But he was not going to think about Declan. He was becoming convinced that the medical explanation was right, and that it was probably better to suffer from multiple personality disorder – and have proper pills to keep it in its place – than to suffer from some peculiar form of possession by a set of ghosts. Declan had existed, of course, and Benedict might some day track down the registration of his birth or death. But apart from finding Flossie Totteridge’s name on the Title Deeds of Holly Lodge, there was nothing to indicate that anyone else in that wild tale had ever lived. And most likely Benedict had seen Flossie’s name written down somewhere – probably in Holly Lodge that day of his parents’ funeral – and it had lodged in his subconscious.
With last night’s conversation with Nell still fresh in his mind, he set about describing the backdrop to the crimes he would be examining. How England in general and London in particular would have looked and sounded; how people would have talked. He reached for ‘Slang, Cant and Flash Phrases’ again, and began delightedly typing in the colourful phrases from the 1880s and 1890s, wondering what the cracksmen and magsmen and dollymops would make of today’s expressions. What would they think if they heard us saying it was a night when many stars were present? thought Benedict. Or talking about emailing on a BlackBerry, or texting somebody? He smiled, and worked on, enjoying the vivid language of the Victorian streets, and the famous rhyming slang, traces of which were still around today.
And the chaunters and the penny gaffs and mobsmen, Benedict . . .
Chaunters. Benedict had come across references to penny gaffs which seemed to have been low-class theatres, and also of mobsmen – well-dressed swindlers. But chaunters? He reached for the book again, but the expression was not listed. Then he must have seen it or heard it somewhere else. Research was magpie-ism and serendipity anyway. He typed another couple of paragraphs, but he was feeling as if something invisible had plucked lightly at strings in his mind, and as if his mind was still thrumming gently.
Chaunters. He would do a web search in a minute. It sounded as if it might be singing.
Singing, for sure, Benedict . . . They sang for money, the chaunters . . . The first time we heard them was down by the river, with the fog like diseased smoke so a man couldn’t see his way. And we thought we were hearing the voices of the Sidhe who’d call to you from beneath the sea, but it was chaunters, inside a tavern, earning their supper . . .
‘Will you just sod off?’ said Benedict out loud, and felt Declan’s ruffle of amusement.
It’s the truth I’m telling you, said Declan. And there was one night down by the river . . . The silvery threads of thought stopped suddenly, and for the first time Benedict felt a hesitation and a withdrawal. Then Declan said, Oh, what the hell, you know most of it already . . . Listen now, on the night we found Harold Bullfinch—
‘Who?’ said Benedict, before he could stop himself.
Haven’t you been paying attention to anything? Harold Bullfinch was the abortionist, the black-hearted villain who killed Romilly . . .
Romilly. Romilly, who had red hair and who had run away from Kilglenn after Nicholas Sheehan seduced her in the old watchtower on the Moher Cliffs. How could I have forgotten Romilly? thought Benedict.
On the night we found Bullfinch’s body, the chaunters were singing in the taverns by the river . . . And, oh God, Benedict, it was so cold and dank in those streets, and it was so lonely to stand outside the taverns . . . Wanting to go in and have a bit of cheer and the company of others . . . But we didn’t dare do that, not till we had the jacket back . . .
The river fog was everywhere. It muffles everything – you wouldn’t know that, would you, for you’ve almost got rid of fog in your clean modern world. But when you walked through one of those old fogs you’d feel as if you’d fallen into another world altogether. And it was a frightening world, Benedict, you can’t know how frightening it was . . .
London 1890s
Declan and Colm could scarcely see their way after they left the cab and walked through the fog-shrouded streets to where they had left Harold Bullfinch’s body.
‘But we have to do this,’ Colm said. ‘If anyone finds your jacket they’ll know who you are and half the police in London will be hunting you as a killer.’
‘I didn’t kill Bullfinch,’ said Declan, but he still felt strange and unconnected to the world, which he thought was because of falling down the river steps and knocking himself out. He was not, in fact, convinced that he was entirely conscious yet; walking at Colm’s side, the world had an unreal quality, in which he could only remember fragments of what had been happening during the last few hours.
And then a sliver of very recent memory dropped into place, and he said, ‘Colm, you said you were at Holly Lodge all of today.’
‘I was. With that voracious harpy, Floss Totteridge.’
‘But I saw you,’ said Declan. ‘You were out here. I saw you crossing the road on the corner of Clock Street.’ He stopped and turned to face Colm. The fog swirled thickly around them, but a disc of blurred light from a street gas lamp touched Colm’s face with colour.
‘I went to Bidder Lane,’ said Colm, after a moment. ‘To the house where Romilly lived.’
‘Why?’
‘I thought there might be some of her things there. I wasn’t going to leave them for that harridan to sell. But I didn’t tell you, because I didn’t want you to think I was a moonstruck simpleton.’
Declan did not say they had both always been a bit moonstruck by Romilly. He said, ‘Were there any of her things there?’
‘A rosary and a crucifix wrapped in a bit of silk.’ Colm was walking on again, his hands dug deeply into his pockets, not looking at Declan. ‘I took those. Keepsakes.’
Before Declan could say anything else, he pointed to the open door of a tavern on the corner of Clock Street and Bidder Lane. The music Declan dimly remembered hearing earlier was still going on – the jangly piano and voices raised in blurred song. Someone must have thrown open the door, because the scents of smoke and ale and hot food reached them.
‘God, wouldn’t you sell your soul to be able to go in there and be part of all that?’ said Colm, echoing Declan’s thoughts as he so often did.