Chapter Six #2
Unlike Keogh’s, Danny Fionnail’s felt more like something she might find on the Left Bank of Paris, painted black, with slender, ornamented columns and Danny Fionnail in gilt cursive on the lintel.
Being the only one not occupied with carrying Mr. Enfield, it fell to Sam to pound upon the door with the flat of her hand and hope that Danny Fionnail, like most publicans, lived in the apartments above.
“Fionnail!” Lord Lusk called, his voice a crack against the night. “Danny Fionnail!”
“We’re not open!” a muffled voice called. “There’s a curfew, you would-be drunkards.”
“We’re not here for that,” Lord Lusk said.
“Oh?” the muffled voice returned. “Then why aren’t you letting me sleep?”
“Houl yer whisht!” another voice called from an apartment down the row. “It’s three in the bloody morning.”
Lord Lusk was undeterred. “I’m afraid we need to engage your other services.
” He did not sound grief stricken, as one might expect of the man who had fallen to his knees at the sight of Mr. Enfield crumpled in the street.
Dimly, Sam recalled her mother saying how you mustn’t show too much sadness over the dead or you would tempt the spirit to stay, leaving them at risk of becoming an unquiet spirit.
Still, something in his voice must have given it away, for a light flickered in one of the windows above.
The curtains parted, and a disheveled man peered out, holding a gas lamp.
He caught sight of Lord Lusk without his cane, his arms full of Mr. Enfield, and he didn’t speak, but slammed the window shut.
Moments later, light flared behind the curtains of the pub, and there was the rattling of keys, and the front door swung wide.
“Quickly now,” Mr. Fionnail said, a gas lantern in his hand.
Sam hesitated. “We can go in?”
Hel snorted. “Of course. Corpses are a woman’s business. It’s the men who don’t belong.” Whereas drinking was, apparently, for men. Women had gotten rather the worse end of that deal.
Mr. Fionnail took them past a bar, spilling light on velvet stools and statuettes of cavorting fauns, before leading them into a back room, unfurnished save for a few stored barrels and a scored marble table.
He hung the gas lamp on a cord above the table, where it swung about, shadows dancing on the walls like they would come alive.
Sam eyed them warily, remembering the dark shapes cut out against the starry night.
“Lay him out here,” Mr. Fionnail said briskly, and they obliged, laying Mr. Enfield down on the marble slab.
His body was soft, his head lolling, not yet taken by the rigors of death.
Lord Lusk brushed the hair out of his face and clasped the dead man’s hand in his. “Has the priest seen to him yet?”
“No,” Lord Lusk said, releasing the hand. He squeezed his eyes shut, as if he’d forgotten an important detail and was just now remembering. “He’s Protestant.”
No priests. Which meant that Lord Lusk’s insistence on pretending he was still alive was for his own sake, not Mr. Enfield’s—he was the Catholic. A rarity amongst the upper class.
“Right.” Mr. Fionnail strode over to a staircase and shouted up, “Will! Dress yourself and get down here.
“My son,” he explained when he returned. “He’ll fetch who needs fetching. You all wait here. I’ll pull you some drinks.”
The publican left and Lord Lusk turned to them, leaning on the table, wincing a little, as if he’d pushed himself too hard. “While I appreciate your aid, strangers, further intercession is unnecessary.”
Lord Lusk’s words constituted a dismissal, that much was obvious. To everyone save Van Helsing, at least.
“How did you know the”—deceased, he’d been about to say; the word hung in the air like a ghost—“victim?” His tone made it clear he thought Lord Lusk a potential suspect. It was the worst way to get a man to open up.
Sam winced. “Van Helsing!”
Lord Lusk raised an eyebrow. “I remember you. You’re staying at the Shelbourne.” He studied them intently. “Who are you, exactly? Why are you so interested in Mr. Enfield?”
“My name is Jakob Van Helsing,” he said. “These are my associates, Miss Moriarty and Miss Harker. We are investigating as representatives of—”
“A private detective agency,” Sam cut in before he could spill more of their secrets.
Van Helsing had the right of it: He was a terrible spy.
Either he had forgotten everything Detective Lynch had told them or, more likely, he didn’t see the point of it.
Men like Van Helsing had the luxury of ignoring the rules when they wanted to, bulling forward knowing the world would get out of their way.
He didn’t understand what it was to be hunted, the way they would be hunted if word of who they were and what they were doing got out.
Or if he did, he thought he had it in hand.
But then, so had the Viscount and the Duke.
“A private detective agency?” Lord Lusk frowned. “Who hired you?”
“Mr. Enfield himself,” Sam forged on, ignoring the increasingly consternated look Van Helsing was giving her. “He had reason to believe his life was in danger.” It was the safest answer Sam could think of—excuse enough for their investigation; no way for Lord Lusk to find them out.
Lord Lusk scowled. “He told me no such thing.”
“And you can’t think of any reason he might not have felt entirely comfortable confiding in you?” Hel drawled.
The blow hit. Lord Lusk grimaced, looking away.
“Well?” Hel pushed.
“I am . . . recently engaged,” Lord Lusk admitted, more hesitantly than Sam thought a man ought to admit such things.
Van Helsing frowned. “I don’t understand.”
“We were like brothers. Fought in the war together,” Lord Lusk said slowly. “Until we both fell for the same woman.”
“She chose you,” Hel guessed.
Lord Lusk nodded stiffly. “He . . . took it poorly.”
“Ah,” Sam said. It would explain the familiarity, the way he’d used his Christian name upon seeing his fallen form, before he remembered himself.
