The Reluctant Assassin

Golgoth Golgoth


THE BATTERING RAMS' HIDEY-HOLE. ROGUES' WALK. LONDON. 1898

It had occurred to special agent Chevron Savano that she might be the victim of some massive sting operation. There were files from World War II that told stories of prisoners in war hospitals who had been convinced that the war was over by English-speaking enemies and allowed themselves to be debriefed, but they were high-ranking prisoners and the operations were hugely expensive. She was barely more than a FBI wannabe with a tin badge. No one was going to go to such fantastic lengths for the piddly secrets in her brain.

Any lingering doubts that she might not actually be in nineteenth-century London disappeared the moment Chevie emerged from the dungeon into Otto Malarkey’s den of thieves, cutthroats, and wastrels.

Riley grabbed her elbow.

“Agent . . . Chevie, let me be the mouthpiece in the Rams’ Hidey-Hole. I know these people.”

“Relax, kid, I can talk for myself.”

Riley’s expression was pained. “I know. Your impetuous nature seems to land you in hot water no matter what the era.”

“It’s psychology, Riley,” said Chevie defensively, though she knew it was only half true. “You wouldn’t understand it.”

The Battering Rams’ Hidey-Hole did not seem much like a hole, nor did it seem like they were hiding from anyone. The storeroom’s rickety stairs opened into the entire ground floor of a wide house with no dividing walls to hold up the ceiling, which sagged alarmingly and would have collapsed entirely but for the brick chimney breast. The grand room was crammed with so many lifelong thieves that such a concentration of criminality would have been difficult to achieve elsewhere outside of a prison compound.

Animals roamed freely through the hall, including chickens, hounds, and actual rams, tangling their impressive horns to the encouragement of the two-legged Rams.

There were several makeshift stages constructed from barrels and planks where burlesque ladies sang drinking songs or street conjurers ran thimble games. At least four parrots hid in the crystal chandeliers, swearing in as many languages. “Wow,” said Chevie, feeling the room revolve kaleidoscopically around her. “This is unreal.”

“Say nothing,” Riley hissed. “I may still be able to slip us out of here.”

He dodged between a monkey and its handler to catch Malarkey. “Mr. Malarkey, Your Majesty. I have some conjuring skills. Doves, rabbits, that kind of thing. Think of a card, any card.”

Malarkey strode into the center of the room. “No. We agreed on a bout, lad. Save yer politicking. Wasn’t it you who suggested I bet on the battling lady?”

This was a good point.

“Yes,” admitted Riley. “But that was . . .”

Malarkey stepped over an unconscious sailor clutching a roasted leg of pork. “That was when you was belowdecks in the killin’ basement, with blood on the floor and waste seeping through the walls, and you thought you would spout off whatever it took to see the light of day, but now you see said light of day and are thinking to yerself, Maybe I can stall poor old simple Malarkey and finagle a way out of here for me and the pretty lass.” Riley had a shot at arguing. “No. I have genuine top-notch skills. Watch.” He snatched a vicious dagger from the belt of a nearby sailor and jammed it between the ribs of a man who, for some reason, wore a striped swimming costume. The blade stuck but did no apparent harm.

“See?”

“Not a bad effort,” said Malarkey. “But I have my mind set on a fight.” A thought struck him and he stopped abruptly, turning to Chevie. “Do you know the Marquess of Queensbury Rules?”

Chevie was stretching out her shoulders. “Nope. Can’t say that I do.”

Malarkey tapped her on the head with his riding crop.

“Capital. Neither do we. No holds barred is all the legal we have here.”

With a single bound, Malarkey mounted a central platform where there was a squat wooden and velvet throne, resplendent with a mightily horned, shaggy ram’s fleece. He aimed a kick at a monkey who sat in the king’s spot, then twirled on his heel, falling neatly into the throne. Malarkey smiled for a moment with paternal indulgence at the various forms of criminal mayhem unfurling all around, then snagged a brass speaking trumpet from its leather holster on the arm of his throne. “Listen, Rams,” he called, his voice projected yet tinny.

“Who among you fine sporting gents fancies a wager with your king?”

The word spread like the plague through the assembled rabble, and soon they were clamoring for sport at the feet of their king.

“Very well, Rams,” said Malarkey, rising to his feet. “I have a belter for you this evening, to delay you indoors awhile when you should be outside performing your customary honest labors.” A raucous laugh rose to the very roof at the partnering of the words honest and labors.

“I, your chosen monarch, in sight of the sacred fleece, offer you a wager. And I am telling you coves right from the off that you won’t be taking a ha’penny of my hard-earned. So, who’s got the bottle?”

Many hands went up, and some even tossed coins to the foot of the dais.

“Not so fast, my eager bucks. Let me fill you in on the details, lest there be accusations of cheatin’ flying around laterwise.” Malarkey leaned over, plucking Riley and Chevie from the crowd. “So, my people, what we have here are two possible recruits. A fine little grifter with fast ’ands, and his Injun princess. I’ve instructed ’em only one fights, and that one fights for two.”

