James Blaylock - The Aylesford Skull

St. Ives nodded. “There’s the telling phrase again: ‘highly placed.’ Narbondo’s nefarious Customer , I don’t doubt. If we knew who this Dutchman was, we could perhaps make use of him – make him sweat a little more. But we do not know him. We’re all to seek.”

“What do we know in fact?” Doyle asked. “As a newcomer, it’s perhaps none of my business, but…”

“It’s entirely your business after the way in which you comported yourself tonight,” St. Ives said. “We’re considerably in your debt.”

“Yes, indeed,” Tubby put in. “That fellow with the dirk will be pissing blood for a week after…”

“For God’s sake, man!” Jack said.

“Dreadfully sorry.” Tubby looked abashed. “Perhaps another slice of that pudding?” he asked Winnifred.

“We’d best start at the beginning,” St. Ives said, and he did his best to reveal the salient points of Mother Laswell’s sad story, including the business of the Aylesford Skull, the alleged lane to the afterlife, and the likely reason for Narbondo’s kidnapping Eddie.

Keeble sat with a look of startled horror on his face. “The fiends lied to me,” he said. “I had no idea.”

“Of course,” St. Ives told him. “None of us knew anything at all until now. I still admit to finding elements of the problem little short of ludicrous, but it’s clear that Narbondo does not, and so the immediate dangers are very real.”

“I find it no such thing, sir, if I might state my opinion,” Doyle said. “There’s nothing necessarily ludicrous in it. I have a high regard for science, but an equally high regard for the thinking of your Mother Laswell. Indeed, science ignorantly deplores things of the spirit, so to speak, and at its own peril. Our highly placed personage – we suspect him of being in league with Narbondo?”

“Perhaps, but the evidence isn’t persuasive,” St. Ives said. “Narbondo famously keeps to himself, of course. I can’t imagine that he would take on a partner or a confidante, not unless it was for his own immediate gain. If the two are connected, I suspect financial dealings – Narbondo making use of this person’s money or power. And if that’s the case, then the man treads on very thin ice.”

St. Ives was suddenly weary. The food had done for him. It was past time to put an end to the day. “We’ll give the airship a trial at first light then,” he said.

Keeble looked askance at him. “Not all of you, certainly? Not at once?”

“No, William. Hasbro and I will take it aloft. You three,” he said, addressing Jack, Doyle, and Tubby, “should go about your business. I thank you for your loyalty tonight, but I have no idea what tomorrow will bring, and I don’t intend to keep you standing by. I intend to go to the police. Perhaps I should have done so immediately, although it would surely have impeded our own efforts tonight, perhaps for the better.”

This pronouncement dampened all conversation, and there was a general silence again. The most voracious eating was over, and even Tubby merely toyed with his final piece of toast. “I for one will look in on Uncle Gilbert’s bivouac down the river,” Tubby said.

“Ah, the search for the elusive bustard,” St. Ives put in. “I had forgotten. Give him my kindest regards, if you will.”

“He’ll be having a comfortable time of it,” Tubby said. “He has something of the Arabian sultan in him, you know, when it comes to an encampment. I’ll be nearby, Professor, if you’ve got any use for me, and I’ll be on the lookout for your airship.”

“Perhaps Doyle and I can make inquiries about this Dutchman named de Groot,” Jack said, “if in fact that’s his name.”

“Happily,” Doyle said. “I’ve no reason to return to Southend for another week.”

“We’ve got beds already made up,” Dorothy said. “You’ll stay here tonight. You too, Tubby, unless you’re keen on returning to Chingford. The lot of you, in fact. We’ll make do.”

“Thank you,” St. Ives said, “but we’ll just nip back over to the Half Toad as usual. Our dunnage is there. I’m done in, I’m afraid, so the sooner the better.” He pushed his chair back from the table and Hasbro did the same, but before they had time to stand, the doorknocker downstairs hammered a half dozen times, leading to an absolute silence in the room. St. Ives was keenly alert. This would not be a social call, not at this late hour.

“I’ll see to it,” Jack said. He arose and went to the several speaking tubes moored to a wooden rack on the wall of the room. He plucked the first of them free and spoke into the funnel-like mouth of the thing. “Please to identify yourself,” he said.

From the considerably larger funnel affixed to the wall nearby came a disembodied voice, a boy’s voice, perhaps. “It’s Newman, sir, at your service,” the voice said.

“Do any of us know a Newman ?” Jack asked the company, covering the speaking tube with his hand.

“Not any sort of Newman who would be knocking at the door at this hour,” Tubby said. “It’s not the police, though, thank God.”

“What do you want, Mr. Newman?” Jack asked into the mouthpiece. “State your business.”

“Message for Mr. Owlesby or the missus if he ain’t there,” came the reply. “Finn Conrad sends word of the Doctor!”

St. Ives stood up out of his chair, a wave of pain cutting across his forehead and nearly staggering him. “ Finn Conrad! ” he shouted. “What on Earth …?” But he was already crossing the room to the door, Jack at his heels, the both of them hurrying down the stairs toward the street.

Mother Laswell found herself crossing the mouth of Angel Alley again, following the disguised man. He headed up Whitechapel Road, and then very soon turned north onto Brick Lane, crossing Wentworth Street several streets east from where Mother Laswell had crossed it earlier in the evening. Abruptly she recalled his name: Nesbitt – Layton Nesbitt. She had a memory for names, especially names from the past, but she had to allow her mind to recover them by itself. If she actively sought them out, they’d stay hidden. There had been mention of Nesbitt in her husband’s logbooks – several, if she remembered aright – that seemed to reveal his generally low opinion of the man, although a generally high regard for the man’s money. Nesbitt had been a young man at the time.

The long day told on her joints, and she found she was limping on her right foot, her corns no doubt enflamed. She half expected Nesbitt to hail a hansom cab and disappear, leaving her to trudge back the way she’d come, a mile out of her way now, the entire adventure utterly pointless. Could she find her way back to Lime Street without entirely retracing her steps? Most of the street names meant little to her, but in her mind she could picture herself walking around the perimeter of a box. Currently they were moving dead away from the river. When he turned left again on a street called Hanbury, she was relieved to think that another left turn would take her in the general direction of Mabel’s. If he turned right again, they would part company. She didn’t have it in her to keep on at this pace.

Not long after this thought came into her mind, he turned abruptly into the shallow portico of a building with a bright-red door, hesitating for a moment while he fitted a key to the lock, then opened the door, and went in. She walked up to the building and stood looking at the facade. There was no sign of any sort – not an inn. A place, perhaps, where he kept rooms. Two windows fronted the street, hung with heavy velvet curtains. The interior was dimly lit. She peered past the curtain but could make little out, and she was acutely aware that she was merely loitering. She wondered what she meant to do. Beat on the door? What would she confront him with even if he answered?