‘Will you show me where he lives?’ Helen asked.
Sprat regarded her expectantly, crooked teeth showing in a sly grin of encouragement.
Helen stifled a smile at the girl’s cheerful venality. ‘Yes, all right, for another sixpence.’ She gripped Binny’s arm for a moment in thanks. ‘You know where to send a message if MacEvoy comes back?’
‘Twenty German Place,’ Binny said.
‘Yes. As soon as he comes back.’
‘Soon as,’ Binny promised. ‘And you’ll tell Mrs Gunn that I done what she said? She’s gunna teach me how to dip ladies.’
Helen nodded. She pulled out more coins. ‘How much?’
Binny stared down at the money for a moment, clearly at war with herself, then said quickly, ‘Just a crown.’
Helen handed her the coin. ‘Thank you.’
Binny stepped aside, aiming an admonishing finger at Sprat. ‘Don’t you do nothin’ on the way. Go straight. Got it?’
Sprat nodded her agreement, and pushed open the gate. It chewed along the broken cobbles in a harsh grind. ‘Come on then.’
The walkway at the back of the bawdy-house was even narrower than the one at the side. Helen followed Sprat apace and found herself squeezing through a twitten, the passage between the two buildings so tight that the bungaroosh walls scraped at her back and belly and left her coat and breeches smeared with a fine sandy dust. They emerged into the middle of busy Black Lion Street, their sudden appearance causing no interest whatsoever from the other pedestrians intent upon their own business.
Helen brushed down her jacket and adjusted the set of her hat, and then they were on their way again, Sprat leading the way past the Free School and up to North Street. They took the downward incline of this steep and very busy road, passing the Chapel Royal and the General Coach Office, the front of which was blocked by the ten o’clock stage preparing to leave for London. Passengers called out directions to the coachmen for the placement of their luggage atop — mostly ignored — and milled around waiting to climb into the large carriage. Helen saw Sprat eyeing a few of the gentlemen whose coats were agape, but the girl resisted temptation and forged onward down the hill.
A left turn brought them onto the Steine beside the Castle Tavern. Helen wondered how much further they were to go. Apparently past the Marine Pavilion, for Sprat marched alongside the carefully planted green that fronted the Prince Regent’s favourite home, not even looking at its splendour. Helen, however, snatched a moment to admire the classical circular building that formed the centre of the residence — its high dome supported by graceful pillars — and the two large wings that extended elegantly on either side of it. There was, she decided, a very beautiful symmetry to the whole. The Prince Regent might not be the most sensible of monarchs, but he did have excellent taste in architecture.
Leaving the Pavilion behind, they crossed the road to Grand Parade, dodging through what seemed an endless stream of wagons, gigs, phaetons and carts. Finally, Sprat stopped beside a grand house and hoisted up her dress again with an air of finality.
‘Is this it?’ Helen asked, looking up at the four-storey townhouse.
‘Across the way,’ Sprat said, jerking her head to the handsome row of houses on the road opposite: Marlborough Row. ‘The one with the green door.’ She considered Helen for a moment then said, ‘I thought you was a man. You really a girl?’
There was no use denying it; Sprat had plainly heard all her conversation with Binny.
‘I am.’ She couldn’t resist asking, ‘Did you really think I was a man?’
‘Yep.’ Sprat squinted up at her, watery eyes earnest. ‘Are you gunna kill Mrs Holt’s brother?’
‘Good Lord, no,’ Helen said.
Sprat’s mouth bunched sideways into disappointment. ‘If I was a man, I’d kill ’im.’
‘You do know that killing is wrong, don’t you?’
Sprat regarded her for a long moment. ‘There’s some people don’t deserve to breathe. Not wiv what they does.’ She held out her cupped hand. ‘You’re ’ere now. All done.’
Helen dug in her pocket again and brought out the promised sixpence. ‘One last thing,’ she said, holding up the coin. ‘Do you know who lives there?’
Sprat shrugged. ‘A swell. That’s all I know.’
Helen dropped the coin into the girl’s cupped hand. ‘Thank you.’
‘Bye, mister.’ Sprat gave a sly giggle and was off, darting back across busy Grand Parade.
Helen pulled her touch watch out of her fob pocket and flicked it open, clicking the three lenses into place. She settled in to wait, leaning against the corner of the end house with her arms crossed in as manly a manner as she could manage.
Thirty-five minutes later, the green door opened. Helen straightened. The little dark-haired man that she had seen at Philip’s side emerged holding a cane. He opened the front gate and stood waiting, his attention fixed upon the doorway. So he was a manservant of some kind — a valet most likely by the good cut of his brown jacket — waiting for his master. She lifted her lens to her eye: the glow around him was bright blue, and a long bruise-black feeder tentacle extended from his back, weaving through the air like a sightless snake. As suspected, another Deceiver.
For a moment, Helen lost sight of him behind a particularly high-set phaeton making its way along Grand Parade, and then she saw the tentacle reaching for the paler life force of a youth walking past the house. It curled for a second across the young man’s belly, unseen by all except Helen, then slid across the top of his thighs and groin. The youth dipped his hat to the Deceiver, never suspecting that some of his life force had just been stolen.
Helen lowered the lens, nauseated. She would never get used to seeing those feeder tentacles. There was something so inherently disgusting about the sickly colour and serpentine weave of them.
The Deceiver’s relaxed posture suddenly stiffened into obeisance. She squinted, making out another man in the townhouse doorway. It was too dim to see the features of his face below the brim of his fashionable beaver, but he was clearly speaking to the Deceiver, for the creature bowed. Helen strained to hear the words above the grind of the passing gigs and carriages.
‘I am dining with the Murrays this evening, Lawrence. The new blue waistcoat, I think?’
She knew that smooth voice, even before the elegant gentleman stepped into the sunlight and full view. Helen’s heart clenched into a hard beat. Philip’s dark companion served the Comte d’Antraigues.