“I’ll take him,” said the knifed swimmer.

Malarkey waved him away. “No, you ain’t heard the best bit. The one that’s stepping up is the young lady.”

This announcement was met with pandemonium. “We can’t have a lady on the canvas,” objected the challenger, backing into the throng.

Malarkey stamped a foot. “You have beheld my champion, Rams. Now, show me yours!”

There was no immediate response to this challenge. It was not a matter of cowardice; it was the left-footed awkwardness of tussling with a female in public.

But not all were awkward: one man soon skipped to the front of the line.

“I will crack her skull for her.”

The contender was a bald six-footer with bandy legs from carrying his beer gut.

“Can I use me bludgeon? I never fights without it for reasons of balance.”

Malarkey was shocked. “Use yer bludgeon? Of course you can use yer bludgeon, Mr. Skelp. I would never deprive a brother of his beloved weapon of choice.”

Skelp drew from behind his back a blackthorn club the size of Chevie’s leg. As if its dimensions were not formidable enough, Skelp had hammered on armored plates that had doubtless once been shining steel but were now dull with congealed liquid and matter.

“Charming,” said Chevie. “You guys are a classy bunch.” Malarkey laughed. “Skelp is one of our more sophisticated brothers. Betimes he reads stories to the illiterates.

“The odds are ten to one on Skelpy. Cash only, no markers. Give yer coin to my accountant.”

A small man in a waistcoat was suddenly besieged by aggressive men with money and dealt with them all efficiently, using a complicated system of facial tics and swearing. Once the betting was done, a space was cleared in front of the dais. Riley guessed that this was the traditional bareknuckle arena, and he hoped that the dark splashes on the floorboards were simply wine or beer.

Chevie did not seem anxious, though there could be nothing familiar to her about the proceedings.

Riley realized that the attention of every man in the room was on Chevie, and that this was a perfect time to look for a way out for them both. He couldn’t abandon her now. We are partners, till the end of this affair.

The Battering Rams jostled for a ringside view as the opponents readied themselves for the competition. Chevie carefully stretched her muscles and tendons, while Skelp stripped to his waist and spoke soft words to his darling bludgeon. “I will call the match,” said Malarkey through his speaking trumpet. “Last man . . . or woman . . . standing shall be proclaimed victor. Both parties prepared for the bout?” Skelp spat a gob of chewed tobacco, mostly on his own boot. Chevie simply nodded and balled her fists.

“Then begin!” called Malarkey.

The Rams were expecting the little lass to be brim-full of vinegar and take a run at Skelp, possibly causing him to fall down laughing. They were prepared to berate their comrade good-naturedly as he was eventually forced to tap the girlie on her noggin in order to claim his winnings.

They were utterly unprepared for what actually happened, and several burst out laughing, presuming that it was some manner of jape orchestrated by King Otto for a bit of a giggle. Before the echo of Malarkey’s words faded, Chevie rushed in low, used a basic judo disarming maneuver to twist the club out of Skelp’s grasp, then unleashed an out-of-the-ballpark uppercut with the man’s own beloved bludgeon that knocked out three of his teeth and sent him flying into a gaggle of his comrades. The whole lot went down like ninepins.

“Next,” said Chevie, which was a bit melodramatic, but no more so than the entire situation.

A silence followed Chevie’s victory, the like of which hadn’t been heard in this arcade in twenty years, not since Gunther No Nose Kelly earned his nickname during a rat-eating contest. “Wait for it,” said Malarkey out of the side of his mouth. When the assembled Rams realized that their invested chink was in serious danger of disappearing beyond their grubby grasp forever, the short-lived silence was shattered by a collective moan that rose like an ululating wave and crashed in a sea of objections.

“Hold on there!”

“Unfair! Unfair!”

“Will you beat a man with his own club?”

“She ain’t no female. She’s a witch.”

Malarkey silenced the clamor with a bellow through his trumpet, then addressed the stunned congregation.

“You fellers seem a mite surprised by my little whirling dervish here. I warned you, but no—you fine gentlemen knows better than yer beloved regent.”

Malarkey rubbed Chevie’s head as though she were a favored puppy and even instructed Riley to relax in his throne. “Here,” he said, tossing a purse of gold to Riley. “A share for the Injun princess, even though that were not part of the deal; but I am a fair and benevolent monarch.”

Malarkey faced his subjects.

