Puddles in the Pavement, page 3
“Gabriel never encourages debate,” Uriel said. “He has already had every conceivable debate with a mirror.”
“I still think you should’ve talked to him.”
“Why are we still having this conversation after centuries?”
“Because I do not understand him, Uriel. Not one bit.”
“Then leave him be. Your understanding will not make his behaviour less baffling.”
Bel tucked his shirt into his trousers. “That is literally the point of understanding.”
Uriel helped him on with his jacket, then tied Bel’s cravat. “Why must you pout?”
“Mrs Merrington thinks we were fornicating.”
“Let her think it.”
“She’s a gossip,” Bel complained. “I overheard her telling that crab-faced inebriate next door that you wear silk undergarments.”
“Why should I care about that? It’s perfectly true.”
Bel huffed. “It is not you who suffers the vile glares and the infernal hissing.”
“You could always—”
“Don’t tell me to change what I look like again. I won’t do it. This is how I am.”
“Good. This is how I like you,” Uriel said. “Now, stop whining about it and do your trousers up. You don’t want anything escaping when there’s a lady present.”
“Are we still pretending Emilia Sauvage is a lady?”
“She and her fiancé have found a way to make their relationship work. In such times, we should endeavour to keep our suspicions to ourselves, Bel, lest ears be at keyholes.”
Bel hated it when his brother was right.
6
Uriel’s Type is Mouths
Uriel was half convinced he’d dreamt the staggeringly beautiful Lady Emilia into perfection. Alas no, she was even more exquisite upon second viewing. Wilbur’s filthy look and warning grunt were the bucket of ice-cold water Uriel’s oncoming adulation deserved as he greeted their client for another consultation.
“You have news?” Uriel asked when the greetings were over.
Wilbur slid an envelope into the lady’s gloved hand, and she passed it to Uriel who scanned it quickly.
His curiosity played out in his eyebrows. “A ransom note? This is… highly irregular.”
The lady frowned. “Irregular how?”
“Please, sit down,” Bel offered. “Both of you. We have discoveries of our own.”
Wilbur sat awkwardly beside the lady on the settee. He was attractive for a brute, not traditionally handsome, but blocky and, Uriel suspected, hairy in all the right… Lord, those thighs looked like they could piston him into next week. He bit his lip to stifle a groan.
Uriel’s perusal had not gone unnoticed, and Wilbur was blushing furiously, his caveman face softened by confusion. Oh, Hell. Uriel was hopeless. It was an absolute lie that he was attracted to everybody as Bel so often claimed; he just didn’t have a type.
Unless mouths were a type.
Wilbur had a nice mouth. And a very red face.
Bel cleared his throat. “My lady, you may have read in the paper that others have gone missing over the last few days. We are not certain they are all connected. What is more likely is that a few ruthless people are taking advantage of the panic, but it appears that those who genuinely disappeared into puddles have more than one thing in common.”
“Go on,” Lady Emilia urged.
“With one exception, all are highborn gentlemen,” said Bel.
“If one can take liberties with the definition of gentleman,” Uriel added.
Lady Emilia smothered a smirk with her handkerchief, and even Wilbur seemed to approve for once, a brief smile flashing across his blunt features.
“Indeed,” Bel agreed. “We’re talking about the aristocracy here. Is your fiancé such a man?”
Lady Emilia smiled. “He is every bit a gentleman by the most steadfast definition, but as far as I’m aware, he does not have an aristocratic bone in his body.”
“That is encouraging, my lady,” Bel said. “Because the other thing these men have in common is murder. All were accused of murdering women.”
“Forgive my bluntness, but prostitutes in most cases.” Uriel tapped the ransom note against his nose. “Why, this paper smells of peaches.”
Bel snatched the letter and held it to his nose. “A clue perhaps?”
“Lord, what I wouldn’t give for a peach,” Uriel murmured.
Wilbur choked, his face going red again. “Mr Balthazar, sir, it’s not a clue. It’s just… just me soap. Where it’s been in me pocket.”
