Wild Boy and the Black Terror Read online

  Marcus took Lady Bentick’s hand and dipped his head to kiss her rings. Clarissa noticed him hesitate, briefly, as if to study her knuckles. She sensed that Wild Boy might have made something of that moment, but she couldn’t think what.

  Again she felt that she should have stayed with him at the palace. She couldn’t imagine this posh old lady having anything interesting to say. But Lady Bentick was obviously stinking rich, so at least the grub would be good. Clarissa decided she’d steal some for Wild Boy and then scoff it in front of his face. That would really annoy him.

  The turbaned servant gestured along the corridor with the sweep of a hand. “Dinner is served.”

  “Ah! Wonderful,” Lady Bentick declared, as if the idea of dinner was a complete surprise. Marcus accepted her arm and escorted her towards the dining room.

  “So are we on a case or not?” Clarissa whispered.

  Her guardian glanced back at her. His golden eye gleamed and a slight smile curled the corner of his lips. The case was definitely on.

  10

  “Move a muscle and I’ll blow your brains out!”

  Wild Boy’s cry rang around the palace courtyard, frightening crows from the gatehouse turrets. He aimed a pistol at Dr Carew’s head, praying the Gentleman didn’t notice the weapon tremble in his hands. The antique flintlock was heavier than he’d expected when he snatched it from the Guard Chamber wall, and certainly not loaded. But Dr Carew was one of the Gentlemen’s Grey Hats, a scientist, not a soldier. Hopefully he wouldn’t realize he was being threatened with an ornament.

  Dr Carew looked down from the seat of his cart. His face flashed from panic to confusion, then back to panic as the carthorse whinnied and stamped.

  “What is the meaning of this?” he demanded.

  Wild Boy didn’t have time to explain about Lucien’s warning, and his fear that Marcus and Clarissa were in danger. He just had to get to them, and fast. The gatehouse doors were open and he could see out to the street. It was past midnight and below freezing, but the city was still busy. Hackney cabs sprayed up slushy brown snow, night soil men shoveled steaming dung into their carts, and ladies of the night picked their way though the ice to clients who stumbled from supper clubs, cigar shops and gambling dens. If Wild Boy tried to get to Lady Bentick’s house on foot, he – the Wild Boy of London – would be mobbed before he made ten steps.

  “This is a hold-up, doc,” he said. “I need that cart, which means you need to get off. Geddit?”

  Dr Carew didn’t get it at all. His face was deathly pale. A bead of sweat slid over his spectacle lens. “You wish to steal this cart?” he said. “There is nothing of value in it, just Prendergast’s corpse.”

  Inside the palace, the Gentlemen’s shouts grew louder.

  “I ain’t asking again,” Wild Boy said. “You’re new around here, doc, so maybe you ain’t heard about me. I’m the Wild Boy of London, a cold-blooded killer. You gonna get down or am I gonna shoot you down?”

  As he spoke, his eyes scoured the doctor for clues he could use against him, some form of blackmail to force him to help. But he saw nothing. Dr Carew did not drink or smoke, never gambled, and certainly did not take opium. All Wild Boy saw was the doctor’s same curious reaction, that glance over his shoulder, as if searching for a place to flee.

  When Dr Carew turned back, the fear was gone from his eyes. It was replaced by an intense, almost wolf-like stare.

  “I know you are not a killer,” he said. “Marcus said he trusts you, and I trust him. So tell me this: whatever you are doing, is it for a good reason?”

  Wild Boy wanted to punch himself. He’d been so desperate to save Marcus, he’d not thought of appealing to the Gentlemen’s loyalty to him.

  “Marcus is in trouble,” he said. “And Clarissa an’ all. I gotta get to Lady Bentick’s house in Berkeley Square.”

  “Then get in the cart. And stop pointing that ridiculous antique pistol at me.”

  Dropping the gun, Wild Boy scrambled over the side of the cart and under the tarpaulin. Fearing the Gentlemen might search for him, he then wriggled under the corpse. Prendergast’s rigid fingers clawed at his face. The stitches where the body had been sealed had burst open. Goo seeped from inside and onto Wild Boy’s coat.