“Listen, my gallows-bound busters, there is another twist to this tale. You have witnessed what my champion can do, so maybe yer regretting monies wagered. So I offer you one chance to retract yer wager without penalty. But if you leave yer ill-gotten gains in the kitty, then among the benefits that will accrue to you are shorter odds, a free toddy, and the admiration of your peers. And who steps up to spill the blood is your affair. You coves have leave to select the burliest muck-snipe from among your ranks to set against my little girlie. Choose whomsoever you fancy, so long as he bears the mark.” Riley found his discomfort swelling with every passing second. This was a fine penny-show for the Rams, but Chevie and himself were sitting ducks. If Garrick had managed to dump his carcass into the tunnel-of-time, it wouldn’t be long before some tidbits concerning a battling squaw dropped into his ear hole. And then the Thames water rats will be raking two extra floaters out of the dawn currents.

Riley perched on the throne’s cushion.

“Chevie,” he whispered, “do the business quick as you like, then we can make ourselves scarce. My skin is crawling with the feeling that Garrick is coming.”

“Roger that. We need to be on our way,” said Chevie.

Every one of Riley’s Garrick is coming hunches had been bang on the money so far.

Malarkey overheard the exchange. He plucked Riley from the throne, depositing him at his feet like a royal puppy, or jester. “Don’t worry about Albert Garrick. My best team of murdering scum have been lying in wait for him at his digs, their time bought by the very same fancy gent who ordered your deaths. As to you two foundlings being on your way, I think you have misremembered our arrangement.”

Chevie punched her fist into her palm and several large men jumped backward. “What arrangement?” she asked. Riley’s chin dropped to his breastbone, and he answered the question for Malarkey. “We are fighting our way into the Rams, the alternative being a sudden case of violent death— yours and mine. Once we are in, then we are Malarkey’s for life.” Malarkey pointed at Riley. “A shilling to the boy for keenness. You fight for the very breath in your lungs, little lady.

And if you wrestle your death from my grasp, then I still hold your life. Remember that well.”

He swiveled on the balls of his feet like a trained swordsman until his riding crop pointed at Riley. “Take this one and mark him. He is ours now.”

Hands descended on Riley from the crowd, so many that it seemed as though he were being swallowed by a sea anemone.

Riley fought, dropping several of his captors with well-placed blows, but whenever one fell another sprang to take his place.

The Rams lifted him high and carried him through the throng to a far corner of the room, where a decrepit old man sat surrounded by books, boxes of needles, and little ink bottles of dense, jeweled colors. The man’s fingers were small like a child’s but gnarled and inked in the wrinkles, each knuckle a rainbow. Riley found himself plonked in a wooden chair and held in place by viselike fingers on each shoulder.

“A young recruit, is it?” said the man.

“That is the case, Farley,” said Riley’s restrainer. Farley set his store of needles tinkling as he poked through them. “Not really a Ram,” he muttered. “More a lamb than a Ram. Still, mine is not to wonder why . . .” He selected a thin needle to make the mark.

“Mister, ain’t you going to a-sketch it on first?” Riley asked nervously.

Farley’s cough rolled in his throat. “Sketch, is it? Boy, I been doing the ram for years, could do it in me sleep, I could. Now, quit yer vibrations, or it’s a goat adornment you’ll be sporting in place of a ram.”

“That needle is clean, ain’t it? I don’t want to lose an arm.” “Worry not, the tool is sterilized better than any steel in St. Bart’s. No one ever saw a bubble of pus from Anton Farley’s needles. I will do her small and quick, and the time will pass.

And presently I will select a second, alcohol-swabbed needle to pick out the ram on your friend.”

At the mention of his friend, Riley craned his neck, trying to look back toward the boxing circle without moving his shoulder. From his seat he couldn’t see so much as the top of Chevie’s head, just a throng of Rams who had set up a chant.

“Golgoth, Golgoth,” intoned the criminal coterie, and again, “Golgoth, Golgoth.”

“Ah, me,” said Farley sadly. “Just the one needle, then.”

Chevie was not yet accustomed to the sheer pungency of Victorian London. Even the air seemed to have a sepia tinge to it, and mystery flakes landed on her head and shoulders, mottling her skin.

That can’t be good, she thought. I don’t even want to think about where those flakes come from.

The Rams had formed a loose human cordon around her and seemed to have developed a certain prudence in approaching the Injun maid, probably due to the large club dangling from her dainty fist and the blood dripping from its howjadoo end.

And now the men were chanting the word Golgoth, which Chevie suspected would turn out to be some particularly vicious incarnation of Battering Ram.

Battering Rams. If these guys got any more macho, they could have their own show on cable TV fixing motorcycles and pumping iron.

The ocean of men parted and a malevolent hulk strutted into the circle like he was the world’s best at something violent.

So this is Golgoth, thought Chevie. It’s probably going to take two wallops to knock out this guy.

Golgoth reached up a delicate forefinger and thumb, pinching his crown and removing his hair, which apparently was some kind of hairpiece.

“Hold Marvin for me, would you, Gilhooley?” said Golgoth, dropping the hairpiece into the hand of his much smaller friend, who did what his far larger friend requested of him, which was probably the basis upon which their relationship was built.

Two things about Golgoth surprised Chevie.

One: his creepy hairpiece had a name.

