The Somnambulist v-1 Read online

  “I’m concerned as to what he meant… Something about drastic measures.”

  Moon shrugged. “I’m well able to take care of myself.”

  “Has the Somnambulist mentioned me to you?”

  “No. Why? Should he have?”

  “I might be wrong, but I thought he recognized me.”

  “Recognized you?”

  “Impossible, of course. I’m sure I’d remember. But I’m curious — how did the two of you meet?”

  “Surely you’ve learnt all about us in the future?” Moon said sardonically. “Am I not studied in the universities of the future? Are there not statues of me in the streets?”

  “You’re forgotten, I’m afraid. You’re a footnote, Edward. One of history’s also-rans.” Cribb didn’t seem to notice how hurt Moon looked at this. “But we’ve digressed. You were about to tell me of the Somnambulist.”

  “I was not,” Moon retorted. “You were asking.”

  “Please.”

  “He came to me. I found him one night a few Christmases ago.”

  “Snow on the ground?” Cribb asked. “Carol singing in Albion Square? Ragamuffins building snowmen in the street?”

  “Yes, as it happens,” Moon said, surprised. “Why?”

  “Just setting the scene. Go on.”

  “There’s not a great deal to tell. I heard a knock at my door and found him outside, shivering in the cold.”

  “Like a stray cat.”

  “I prefer to think of him as a foundling. Though I’ve no idea why I’ve told you. I trust I may rely on your discretion.”

  Cribb nodded.

  Moon rose to his feet. “We must finish. I’ve a performance to get back for.”

  Out in the street Moon flagged down a hansom. “Thank you for the conversation,” he said as the cab pulled up sharply before them. “I’m not sure who much I understood but it was certainly diverting.”

  “My pleasure.”

  Moon stepped into the cab and instructed the driver to hurry back to Albion Square.

  “Can we meet again?” Cribb asked, as Moon was settling himself for the journey.

  Moon thought for a moment. “I’d like that.”

  As the cab began to pull away, Cribb seemed suddenly to remember something. “Mr. Moon! I forgot! I have to warn you! Don’t see the-”

  Whatever else the man may have said was lost to the clatter and rattle of the cab’s departure, as it left the financial district behind and carried Moon gratefully toward home.

  Detective Inspector Merryweather was in the audience that night, cheering and clapping with the rest of them despite the fact that he must have seen the show a dozen times before. Afterwards, in the Strangled Boy, he congratulated Moon and the Somnambulist, roaring with laughter the whole while, clasping their hands and thanking them effusively for solving the Honeyman-Dunbar murders. “It’s case closed, then?” he asked hopefully.

  Moon seemed listless and out of sorts all evening. “I think not.”

  “But we’ve found our man,” the policeman protested. “We’ve got him rotting in the morgue.” He turned to the Somnambulist. “Help me out here, lad. Back me up.”

  The Somnambulist sat by the bar, his stool tiny beneath him, a half-drained pint of milk in one hand. He shook his head morosely and went back to his drinking.

  “There’s no motive,” Moon said suddenly. “He was an itinerant fairground attraction. Why? He wasn’t killing for profit.”

  Merryweather brushed these objections aside. “He was escaped from some institution or other, I shouldn’t wonder. People like that don’t need motives. You and I both know he wouldn’t be the first.”

  “There’s a connection here. The Fly knew my name. He recognized me.”

  Merryweather looked unconvinced. “You were tired. We were all confused. You may have misinterpreted things… Seen and heard things that didn’t happen.” Pleased with himself, the inspector gulped down the last of his beer. “Excuse me,” he said and disappeared into the recesses of the bar.

  The Somnambulist tugged at Moon’s sleeve but the conjuror seemed annoyed at the interruption.

  “What is it?”

  WARE WERE YOU

  For a moment he did not reply. Then: “With a friend.”

  CRIBB

  “Were you following me?”

  The Somnambulist shook his head in vigorous denial.

  “He thinks you recognized him, you know.”

  BAD

  “Actually, he’s rather interesting once you get to know him. You really must try not to be so judgmental.”