  Wild Boy forced himself to lie still as he listened to the Gentlemen’s footsteps rush closer. They were yards away, searching the courtyard. He held his breath, scared that the movement of the tarpaulin might give him away.

  “Dr Carew!” one of the men shouted. “Have you seen the boy?”

  “Yes,” Dr Carew answered. “Yes, I have.”

  The footsteps marched closer.

  Wild Boy braced himself. He’d punch the man in the nose and make a run for the gates.

  “He ran past,” Dr Carew continued. “Into the West Guard Chamber room.”

  The footsteps charged away.

  Wild Boy lay back and breathed again. The cart shunted forward, riding through the gateway and onto the street.

  Prendergast’s corpse pressed harder against his chest. The thick goo slid from its chest and stuck in the hair on Wild Boy’s cheeks. Worse was the smell, the reek of decomposing flesh. Wild Boy gagged each time he gulped for air.

  A sliver of lamplight shone through the tarpaulin, illuminating Prendergast’s twisted mouth and grey, staring eyes. Wild Boy tried not to picture Clarissa and Marcus that way. Was that what Lucien had meant? Was whoever killed Prendergast after Marcus too?

  They turned onto another street. It was quieter, darker.

  “We are here,” Dr Carew said.

  Wild Boy dared a look from under the sheet. This was a swanky part of the city. All the townhouses around the square looked the same, with crystal lanterns twinkling in tall windows. One house, though, was different. It looked more like an Indian palace, with ribbed marble arches, hanging brass lights and stone elephants by the door.

  “Bentick House,” Dr Carew said.

  Wild Boy spotted Marcus’s coach parked outside, but where was Gideon?

  “Nothing seems amiss,” Dr Carew said.

  “I gotta check.”

  “You’ll forgive me, but I am not sure it is wise for you of all people to knock on a stranger’s door at this hour. Wait here and I shall investigate.”

  Dr Carew climbed from his seat and neatened his suit. He glanced at Wild Boy, and then at his bag beside the cart seat, with his notebook and medical equipment. He grabbed the bag, shrugged. “Marcus said you were not a killer. He didn’t deny that you were a thief.”

  Clutching the bag, he stepped up to the house and peered through the windows. Light from inside glinted off his spectacles. “All quite normal,” he said. “I suggest we—”

  He stepped back, staring into an alley that ran down the side of the house. “That’s strange.”

  “What?”

  “I think I saw someone.”

  The doctor stepped into the alley and was swallowed by the darkness.

  This is stupid. Wild Boy had to make sure that Clarissa and Marcus were safe. He leaped from the cart, ran to the door and yanked the chain. He pulled again, banged a fist against the door. Why was no one answering?

  Something was wrong.

  He rushed to the nearest window and climbed onto the railing that guarded the front of the house.

  The light in the window went out.

  Wild Boy jumped down, staring in disbelief as one by one the lamps in the house were extinguished. Darkness spread from window to window.

  Something was definitely wrong.

  He ran to the entrance and tore one of the hanging lanterns from its bracket. Racing back to the window, he hurled the light at the glass. The pane shattered, but there was no movement inside.

  “Hello?” Wild Boy yelled.

  No reply.

  He scrambled over the rail and jumped the gap to the ledge. He tried to edge through the broken glass, but his coat snagged on a shard. Pulling it free, he tumbled inside and landed with a curse on a cold marb
le floor. He rose, looking down the dark corridor that led along the width of the house.

  “Clarissa?” he called.

  The only reply was a howl of wind through the broken window. But there was a light now, flickering dimly at the end of the corridor. Wild Boy moved closer, his heart beating harder with each step.

  The corridor led to an extravagant entrance hall with a floor like a giant chessboard. Stuffed peacocks stared from niches, and a single brass lamp glimmered in the corner. A servant in an orange turban stood by it, leaning into the wall.

  “Hey,” Wild Boy said. “What’s going on?”

  The servant didn’t reply. Didn’t even move.