And two: no one besides her seemed to find the word Gilhooley hilarious. It sounded a little bit rude, but she wasn’t sure why.

“Okay, Golgoth,” she said, cracking her knuckles. “I will try to hurt you humanely.”

“I ain’t no Golgoth,” said the giant. “I is his little bruvver.”

Which was the last thing she heard before something the size of a cement block hit her square in the chest with the speed of a freight train.

•••



Chevie may have been strong and quick, but she was also small and light. The blow from her mystery attacker knocked the FBI agent over and set her skidding across the floorboards, picking up dozens of splinters in the process.

The pain was so huge that Chevie wondered if her lungs had been crushed, and she was relieved when her breathing started up again.

“Oooh,” she groaned, a blood-string swinging between her lip and the ruined shards of her Timekey on the floor.

I am stranded here.

“No fair.”

“Golgoth! Golgoth!” chanted the Rams, stamping their boots to set the floorboards a-jumping.

Chevie raised herself to all fours, wondering if her skull was fractured, thinking, Where is this Golgoth guy? Can Victorians do invisible?

She struggled to her feet, shaking her head to extinguish the stars in her vision, casting around for her attacker. There was no one in the fighting arena but Otto Malarkey.

“Where is he?” Chevie asked blearily. “Point me toward Golgoth.”

Malarkey touched two fingers to his lips, a gesture of guilt. “I am afraid, princess, that I am Golgoth. My old circus strongman name.”

Oh, crud, thought Chevie. “But I’m fighting for you!”

Malarkey removed the fingers from his lips, wagging them at the assembled Rams. “I said they could pick any Ram, and the clever bleeders picked me. After all, who better? Now I must choose between purse and pride.”

Let me guess, thought Chevie. Pride wins.

“And in that tussle, pride wins every time. I must sacrifice my wager to save my position.”

Chevie adopted a boxer’s stance, dipping her chin low behind raised fists.

Not that it matters much. With those hands, Malarkey could punch straight through my guard. I will have to rely on my speed.

The crowd’s attitude shifted from raucous encouragement to quiet, feral anticipation. There was much at stake here. Both combatants were being tested, but while Chevron was fighting for her life, Malarkey fought to prove himself loyal to his men, and he knew that there would be more than one Ram praying for him to fall and leave a vacancy for the top position.

The contestants circled each other with wary respect. Chevie’s ear was ringing with what she couldn’t help feeling was the Star Trek theme tune, which was extremely distracting. Malarkey rolled his shoulders and danced light-footed back and forth in a complicated jiglike routine that was almost as distracting as the ringing.

After a minute or so of sizing each other up, both fighters attacked at the same moment, to a tumultuous roar from the Rams. Malarkey’s swiftness was limited by his sheer bulk, and only his eyeballs could move with sufficient quickness to capture Chevie darting under his ham-fist to punch him twice in the solar plexus. Which had about as much effect as throwing a snowball at Mount Everest.

Punches not working, Chevie realized, straightening her fingers and jabbing them into Malarkey’s kidney. It does not matter if a man is as big as a house and made from red brick: if he gets a solid poke in the kidneys, it is going to hurt.

Malarkey roared and reflexively jerked his torso, which bumped Chevie into the human cordon around the fighting arena.

Rough hands tousled her hair and one cheeky so-and-so even patted her bottom.

“See that? What she done with her fingers there?” said one Ram, behind her.

“Fingers? I coulda sworn she used her thumb,” replied his comrade.

“Nah, dopey. Four fingers, held stiff, like so.” And the Ram demonstrated the move on Chevie, sending her lower back into spasm and giving Malarkey enough to time to get a grip on her neck.

Game over, thought Chevie, as her feet left the ground.

She chopped at Malarkey’s forearm and pinched the nerves in the crook of his elbow, just as Cord Vallicose had assured her would break the grip of the biggest son of a gun on this green earth. Apparently he hadn’t taken Victorian crime bosses into account.

Malarkey laughed in her face, but Chevie thought she detected a spark of relief in his eyes.

“You had help, Otto. Remember that when you’re gloating on your throne.”

Malarkey squeezed her windpipe, choking off the accusation along with her air. Chevie hung on to his arm, taking the strain off her neck, trying to avoid spinal damage, but already the lack of oxygen was blurring her vision and draining the strength from her limbs.

“Riley,” she croaked, though she knew the boy was under guard outside the throng. He could neither see her nor help her if he did catch a glimpse.

Malarkey drew back his free hand. “This pains me greatly, little maid. Yes, I prove my physical supremacy once again, but it will cost me a pretty pound to honor all the chink bet against you, not to mention the fact that I lose me own wager. I bet on you, girl, and you let me down.”

Malarkey clenched his fist, his knuckles creaking.

“I won’t kill you,” he promised. “And you should wake up with most of yer teeth and marbles.”

