not stupid.” Battle offered him the first fleet shadow of a smile. “What do you think?”

“You’re right, sir,” Doyle said. “I’m not stupid.”

And that was when he killed the inspector.

Murder Most Foul

FOR SOMEONE AS
eagle-eyed as Battle, the man never saw it coming. Only a single pace separated them, and Doyle moved fast. Whipping his black knife from its sheath, angling it just right, Doyle pushed off his right foot at the same moment that his left fist snatched a handful of Battle’s shirt. The inspector had done him a favor, shucking that coat and unbuttoning his vest. Jerking Battle closer, Doyle drove the knife forward and up. He felt the slight tug as the
sgian-dubh
’s fine scalloped filework snagged on wool and then the give as the blade sliced through Battle’s undergarment to slip into skin and muscle at the notch of Battle’s rib cage. Stiffening, Battle pulled in a fast, small gasp.

No, no shouts, no screams!
Clapping his hand over the man’s mouth, he bulled forward, steering Battle into his desk. Feet tangling, Battle fell back, and Doyle followed, forcing the knife in and then up up up! He heard the clunk of glass as Battle collided with the heavy whiskey bottle, which toppled and rolled, butting up against the oil lamp. Battle flailed, and there was a smaller
tink-tink
as he swept their shot glasses to the floor. Eyes bulging,
Battle battened his hands around Doyle’s right wrist. Battle’s cheeks puffed like balloons, and Doyle could feel the man’s shout ball in his left palm.

There was the tiniest hitch, a small shudder as the knife’s tip grazed Battle’s heart. They were face-to-face, only inches apart. Battle’s eyes were wide and full of terror.

He wished he could say he was sorry for that. But killing Battle—knowing he was about to do the deed—felt so good it was like the rush of an injection.

Pinning Battle to the desk, he rammed the knife home. Battle’s body moved in a great, convulsive jerk; Doyle heard a faint
uh
that might have been either a last gasp or an attempt at a scream. A huge shudder that Doyle felt in his belly rippled through Battle. The man’s feet jittered a death dance, his expensive clamshells scuffing stone. Releasing Doyle, the inspector’s hands fluttered, briefly, then went limp. Still gripped in Doyle’s right hand, the black knife quivered, a kind of spasmodic flop, the
sgian-dubh
’s pommel lifting once, twice, three times … before stilling. A second later, the air filled with the pungent aroma of Battle’s bowels and bladder emptying.

Well, well
, he thought wryly,
talk about murder most foul
.

So, now what?
Black Dog’s nails ticked over stone, and Doyle could swear he caught a glimpse of the hound’s long pink tongue lapping at Battle’s pinky.
You’re committed. Or perhaps you
ought
to be
.

Oh, shut up
. He was still stretched atop Battle. Their faces were so close, Battle was one massive eye, silver going to murky
gray. “You
stupid
gob,” he hissed at the dead man. “You made me do this, ya fool. You just
had
to ask. You just
had
to know. Let’s check your tattoo, Doyle. Let me see your arm, Doyle.
God
, if you’d only let it
go
, none of this would’ve happened, ya nit, ya
idjit
.”

All water under the proverbial bridge, my dear. You’d best start thinking about your next move
.

“God, I do wish you’d choke.” His voice was a low, angry mutter. But he really did need to get out of here. Letting go of his knife, he planted his palms on either side of Battle’s body and levered himself to a stand. There wasn’t much blood, only a tumbler’s worth of a splotch soaking into Battle’s garments and a snail’s smear on the back of his own hand that Black Dog cleaned away with a drag of that long, hot tongue. That dark blotch over Battle’s groin was quite large, though. A quick glance down at his own nethers, and Doyle was relieved to see that he was dry. Not that it mattered much; without proper baths, they were all a bit ripe, though he’d ceased smelling himself. Because there was nothing of him
to
smell, just as whiskey and his blood had no taste, the crowd, his fellow constables no faces?

Stop this
. Battle’s body was real enough.
Think
. The day’s work was done. No one would come looking for the inspector, although the desk sergeant would remember that Doyle had accompanied Battle to his office. By the time that became an issue, Doyle had better be long gone. It hit him then that he really
was
committed, no turning back.