“He has got himself in shaman trouble,” Crane said. “Stephen mentioned that, but he didn’t think it was enough to warrant making a run for it. So he concluded Rackham must be up to something he doesn’t know about.”
“Suspicious-minded bugger, Mr. Day. So what about Mr. Rackham, then? Am I going to break his legs?”
“Not yet, no.” Crane drained his cup. “He’s battened onto Leonora Hart.”
“The hell he has.” Merrick’s face darkened. “Why don’t I break his fucking neck and have done?”
“Give it time. We’ve till Friday, he said. And we must act in a civilised fashion in this country, you know.”
“If you say so, my lord,” muttered Merrick. “What’s Mr. Day think?”
“Says he should be fine. Says it isn’t likely to be a problem.”
“Believe him?”
“No. Come with me to the office today, I want you in Limehouse. I’m going to call in some obligations and do a bit more work on Rackham’s affairs. Buy up some debts. Revive some old grudges. See how fast I can get him to the verge of ruin.”
“Ah,” said Merrick, satisfied. “That kind of civilised.”
It was four o’clock when the summons came.
“My lord?” His clerk opened the office door with a perfunctory knock. “A message for you. Personal.”
It was a girl, and not a very striking girl, at that. She had pinched features, with a sharp nose, dirty-blonde hair in a straggly chignon, a general air of scruffiness. Her face was grubby, but the dirt was superficial, not ground in; she evidently washed regularly, and her boots were reasonably new and sturdy. She looked about fifteen, for all that meant with city youths. She was flushed from running and had a paper gripped in her hand.
“You his la-a-awdship?” she drawled.
“I’m Lord Crane.”
“Ooh.” Her eyes widened with mock awe. They were a striking light silver-blue. “Well, Lord Crane, I got a message for you.” She held out the paper.
It was a playbill, and the message was scrawled on the back in pencil.
My lord
If convenient, please accompany the bearer. Your help would be most welcome on a professional matter.
S. Day
Crane contemplated that for a second, keeping his face blank. It was beyond extraordinary that Stephen should be asking for help with his work, but it resembled what little Crane had seen of his hand, it was definitely a reference to their conversation the night before, and the salutation…
“My lord” in Stephen’s voice wasn’t a respectful address. The son of a solicitor, he had a great deal of the clerkly class’s pride and fiercely refused to use terms that implied aristocratic superiority. He had never once used it to Crane, until they became lovers, and the game began. In bed (over a desk, against a wall), “my lord” was a breathless, frantic submission, a plea to be mastered, a wholehearted surrender to Crane’s demands and desires. On the page, it made this letter as much a billet-doux as a summons, and thinking of Stephen writing the words gave Crane a jolt straight to the groin. Whatever the little sod was up to, he had known this would bring Crane running.
“I’ll be with you in a moment,” he said. “Merrick!”
Crane knew Limehouse reasonably well, but after following the girl through alleys and back ways for ten minutes, he was lost. Not cripplingly lost—he knew which way the river was and which way Ratcliffe Highway—but lost enough that he wouldn’t have wanted to run for it. They were in the poorest parts of London now, where the faces on the street were filthy, slurred by alcohol, marked by disease, raw with hunger. There were a lot of Chinese, lascars, sailors. Every head turned to watch Crane’s progress, his height and the perfectly tailored clothing and spotless shirt marking him out as a rich man, a potential victim, a pigeon worth plucking.
He had left Merrick at the office with several other jobs to do. The deeper they went into this no man’s land, the more he had to resist fruitless regrets on that decision.
The girl turned down another dingy alley, so narrow the sun’s rays would barely penetrate it at midday, and two men fell into step behind Crane. He turned, saw they were lascars, and rapped out a string of hair-raising abuse in the language of the Shanghai docks, to discourage any attempts on his life or purse.
“What you on about?” demanded the girl. “Come on.”
“I don’t much want to be coshed or have my throat slit.” Crane glared at the two men.
“Yeah, never worry. I’ll look after you. This way.”
She swung into a dark, low doorway. Crane gave the two men a last, nasty look, and ducked under the lintel into close, hot, stinking darkness, following the vague shape of the girl’s skirt round a couple more passages until he came out into a larger room.