Chevie tried to draw away, but she was held fast. The ringing in her ears changed from Star Trek to something more strident. A simple bell. Was her subconscious trying to tell her something?

Malarkey cocked an ear, and Chevie thought for a second that he could hear what was inside her head; then the Ram king called, “Shush! Shut yer babbling gobs. Can you not see I am listening?”

Silence fell almost instantly, except for Mr. Skelp, who was just waking up.

“Wot’s occurring, mates? I remember having me porridge this morning and then . . . nuffink.”

Malarkey took three steps into the crowd and silenced Skelp with a boot to the chin.

“I said quiet, you dolts!”

There was dead silence, except for the curious ringing.

Malarkey’s eyes widened as his mind connected the noise with an object. “The Telephonicus! ’Tis the Telephonicus Farspeak!”

A chorused Awww rose through the Hidey-Hole’s ballroom, and all the heads swiveled, lemminglike, toward Malarkey’s throne. On a walnut parlor table stood a device, carved from ivory, in two parts: a base and cylinder, connected by twisting cables. The device jangled with each ring.

Malarkey summarily hurled Chevie into the arms of the throng.

“Hold her. Not too tight now, boys. No one hurts the maiden but me.”

He ran to the Telephonicus Farspeak and delicately answered the call, little finger raised like a duchess taking tea.

“Helloooo,” he said, his accent a little more refined than usual. “This is Mr. Otto Malarkey speaking from the HideyHole. Who is it on the hother end?”

Malarkey listened a moment, then pressed the earpiece to his chest and hissed to the Rams.

“It’s Charismo. I can hear him so clear, like he’s a fairy in my ear hole.”

No one was particularly surprised to hear that it was Charismo’s voice emanating from the earpiece, as it was Mr. Charismo who had installed the Farspeak in the Hidey-Hole. Even so, at the mention of his name, several of the villains blessed themselves, and a couple of the Catholics genuflected. A few more Rams formed triangles with their thumbs and forefingers, an ancient gesture to ward off evil.

“Come now, brothers. Mr. Charismo is a friend to the Rams,” said Malarkey, but his words sounded forced and hollow.

Malarkey listened some more, his face falling. When Charismo had finished speaking, Malarkey nodded as if that could be transmitted over the phone line, then replaced the ivory earpiece in its holder on the base.

“Well, Rams,” he said. “There’s good and bad in it. Mr. Charismo has heard somehow of the Injun and the boy. He instructs that we deliver them direct to his residence. There is not to be a mark on either, he says.”

“And the good news?” asked a Ram in the front row of the throng.

“The good? The good is that the bout cannot technically be concluded, so all bets are off.” Malarkey smiled broadly. “Which is good news. For your king, which is me.”

A few of the Rams grumbled, but not too loudly, and Malarkey knew that his luck would not be questioned. All in all, it was the best possible result for the Ram king: his reputation was intact, his purse no lighter, and Mr. Charismo had been in a much better mood than expected, considering. A good day’s graft all around.

•••



Farley finished the simple Ram motif on Riley’s shoulder and swabbed it with medicinal alcohol.

“Don’t pick at the scab,” he advised, “or you’ll end up with scarring, which makes my design look bad.”

Riley could not work out what had happened. “Is my friend safe? Is the fighting done?”

Farley placed a clean rag across the tattoo. “The fight has been suspended. A client has expressed an interest in meeting you, as I thought he might.”

Riley frowned. There were politics at work here.

“So, you sent word to this gent? It was you that saved us, Mr. Farley?”

Farley tied the knot tightly. “Quiet now, boy. I took a few bob for sending a message, that’s all.”

Riley touched the bandage gingerly. “Who is this client? What would he want with us?”

Farley carefully and methodically capped his inks and replaced them in a wooden case.

“This client is a most singular individual,” he said. “A genius in many fields, he is, and a generous benefactor to those who keep him informed. As to what he wants with you, well, that’s a question he will answer in person.”

“Any words of wisdom for me, Mr. Farley? Regarding this mysterious client and how to keep him sweet?”

Farley smiled and his teeth were remarkably white inside wizened lips. “You are a smart one, boy. That is possibly the best question to have asked, when there was only time for one.” Farley thought while he wiped his needle. “I would advise you to keep yourself interesting. Be amusing in your conversation. Mr. Charismo is unlikely to send you back here for as long as he finds your company scintillating.”

Riley stood on the stool and caught sight of Chevie, who was terrorizing the Rams trying to restrain her.

Scintillating, he thought. That shouldn’t prove too difficult.

Then the name mentioned by Farley penetrated his brain.

Mr. Charismo? Surely not Tibor Charismo, the most famous man in all of England. What was his involvement in this whole affair?

Whatever Mr. Charismo’s intentions toward their persons, they were sure to be less lethal than those of either Albert Garrick or Otto Malarkey.

Perhaps we will have a moment’s respite. Perhaps even a bite to eat.

