The Dickens Mirror Read online

  “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.

  DOYLE

  Murder Most Foul

  1

  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.

  2

  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.

  Wait, wait, don’t panic. Because maybe not. If he took the knife, got rid of it—hell, trotted out to the Thames and tossed it into the fog—there’d be no evidence that he’d anything to do with Battle’s murder. Why he’d want to stay … he wasn’t sure. Perhaps it was because there really wasn’t anywhere to run. He might lose himself in what remained of London, sure. That might not be too difficult. Go as far south as he could manage. No one would come after him. Or he could brave the fog. Pack provisions and take the proverbial plunge and …

  Oh, who are you fooling? Black Dog gave him a playful nip in his right buttock. You’re simply not that brave, my darling. Besides, you’re forgetting Kramer. Don’t want to get yourself fixed up right?

  A good point. His eyes roamed the office, touching on the glasses, that whiskey. Battle said no one knew where he kept the bottle. Oh no, Sergeant—sidestepping the dead man’s splayed legs, he silently rehearsed what he might say to the desk sergeant once Battle’s body was discovered—I didn’t see anyone go in after I left for my rooms and … what’s that, Sergeant? He retrieved their fallen glasses from the floor. No, I’m afraid not, Sergeant. We never did have that drink.

  Thankfully, the drawer in which Battle kept his whiskey was still open, and there was a rag there, too. Drying both glasses, Doyle seated them and then the bottle inside and shut the drawer until he heard the latch click. Standing in front of the desk’s knee-hole, Doyle stared down at the papers Battle had taken from their pigeonhole. Should he destroy them? No one would notice. Still … he fingered that forged letter of reference, thinking how ironic it was that the fictitious Brother James had declared Doyle to be quite inventive; perhaps he would consider a career in letters, and now he would be the last person to see Battle alive. Someone might come looking for these. And just who else might bother to square the date of a tattoo?

  After carefully inspecting the papers for blood, he retied the twine and then scooped up Battle’s keys. Slotting the papers back where they belonged, he relocked the cover. How many minutes gone now? Probably only five since killing Battle. Time to go. His eyes lingered on Battle’s keys. The pouch felt good, heavy in his hands, and he hefted it, listening to the muted tinkle of metal, appreciating the weight. Still Kramer to deal with, the bodies to find. Himself to make right. “And what the hell did you mean, they’re not in the morgue?” He glared at the dead man as if he expected Battle to come out with it already. “If not there, where?”

  You’ll never know if you don’t move your baby backside.

  Yes, yes, all right, stop yer nagging. Rolling up the pouch, he reached to douse the lamp. He was about to take another calculated risk. I’ve got his keys. They lived in the same dorm. So … get to his rooms, light a candle or lamp. Then no one would look in the office, not at first, and they’d have no reason to do so until morning anyway. If he was lucky, discovery was hours away.

  Battle’s rooms were his next logical stop for another reason, too. Perhaps a clue as to where the bodies were?

  But he told you, Black Dog said. Weren’t you listening?

  “He only said where they weren’t.”

  Yes, but he said it was too cold.

  “Show me a place in London that isn’t.”

  Poppet, you’re being literal again. There are many ways of telling a story. There is what he said …

  “And what he did,” Doyle said slowly. The key. He kept touching it. So the key must be for a very specific lock. Have to hope the answer was obvious, in plain sight somewhere in Battle’s rooms. Wasn’t that where things were best hidden? God, he hoped he was right. He really had no time to play detective.

  Shoving his arms into his uniform coat, Doyle tucked Battle’s pouch with its keys into a left inside pocket. Wrapping his hands around the hilt of his black knife, he worked it free, cupping the blade with the rag with which he’d dried their drinking glasses, wincing at the scrape of bone where the scalloped filework sawed at the underside of Battle’s rib cage. The body was already growing cold, the skin smooth as chilled candle wax. The lips of the cut sucked and pulled as the knife gave by degrees. When the tip finally slipped out with a moist smacking sound, there was no more than a trickle of thick, dark blood. Wiping the blade clean, he slid his knife into its leather sheath.

  Then, after lighting his bull’s-eye and sliding the panel closed, he retrieved his helmet, doused the office’s oil lamp, and slipped out, carefully locking the door on the dead man he left behind.

  DOYLE

  Through the Looking Glass

  1

  SLITHERING OUT THE back way, Black Dog on his heels, was almost too easy. Only a few steps took him out of Battle’s office, around a corner, and into a rear stairwell. He spared only a single backward glance. Orange light glimmered at the far end of the hall, and there might have been a muffled voice or two. He met no one. At the back door, he hesitated and looked at the basement stairs that led to the morgue. Why take Battle’s word that the bodies weren’t there?

  “You can go round this all night,” he murmured. “You’ve got a plan. Stick to it. If you find nothing in his rooms, then you go look.” And if he still found nothing?

  Cross that bridge when and if. He let himself out, wincing a little as the door creaked. The police dormitory was across an enclosed courtyard. To the left, an arched cloister marked the entrance into the police stables, and through the muffling mantle of snow, Doyle caught the snort and nicker of the station’s remaining horse.
No other sound save the whistle of wind scouring the roof, the dull patter of falling snow, and the chuff of Black Dog’s breath. Ahead, he saw gauzy light from candles and oil lamps seeping through thin draperies in several rooms. Now and then, shadowy silhouettes drifted across individual windows. The only fairly bright light was a splash of orange spilling through a window to his far right from the desk sergeant’s lantern in the station at his back. Under his coat and attached to his belt, his own dark bull’s-eye was warm against his belly. While the courtyard was trammeled, there didn’t look to be fresh prints.

  He started across the yard. The dormitory had three entrances: right, left, center. His own rooms were on the second floor and on the right. He realized with a start that he’d no idea where Battle’s were, other than a vague recollection of them being somewhere on the first floor because all senior staff were assigned to the lower floors. You idiot. He skidded to a halt so quickly he felt his boots try to fly out from underneath on a thick layer of compressed ice and snow. He’d have to go back. Or abandon this plan altogether; simply go to his own rooms, throw what belongings he wanted into a sack. Or … Think, think. He stood, snow salting his coat and helmet …

  Keys, my dear.

  “Right. His key.” In order to precisely know, though, he would have to read the number. Couldn’t risk lighting up the courtyard with his bull’s-eye. Shuffling sideways, he edged as close to that wedge of orange light, and now the shadow of a man’s head and shoulders, as he dared. Leaning forward, he brushed a quick gaze up toward the window. The sergeant was facing away. Good. After another look across the empty courtyard, he tugged his right glove off with his teeth and dug out his own room key, which he kept on a ribbon pinned to his trouser pocket. Running an index finger over warm iron, he felt along its length, from the rounded and very thick bow and down the shank to a notched collar. Nothing. I know it’s here. Flipping the key, he repeated the process, carefully dragging his fingertip from the throating just below the collar … Got it. He felt his heart kick as his finger ran over a tiny plaque upon which there was a minute engraving: 2-2-1-b. Which was correct: second floor, room 21, right side of the hall.