James Blaylock - The Aylesford Skull

Finn considered this second man – “his Lordship.” Why would any sort of Lordship be lurking in the rookery, which was a dangerous place for a man with tuppence in his pocket? The man’s presence would have to be taken into account, Finn thought, watching Narbondo’s grotesque eating with something akin to amazement. He wondered whether the savage eating meant that the Doctor was particularly hungry and enjoying his meal, or whether he simply didn’t care about food at all, and was shoveling it down in order to be done with it.

It was a pretty question, really, and he thought now about the old woman in the courtyard, wondering what sort of creature she was. She had offered to do him a kindness, in her way, although doing so would make a sinner of him. Did she mean well, or the opposite? Did she know her own mind and heart, or did she lie to herself and believe it? Human beings, he thought, could be a strangely confounded lot. Cats were typically more sensible…

A man with a round, bald head entered the room now from behind Narbondo. “She’s coming along,” he said. “Won’t be a minute now.” Then he went out. Narbondo mopped his face with a napkin and sent Eddie into the farther room where his Lordship was hidden away. Something seemed to be pending…

Finn had a clear run at the window. If he made a prodigious, headfirst leap and balled himself up tightly he could throw himself through. The hateful balaclava might protect his head and neck from broken glass. He pictured it: springing up beyond the table, making for the second room, confounding his Lordship with exploding crackers, and then back out through the window with Eddie and away across the bridge.

Narbondo fiddled with the skull now, which suddenly came alive, the eyes glowing brightly. The ghost of the hanged boy was reflected in the glass of the window opposite.

Conversation abruptly heightened in the courtyard below. Someone shouted, “It’s him!” and someone else said, “Of course it is, you goddamn sod.”

Finn couldn’t see the ghost from his vantage point, but it was obvious to him that it must emanate from the skull on the table – the dead boy’s skull, no doubt. Narbondo canted his head and narrowed his eyes, as if listening hard. Finn heard nothing at all aside from the chaos of noises below. After a moment Narbondo fiddled with the skull again. The ghost was drawn back into its prison, the skull fell dark, and Narbondo sat back in his chair looking tolerably satisfied.

The evening was wearing on when St. Ives and Hasbro found themselves walking through the door of Billson’s Half Toad Inn on Fingal Street, Lambert Court, Smithfield, near enough to the top end of Shoe Lane so that Chatterton’s unhappy ghost still haunted the neighborhood along with the ghosts of the Smithfield martyrs. They took a table in their accustomed corner, which was luckily empty and where an open window let in the evening breeze, the fog drifting past outside. William Billson himself served them an ewer of ale and then went back after two more empty glasses in anticipation of the appearance of Jack Owlesby and Tubby Frobisher, St. Ives’s companions in arms. St. Ives hoped that they had received his hastily telegraphed message from Gravesend. If they hadn’t, then he and Hasbro would go on alone into the rookery in Spitalfields within the hour.

“This business of a ransom might be an utter fraud, sir,” Hasbro said to St. Ives. “Narbondo wouldn’t scruple to murder a child while swearing that he was playing a fiddle – please forgive me for speaking plainly. Narbondo’s word, such as it is, means nothing to him.”

“Nor would he scruple to take my money into the bargain,” St. Ives said. “And thank you for speaking plainly. This is no time to mince words out of a specious regard for euphemism. I agree with you utterly. Take the case of Mary Eastman. The woman was no real threat to Narbondo, but he murdered her anyway. He sprinkled hemlock on Alice’s pike for no conceivable gain. He made a bargain with Harry Merton, and then took the first opportunity to betray him – to steal his money – and then to insist that Merton pay him for the ill treatment. Whoever suggested that there was honor among thieves knew precious few thieves.”

St. Ives paused for a moment, contemplating, and then said. “That rather puts me in mind of our friend George. There was something about his demeanor there in the alley that was damnably strange. It came over him at the end of our conversation.”

“Something tolerably close to honesty, it seemed to me,” Hasbro said. “Perhaps regret. I can’t make it out, unless George isn’t entirely whom we take him for.”

“Lord knows we’ve taken him for any number of things today. One thing’s sure: he doesn’t know Narbondo as we do – by his acts, as the Bible says. If it turns out George has a soul, he might find himself in deep water. I’ll have no dealings with Narbondo in any event. I mean to strike tonight, for good or ill.”

Hasbro nodded, took a contemplative drink of ale, and said, “There’s some small chance that your agreeing on tomorrow morning’s rendezvous will put them at their ease. Do you believe in the existence of this alleged Customer?”

“Probably the man who commissioned another of these lamps from Keeble,” St. Ives said. “That would be my guess. It’s senseless as mere invention when the threat of murder is entirely enough to force my hand, given that it’s Narbondo who’s making the threat. There’s no need for him to fabricate a more elaborate story. An actual customer would give a rational explanation to the kidnapping, a sensible motivation.”

“His presence might perhaps lend us some time. Narbondo is certainly as avaricious as he is murderous. Merton suggested that the man was highly placed, but that’s scarcely surprising, since wealth would seem to be a requirement, given the cost of the merchandise.”

“Keeble might shed some light on the man’s identity,” St. Ives said.

At that point the door opened, and three men walked in, Jack Owlesby, Tubby Frobisher, and a third man, whom St. Ives didn’t recognize – about Jack’s own age, which is to say twenty-four or -five. He wore a heavy mustache and had a fit look about him, as if he spent his time on a rugby pitch. He looked around the room appreciatively, taking in the high, oak wainscot that had been put up half a century before Dr. Johnson had made his occasional visit to the inn, and a century and a half before William Billson would buy the inn and rename it the Half Toad. The place was a marvel of homely perfection: the candlelight, the paintings of sailing ships on the walls, the enormous joint roasting on the spit, the tap boy drawing pints of ale, the satisfied patrons stowing away vast quantities of food and drink, and Henrietta Billson moving cheerfully and efficiently among it all, as if conducting an orchestra.

St. Ives found the presence of the newcomer tedious, however, regardless of the man’s sensible appreciation of the place in which he found himself. Surely Jack had understood from the nature of his message that there was perilous work to be done. St. Ives had no intention of entertaining strangers, tonight of all nights.

Tubby saw the two of them and angled toward their table, a dark look on his usually jovial face. He carried a heavy blackthorn stick, which gave him a rough and ready appearance. St. Ives was heartily glad to see him. Tubby’s stick was a cudgel rather than a cane, and with the top hollowed out and filled with lead, a more deadly weapon, perhaps, than St. Ives’s true Irish shillelagh, although St. Ives in his youth had learned to fight with it in the Irish manner, and he much preferred its length and weight – more versatile than a cudgel, and without the lethal appearance.