Page 56 of Angel of Vengeance
Despite the light tone, he was troubled. There was something extraordinary about the man. Leng did not doubt he was a cleric sent to do work in the Five Points; he was just too authentic and eccentric to be an impostor. Nevertheless, there was an intangible air about him, something ineffable and dangerous. He would require an entirely unconventional approach—but Leng, with rather a lot on his own plate at present, could not take up the task himself.
He glanced privately at Decla, who was now staring off into space, eyebrows narrowed, running her fingertips over the fresh scar on her palm. His chargée d’affaires was like a thoroughbred: extraordinarily talented, but requiring careful handling.
“What if I gave him to you?” he asked. “As a special gift, so to speak? Now that you know what you’re up against.”
Decla raised her eyes to his, a hungry smile slowly replacing her abstracted look. “I’d have a free hand?” she asked.
“Just as you please. But hold off a week or two—and take your time formulating a plan. That cleric isn’t going anywhere.”
She was, he noticed, still idly stroking the scar. “I’d be happy to give you the woman who gave you that, as well.”
The fingertips froze, and something flickered in her eyes. “The duchess?”
“Yes. She’s highly skilled, but I think she could, if goaded, become rash or even impetuous. It would be lovely if you could arrange to have a mano a mano someplace where I could be a spectator. Just be careful: I should be particularly unhappy if I ended up having to replace you, as well as the others.” He stretched, adjusted his cuffs. “On a related matter: not only was that Pendergast fellow caught yesterday at a property I own up north, but now—” he paused to pat the envelope on the blotter—“given this message that just arrived from Humblecut, we have all of these pestilent nuisances in chains.”
“Except the girl,” Decla said in a low voice.
“Except the girl.” Leng mused in silence for a moment, then reached for the envelope, slicing it open with a scalpel. He drew out a sheet of paper nearly three feet long, folded at least six times and covered with thin ribbons of text pasted into paragraphs.
“Good heavens!” he said, scrolling through it. “It must have taken the telegraph operator hours to convey this.” He put the document on his desk, smoothing it out carefully.
“I’ll be off, then,” Decla said, rising silkily to her feet, energized by the thought of stalking Considine.
“Mind how you go,” Leng told her. But his voice was low and distracted; his attention was now fixed on the telegram, which he had already begun to decipher.
50
THE ROUGH BURLAP SACK had been over D’Agosta’s head for so long that when it was finally removed, his eyes were already adjusted to darkness and he had no problem getting his bearings in the moonlight. He looked about, his head still pounding. He was on a commercial wharf, arms bound behind at the wrists, mouth gagged. It appeared to be early evening, but at this time of the year the place was deserted: a stone building that fronted the quayside was empty and dark, and the only noise was the chugging of a vessel. It appeared to be a fishing trawler, with an upthrust bow covered in netting and a small cabin from which rose a smokestack.
He looked around. There was the wagon that had carried him and Joe from the mansion to the dock. Humblecut pulled Joe out from beneath the wagon covering and stood him on his feet next to D’Agosta. He, too, was bound and hooded. He watched Humblecut pull the hood free, exposing Joe’s face, red and defiant, his mouth also gagged. They exchanged a look. D’Agosta tried to communicate with his eyes that everything was going to be okay—even if he felt precisely the opposite. They were clearly about to sail from Mount Desert Island, bound for God knew where.
How much time had passed since he’d been clobbered, D’Agosta wasn’t sure; Humblecut had locked him alone in a basement storage room with stone walls and an iron door, no windows, and only rows of preserved peaches for company. He guessed that a night and a day had passed, and that it was now the following evening. After finishing his questions, Humblecut hadn’t said another word to him—not when he locked him in the storeroom, not when he put the sack over his head and bundled him into the wagon, and not now.
The crew of the boat seemed limited to two: a mate, who was currently unloading half a dozen oilcloth bundles from the wagon and carrying them on board, and the captain: a man with a deeply seamed and scarred visage.
“Put these two in the hold,” Humblecut told the captain as he boarded the boat.
“Aye, aye, Mr. Cassaway,” the man said.
The captain came up, grabbed him and Joe by an arm each, then escorted them roughly along the dock and up the gangplank onto the vessel. As he ushered them toward the bow, D’Agosta caught sight of the mate again. He was in the stern and, having placed the oilcloth bundles in some heavy netting, was now drawing the netting close around and wrapping it with an iron chain. A rough hand between his shoulders pushed him down the hatchway and onto a rank pile of fishnets. A moment later, Joe was shoved down next to him and the hatch banged to, shutting out the moonlight. There were enough open seams in the wall to let in light from the aft cabin. He’d never seen the youth look worried, and he did not look worried now—only angry and defiant. Remarkable how resilient he was.
D’Agosta heard the light rap of mooring lines hitting the deck; then the engine took on a throatier roar. The boat started to vibrate as it pulled away from the dock. As it moved out into the open water, it began to roll in the swell. At a certain point the engine throttled down, and the boat slowed. There was the murmur of voices, the sound of chains being dragged aft across the deck, followed by a loud splash. It seemed that Mr. and Mrs. Cookson, separated on land, were now to be united in death on the seabed. The callous brutality of it enraged D’Agosta.
It was bitterly cold and dim in the hold. Joe wriggled up against him to stay warm, resting his head on his shoulder. D’Agosta was glad of the human contact; it helped him focus his mind. He turned his thoughts to what might happen next. He wondered if he and Joe were going to shortly join the Cooksons in their journey over the transom. It seemed unlikely: if that were the case, they’d already be dead and gone. Leng was keeping them alive for some reason, probably as bargaining chips. They were securely tied up, and even if they could get loose, they were on a boat in the winter Atlantic with no possibility of getting off… unless he could seize control of the vessel, which seemed an impossibility without weapons. Or, if they could get untied, they might wait until docking to fight or make a break for it.
He wriggled his wrists. Humblecut knew how to tie a knot, that was for sure. The rope that bound his hands and encircled his waist was stout hemp, tight and inflexible. There was probably nothing in the hold that could be used to free them, but D’Agosta knew it was better to keep busy—not only for Joe’s sanity, but for his own. He nudged Joe, not sure how to explain that he was going to search the hold. He pointed his chin around, then got up on his knees and began to crawl about, looking around as best he could in the faint light for anything that might help. Joe immediately caught on and—nodding his understanding to D’Agosta—began a search of his own.
51
EDWIN HUMBLECUT EASED HIMSELF into an armchair by the fire, feeling the warmth of the glowing coals. It was quite a handsome library, revealing enormous wealth, quietly displayed.
“Brandy?” asked Leng, standing at a side table with crystal decanters and glasses.
“No, thank you, Doctor. I am a teetotalist.”
“Of course. I, however, shall have a tot to warm myself on this cold evening.”
Leng poured a brandy and settled into the seat opposite. It was a chill winter night, and Humblecut was grateful for the warmth of the fire after his stay on Mount Desert.