Riley waved at Chevie and smiled encouragingly.

Our situation is about to improve, he wanted to tell her. Be of good cheer.

But Chevie was not in good cheer and would not be for some time; for, lying in the palm of one hand, were the remains of the Timekey, which had been smashed utterly by Otto Malarkey’s surprise blow.


THE ORIENT THEATRE. HOLBORN. LONDON. 1898

Before quitting the Orient in search of the Rams, Garrick checked that his cashbox was still hidden in a steel safe below the conductor’s podium in the orchestra pit. It would be a galling shame to return after dumping the bodies of Percival and his cronies in the Thames to realize they had raided the stash before his arrival.

Garrick loaded all three bodies onto a cart in the yard and made a quick trip across to the low-lying marshes on the Isle of Dogs to lighten his load.

More food for the fish, he thought as the macabre packages slid below the murky waters.

And now, with the day’s donkey work completed, he could attend to more important business. Specifically, to find out who had hired the Rams to do him in. There was one man who would surely be able to answer that question, and Garrick knew precisely where that man would be.

The Hidey-Hole. Is that not how the Battering Rams referred to their infamous club?

As if it were hidden. As if every bobby in London were not perfectly aware of its exact address. As if constables did not extend their routes by miles simply to avoid going anywhere near the Rams’ headquarters.

Yes, the un-hidden Hidey-Hole. The next port of call for the Red Glove.

The sun was already long past the spire when Garrick purchased a mug of coffee from his regular man on the tip of Oxford Street, but his palate had been educated by twenty-first-century coffee, and he judged this mug as bilge water not fit for the Irish. He flung it to the cobbles and vowed to take his custom elsewhere in the future.

The coffee soured his mood briefly, but the memory of his artful disposal of the three Rams who had violated his beloved theater cheered him somewhat.

I behaved righteously, he realized. Bad men came to murder me and I defeated them.

Self-defense was unusual for Garrick, and he allowed a grim and righteous anger to build in his breast.

An eye for an eye, sayeth the scriptures, thought the magician, deciding to ignore the New Testament for now, as Turn the other cheek did not suit his argument.

In daylight hours the Haymarket was little more than a rowdy thoroughfare, with an uncommonly high number of gin houses; but the rising of the moon had a more alarming effect on the tiny borough than it would have had on one cursed with lycanthropy.

First came the bonfires, plonked directly onto the pavement, and no sooner lit than surrounded by half a dozen ruffianly individuals, pulling on pints of gin and passing around pungent cigars. Then, drawn perhaps by the bonfires’ smoke signals, came the dandies and the players, and a veritable brigade of ne’er-do-wells, all destined to embroil themselves in heavy drinking, illegal betting, and cardsharping before the night was out.

Garrick generally considered himself too fine a gentleman to frequent the Haymarket after dusk, but needs must; and if he was to have the contract on his head lifted, he would have to visit the king in his broken-down palace.

By the time he arrived at Rogues’ Walk, the corner was already six deep in night owls, with a glut of brawn outside the Hidey-Hole’s double doors as patrons lined up for a ringside view of the Battering Rams’ infamous fighting ring, which on any given night could feature exotic warriors, dogs, roosters, and even, on one notorious occasion, a dwarf and an Australian miniature bear.

This is not the time to speak with Otto Malarkey, Garrick realized. Even a man of my talents could not hope to penetrate such an army. But my moment will come.

Garrick was distracted from his task by the sight of a sometime stooge of his sauntering toward the bonfires, then begging nips of gin from the lowlifes warming their hands.

Lacey Boggs. My West End songbird.

Lacey Boggs’s con was to sing for tipsy gents after the theater while her accomplice dipped into their pockets. The dodge had not been pulling in the revenue it once did after Lacey passed a summer at Her Majesty’s pleasure and came out of the clink minus her teeth and plus a set of wooden dentures.

Garrick took Lacey by the elbow and propelled her beneath a gas streetlight, so that her head bonged against the pole.

“Here, what’s all this rough stuff?” she objected. “I’ll ’ave your hand for a spittoon, mate.”

The bluster was replaced by terror when Lacey realized exactly whose hand she had just threatened.

“Oh, not you, Mr. Garrick. I never meant you. Be rough all you like, I know there’s no harm in you.”

Garrick tightened his grip on Lacey’s elbow. “There’s harm in me, Lacey Boggs. Gallons of harm and hurt, a-waiting to be spilled onto some poor unfortunate.”

Lacey smiled, and Garrick saw that she had taken to dying her wooden choppers with lime. “Not me, Mr. Garrick. Ain’t I always done as asked to the letter? Who was it that located that French count for you? The one what was brutally murdered . . .” Lacey’s eyes went wide and she covered her mouth with her hand. “I never meant that you had nothing to do with that. A fine gent like yourself . . . Coincidence, surely.”

Garrick had no patience for this bleating woman. “Calm yourself, Lacey. The harm in me is not for you. I have a job, that’s all. Do you remember my boy, Riley?”

