The Obsidian Dagger (Horatio Lyle) Page 7

  For a moment - just a moment - Lyle drifted in the place between entrapment and escape, where thoughts were thought without words, and blood circulated on momentum only. He thought he heard ... he heard . . .

  Hark, hark ...

  And he heard ...

  Blacks and bays,

  Dapples and greys ...

  And just a few feet away, the wood above his head shattered, splintering inwards and downwards, an explosion of sound and sensation and air into that airless blackness, tearing the water into a thousand drops with light and motion, as Thomas, face beetroot red from the effort, threw his axe aside and pulled Lyle up from the waters of the lower deck.

  CHAPTER 5

  Housekeeping

  It took two blankets, a shot of whisky, a large mug of hot pea soup and half an hour by the fireside of the Hanged Sailor - a dockside tavern which had a reputation for frequently storing more bodies in the cellar than barrels, such was the local clientele - before Lyle turned from blue to merely bleached white and the sound of his teeth chattering was no longer loud enough to disturb drunks sinking into oblivion on the other side of the room. It took another half hour, sitting staring into the fire with an expression of determination, before a little colour returned to his cheeks and he announced in the first normal voice of the hour’s wait, ‘I think, perhaps, it might be time to risk a pair of shoes.’

  Only when Tess had gone in search of dry socks and Thomas was staring in horrified fascination at the other inhabitants of the tavern did Lyle carefully examine his ankle, red and sore from the thing that had gripped it in the hold of the Pegasus, and notice without word or expression the tiny claw-like marks where the same thing had finally let go, like the shallow scratching of a cat, or of fine needles, or even, if he were given over to such imaginative fancies, the claws of a very small gargoyle.

  By the time they left the tavern, the streets outside had changed. No longer was the day blue-grey from the thick fog, but had deepened to an almost impenetrable deep bruised black that made light from any doorway into a fuzzy-edged square and framed every window with an uncertain wobble of darkness. The church bells, however, announced it to be no later than three in the afternoon. Already the lamplighters were beginning to drag out their ladders, and the bobbies walked with their shuttered lanterns lit. What light didn’t come from the yellow glow of fires and candles was weak and grey, more like the light of the moon than the sun. Fresh snow piled up against every doorway and down every street, and still it fell, until many of the weaker roofs creaked. In darker corners of the darker houses, icicles formed inside the walls. Everything except the blurred light seemed drained of colour, so that the shadows of people moved in a black-and-white world, the sounds of which were muffled by the snow and fog.

  The four walked through the streets in silence. Where Thomas stood, to the left of Mister Lyle, he couldn’t clearly see Tess’s face to the right of Mister Lyle, so thick and quiet fell the snow. Tate was just a vague shadow at Lyle’s feet.

  ‘Mister Lyle?’

  Lyle didn’t take his eyes off the road in front of him, as if trying to judge their position by each cobble. ‘Yes, Thomas?’

  ‘Where are we going?’

  Lyle’s hand opened. He was holding a scrap of paper. Thomas recognized it from the boat.

  ‘To see Captain Fabrio’s housekeeper.’

  ‘Shouldn’t that paper be with the police and the rest of . . .’ Thomas realized what he was saying, and closed his mouth.

  Tess leant round behind Lyle and said, in a tone of awe, ‘The way how you ain’t said what you was about to ’ave said were the smartest thing I ever seen you do, bigwig.’

  ‘Oh. Thank you, Miss Teresa,’ mumbled Thomas, simultaneously attempting to translate Tess’s words into a language he could understand.

  Navigating through the snow and fog was a challenge that made even Tess hesitate and frown at every half-familiar street corner. Thomas grew uneasy, and jumped whenever a shadow overtook them, drifting silently out and back into the fog. Time too seemed to become lost until he found it hard to judge how long his legs, unaccustomed to walking such a distance, had been aching.

