The mist was thicker here, so much so that this was almost turning into the classic walk through fog, beloved of film makers and writers of horror. He and Nell would laugh about it later; they would conjure up old black and white films and gothic novels: Fu Manchu spreading his sinister spider webs through Limehouse; Dr Jekyll metamorphosing into Mr Hyde . . . Assorted murderers stalking the shadows . . . Assorted murderers. Including a real one who had mesmerized his victims into meeting him out here?
Someone had recently sprinkled what looked like sand on the steps – perhaps to make the descent less treacherous. When Michael reached the bottom there was no sign of his quarry, and he paused, looking round. The river was still some way below him but he could make out the shapes of barges, and see lights from the bridges. He was standing on a walkway with an iron railing, and further along the walkway was an opening cut into the wall. ‘The bodies were found near the old Bidder Lane sewer,’ the newspaper had said. Could that be the sewer? He looked around for the figure he had followed, and it was then that he saw the walkway bore sandy footprints, leading towards the outlet.
Michael began to walk stealthily towards the tunnel, thinking he would try to see inside, and if there was anything in the least suspicious he would call the police at once. He was within about ten feet of it when he realized that there were other footsteps walking down this fog-shrouded path.
Someone was coming stealthily along the walkway towards him.
London 1890s
After Cerise left the bedroom Colm walked round the room twice, and paused at the window, staring down into the gloomy gardens. Then in a completely normal voice, he said, ‘What a bitch. And what a lot of nonsense she talked. I’ve never been in an opium den in my life and neither have you. Let’s ignore her altogether. We’ll go downstairs to see if there’s any food to be had. I don’t know about you, but I’m ravenous.’
It’s all right, thought Declan, following him down the stairs. Of course he didn’t kill Flossie and of course he isn’t planning to kill Cerise.
Two of the girls were in the scullery, eating pies which they had brought in from a stall. There was plenty to spare, they said, slicing up the pies with careless generosity. There was bread and cheese in the larder as well.
They were discussing what they were going to do, because this house would be broken up, that was for sure. The dark-haired girl, who was called Zelda, said Flossie had no family, and the other one, who was fluffily fair and whose name was Ruby, confirmed this. But whatever happened, you could depend on it that Ruby and Zelda and the others would be told to pack their bags.
‘Where will you go?’ asked Colm.
‘Dunno yet. Me and Zelda had an idea we might set up in rooms off Charing Cross Road. You get a good few toffs wandering down Charing Cross Road of a night.’
Zelda gave this her endorsement. A girl might do very well in that part of London. They might even end up with a posh flat, all pink satin and plush, very smart it would be.
Colm entered into the plan with gusto, saying they should have a French maid to answer the door to their gentlemen, and Ruby giggled and said go on with you, French maids, who did he take them for, Lady Muck?
As St Stephen’s clock chimed two, Colm got up from the table, as casually as if he had all the time in the world, and said he would be off out for a while. ‘Just round and about,’ he said. ‘I’ll be back soon.’
As he went out, Declan saw with cold fear that his eyes were filling up with the terrible blackness again. He gave it five minutes, then collected his coat and went after Colm. It was not really a surprise to see Colm get on an omnibus with Canning Town written on its front. He’s going out to the old river steps, Declan thought. That’s where he met Harold Bullfinch and he knows it’s deserted and he won’t be interrupted. He must have told Cerise to meet him there. Surely Cerise would not be so foolhardy as to meet a man she believed to be a murderer in such a lonely spot? But Declan remembered those remarks about opium. Cerise thought Colm had acted out of an opium nightmare – that he had not been aware of what he was doing, or even remembered doing it.
I’ve got to make sure, thought Declan, and waited for another omnibus.
Bidder Lane was as dismal and dispiriting as he remembered. Grime clung to the fronts of the houses and a dirty yellow fog hung everywhere. Declan went purposefully along the street, pausing at the intersection with Clock Street, and looking wistfully towards the pub. Someone was playing the jangly piano again and a few voices were raised in somewhat beery song. He wished, as he had last time, that he could go inside and become part of a noisy, ordinary group of people, but he had to reach Colm and save Cerise. He went determinedly between the houses, and down the steps to the quay. Someone had sprinkled sand or sawdust on the steps – Declan tried not to think it would be to mop up Harold Bullfinch’s blood.
But there was no sign of Colm. Then had Colm been going off on some entirely innocent task? Or was he meeting Cerise somewhere else? Declan looked about him. The mist hung over the river, and the lights of the barges were blurred discs of colour. Anyone with half a grain of sense would be indoors on an afternoon like this. No wonder this stretch of the quayside was so deserted . . .