Artful: A Novel Read online

  “With eyes red as flame, she tried to sink her fangs into my neck.”

  “That would go a long way to convincing you, I should think. Of course,”—and Mr. Fang sighed heavily, as if he were in tremendous sympathy with Van Helsing—“had you managed to find the vampyre who had committed the deed and slain him in time, you could have salvaged the situation. But your own skepticism, borne of a lifetime of scientific training, undid her.”

  “I did not undo her!” And Van Helsing pointed at him with the stake. Sensing its master’s rising anger, the German shepherd’s hackles rose, and it growled more loudly. “One of your ilk did! It was his monstrous acts that turned her!”

  “And it was your hand that destroyed her.” Mr. Fang’s finger rested on one line of one document in the file. “After a yearlong search for her, because she fled from your ‘care’ and you had to track her down. How brutal that must have been for you. By that point, your reputation in the serious medical community was destroyed. Thank God for your considerable personal fortune that you could proceed to waste in endless pursuit of my brethren.”

  “You think to make me act precipitously. To make me sloppy,” said Van Helsing, his voice quivering with barely contained fury. “It will not work.”

  “It is already working. You cannot focus yourself sufficiently to strike home with your stick.”

  “You underestimate the strength of my hand.”

  “As you do mine.”

  The magistrate’s hand had been in his pocket. Now he withdrew it and carefully lay something upon the desk with a gentle “clink.” He then draped his hands behind his back and kept his gaze fixed upon Van Helsing’s face. “You are reluctant to divert your attention from me, perhaps thinking that I will spring across the desk at you like a snake, uncoil, and strike home. Do not concern yourself. You have naught to fear from me, just as I have naught to fear from you.”

  “If you believe you have naught to fear from me,” Van Helsing began to say, but then, despite his desire not to, he looked down at that which was lying upon the desk, placed there by the magistrate’s hand. He tried not to gasp when he saw it and did not succeed.

  A golden ring with a crest, sized to fit upon a child’s hand, lay upon the desk. “A family heirloom, surely?” said the magistrate so softly that, in keeping with his allusion to reptiles, it was barely above the hiss of a snake. “Your father gave it to you, I take it, when you were a child? And you, in turn, presented it to your son?”

  Van Helsing endeavored to speak but at first was unable to produce the slightest noise. Finally he found his voice. “Where is he? Where is my son?”

  “You made him quite difficult to find, I will admit that,” said Mr. Fang, as if Van Helsing had not spoken. “And very well guarded. I believe, though, that you will discover your guards are no longer amongst the living. Tragic, really, to die for something as inconsequential as a boy.”

  “Is Abraham . . . .” Van Helsing did his best to steady himself. “Is Abraham still alive?”

  “Of course he is. What use would he be to us if he were dead? Or like us?” he added, apparently in anticipation of what Van Helsing was thinking. “If you knew him to be turned, then you would give up hope. Your hope is of terrific utility to us. As long as you hope that he will be returned to you, safely and unharmed, you, Doctor Van Helsing, will do nothing to stop us. Nothing to interfere with us. You will return to the small inn where you were staying, and you will wait, and you will do nothing. If you do not return there within a fairly brief period of time, then the return of your son will commence immediately, but only one piece at a time. If you wish to receive him whole, rather than as a young man of many parts, you will do precisely as instructed. And I assure you that when and if we decide to release your son, you will be the very first to know. Good day to you, Doctor Van Helsing.” And when Van Helsing did not move immediately, Mr. Fang repeated, “I said good day, sir.”

  Looking as stunned as he felt, Doctor Van Helsing allowed the stake to slip from almost nerveless fingers back into the bag. The dog actually seemed to display a human reaction upon seeing the weapon restored to its place of residence without being used to deliver a well-deserved death to the creature on the other side of the table. Disappointment appeared to register upon its face, and then it swung its attention back to Mr. Fang and seemed poised to try and go for the magistrate’s throat. It was with tremendous emotional effort that the doctor pulled on the dog’s leash, restraining him from attacking the magistrate, as much as that would have given him some measure of satisfaction.