  When Lyle stopped, it was so sudden that Tess walked straight into him. Tate sniffed the short, narrow door they were standing before, a little beam of wishy-washy yellow light etched round its edges. Lyle knocked, and even that sound was dead in the fog. When no one answered, he slipped the catch and half-opened the door. A single candle burned on a desk, the wax dribbled down around it. A narrow flight of flimsy steps ran upwards. Lyle paused, then started climbing. As they rose, their hands pressed into the walls for support and the stairs bending slightly under their weight, each in turn became aware of a gentle creakcreakcreakcreak coming regularly from upstairs. Lyle hesitated, head slightly on one side, by the door from behind which the noise seemed to be coming. The faintest of lights showed from underneath it. He knocked. The creaking noise stopped abruptly. A voice said with a strong accent that Lyle couldn’t place, but which certainly hadn’t come from the city, ‘Who’s there?’

  ‘My name’s Lyle,’ he said in a clear, reassuring voice. ‘May I come in?’

  The tortured creaking noise started again. ‘Yes. But leave that dog and the children outside.’

  Lyle glanced down at the children. Then smiled, pushed the door open and slipped inside, closing it behind him.

  The room was small, the ceiling slightly too low for Lyle’s height, though he was hardly a tall man, so that he had to shuffle along with his head uncomfortably bowed. There was the smallest of all possible fires burning in the grate: just a few hot coals that gave out the minimum of heat. A rocking chair sat in front of it, old and flimsy, creakcreakcreak, the lady in it with her back turned to the door. Lyle moved closer, but the lady, without turning, said, ‘Please sit in front of me, Mister Lyle, and put another coal on the fire.’

  Lyle edged round uneasily in front of the woman and sat down on the single, three-legged stool in front of the chair. Next to the fireplace was a grand total of five coals. He placed one carefully on to the fire. It landed with a dull fizz, and didn’t seem to do anything else. Lyle felt cold just looking at it.

  The lady in the rocking chair smiled. She was old, dressed in a patchwork of ancient woollens sewn together with an expert touch, but she wore so many layers that she seemed to bulge out into almost spherical proportions, though her wrists and cheeks were sunk down to the bone. She was, Lyle realized, almost entirely blind.

  Quietly, she said, ‘Ask, Mister Lyle.’

  ‘I can’t place your accent.’

  ‘My father was English, my mother Italian, and I spent the first ten years of my life following the army and my father across much of the Empire. Is that a good enough answer?’

  ‘Are you Mrs Milner?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘Is Captain Fabrio one of your tenants?’

  ‘He is. But what does your tone imply, Mister Lyle?’

  ‘Ma’am, I suspect you are the kind of lady who can surmise already what my tone implies.’

  ‘That he is either in trouble, injured or dead, Mister Lyle.’ A faint smile. ‘You are surprised at my bluntness? You must forgive me - I have spent three years with my own company. My social skills have deteriorated.’

  ‘Ma’am, you do not do yourself justice.’

  ‘Do not toy, Mister Lyle. Is the good Captain injured?’

  Lyle took a deep breath, and Mrs Milner’s head moved sharply at the sound. ‘Ah,’ she murmured, cutting him off. ‘He is dead, then. How?’

  ‘He was killed last night. I’m trying to find out who killed him.’

  ‘You do not have the walk of a copper.’

  ‘I’m not just a copper.’

  ‘Of course. You are . . . what shall I call it? An expert? In murder?’

  ‘No, ma’am, that would be a murderer; I’m an amateur if anything. When did you last see the Captain?’

  ‘Last night.’

  ‘W
hat time?’

  ‘The Pegasus arrived in port yesterday morning, almost first thing. I sent to him to know on his arrival if he wanted his old rooms. In the afternoon he came in person and said he would be honoured to have them back; a charming man, Captain Fabrio. In the evening he arrived here, then was joined by another man at about eleven; a tall man by his footsteps, who banged his head against the ceiling repeatedly and wasn’t comfortable in this place. A well-bred voice, but utterly cold. They quarrelled. The Captain wasn’t expecting him; I heard raised voices.’

  ‘Did the Captain know him?’