Bel laughed, handing the letter back to Uriel who grabbed it eagerly.
Bel sobered. “You are troubled, Lady Emilia?”
“Halston would never hurt a woman. He would never hurt anyone.”
“How long have you been engaged?” Bel asked.
“Now listen ‘ere,” Wilbur said, dragging in a deep breath that promised a lengthy verbal assault that Uriel couldn’t wait for him to unleash. “If you’re thinking my lady don’t know Mr Lazarus well enough to say he’d never hurt no one, you’d be wrong. Ain’t nobody knows him better, and I’ve known ‘em both for long enough to—”
Lady Emilia patted her driver’s hand. “That’s enough, Wilbur.”
“I didn’t mean to imply such a thing,” Bel said. “Forgive me.”
“If what you say is true, Mr Balthazar, that these men are…” The lady frowned. “You said they were accused?”
“All evaded justice one way or another,” said Bel.
“They were all guilty?”
“There is talk of a wolf,” Uriel began. “It’s not the first time this wolf has cleaned up the streets when justice failed. One can assume if the wolf is involved, then these men are indeed guilty.”
“Halston does not fit this profile. He has never been accused of anything. He has murdered nobody. He is certainly not highborn. What does this wolf person want with him?”
Uriel didn’t argue the point. The God-Wolf was after all a person when he was not being a wolf. If the lady wanted to believe it was a nickname, he’d spare her the terror. He closed his eyes, inhaled the peachy scent of the paper, which trembled against his humming lips, leaving a subtle numbness behind.
When he opened his eyes, his brother was talking, but Uriel didn’t catch what Bel was saying because Wilbur was glaring at him with dark, hungry eyes. Uriel blinked. Wilbur’s eyes were on Bel. He must’ve imagined it.
“We are working on some leads, Lady Emilia,” Bel said. “We will send word if they bear fruit. Do you mind if we hang onto the note?”
Uriel jumped a little when everyone turned to him, dragging the note reluctantly away from his nose. Their guests stood, Bel stood, Uriel bounced to his feet like a lamb.
“Of course.” Lady Emilia fixed the lace edges of her gloves. “We’ll await your instructions.”
The archangels smiled.
“Should anything more happen in the meantime, don’t hesitate to call on us,” Uriel said. “Either of you.”
Uriel watched Bel usher their guests downstairs, Wilbur at his back. The brute looked up at Uriel when he was on the stairs, and Uriel brought the envelope to his nose once more, watched the man’s tongue slide across his lips, then he was gone.
7
A Walking Slab of Sweating Beef
Uriel had met Lord Farringdon twice: once on his way into a brothel, and once on his way out. Those encounters had totalled no more than a minute in duration, yet Uriel had come away with a solid impression of the man as a brash bully incapable of civility.
He remembered the earl’s trial. He’d been cleared of all charges. There was nothing more than hearsay and a shared ballroom linking him to the murdered lady, and no living witnesses prepared to testify on behalf of the four murdered prostitutes. His reputation had not suffered one jot as a result of that trial. But that wasn’t what was on Uriel’s mind nor up his nose right now.
The Hell-stench of death burned the insides of his nostrils for the second time in two days. Their wasted journey yesterday had been to visit Lord Winterbourne who was the first to survive the God-Wolf.
Winterbourne had murdered three prostitutes on consecutive nights and hung them for all to see from three of London’s bridges. Emboldened by evading the police twice, he set up his third noose in advance and crossed the bridge with a woman as police moved in unseen. Unfortunately, there was nothing to link him to the murder of the third prostitute, as the police and Lord Winterbourne were on the wrong bridge.
The case didn’t even make it to court because a respected judge came forward with an alibi for the first two murders. After the wolf released him, Winterbourne finally admitted his crimes, explaining the third noose was deliberately set as a decoy, so the police would be his alibi.
Winterbourne was, as Uriel’s contact had put it, in the real Hell now, which was probably a vast improvement on this stinking one.