“But that shouldn’t have made him think I wouldn’t care should he be murdered!” Lord Lusk burst out. “He should have known he could come to me for help.”
“Perhaps he did,” Sam suggested. “After all, when he was in his direst need, he came to you.”
“For all the good it did him,” Lord Lusk said, bitterness coating his words.
“Do you have any idea what he might have wanted to tell you at such a late hour?” Hel asked. “Why he might have dared the curfew?”
“Not unless . . . no,” Lord Lusk said helplessly. He looked heavenward, drawing in a steadying breath. “What am I to tell his family?”
Family. Sam’s stomach tightened. Mr. Fionnail would have sent for them, and once they came, there would be a vigil.
Mr. Enfield wouldn’t be left alone until he was six feet beneath the earth, the beetles and worms his only compatriots, and there would be no more opportunities for Sam to have a vision—to try to catch a glimpse of what had truly happened.
This might be the only shot Sam would get at piecing it all together.
She had to find a way to channel before the family arrived, without Van Helsing noticing.
Sam caught Hel’s eye. Hel raised an eyebrow. Sam tugged at her glove and tilted her head toward Van Helsing. Hel’s lips curved in a smile.
“Was he a Unionist?” Van Helsing was demanding, oblivious.
Lord Lusk bristled. “What do his politics have to do with anything?”
“Doubtless you’ve heard of the other disappearances in Dublin,” Van Helsing said.
Lord Lusk barked a laugh. “Two Unionists disappear, and you think it’s about politics? Have you been talking to the English?”
Van Helsing flushed, the answer written on his face. “What about Mr. Bishop?” he demanded. “Did he have some sort of relationship with Mr. Enfield?”
Lord Lusk crossed his arms. “No more than any of us do.”
“So there’s an us.” Van Helsing leaned in triumphantly. “The same us who made their decision about Mr. Bishop?”
“Mr. Bishop is hardly the reliable source you seem to think he is,” Lord Lusk said.
“Shh.” Hel cocked her head, as if listening to something.
“Are you threatening—” Lord Lusk began.
Hel cut him off. “Do you hear that?” Her hand strayed to her revolver.
Van Helsing’s whole body shifted. “Hear what?” It was as if he were only truly alive when there was something to kill.
The wind surged, and Lord Lusk’s hand tightened on his cane.
“It’s coming from outside.” Hel swept out of the room, her long tan coat winging behind her.
“Stay here,” Van Helsing ordered Sam and Lord Lusk. “It’s not safe. Not for you.”
“You do not get to tell me what to do,” Lord Lusk said, his voice clipped with aristocratic indignation. The two men strode after Hel, shouldering each other to get through the door.
Hel glanced over her shoulder at Sam and nodded minutely, before sweeping out into the storm-ridden night.
Sam rushed to tear off her right glove. There was no time for squeamishness; the others would be gone but moments.
Heart hammering in her chest, she grasped Mr. Enfield’s wrist just below his watch.
At once, a feeling ghosted through her, cold as the heart of winter.
Suddenly, Sam could hear the wind scream, punctuated by wingbeats, could feel her feet tighten with blood, her clothing whipping at her limbs.
She gasped, the sweet-rot smell of old meat filled her lungs, and then—
Nothing.
Not nothing, the song whispered, stirring in the cockles of her ears. Listen—
Sam jerked her hand away. The sensations fled. She pressed the back of her gloved hand to her mouth, the acid taste of her bile washing her teeth. Tears clung to her lashes, her heart beating like a bird that would escape her chest.
Sam had barely managed to brush the tears from her eyes before the others returned.
“I’m sorry,” she managed. Van Helsing eyed her narrowly, but he hadn’t seen anything. If he had, he would have wasted no time in accusing her. He only suspected. Which meant all she had to do was slip on the glove before Van Helsing noticed its absence. “It’s just—”
Lord Lusk softened. “You are right. We’re here arguing like fools, when a man is dead.”
Van Helsing stalked toward Sam as she eased the glove back on behind the table. He looked down at her hands. Just in time. They were gloved and clasped innocently in front of her.
“Do not misunderstand me,” Lord Lusk was saying. “I mean to aid you in your investigation. But trust me when I say that if I knew anything of import, I would already have disclosed it.”
If he knew it was important. It seemed to Sam that every case inevitably hinged on the most inconsequential of details. The luxurious drowsiness of a vampiric victim, or the odd dreams of one beset by a night hag.
“We understand,” Hel said, with a hard look at Van Helsing, who had the decency to look abashed.
Mr. Fionnail returned with a tray of dark beer sloshing about in tall glasses. Van Helsing moved to pay the man, but Mr. Fionnail waved him away. The first round was on him. For a moment, they all drank. The beer was caramel smooth with an edge of bitterness that lingered in the foam on Sam’s lips.
Her gaze caught on Mr. Enfield, and Sam’s brow furrowed.
There was something . . . different about him.
Some detail on which she couldn’t seem to fix her mind.
But what? It was probably nothing, she scolded herself, just the chill rigor of death setting in.
She had heard it made strangers of even those we loved best. Then the family arrived, and the three of them were ushered back into the night.
Halfway back to the hotel, Sam figured out what she had been missing.
Mr. Enfield’s right hand had been ornamented with a ring when they’d found him on the cobblestones—Sam remembered the way it had tangled in his hair, the halo of diamonds around that cushion-cut emerald.
By the time Sam had reached for Mr. Enfield’s hand, it had been bare.
Lord Lusk had stolen Mr. Enfield’s ring.