  ‘I do not believe so. I suspect that the Captain was rather afraid of him, though. I certainly was. When he entered the room I felt a chill right through my bones, and I don’t really feel the cold. A powerful man, I think. He almost knocked my door off the hinges with banging.’

  ‘Did he have a name?’

  ‘Stanlaw. I do not know if that is of any use to you.’

  Lyle had frozen. Mrs Milner put her head on one side, listening to his sudden silence. Finally she said, ‘Mister Lyle, is there something else you wish to tell me?’

  ‘Stanlaw was also found murdered at the scene of the crime.’

  Very, very quietly. ‘I see.’

  Silence while Lyle assembled his thoughts. ‘Did they leave together?’

  ‘No. Mr Stanlaw left at around eleven thirty. The Captain left half an hour later. He seemed quieter, subdued - something he never was. The Captain was, I might say, one of those swashbuckling types that we warn our children to keep away from. But charming.’

  ‘Was he religious?’

  ‘Yes, indeed; but I do not know if you would approve of his religion.’

  ‘Ma’am,’ said Lyle with firm politeness, ‘there are slabs of granite yet uncut which have more interest in theology than I do.’

  ‘An atheist?’

  ‘Worse. A scientist.’

  ‘I hope you recover. It won’t offend you, then, to hear that the Captain was a devout follower of the Roman Catholic faith.’

  ‘Did he take employment from a priest?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Did he give any indication of . . . a recent change in his fortune? ’

  She put her head slightly on one side. ‘Recently? He said no matter what happened, he would always board here out of “fondness”.’

  ‘What did you take that to mean?’

  ‘That he didn’t need to board with me, but would.’

  ‘Was he wealthy?’

  ‘No, not at all. Do you think anyone would board with me if they had a choice?’

  ‘There are worse places. Did he speak of a place called Isalia, ever?’

  ‘The Captain rarely conducted business in this place. It wouldn’t have suited a man of his character.’

  ‘You don’t seem very upset by his death.’

  ‘Do not think I am heartless, Mister Lyle. I am practical. I will save my grief for the time when I am alone, and when it will not cause inconvenience to others. I am by myself enough to have that opportunity. Do you have any more questions?’

  Lyle was silent again, but this time his eyes were fixed on her face. She smiled faintly. ‘You are pitying me, Mister Lyle. Please; I have no desire for pity.’

  ‘Ma’am, it is not pity, it is concern. Pity implies something directed at another person with a hint of your own superiority. Concern, however, is just a perfectly natural reaction at seeing another human in distress. It implies a desire to change something. Pity is passive. Can I look at the Captain’s room?’

  ‘You may.’ The faintest of smiles on the old lady’s face, pleased.

  ‘And may I send my companions in search of more coals for the fire?’

  The smallest hesitation; then the smile again. ‘You may.’

  ‘Thank you, ma’am.’

  ‘Thank you, Mister Lyle.’

  The sun is setting, slightly sheepish, knowing it hasn’t made much of an impact on the day, and hoping people won’t mind.

  Gradually, spreading from sunset to seashore, the Thames is turning hard as stone.

  The ice begins under the bridges and under the wharves, where the meagre light hasn’t dared penetrate. It begins furthest away from the ships, mud banks and salt of the Thames estuary, creeping east from Hampton Court Palace where thin glass on water grows pale and white and the freezing wading birds coming in to land find their legs suddenly skidding out from under them. It crawls past the village of Richmond where the fishermen and eel-catchers burn holes in it to let their prey breathe a deadly last breath; clings to the mud and reeds of Hammersmith; settles under Westminster Bridge; and bumps against the side of the barges sleeping in the river.

  Although, as Mister Lyle would have pointed out, if he had bothered to check his thermometer and make a few simple calculations, it’s not yet quite cold enough.

  But he hasn’t. So he won’t find out until after it’s all over.

  And finally, the sun sets. Its departure is hardly noticed - it is just a deepening of the dark, rather than a fading of the light.

  And somewhere in the deep dark, eyes open.

  And a voice like warm marble says, ‘Is all well?’

  ‘His grace is here, just as the father promised, m’lady.’