Today, they were here for Farringdon who threw himself through the doors of Scotland Yard at six o’clock this morning confessing to the murders he’d been tried for.
“Michael thinks one can contract typhus just by looking at it,” Bel grumbled, as the two archangels shuffled past Newgate in funereal black.
Uriel sighed. “Then don’t look at it.”
“Every brick a tombstone… a skull.”
“Leave it out, Bel.”
“Didn’t Michael do a turn in here for barratry?”
“That is a vicious rumour.” Uriel chuckled. “The sort that might land you in court.”
“The same joke every time,” Bel said, laughing regardless.
Uriel had friends in the lowest of places. Consequently, just minutes later, linen masks covering their mouths and noses, the two archangels were led through the dank squalor of Newgate’s lice-ridden dungeons by the most sadistic gaoler in all of England. It was an absolute myth that archangels had no sense of smell or taste, a myth Uriel suspected was rooted in Michael’s habit of rolling his food in salt before stuffing it into his mouth. A myth Uriel wished were true as the infernal rot of festering flesh crept beneath his mask.
“I don’t know why we couldn’t just break in,” Bel muttered.
“Who the hell breaks into a prison?”
“It would be cheaper,” Bel countered.
“We can afford it,” Uriel reminded him, nodding at the man leading them through this purgatorial pit. “He’s got a baby on the way.”
Uriel ignored his brother’s pained eye roll.
The gaoler, a walking slab of sweating beef named Frederick Holler, kicked aside the bones of who knew what as he lumbered along the suffocating corridor. Desolate voices groaned like old ghosts behind the walls, crying in alarm when Holler growled through the barred doors.
“Sorry ‘bout the wasted journey yesterday.” Holler jangled his keys. “Someone smuggled somethin’ in ‘ere for him. Next thing we know, he’s choked on his own vomit.”
“That is unfortunate,” Uriel said.
“Don’t got a lot of sympathy for rapists and murderers meself,” he said.
“Unfortunate for our case,” Uriel clarified.
“He was away with the fairies anyway,” Holler grunted. “D’you hear about the escape over at the other place?”
Uriel frowned. “Wandsworth?”
The man’s rusty chuckle rattled around the corridor. “Bloody Wandsworth. I’m talking about The Tomb.”
“I thought it was impossible to escape The Tomb,” Bel said. “The whole point of it is that it’s inescapable.”
“Yet Barra’s out.”
The archangels stopped walking and shared a significant look.
“Clifton Barrow?” Uriel asked.
“Aye, that’s him,” Holler confirmed.
“Bugger!” Bel let out a weary sigh. “We should’ve spoken to Gabriel sooner.”
“It wouldn’t have made a difference if Barrow was already out.”
Clifton Barrow was a well-demon who dined on ransom money for almost ten years before he meddled with the wrong man. His modus operandi was dragging snivelling Eton princes into puddles and forcing their well-heeled fathers to stump up or lose their heirs. With each kidnapping he had demanded the ransom money be lowered into a well, and each time the well had been watched to no avail because the ghastly weasel had snatched his prize from below and disappeared.
His final victim was a fey little thing, pale and enchanting, slight of body, but mighty of mind. Unfortunately for Barrow, the child’s father had taught his son to echo. Unfortunately for Barrow, the child’s father was another of Uriel and Bel’s brothers. Yes, another one. Clifton Barrow was no match for the tiny nephilim he’d kidnapped, let alone his behemoth of a father.
“How did he do it?” asked Bel.
“Some said he had help on the inside,” Holler said. “That he just walked out the front door bold as brass, but my missus… her brother works there. He’s a… what’cha call it… familiar. Got himself one of them vampire bosses. He reckons the floor in his cell was flooded… and with them havin’ instructions not to bring him water an’ all.”
“Who’d bother rescuing that little scrote?” Uriel asked.
“We know who,” Bel said. “It’s as if you were not listening to the same weaselly little man as I.”
Uriel sighed. “Perhaps a better question is why would they bother. Surely there are better options for people with such resources.”