  “Keep a hold upon your animal, Doctor, if you know what is good for you and for your son,” warned the magistrate. Van Helsing, still numb because of the manner in which matters had gone so entirely differently from what he had expected, managed to nod as he pulled hard on Jacob’s leash. The dog fought its master’s will at first, but then acquiesced, albeit reluctantly.

  And so it was that a frustrated, terrified, and thoroughly chastened Isaac Van Helsing departed, although not the way he had come, for the way he had come had been brimming with confidence and a certainty that the force of his righteousness would easily triumph over the pestilent evil represented by Magistrate Fang.

  As for Mr. Fang, he was in one of those very rare states: a good humor. His evening had not begun that way, but he was surprised to discover that it was going to end in that manner, for he had thoroughly enjoyed being in anticipation of Van Helsing’s intended assault and thus prepared for it.

  In so good a mood was he, in fact, that he was in no hurry to return to the bar and render judgment on the inevitable parade of miscreants that would be his duty to attend to. So he allowed himself several minutes to simply remain where he was and bask in the lack of presence of Doctor Van Helsing, who had himself departed the police station and hurled himself back into the oppressive darkness and rain that pervaded London.

  As it so happened, before he could then return to his duties, there came a knock at the door, and a familiar face peered in.

  “My dear Harry,” said Mr. Fang, much to the open astonishment of Sanguine Harry, for it was indeed this disreputable personage who had presented himself unannounced, and the sanguine one would never have anticipated any manner of joviality from this man to whom he had pledged fealty. “Your timing could not have been more unfortunate, for if you had been here only a few minutes earlier, you would have been able to witness the humbling of the famed Doctor Van Helsing, self-proclaimed stalker of our kind.”

  “I wish I could have seen that, yes,” said Sanguine Harry.

  “Would that you could have. The look upon his face when he learned that we have his mewling son was simply beyond price.” He rose from behind his desk. “Come. Come and see me dispense justice, for it will surely be entertaining—” Then he saw the look upon Harry’s face, and a wariness crept into his tone. Slowly he sat back down behind the desk. “Tell me,” he said.

  Sanguine Harry would dearly have preferred to find some other manner in which to approach the topic, but the dour look upon Mr. Fang’s face precluded any approach save that of being as straightforward as possible. “There are a couple of things you should know. First, and of most immediate concern: The boy escaped.”

  “The boy.”

  “Yes.”

  “Escaped.”

  “Yes.”

  “The boy escaped! Where is he now?”

  “We do not know.”

  “What do you mean, you do not know?” He was now fighting to keep his voice down, lest a note of alarm bring unwanted attention from the police officers gathered outside.

  “Well, there are times when we know where people are, yes? This would not be one of those times.”

  “I don’t understand! We had two vampyres guarding him.”

  “As it turns out, ‘guarding’ may have been too generous a word for what they were doing.”

 
“What were they doing?” inquired Mr. Fang in a fury as cold as the body that he inhabited.

  “Ignoring him, mostly. They acquired a flat, and they locked him in a closet and ignored him, figuring that he would be safe there.”

  “And instead—?”

  “Apparently, in the back of the closet there was a panel in the wall that led into a crawl space. He was able to access it and escape in that way.”

  “And neither of them saw it before they put the boy in there?”

  “So it would seem.” He hastened to add when he saw the expression on Mr. Fang’s face, “They are tracking the boy down even now. He is alone and in a strange city, and his father has certainly told him enough about our influence in society for him to be afraid to seek out anyone in authority, for fear he will simply be returned to our keeping. He will be found and retaken.”

  “We cannot assume that,” said the magistrate. “We cannot assume that at all.” He gave the matter some brief consideration. “We may have to accelerate our plans.”

  “Accelerate?”

  “The Princess Victoria.”