  The Somnambulist began to write a reply, but in a sudden display of irritation, Moon knocked the chalk from his hand.

  “Later,” he muttered.

  The inspector returned, his glass brimming over with an oily, evil-looking liquid.

  “I’ve come to a decision,” said Moon. “Our investigation is not over.”

  “Please,” Merryweather interjected. “I understand you must be bored but this is ridiculous. There’ll be another case along soon.”

  The detective ignored him. “We need an expert opinion.”

  Merryweather’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”

  “There is only one man in London who possesses my faculties to a greater degree than I.”

  Merryweather raised an eyebrow wearily. “Who?”

  Moon grimaced as though he’d accidentally swallowed something bitter. “Barabbas.”

  The Somnambulist gave him a quizzical look, but the name had a very different effect upon the inspector. Aghast, he set down his drink untasted on the bar.

  “You can’t be serious.”

  Moon was already heading for the door. “I want to see him tonight.”

  Merryweather and the Somnambulist traded long-suffering glances.

  “Not possible,” the inspector protested.

  “Make it happen,” Moon barked. “Call in favors. Pay whatever it takes to grease the wheels. I’ll see you both in an hour.” With an imperious wave of his hand, he was gone.

  The Somnambulist scribbled a note for the inspector.

  WARE WE GOING

  Merryweather groaned. He seemed haggard suddenly, drained of all his good humor and mirth. “Newgate,” he said.

  Chapter 9

  Newgate squatted at the heart of the old city, Hell’s chief outpost on Earth.

  At that time in its history, in its last few years of life before it was torn down and replaced with something less obviously Hadean, the gaol held only those criminals sentenced to death and awaiting execution — sinners for whom all appeals were past, all hope lost, whose only chance for reprieve lay with a higher court. It was a place without charity or love, an urban cancer whose every fiber and essence pulsated and trembled with death.

  They arrived a little after midnight. The sky was black with storm clouds and it had begun to rain again, dolefully, a gray drizzle.

  “Why is it always raining?” the inspector complained as they stepped from the coach.

  “Hadn’t noticed,” Moon snapped. He strode toward the ebony gates of the penitentiary, Merryweather and the Somnambulist in two. The giant looked up at the immense, brooding structure and shuddered. Two guards eyed them truculently as they approached. Merryweather took the lead.

  “I’m Detective Inspector Merryweather. This is Mr. Moon and the Somnambulist. We’re expected.”

  One of the men nodded grimly, his face the same color as his grimy uniform. After much rattling of keys and pulling back of bolts and shutters, the trio were allowed to pass through a small inner door which nestled like a convict’s cat-flap at the bottom of the main gate. An empty courtyard lay inside, lit only the moon, shadows crouching in its every nook and corner. At its edge a man stood waiting. His appearance was incongruous. Dapper, well-dressed but severely balding, he wore what little hair he had left in a plait so long that it hung halfway down his back, greasy and unsightly like a moth-eaten pelt inexplicably stapled to his scalp. He wav
ed in greeting.

  “Mr. Moon.” He shook the conjuror’s hand with a warmth and clammy vigor that made the conjuror flinch. “Such a pleasure to see you again.” He turned to the others. “My name is Meyrick Owsley. Delighted to make your acquaintance. Barabbas is waiting for you.” He walked briskly away and the others followed — Moon by his side conversing in low, urgent tones, Merryweather and the Somnambulist lagging tactfully behind.

  Owsley led them from the courtyard and down, down into the warren of Newgate. Every door and barrier they passed had to be unlocked, each of them guarded by a gaoler, heavily armed and with the flint-faced look of one who is every day confronted by the worst excesses of his fellow man. Owsley took them through corridors and passageways whose dingy walls dripped with fungus, damp and grime; past cell after cell peopled by the solitary condemned, their cries and lamentations filling the air, as choking and pephitic as smoke. Some peered out at the intruders between the bars of their cages, a few wailed or hissed obscenities, but most sat slouched in their own filth, too dissolute and jaded to care, resigned to their imminent appointment with the noose. The air was dank and close, and as the four men moved through the innards of the place, little things with fur and teeth skittered and scuttled past their feet.