Lacey’s face muscles relaxed. “Aww. I remembers him. Cute little beggar with the wonky eyeballs. Suffers with the nervosity a bit, I’d say.”

“That’s him. I need you to find him. Employ whomever you need. Have old Ernest send a pigeon to the theater if I cannot be found.”

Lacey sniffed, as though she could smell a sovereign. “London is a big place, Mr. Garrick. Three million souls big. Could you give a girl a clue?”

“I shall be generous. Two clues I have for you. Firstly, Riley may fly to the Old Nichol, for he is well aware of the abhorrence I hold in my heart for that disease pit.”

“And the second?”

“It is possible that he travels with an Injun maiden. A pretty lass, but dangerous.”

Lacey Boggs clacked her wooden teeth in rumination. “An Injun in Old Nichol. That fox will hunt herself, so she will.”

Garrick took a sovereign from his supply. “There is another sov to go with this if you are successful. If not, I will be reclaiming this one from your dead hand. Do you understand me, wench?”

Lacey Boggs shivered as though suddenly cold, but one hand flicked from below her shawl to claim the coin. “I understands. Find the boy and send word.”

Garrick took her chin in his bony fingers. “And no gin until the job is done.”

“No gin. Not even a tot.”

“Very well, Lacey,” said Garrick, releasing his grip on the woman. “Off to Old Nichol with you. I have business here.”

Lacey rubbed the fingermarks on her chin. “Is you placing a wager, Mr. Garrick? If so, think twice, sir. Otto Malarkey always fixes the odds so he can’t lose.”

Garrick patted his coat and trouser legs, checking the blades concealed in secret pockets all about his person.

“Even the great King Otto can’t fix these odds. He has started a fight that he cannot win. So if I was you, I would quit this place in case the blood flows onto the street.”

Lacey Boggs hitched up her petticoats as though the blood already pooled about her feet. “I am making myself scarce, sir. I am an employed woman with a job to do.”

Garrick watched her go, and he knew that the news of a bounty for Riley would sweep through the city faster than cholera through a rookery.

If I know my boy, he will follow the pattern of his previous escape attempts. Riley will find himself a bolt-hole, with a view to making a run for it when his trail has cooled. In this case, he will run for the future, and there are only two doors leading that way. One is in the basement of Half Moon Street, but I could be there waiting for him; or I could have simply dismantled the apparatus, so he will give it a few days, then make for Bedford Square. And that’s where I shall be, just as soon as I have myself a little chat with Otto Malarkey.

Inside the Hidey-Hole the revelries continued until the wee hours, when Otto Malarkey called a halt by abruptly losing his temper, as he did, regular as clockwork, just before sunrise, urging anyone who did not wish to bear a stripe of his riding crop to find themselves a hammock out of his sight.

“Except you, Mr. Farley,” he called to the elderly tattoo artist. “I would have you update my price list as I doze.” It was a testament to the man’s tolerance for pain that he intended to sleep while Farley labored over his chest tattoo.

The enormous room cleared slowly as the weary shuffled toward their resting places. Malarkey snagged a bottle of brandy from the grip of an unconscious sailor on the floor and staggered to Farley’s corner.

“How now, my faithful artist,” he said, dropping into the tattoo lounger, which creaked alarmingly under his enormous bulk. “I need you to update my price list. Add a pound to every service. After all, I am king now.”

Farley was tired and his fingers were cramped, yet he knew better than to complain. He provided a valuable service to the Rams, but Malarkey’s moods were unpredictable and a man would do well not to visit his dark side.

“One pound it is,” he said, tapping the ink bottles into a pleasing straight line. “Some will be straightforward enough; the same as previous ones won’t need touching. But may I ’umbly suggest leaving the denomination as shillings? Then all’s I need to do is diddle with the numbers a bit. Save a little on the ink and needles.”

What went unsaid was that Farley’s method would cut down the needle time.

Malarkey uncorked the bottle with his teeth and took a long draft. “As you wish, Farley. It is of little matter to me, hardy as I am. Your needle is like a pinprick compared to the many rapier punctures I suffered on the prison island of Little Saltee.”

That’s because it is a pinprick, Farley wanted to say, but he thought better of it.

“Enough blabber, and on with it,” said Malarkey. “I needs me sleep. Rest is vital for a shining head of hair. Rest and the touch of the fleece. That’s what keeps my mane glossy.”

Malarkey was vain about his hair. It was his weakness, and too many people knew it, in Farley’s opinion.

“Rest and the fleece, boss. You see to your hair and let me work on this chest. When you wake it will be done.”

Malarkey belched almost contentedly, allowing his muscles to relax, then jumped as Farley’s needle made its first puncture. It had been a long time since he’d taken ink, and it was a mite more painful than he remembered.

“Apologies, boss. The sting will ease soon enough.”