  Sanguine Harry drew in a sharp breath.

  “Yes,” said Mr. Fang, nodding his head in reply to Sanguine Harry’s unspoken response. “It is time for us to extend our influence to the highest level. It is time to send in our people and turn the princess so that our interests and hers coincide. At least,” he said with satisfaction, “we know where to find her.”

  “Yes, well . . .” said Sanguine Harry slowly.

  “Well what?”

  “Do you recall that I said there were a couple of things I needed to discuss with you?”

  Mr. Fang stared at him. “You cannot be serious.”

  “Yes, well . . . the princess is gone as well. She managed to take her leave of the palace. Slipped out. Escaped. No one knows where she is, either.”

  “So the one means of leverage we have over Isaac Van Helsing is wandering around, whereabouts unknown, and the maiden upon whom we are counting to extend our influence to the highest reaches—Princess Alexandrina Victoria—is also wandering around, whereabouts unknown. That is what you are telling me.”

  “In short: Yes.”

  “In short: Find them. In even shorter: Now.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Sanguine Harry.

  Mr. Fang tossed him the ring and said, “Use this in order to get the boy’s scent.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Harry then hastened from the room, as Mr. Fang was still barely managing to repress his rage. Once he had departed, Mr. Fang leaned back in his chair and rubbed the bridge of his nose between two skeletal fingers.

  “The dangers,” he said to no one in particular, “of allowing myself to be in a good mood for even a few minutes.” With that, he then let himself back out into his parlor so that he could exercise his foul temper upon whatever unfortunates were being hauled before him that evening.

  SIX

  IN WHICH DETAILS ARE PROVIDED OF THE ARTFUL’S EVENING WITH DRINA AND THE UNTOLD STORY, NOW TOLD, OF THE ORPHANING OF JACK DAWKINS

  As unaccustomed as the Artful Dodger was to guests of any sort—and by “unaccustomed” what we truly mean is unused to in any way, shape, or form—that did not mean that he was bereft of the social graces required should such a happenstance present itself, nor likewise lacking in the resources necessary for a gentleman to treat a lady as she was rightly due to be treated.

  There was a small fireplace in one corner of his lodgings—his lodgings, someone else’s ruins; but there it is for you—over which he had a small kettle heating up water for tea, as he felt that ginger beer, the only other libation available to him, wasn’t suited to the occasion. Not genteel enough, as he put it to himself. He also put several sausages in a frying pan and was in the midst of cooking that as well, while Drina looked on with curiosity.

  “You are very resourceful,” she said, turning her interest to the rest of the Artful’s lodgings.

  “You has to be when you got no resources,” he said modestly. “I do what I can to squeak by.”

  “That smells quite good,” she said of the sausages.

  “I’ve found that the longer you don’t eat, the better it smells. When was the last time you ate, eh?”

  “I don’t recall.”

  “Ah. Now you’re lyin’.” She looked flustered when he said that, but he shrugged it off. “If you really couldn’t recall, you’d be right here next to me, watchin’ the food cook and maybe downright satiatin’.”

  She frowned slightly and then said, “Salivating, you mean?”

  “I always say what I mean,” Dodger said archly, and then went on, “Just tellin’ you that you don’t have t’ spare me feelings, is all. Maybe the ladies out there,”—and he gave a general tilt of his head in the direction of the streets—“maybe they think that you were trying to start up in their trade, but me, I know better. I think you’re new to the streets and don’t know what you want.”

  Drina took all that in and then smiled in a rather wan fashion. “You’re right,” she admitted. “About that I was lying to you, I mean. I took some food with me last night when I left the . . . when I left home.”

  She moved toward him and stood by the fire, although she did not crouch. She removed the thin gloves she had on and held her hands to the fire, enjoying the warmth. “I made the food last through breakfast and part of lunch, but I had nothing else. I was beginning to get nervous, thinking I was going to have to return home.”