“You know who did it, then?” Holler asked eagerly.
“You’ve heard the stories about the talking wolf?” Uriel asked.
Holler knocked on the wall. “Aye, this bastard’s been rattling on about him, but he ain’t real, is he?”
“That’s what we’re here to find out,” Bel hedged.
“Good luck with that, squire. I’m not sure he’s any less mad than Winterbourne.”
Uriel’s third encounter with Lord Farringdon did not improve his opinion of the man.
8
Lord Farringdon Hasn’t Learned Much
“Sodomites,” the prisoner bellowed, swatting his arms around. “Sodomites everywhere.”
Bel arched a perfect eyebrow.
“Shut up, you silly arse,” Holler grunted, shaking his meaty fist at the man. “I’ll knock your fucking block off.”
Farringdon’s wide eyes registered fear for about two seconds before he puffed up. “How dare you? Do you know who I am?”
Holler snorted. “Do you?” He turned to Uriel. “Bloody nobs think they’re better than the rest of us. Bang on the door when you’re done.”
Uriel nodded.
“You’re not leaving me in here with these…” Farringdon eyed Uriel and Bel with a sneer. “These indecent sinners.”
Holler turned to him with a growl. “Listen, fella. You’re in prison for being scum. You showed up here covered in your own shit and piss, snivelling like a scolded child. If you think you can lay any claim to innocence, courage, or decency after that, you’re a fucking fool.”
He left then, the door slamming behind him.
“I know what you are,” Farringdon whispered, his eyes lingering on Uriel. “I’ve seen you before.”
“At Madame Luna’s,” Uriel said.
The man sighed with relief. “My mistake.”
“One of many, I’m sure,” Uriel said, though he wanted desperately to tell the man he’d just as merrily sink into a man as a woman, just to see the horror on Farringdon’s face, but time was of the essence. Farringdon had been snatched three days after Lazarus, yet he was already back. “I hear you angered the God-Wolf.”
“The… the God-Wolf?” The change in Farringdon was immediate. Pomposity deflated, Farringdon trembled, watery eyes on the wall, shaking hands locked around his knees as he shrunk back onto the mattress, into the corner like he could hide in its shadow. “That’s what it’s called? The God-Wolf?”
“Yes,” Uriel said. “Even now, word is spreading through every public house in London that you survived the wolf.”
Uriel didn’t understand the hopeful look on Farringdon’s face as he asked, “That’s what they’re saying?”
“Don’t think you’ll be looked upon as some sort of hero,” Bel said. “You’re in Newgate for the murders of five women.”
He shook his head. “I’m innocent.”
“You confessed,” said Uriel.
“Because the wolf can’t reach me here. Nothing can reach me here.”
“Darling, I gave that growling bull out there five pounds and the promise of a goose for Christmas,” Uriel said. “You’re no safer from the wolf here than if you were stood outside Paynton’s with a string of sausages hanging from your balls.”
Farringdon’s breathing picked up. “You’re lying. It can’t get me.”
“If you’re innocent,” Bel said, “you have nothing to fear from the wolf.”
“I was cleared of all charges,” Farringdon insisted. “The wolf is mistaken.”
“We believe another man was taken in error,” Uriel said. “Halston Lazarus. Did you hear of him?”
For a moment, Farringdon’s face remained blank, then he gasped. “Yes. Yes, I was brought before him. Stewart said Lazarus was measuring me, but there was no measuring tape. He just stared at me until my skin prickled with heat… a most unusual sensation. Stewart said I ought to feel heavier, but I don’t know what he meant.”
“Stewart?”
“James Stewart, the Duke of—”
“We know who he is. What do you know of him?” Bel demanded, his eyes blackening into the whites.
Farringdon watched Bel’s face with despair. “Nothing can get me in here.”
“I have already told you—” Uriel began.
“No. You…” Farringdon pointed at the two archangels with shaking hands. “You… you can keep them out.” His eyes shifted to Bel. “You’re like him. Like Stewart.”
