“Right, you’ve met me,” Crane said. “So?”
Merrick rolled his eyes. “So, what I’m saying is, you might think you’re treating someone as an equal, but you ain’t. Because, my lord earl, when you’re bigger and older and richer and all that and you’re naturally a domineering sod, maybe that person don’t feel equal, no matter what you might reckon. I don’t mean me,” he added, in case Crane should get the wrong idea.
Crane moved closer and lowered his voice. “I may be all those things but I’m not a magician. Christ, you’ve seen what he can do, and you’re telling me he feels intimidated by me? He scares the hell out of me!”
“Does he know that?” said Merrick. “I mean, he’s a shaman, but he’s only human. No family. On his own. Always has to watch his back. And then along you come, with all that stuff I said, plus you don’t give a shit about anyone knowing you like blokes. The biggest problem he’s got and for you it’s nothing. He’s terrified, you couldn’t give a monkey’s. And you’re all, like, ‘I’ll buy this, I’ll dress you, I’ll fix it, I’m in charge—’”
“Shut up,” said Crane. “Enough.”
“I ain’t saying you do it on purpose. But that bloke’s held together by spit and pride, and if you take away his pride—”
“I heard you, damn it. Stop.”
Merrick shrugged and leaned back against the wall. Crane stared at nothing for a few minutes, then banged savagely on the door again. “Is this bastard ever going to open up?”
“Look, sod this,” said Merrick. “Shall I open it for him?”
“Oh, why not. If he’s not in, we’ll leave a message. If he is in, it’s my turn first.”
Crane positioned himself to obscure Merrick from the view of anyone who might come up the stairs while his henchman got to work on the lock with a piece of bent metal he produced from his pocket. It took him no more than five or six seconds, then he stepped back with an “after you” gesture, and Crane turned the handle and opened the door.
The smell hit first. It was threefold: something musty and animal; the familiar stench of shit and piss; and the sharp iron tang of blood. A lot of blood.
“Fuck,” said Merrick, as they stood in the doorway and stared into the slaughterhouse of Rackham’s room. “Fuck.”
There was blood on the walls. It was smeared to about a foot off the ground, spattered higher up. It was smeared on the floor too, as if low furry bellies had dragged through the pools, with sharp snakelike curves where tails had flicked, and unmistakable long-toed footprints.
Rackham’s sandy hair was still visible on top of his scalp, but there wasn’t much of him left that was recognisable.
“Jesus Christ.” Crane shut the door again.
“I don’t reckon we can slip off,” Merrick said quietly, in Shanghainese. “The landlady will give a description.”
“Of course she will. Shut up a moment.” Crane bit his lip. “Right. I’ll stay. You go get a policeman. And then—do you remember that address Stephen gave you, back at Piper, for Mrs. Gold? Her husband’s surgery?”
“Devonshire Street.” It had been four months ago, but Merrick had the retentive memory of the barely literate.
“Good man. Go there. They said they were meeting there at ten. If you happen to find Stephen alone, talk to him and follow his lead, but if not, this is important, tell them anyway. Don’t wait to talk to him. And listen: I’m being blackmailed by Rackham. Not Stephen, nothing to do with Stephen. You aren’t going to tell Mrs. Gold that because it’s none of her business, but that’s your story to keep in mind, got it? So everything you do has to flow from that. We’ve found Rackham dead, so you’ve got the police and gone straight off to tell the shamans about rats, and you don’t care which of them you talk to on that, because Stephen is nothing to do with this or me or anything. Understand?”
“Got you. There something I should know?”
“He’s in trouble with his colleagues,” Crane said shortly. “I’ll tell you later. Go, and don’t talk to the landlady, send her up.”
Chapter Nine
The landlady did not take the news well. She was still having hysterics when a policeman came in. He took one look at the charnel scene in Rackham’s room and vomited on the landing, which scarcely improved the choking atmosphere. By the time an inspector arrived, Crane was ready to damn Rackham’s soul to hell for dying in such an aggressively unpleasant manner.
Inspector Rickaby was at least competent. A weary-looking man with a neat moustache, he contemplated the slaughter with a look of mild disgust, and poked around the gobbets of flesh and splintered bone as though he saw shredded people on a daily basis.
They sat in the small shabby parlour, and he listened to Crane’s account with an expression of patient interest.
“So, my lord, you were merely here to visit a friend?”