  “Leastways you gots a home to return to. More’n lots of folks can say. Truth t’ tell, at first I figured you to be a servant somewhere. Got the right garb on for it. But your hands look too soft. Not,” he added quickly, his face flushing slightly, “that I was lookin’ too much at’cher hands, or thinkin’ about holdin’ ’em, ya understand. Wouldn’t want’cha to think I was being forward or nothin’ like that.”

  “No, not at all,” said Drina with a small smile. “You’re the perfect gentleman.”

  “’S’truth,” he agreed. “So I ain’t sure what to make of you, really. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you was some rich, pampered girl who got her hands on some servant’s clothes so you could sneak out easier. Which don’t make no sense, ’cause you seem in your right mind, and who in ’er right mind would do that?”

  “Who indeed. You’re quite wise to be able to see the truth of things so ably, Artful Dodger.”

  “Just ‘Dodger’ will do. So why’d you scamper, if you don’t mind my askin’? Your father beat’cha, did he?”

  “I never knew my father. He died not long after I was born.”

  “Ah. Well,”—and he shrugged—“might well be better off, ya ask me. Don’t have no recollect of my father, neither, but to hear me mum tell of it, he was a righteous lout who took the back of his hand to her whenever things weren’t goin’ right for ’im, which was most times. He lit out long ago. No loss.” He glanced toward her and saw that she was looking at him in what seemed a pitying manner, and inwardly he cringed at the notion. He absolutely did not want her pity. “What of your mum, then. She beat you?”

  “All this talk of ‘beating,’” she said. “Do you think that’s all parents do?”

  “Can’t rightly say. I s’pose there’s a few good ’uns here and there about. Can’t say as I’ve met any of ’em in person.” For a moment, his mind flashed to the contented smile upon Oliver Twist’s face, and the genuine affection for the lad that seemed to be displayed by the older man who was seated next to him in the cab. Then he dismissed it, because for all he knew, behind closed doors the old man might thrash Oliver soundly whenever the mood was upon him. And besides, it wasn’t as if they’d been introduced, even if the man was a candidate for sainthood. As if confirming it for himself, he said again, “No. Can’t say as I have met ’em. So your mum, then . . .”

  “No,” s
aid Drina, and she smiled as if she found the thought absurd. “My mother may be controlling . . . suffocating in her attention . . . but she has never taken a hand to me.”

  “What’s the worry, then?” said Dodger. “Why scarper?” As he asked, he deftly removed the sausages from the pan just before they began to burn, and transferred them to a metal plate. He handed it to Drina and said, “Eat’cher fill; I’ll have the rest.”

  “That’s . . . very generous of you.”

  He shrugged as if it meant nothing, while praying that she didn’t eat all of it but left him some, for it had been a score of hours since he had consumed anything save toast. As Drina set to eating the sausages, he poured out tea carefully. She regarded the water with raised eyebrow. “You . . . did not get that from a horse trough or some such, did you?”

  “Certainly not.”

  “Then where—?”

  “I made a stoup somewhere,” said the Artful carelessly, smiling inwardly at a private jest. “You’ve not answered my interlocutory. What did your mother to you that’cha felt the need to flee?”

  “It is not simply her,” said Drina with a sigh. “It is my entire life. It is so . . . so melancholy, my upbringing. Growing up, even to this day, I’ve had no involvement with anyone my own age. My mother is so guarding of me that she even shares a bedroom with me. The lengths to which I had to go in order to slip out . . . you cannot even conceive, Dodger. To spend a life knowing nothing of the people of England. People who I would ru—” She caught herself, transformed the hesitation into a cough, and then continued, “—would . . . rue never having had the opportunity to know before I become . . . older.”

  “Well, I got the knowin’ of them all too well,” said Dodger, “and knowin’ them can be a ruesome experience, I know that, sure as like.”

  “And what of you, Dodger?” said Drina, quickly trying to move the conversation away from herself. “You’ve spoken of your father. What of your mother?”