“I have no reason to believe she knows anything about any of this. I’m quite sure she doesn’t. And if she wanted Rackham dead…”
“Yes?”
“Oh, if she wanted him dead, she’d have asked me to kill him,” Crane said lightly, recalling that she had done precisely that. “I’ll go and tell her the news now. Did you need anything from me regarding the Traders?”
“Not really.” Stephen straightened up, indicating that they should walk again. “Dr. Almont is very dull, isn’t he? He was so happy to have an audience for his theory on the Javanese anitu, or migratory possessive spirit.” He mimicked Almont’s precise tones. “But he had nothing at all to say on rat cults so I’ll spare myself a further lecture.”
“Wise,” said Crane, as they headed westward, towards town. “What did Peyton say to you?”
“Peyton. Medium height, fifties?”
Crane would have described Peyton as a runt, but since the man stood a good five inches taller than Stephen, he refrained. “And a face like a weasel eating unripe gooseberries.”
“Him,” said Stephen reflectively. “Yes. He followed me down to the conveniences and told me some rather bad things about you.”
“Did he. What sort of things?”
“Apparently, you like to bed men. I was shocked by that, I can tell you.”
Crane grinned. “My secret is out. What else?”
Stephen flicked a glance up at him. “He was rather uncomplimentary about Mr. Hart. He had some strong words about Mr. Hart’s business dealings, and you for supporting him in them.”
“Tom was a thoroughgoing rascal, no denying it. I smuggled for him, and on my own account. I told you that.”
“Mmm.” Stephen paced on. “He called him a murderer.”
“Did he.”
“That’s not news to you,” Stephen observed.
“Tom had men killed,” Crane said. “Whether you’d say murder—well, we differ on that.”
“We do. For example, in my view, if you kill someone for reasons other than self-defence or preventing acts of evil…”
“Yes, very virtuous, but you’re not in China.”
“Morality is different there?”
“You bloody know it is.” Crane saw Stephen blink. “And life is cheaper. Especially in the disreputable quarters of Shanghai. But if that spiteful little worm led you to believe that Tom Hart was some kind of criminal mastermind, or that he and I went around murdering willy-nilly, he’s a damned liar.”
“There I’ll agree with you,” Stephen said. “He reeked of malice. Dr. Almont was lethally dull, that man Shaycott managed to make a story about giant rats boring even under current circumstances, and on the whole, I cannot believe you made me put on a fancy suit for that experience.”
“It would have been more interesting if you were badly dressed?” Crane asked, striving for his usual tone.
“I’d have felt less like a silk purse in a pig’s ear,” Stephen retorted.
They bickered amicably back to Ratcliffe Highway, both forcing a lightness neither felt, and if that meant skating over blood and fear and the prospect of parting, Crane was happy with that, but the nauseated feeling in the pit of his stomach was still there when they parted in Oxford Street and he headed westwards to call on Leonora Hart.
Chapter Eleven
“I’m glad you came.” Leonora spoke in Shanghainese, locking the parlour door and putting the key on a side table. She looked drawn, older, obviously lacking sleep. “That bloody worm Rackham was supposed to call and collect five hundred from me today. He hasn’t turned up. I keep thinking he’s gone to Eadweard. You don’t think—”
“I’m sure he hasn’t,” Crane said. “Leo, what do you want me to do about him?”
“I don’t know. Could you not—well, couldn’t Merrick do something? What did he do to that horrible tax collector?”
“Broke both his arms and threw him into a high-sided hog pen.” Crane had no trouble remembering that incident. “And then stood there watching. I had to help him out in the end, I swear Merrick would have let the pigs eat him. It made the point, though, and we had no more trouble.”
“Are there any hog farms in London?” asked Leonora wistfully.
“There are doubtless alternatives. Is that what you want?”
“I don’t want to pay blood money for the rest of my life.” Leonora’s jaw firmed. “I will not let him keep me in fear, either. I don’t deserve that.” She paused, then added self-mockingly, “I just don’t know how to prevent it.”
“I wouldn’t worry,” said Crane. “The little shit’s dead.”
“He’s what?” The shock on her face looked as genuine as any Crane had seen. She leapt out of her chair and took a few paces. “Oh God. Lucien, this isn’t Shanghai. You have to be careful. What happened? Why?”
“I have no idea. I went round to his rooms and found him dead.”
“Oh!” Leo put a hand to her mouth and let out a relieved sigh. “Oh, thank God. I thought you’d killed him.”