Malarkey relaxed once more. Jumping and a-twisting was not a wise idea when taking the ink.

A cove’s T could end up a J.

Farley had spoken true, and soon the needle pricks faded to a dull buzz. Malarkey felt his entire chest assume the numbness that often went with extreme drunkenness. Within minutes he felt at peace with the world.

The surrounding hubbub faded, to be replaced by loud snoring and the occasional squeal of night terror from the upper levels.

I love this time of day, thought Malarkey.

He was on the point of slipping away when he felt the tattooist’s needle slide in uncommonly deep, like an icicle perilously close to his heart. The Ram king’s eyes flew open, and one hand raised itself to knuckle Farley on the crown for his carelessness; but when he tore the fleece from his head, Malarkey saw that it was not the decrepit Farley bent over him but the assassin Albert Garrick, in full evening wear, including a heavy velvet cape that rippled in the low light like the fur of a satisfied panther.

“Have you lost your senses?” Malarkey shouted.

“Keep your voice down, Malarkey,” said Garrick, twisting the needle a fraction. “Or you may startle me into popping your heart like a rancid bag of pus.”

From his position, Malarkey could not see the tattooist. “Where is Farley? Have you murdered the old geezer?” he asked quietly.

“Not murdered,” replied Garrick. “I etherized him is all, and rolled him under the stairs. I am not an animal.”

“What you are is a dead man, Garrick,” hissed the king of the Rams.

Garrick smiled and his teeth were like corn husks. “I would be a dead man already if you had had your way. Isn’t that the truth of it, Your Majesty?”

Malarkey paled slightly as it occurred to him that if Garrick was here, then his murder boys were more than likely getting their eyeballs examined by mud crabs in the Thames.

“It was a contract from a valued customer. Business is all.”

“I appreciate that,” said Garrick, who had surmised as much. “But I need to know the name of this customer whose value outweighs the risks of crossing swords with yours truly.”

“That’s a name you ain’t extracting from me,” said Malarkey, who had borne terrible tortures before now.

Garrick sighed, as if it were a tragedy how people drove him to commit acts that were against his nature. “Let me tell you a story before you makes up your mind proper. It is the story of Samson and Delilah. Samson was a great Israelite warrior who laid low all before him, a little like your good self, Otto. But then the treacherous Delilah chopped off his precious hair and drained his power. It’s a brief story, but I think you get the point.” With every phrase, Garrick slipped the cold needle in a whisper further toward Malarkey’s heart.

Malarkey’s face was drenched with sweat, but he held firm. “Shave my head then, you devil. You will get no name from me.”

Garrick expected this resistance from a man of Malarkey’s reputation, but he had another card up his sleeve.

“Personally I think that whole head-shaving business is a euphemism for stealing the man’s power, but I know how fond you are of your gorgeous head of hair, so my threat to you is that if you do not tell me who put the black spot on my head, then I will . . .”

“You will shave my head. This is old news, Garrick.”

Garrick made a noise that could be described as a titter. “No. I will burn your scalp with my little bottle of acid, so that no hair will ever grow on your crown again. And then, in one month, when the men have bellyache from laughing, I will return in the dead of night and kill you.”

Malarkey’s lip twitched. “That is a powerful threat. A man would have to be soft to ignore a threat like that.”

“It makes you think, does it not?”

Malarkey squinted past the brim of Garrick’s top hat, searching for the magician’s eyes. “Perhaps, I am thinking, Garrick did not bring his acid, and this whole affair is bluff.”

“Well, then,” responded Garrick, a sickly glow emanating from his teeth, “at the very least you shall die in this chair, and I shall tattoo something tasteless on your barrel chest.”

Malarkey was bent but not broken, and Garrick realized from his new knowledge of psychology and interrogation techniques gleaned from Felix Sharp’s studies that a proud man must be given an out: a way to supply the information needed that left him with some dignity.

“I respect you, Otto. So I have a proposition for you. I will buy out your contract, simple as that. Fifty sovereigns in your poke, right this second, which I’ll wager is more than you ever had from the instigator. Fifty sovs and you suspend all operations undertaken on the word of this man who hired you. A nice purse for the name of he who pointed the Rams my way. And I’ll sweeten the pot. I seek a day’s amnesty only. If I have not taken care of the problem by sundown, then you are free to hunt me once more.”

This was indeed a tempting offer. “We can murder you tomorrow?”

The teeth glinted again. “You can try, but three of your top bludgers have already tried, and I am sorry to say that Mr. Percival and Co. will not be attending this evening’s soirée.”

Malarkey thought as much. “Here is my counterproposal to you, Garrick. I am planning to close my eyes and sleep. Betimes I say things in my sleep that I would never say when in my waking mind. When I rouse myself, I expect to find you gone and a purse of coin stuffed into my paw. What do you think of that plan?”

Garrick withdrew the needle from Malarkey’s chest. “Close your eyes and find out.”