  ‘Good. And the holy father?’

  ‘Is in the garden.’

  ‘Excellent.’ A swish of silk on a polished stone floor.

  ‘M’lady?’

  ‘Yes, Henton?’

  ‘The father . . . has left a number of loose ends.’

  The swishing sound stops abruptly. ‘Which loose ends?’

  ‘A couple of individuals who may threaten us.’

  ‘You believe that the police may be capable of tracing us by them?’

  ‘It is not the police that concern me, m’lady. You spoke of the storm at St Paul’s . . .’

  ‘Lyle?’

  ‘Yes, m’lady.’

  ‘They said Lincoln might send him. You were wise to inform me.’

  ‘Thank you, m’lady.’

  Marble eyes burning in a cold darkness. Marble voice edged with fire. ‘I will deal with the situation.’

  And in the gloom and the fog, footsteps clatter through the docks, and a voice mutters rebelliously, ‘“Get this, get that, find coals, find sulphur.” ’Ave you ever gone an’ looked for sulphur in this parta town, bigwig?’

  ‘Well, I can’t say that the situation has ever -’

  ‘An’ if he wants coals for the lady why don’t he go an’ find coals an’ let me rest my feet?’

  ‘If you want I could go on by myself . . .’

  ‘An’ then Mister Lyle’d kill me for lettin’ you get all killed! You just do what I say, right, an’ it’ll be all right when it’s done.’

  ‘Well, as the older party, not to mention the gentleman of this expedition, I feel it is in every way my duty to ensure that . . . ow!’

  ‘Sorry. Was that your foot?’

  In the darkness of the settling night, Horatio Lyle struck a match in a small, dingy room and lit a small, dingy lamp hanging from a small, dingy hook nailed into a low, leaking ceiling.

  There was a bed in this room and a wooden crucifix. Nothing else gave it even the suggestion of being inhabited. It smelt of mould, dust, dirt and the faint aroma of tobacco; and from outside the window, the stink of the refuse pile in the courtyard of shed-like tenements rose up until it seemed to seep through the walls, despite the covering of snow and ice trying to shutter down the smell. Lyle looked round, feeling more depressed as each sense reported its dismal findings.

  Only one thing in the room caught his eye, and even then he almost missed it. He knelt down and reached cautiously under the bed, imagining - or maybe not - the scuttling of ratty claws as he did.

  Lyle unscrunched the note, and read it.

  And it too terrified him, though he would never have admitted it. He already knew there was too much at stake.

  In the darkness and the nigh
t, a man wrapped in a burgundy scarf looked up at the dim light of the room that had once housed Captain Fabrio, and saw the shadow of Horatio Lyle against it, head bowed, clearly reading something. And the man smiled, and thought, Don’t be afraid yet, my friend. I will see that everything is all right.

  As if to seal this silent bargain, he held up in salute to the shadow a hand that had something clasped in it and, with the reverence of a priest taking a sacrament, he carefully ate the ginger biscuit.

  Voices rose out of the fog, and the man retreated into the darkness of a doorway.

  ‘Wait, Miss Teresa!’ A breathless voice.

  Behind the burgundy scarf, the man smiled, with a strange fondness.

  ‘Yes, bigwig?’

  ‘I just need ... to catch . . . my breath . . .’

  ‘You make it sound like you’re carryin’ too much!’

  ‘It’s just . . . I don’t usually carry coals myself.’

  ‘Oh, that’s typi . . . typic ... that’s just like you bigwigs what all ’ave people what do your carryin’ for you. You oughta carry things, now that I’m a lady an’ it’s your duty,’ the malevolent grin was almost visible in the darkness, ‘it’s your duty to do the carryin’.’

  Whatever answer there might have been was lost in a breathless wheeze. The voices drifted on into the fog. Something, however, lingered. Tate, ears trailing in the snow, slowed, turned, sniffed the air, sniffed the ground, nose wrinkling up in dismay. Two immensely large, deep brown eyes turned slowly on a black doorway. The tail twitched. Tate started to whine.