  No doubt you think I’m exaggerating, coloring the truth for dramatic effect, that even back then conditions in our prisons can’t have been quite that medieval. But it grieves me to admit that the above is an entirely honest and accurate account of the state of Newgate during the later years of its life. If anything, I have toned down my depiction in order to spare the delicate feelings of any ladies who may ill-advisedly be reading and for those of you who suffer from a nervous or hysterical disposition.

  The Somnambulist gave Merryweather a meaningful poke in the ribs and nodded toward Owsley, still striding ahead of them, his long split of hair flopping comically up and down as he walked.

  “Meyrick Owsley,” Merryweather said. “A former lawyer, and a good one. Chancery’s finest before he met Barabbas. Now, so far as anyone’s able to tell, he’s become his servant.”

  Owsley must have overheard because he turned back and leered at the policeman. “More than that, Inspector,” he said, his eyes wide with fervor and belief. “I’m his disciple.”

  Merryweather cleared his throat uncomfortably. “I stand corrected.”

  At the very end of the passageway they stopped before the final cell, tiny, bare, dimly lit by a stub of candle. They could just make out a figure within; an amorphous black shape slumped at the corner of the cell. Then they heard his voice, half-croak, half-whisper: “Meyrick?”

  Owsley essayed a little bow. “Sir. I brought you a cigarette.” He passed something through the bars. Filthy fingers groped for it in the gloom before the cell was illuminated first by the scratchy flash of a match, then by the dull glow of the cigarette.

  Visiting time at the zoo, thought Merryweather — who only the previous week had stood with his wife and five children and watched the perambulations of a Bengal tiger as it stalked anxiously to and fro behind the bars of its cage.

  The voice again, rasping and hoarse, but with the merest hint that it had once belonged to a sane and civilized man. “Is he with you?”

  Meyrick Owsley whispered back, “Yes, sir.”

  There was something almost tender, the inspector thought, in the way Owsley spoke to the inmate — like a mother to her child, or a woman to her lover.

  The prisoner spoke again but too faintly for anyone to make out what was said. Owsley seemed to understand.

  “Barabbas will see only you, Mr. Moon. The other gentlemen are to wait at the gates.”

  Moon spoke briskly. “Very well.”

  Merryweather thought he ought to put up a token protest. “As a police officer I should be present.”

  “Please, Inspector. This is important,” Moon insisted.

  “Damned unorthodox is what it is.”

  “This is the only way he’ll speak to me.”

  Merryweather was relieved to admit defeat. “I understand.”

  The Somnambulist touched Moon’s arm, his face a picture of concern.

  “I’ll be fine. Wait for me outside.”

  Owsley took a bundle of keys from his pocket and unlocked the cell. “I can give you fifteen minutes. No more.”

  Moon stepped smartly inside and the door slammed shut behind him.

  Owsley turned back toward the others. “Gentlemen. With me.”

  Merryweather was grateful to follow him back down the corridor and escape into the sanctuary of the courtyard. The Somnambulist trailed silently, unhappily behind.

  Barabbas lay at the furthest corner of his cell; corpulent, naked to the waist, his fleshy face framed by rings of Neronian curls. His belly was covered by an elaborate tattoo, its intricate design distended and rendered unintelligible by enormous rolls of pale white fat. He had grown an unkempt beard since his incarceration and at the sight of it Moon was reminded, with an uncomfortable start, of Mina.

  Barabbas sucked greedily on his cigarette. “Edward,” he rasped. “You’ll forgive me if I don’t get up. I would offer you a seat but as you can see…” He gestured lazily about him. “I’m a little embarrassed at present.” He pinched a meaty roll of belly fat between forefinger and thumb, then idly released it, watching with glassy fascination as it slopped back amongst the swathes of flesh swaddling his body.

  “I see they let you keep your hair,” Moon said mildly.

  “Owsley arranged it for me. A small indulgence. One of many. He brings me these little chinks of beauty, lays them before me as tributes. Like offerings to some savage god.”