  Wild Boy grabbed the man’s shoulder. The servant slid down the wall and slumped to the floor, rolling onto his back. His face was like Prendergast’s – chalk-white with inky black veins streaking up his forehead and under the fold of his turban. His eyes were wide and full of terror.

  He was dead.

  Wild Boy staggered back, wrapping an arm around his mouth to stifle a scream.

  He bashed into someone else, whirled around in fright.

  It was another dead servant. The man’s tunic had been taken off, revealing black veins on his arms and hands. A third servant lay beyond him, in the entrance to another corridor, convulsing on the black and white squares.

  Wild Boy rushed to him and sank to his knees. He tried to control the man, struggling to pin down his thrashing limbs. “What’s happening to you?” he gasped. “I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to stop it.”

  The servant’s hands rose to protect his face, as if he was being clawed by a tiger. His eyes stared into the darkness, at nothing and everything.

  “No!” he screamed. “No, not that! Not again!”

  Wild Boy had never heard a cry like it, felt the terror of whatever horrors tormented the man’s mind. He slid back, scared that whatever had caused it might get him as well.

  The screams stopped.

  The man lay still.

  The house was silent.

  Then, a creak.

  Wild Boy stepped back against one of the corridor doors, hidden by its marble frame.

  Another creak. Someone was coming this way.

  Wild Boy sprang from the doorway, swinging a fist. But he was too slow. A hand grasped his arm and twisted it behind his back.

  “Hey,” hissed a familiar voice.

  A freckled face glared at him from the gloom. “What are you doing here?” Clarissa said. “Why weren’t you in the drawing room?”

  Wild Boy stared at her, his mind flooding with conflicting emotions – relief that she was safe, and confusion at what she’d just said. Relief won and he grabbed her in a tight hug.

  She shoved him away. “What’s wrong with you? I waited for you in the drawing room, like your note said. Bet I missed dessert an’ all. If it was anything with custard, I’ll kill you.”

  “Clarissa,” Wild Boy said. “What are you talking about? What note?”

  “The note the servant slipped me. Said to meet you in the…”

  Her mouth stayed open but no more words came out as she finally saw the corpses.

  “Clarissa,” Wild Boy said, “where’s Marcus?”

  “Wild Boy … what’s happening?”

  “Where is he, Clarissa?”

  “This way!”

  They ran to a door at the end of the corridor. Clarissa rattled the handle. “Why’s it locked? It wasn’t locked before.”

  She grabbed her picks from her boot and began to work on the door.

  A wisp of black smoke floated through a gap around the frame. It curled like an eel, twisted up to the ceiling, thinned, disappeared. As Wild Boy watched it, a knot in his stomach pulled so tight that he could barely breathe. Right then he didn’t want to go inside that room. Because he knew what he would see…

  11

  It was like a vision from a nightmare.

  Wild Boy was so horrified that at first all he could do was stare. Candles flickered on a long dining table, illuminating the faces of two figures sat at the end. One was an old lady with rings on most of her fingers and a string of pearls around her neck. Her skin was as white as the china plates, but shattered with black veins. The dark lines shot down her arms too, and over her hands, one of which still gripped the table, even though the lady – Lady Bentick – was clearly dead.

  Next to her, at the side of the table, was…

  “Marcus!” Clarissa cried.

  Black veins throbbed across his face. His hands were raised, ripping silver clumps of hair from his scalp. Muscles twitched and tugged in his cheek. His golden eyeball had slipped from his face and fallen to the floor. Candlelight glistened in the empty socket.

  Rushing to him, Clarissa tugged his hands from his hair and took them in her own. Marcus’s fingers gripped hers so hard that one of her knuckles cracked, but she let him hold on.

  Tears slid down Clarissa’s cheeks. “Wild Boy? We can help him, can’t we? We have to help him.”

  Wild Boy’s mind was flooding with panic, and his legs suddenly felt so weak that he gripped one of the chairs for support. He stepped over another victim – a servant with his face buried in the rug – and crouched beside Marcus.

  Drool slid from Marcus’s mouth and dripped to the tablecloth. His single eye danced with madness.

