Page 17 of Angel of Vengeance
“That’s enough,” said Pendergast quietly.
“Perhaps you should remind your ward to be more grateful,” said Diogenes. “I sacrificed myself by coming back here, too—remember?”
“No one asked you to,” Constance said. “No one asked either of you,” she added icily, then took in a deep, shuddering breath. “When a new version of the elixir seemed potentially successful, he allowed two weeks for observation. Sometimes a little more, never less.”
“And for each new formulation—it required vivisecting the cauda equina from a victim each time, as well?”
Constance nodded.
“Then our plan should be sound,” Pendergast went on. “We’ll do our best to cut off his supply of victims, interfere with or destroy his laboratories of operation—at least, those we can find. You’ve said Binky is too young to be used as a test subject—Leng will be desperate for new victims, both as guinea pigs and as resources.” His voice had returned to its normal level, but Constance still detected the faintest quaver of emotion. With surprise, she realized that, beyond his self-recrimination and frustration, he too was angry—angry in a way she had never seen before. Looking at his pale eyes, she could sense the same thirst for blood vengeance that filled herself.
Abruptly, those eyes locked on hers. “Constance, I’m aware you intend to operate independently. But the three of us have the same goals: save Binky—and kill Leng. We can attack the problem as individuals, but we must nevertheless agree on meeting—once, at the very least—to check on the others’ progress and ensure our efforts don’t unintentionally collide. And we must have a means of emergency communication.”
He fell silent, and for a time everyone sat motionless. Then Constance leaned forward, picked up her snifter, drained the brandy, and then, reaching into her handbag, took out a small notebook and wrote something on it with a gold pencil. She tore out the page, folded it, and handed it to Pendergast.
He opened it, read it. “This will suffice.”
Immediately, Constance rose. “In that case, good night. I need rest before I go.” She paused. “Since I presume you two plan on staying, ask Gosnold to put you up somewhere on the third floor.” And she turned to leave.
“Constance,” she heard Diogenes say—and the uncharacteristically serious tone in his voice made her pause. “Let me caution you. You of all people must realize not to push Leng too hard or too far. If we cross his red line… Binky will die.”
Constance’s only response was to remain still a moment, forcing herself to let the truth of this sink in. Then she turned to go upstairs.
As the sounds of her footsteps disappeared, the brothers looked at each other. Pendergast was the first to speak. “I’m glad you said that. I was beginning to wonder if you were really here to help us—or just goad her and stir up mischief.”
“That’s rich, coming from the person who’s made a hash of everything—hiring that idiot Ferenc, for starters. Why didn’t you just leave her here, unmolested? She was doing all right.”
“She was not. She was allowing passion to govern her reason. Leng was already taking advantage of it, toying with her. She would have been doomed.”
“You don’t know that. Clever as we think ourselves, there are times she’s surprised both of us. Besides, look at this place!” He waved his hand, indicating the room. “It’s the first palace I’ve seen that actually has taste. And her carriage! I thought Leng’s was impressive. Why, it’s got the loveliest… the finest…” He stopped, at a loss for words. “I don’t yet have the knowledge to articulate my admiration, but something I never expected has happened: I’ve developed carriage envy.”
Pendergast leaned forward. “This badinage is pointless. You know why I returned. For the very same reason you did.”
There was a moment of silence. Then Diogenes rose.
“Are you going to scare up Gosnold?” Pendergast asked him. “His rooms are just off the back kitchen.”
Diogenes shook his head. “No, Brother—I’m off.”
“Where?”
“That’s my business. Did you think Constance the only one who values her secrets? Now, good night; I have promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep.” He paused. “I quite like the sound of that. Perhaps I’ll construct a poem around those lines.”
“I never took you for a plagiarist.”
“One can’t steal words that have yet to be written. Besides, Frater, plagiarism is the last thing you should fear when it comes to this new, or rather old, world of sin now open before me. I find myself looking at it with wild surmise and wondering: can so many unanticipated temptations be resisted?” He shrugged into his greatcoat, lit another salmon-colored cigarette, put on his hat. “I’ll use the front door on my way out,” he said as he strode into the entryway. “That will be a novelty.”
“Diogenes—”
“I know. Sweet dreams to you, too.” He opened the inner, then the outer door, and then—with a bow, and a slight doff of his hat—he strode off into the night.
12
MISS EDITHA MALLOW CREAN—GRIMACING as she picked her way among piles of ordure—crossed the area formed by Park, Baxter, and Worth Streets, the intersection that gave the area its name: the Five Points. Her own set of rooms on Mott Street, in a boardinghouse for ladies, was not many blocks away yet in another, more pleasant world. She always made her commute in haste, so as to be assailed by the vile sights and sounds of the slum as briefly as possible.
Turning west down Baxter, she fell under the looming shadow of the House of Industry. She made her way to its front door, unlocked it with a large iron key, then closed and locked it behind her, exchanging the offending odors from without for those equally disagreeable within.
She turned away from the door to see Royds, the attendant. He was in his usual place, on the far side of the reception room beyond the hinged wooden counter. There was an expression on his face that instantly alarmed her.