They rounded the corner onto the Steine. The large green held only a few pedestrians upon its paths, and the windows of Donaldson’s Library were dark. The evening concert had finished, its subscribers long gone. Most of the night’s remaining activity clustered further up North Parade, around Raggett’s Club and the front entrance of the Castle Tavern.
Helen tapped her fingers against her knee, trying to contain the urgency that clamoured in her blood. Hammond, Lady Margaret, Darby and Delia had already left for London on the Hickstead Road with the Duke’s advice to turn at Streatham. Sprat — sworn to silence — was in the care of Garner and Mrs Kent for the remainder of the night. Helen gave a slight shake of her head: something would have to be done about Sprat. She could not stay in that bawdy-house. Although, Helen conceded, what could be done for her entirely depended upon the night ahead.
The plan — if indeed such a loose series of possibilities could be given such a grand name — was to secure Stokes’s assistance, exchange the Duke’s gig for his curricle, intercept Carlston and retrieve the journal. It was at the intercept mark that the plan became hazy. Had the journal’s blood-soaked energy pushed Carlston beyond saving? It did not seem fair that the foul thing would save Lester, but only increase the madness of Lord Carlston. But then, Lester was an offspring whereas Lord Carlston was a Reclaimer. It clearly had a disastrous effect upon Reclaimer energy. His lordship had erupted into violence again at its touch; and at Holt’s she had felt its chittering evil drag her towards dark insanity. It was not the same power that had ripped Lowry apart — that had come from the Deceiver energy she had somehow stored within herself. No, the journal was something entirely different.
The thought brought another wave of urgency. One thing was certain: the journal had to be destroyed. Such a foul and dangerous thing could not be allowed to exist. Nor could it be allowed to fall into the hands of the Deceivers. Yet destroying it would also destroy the valuable information within it, including the details about her parents that she had not had the strength to find in Lester’s cell.
Ahead, a stream of fashionables were departing the weekly Assembly ball at the Castle Tavern, the streetlamps catching flashes of white muslin, high shirt points and pale, tired faces.
‘Not much of a crowd tonight. We should be able to cut through Pavilion Parade to Church Street without too much trouble,’ the Duke commented as he steadied the grey’s trot along the Parade. Even so, they were still progressing fast enough that Helen had to hold on to the brim of her beaver hat. ‘I believe a good wedge of our fine Brighton society has gone to a masquerade ball out of town.’
Helen recalled Pug’s excitement at the promenade. ‘Yes, you are right: the Olivers’ ball.’ She laughed; it came out dry and hard. ‘I cannot conceive of dancing at a ball ever again.’
The Duke flicked the whip above the grey’s head, prompting a new spurt of speed. ‘Do not say that. If you give up on dancing, then you give up on joy.’
‘Dancing is not the only joy.’
‘True, but it combines two of the most divine favours of humankind: music and elegant women.’
She glanced at his profile, keenly aware of the absurdity of discussing the glories of dance on their way to a battle with unearthly creatures. ‘You do not truly understand what is coming, do you?’
He turned his head, the lamps along North Parade catching the quirk of his mouth. ‘Perhaps not. Pike only gave me a brief history of the Deceivers and the Dark Days Club. Tell me, what are we really following to London? Is Pike right: is Carlston irretrievable?’
Helen could not quite hold his eye. ‘I do not believe so.’
‘Is that based on knowledge or hope?’ It was said gently, but with the implacability that she had heard before in his voice.
‘It does not matter,’ she said, hands pressed upon her thighs as if the braced position could somehow protect her from the question. ‘They have the same outcome. I will do everything I can to save him.’
‘What if you cannot save him?’
The answer to that was not made of words, but of pain, lodged in her heart and ready to open into spikes if she let her mind dwell upon the possibility. Best to focus upon what she could do: find him, contain him, and, after all that, leave him before she hurt him further.
The grey climbed the Church Street hill at a quick trot, the mill of carriages around the Marlborough Row corner quickly left behind. The majority of the houses and buildings were dark, with only a few still with shutters rimmed by light. Most of the locals had found their beds by now.
‘His lodging house is at Number 12, just past Brooks Chapel,’ Helen said, peering into the gloom. She saw a cross silhouetted against the sky and pointed. ‘There.’
The Duke drew the grey to a stop. ‘Do you wish me to come with you?’
‘It is not necessary, thank you.’
Helen fitted the toe of her boot onto the round brass foothold and swung down to the ground. She did not quite know what she was going to say to Stokes, but whatever it was, she did not want the Duke privy to it.
Number 12 was a plain-faced red-brick dwelling with two shuttered windows on the ground floor, two above, and a door that led directly onto the road. She looked for a knocker of some kind, but the door was as plain as the building. She balled her fist and hammered on the wood. The door rattled against its hinges and lock, the thuds booming in the slumbering silence.
There was no answer to her summons. She listened, finally finding a wheezing breath and a murmured, ‘What the devil?’
She hammered again.
Footsteps on the first floor, crossing a creaking wooden floor. The sound of a metal shaft sliding back. Helen pushed back her hat brim and looked up. One of the first-floor shutters opened, the window pushed out with a grating judder.
‘What?’ a congested voice demanded. A woman in a white cap, mid-aged, with the squinting frown of someone woken from a deep sleep, looked down, her nightgown covered by a red shawl bunched at her throat in a suspicious grip.
‘I am looking for Mr Stokes,’ Helen called.
‘You got a nerve at this hour, young man,’ the woman said. ‘Thumping on decent folks’ doors in the middle of the night.’
‘I do apologise. Is he there by chance?’
‘He paid up his reckoning and left a few hours ago. Got me out of bed to do it too.’
Stokes had left his lodging?
‘Did he say where he was going?’
‘If it’ll make you go away, I’m to send his box to a place in Edward Street.’ She gave a wet, phlegmy laugh. ‘Moving up in the world, ain’t he?’
‘Edward Street?’ Helen repeated. Pike had a house in Edward Street.
‘Didn’t I just say that? Saints preserve me from foxed fools.’ She withdrew her head and closed the window, the glass shivering from the force.
Helen stood at the door, marooned for a moment in the unexpectedness of Stokes’s departure. Why would he go to Pike’s house after midnight? Had the warrant come already? It did not seem likely — the timing was physically impossible.