  Clarissa wiped the spit from his lips. “Marcus?” she said. “Can you hear me? Me and Wild Boy are gonna fix you. We’re gonna fix you right up. Ain’t that so, Wild Boy?”

  Wild Boy remembered what Dr Carew said at the palace. Prendergast had survived for so long in that state because his mind was strong, able to fight the horrors it saw. Marcus was fighting them too, but for how long?

  No, there had to be something they could do. What had Marcus taught them the previous night? Control your emotions. Concentrate. Think.

  Dr Carew had said that if they found out what caused this, he could make a cure. Whoever had poisoned Prendergast – whoever killed him – had also been here. He’d slipped Clarissa a note. There had to be some clues to help catch him.

  Think!

  Wild Boy stepped over to the French windows at the back of the dining room and looked into the moonlit night. In the garden, statues of Indian gods glistened with ice, and peacock-shaped holly bushes shivered in white blankets. Beyond rose the green and white wall of a hedgerow maze. The snow was thick and undisturbed, with no trace of footprints. Judging from the seal of ice around the frame, these windows hadn’t been opened in days. No one had entered or left that way. It didn’t make sense. That was the only other exit.

  Think. Think!

  His breathing slowed. Despite his panic and heartache, Wild Boy felt the thrill he needed to feel as instinct kicked in and his senses began to work.

  He moved around the table, his eyes roving among candlesticks, crystal glasses and plates of lamb chops. Marcus and Lady Bentick must have been talking after Clarissa left the room; neither had touched their drinks or eaten anything.

  Wild Boy stopped beside Lady Bentick, his eyes drawn to her hands. It seemed strange that only one hand gripped the table. The other was curled and stiff, as if it had been torn from its grip. A small scratch broke the skin on one of her knuckles.

  “A ring,” Wild Boy realized. “The killer took only one of Lady Bentick’s rings.”

  But this wasn’t just theft, or her pearls would be gone too. This was a very particular theft.

  Wild Boy grabbed a candle from the table and turned to the wall above the fireplace. An oil painting showed Lady Bentick and her husband seated in an Indian palace, surrounded by turbaned servants. Lord Bentick wore a ceremonial robe and a chestful of medals. The Lady wore even more jewels – necklaces, earrings, bracelets.

  He raised the candle higher. Despite all her jewellery, Lady Bentick wore just one ring, as if to draw attention to its brilliance. It was set with a single, very large gemstone.

  “A black diamond,” Wild Boy said.

&
nbsp; The killer had taken one of those rare stones from Queen Victoria, and now from Lady Bentick. It was a link between the crimes. But he sensed something else here, a clue he’d not yet seen.

  “We have to get Marcus to the palace,” Clarissa said.

  Wild Boy stepped over the dead servant, returning to Marcus. Clarissa didn’t know about his fight with Lucien. “We ain’t welcome at the palace no more,” he said.

  “What? Then what are we going to do?”

  “We gotta get the killer, find out how he’s done this. Dr Carew said if he knew what caused it, he could make a cure.”

  He could hear the desperation in his voice. But they had a clue now, a link between the crimes. Black diamonds. “Dr Carew’s around here somewhere,” he said, “and Gideon too. They’ll get Marcus some place safe.”

  They each put an arm around his shoulder and lifted him from the seat. Marcus was over six feet tall, but somehow they found the strength. Their guardian’s feet dragged along the floor as they pulled him from the dining room and along the corridor, weaving around the dead servants. Exhausted from the effort, they sat him on one of the marble thrones.

  Clarissa reached to open the door, but Wild Boy held it shut.

  “Wait,” he said.

  He’d just seen something important. He turned, looking back down the corridor. His lips cracked open and a small gasp came out.

  “That servant,” he said.

  One of the servants in the corridor was missing his tunic. Wild Boy had noticed before, but had been too horrified by the man’s appearance to see the clue. It didn’t make sense; no servant would remove his coat in the middle of service. Someone had taken it from him after he died.

  The killer. But why?

  The answer struck Wild Boy like a whip crack. He charged back along the corridor, crying out. “He’s still there. The killer’s still in the dining room!”