  “He seems to have the run of the place.”

  “He’s a persuasive man. Also sickeningly wealthy. In a place like this, such things have influence.” Barabbas coughed painfully on the remnants of his cigarette. “Incidentally, I heard about Clapham.”

  Moon flinched.

  “Why are you here?” the fat man asked — pleased, it seemed, by Moon’s reaction.

  “I need your advice.”

  “A case?”

  “Of course.”

  “You’ve never visited me before.”

  Moon looked away. “This… troubles me.”

  Barabbas stubbed out the last of his cigarette and tossed the butt carelessly to the floor. “Give me another,” he said. “Then you may tell me everything.”

  Moon reached into the inside pocket of his waistcoat, took out his cigarette case and passed it to the condemned man. “There,” he said. “Keep it.”

  Barabbas seized it greedily. “Another piece of beauty,” he said. “A bauble for my collection.” He stared at it, then sighed. “You’ll take it back, of course, once I’m dead and gone?”

  “Naturally.”

  Fumbling, Barabbas prized a cigarette from the box. “Light,” he whispered. Moon struck a match and another flare briefly illuminated the cell, casting Barabbas’s monstrous form into stark relief. The prisoner cackled and sucked in a lungful of smoke. “Now go on,” he said, “my dear fellow.”

  “We begin with Cyril Honeyman,” Moon said. “He was a gross, compliant little man, permanently sweaty, whose jowls flapped and quivered as he walked…”

  The conjuror told him everything about the murders and his investigation, beginning with Merryweather’s summons and ending with the broken body of the Human Fly. When he had finished, Barabbas sighed. A smile crept halfway along his mouth but was swiftly banished, disappearing as quickly as it had arrived.

  “Well?”

  “You say he knew you?”

  “By name,” Moon said stiffly. “And he mentioned a poet.”

  “A poet. Is that so?”

  “Why are you smiling? Does that suggest something to you?”

  Barabbas gurgled. “It’s really too perfect, Edward. I wouldn’t want to spoil it for you.”

  “Damn it, man!”

  Barabbas stifled a belch, only half-successfully. He le
ered at the conjuror through rows of yellow tombstone teeth, flanked by mustache and tangled beard. “You’re in danger of letting this become an obsession. I’ve never seen you so excited. You should calm down. Do something to relax.” A mucus cough. A grin. “How is Mrs. Puggsley, by the way?”

  “You’re the last person to lecture me on morality.”

  “Remember what I told you,” Barabbas confided, his voice dripping with honey, rising and falling with the silken cadences of the practiced liar. “I’m above morality now, beyond good and evil.”

  “The case,” Moon insisted.

  “You know, I don’t think these squalid homicides are the real mystery.”

  “No?”

  “I think they’re a symptom. There is a corrosive influence abroad, Edward. There is a plot against the city and these murders are only the tip of the iceberg.”

  “What do you know?”

  In response, Barabbas moved silently forward, his grotesque frame slithering across the floor like some Brobdingnagian slug. “Let me out, Edward. Help me escape and together we can discover the truth.”

  Moon stepped hurriedly back, falling against the iron bars of the cage. Behind him, Owsley emerged from the shadows.

  “Time’s up,” he said, producing a ring of keys from his pocket with an officious flourish.

  Barabbas wailed and thrust out his hands in supplication. “Edward! Edward!”

  The door was unlocked and Moon stepped sharply back out into the corridor.

  Owsley said, “Your friends are waiting.”

  Barabbas brought his face up to the bars and peered out into the darkness.

  “Edward?”

  Moon turned around.

  “Will you come back?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “I hope I’ve been of some small assistance.”

  Moon spoke carefully. “Maybe you have.”

  “All the color has seeped from my life. Next time, bring me scarlet. Bring me violet and vermilion and gold.”

  “I’ll come back,” Moon conceded.

  Barabbas grinned in triumph. “Then you still need me,” he hissed. “Even now.” Overexcited, he suffered a violent fit of coughing. “Edward,” he said more gently, once the attack had passed. “Edward, if I were you I should go home.”