Read Online The Affair of the Porcelain Dog by Jess Faraday - Free Book Online
Authors: Jess Faraday
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crossed the room to let her in.
"Thank God," I panted once the door was open. I pushed him aside in my haste to get out of the miserable little room. "You might want to get a building inspector in there, Pearl. I swear the walls are caving in."
I leaned against the doorjamb, reveling in the cool rush of air. I knew it was the same stale clinic air that had been through a thousand sets of consumptive lungs, but in that moment it felt like a clean country breeze. Nurse Brand eyed me as if sizing me up for a straitjacket.
"I meant to tell you," she said warily, "Nate stopped by earlier this week. Asked about you."
"Nate?" I asked.
"Said I ain't seen hide nor hair of you in two years. All the same, he said if you was to turn up, I should tell you he lunches at the Criterion on Thursdays."
"Nate Turnbull ?"
I'd known Nate almost as long as I'd known myself. He'd been born in the workhouse; I'd come at age three. He'd taught me to pick a pocket, tease open a lock, and charm an orange from a coster's wife. And later, much later, Nate had stumbled upon the knowledge that the money to be made working with one's hands was laughable compared to the price the less noble parts of the body could command. We'd been like salt and pepper, and he'd saved me more times than I could count.
I hadn't meant to cut him off when I left the 'Chapel. But I'd left under the shadow of the gallows. By the time that little misunderstanding was cleared up, we'd both moved on--I to greener pastures, and he to parts unknown. And when your home is whatever bed you can afford that night, it's difficult to receive letters.
Not to mention that Nate was as indiscreet as a tipsy kitchen maid. Not the sort of person one wanted lurking about the front door of the Duke of Dorset Street.
But now the man was lunching at an exclusive Piccadilly establishmment catering to the most fashionable men's men in London. The mind boggled.
"Thanks, Pearl," I said.
"You'll look him up?"
And that was the question, wasn't it? If I didn't, guilt and curiosity would eat me alive. On the other hand, the man could not be allowed anywhere near York Street.
"Too fine for an old friend, is you?" she sniffed, when I remained silent. "Wasn't so fine when you was beggin' me to check you for the clap. As for you, Doctor," she continued much more cheerfully, "Your... friend is here to take you to lunch as well, though I trust that it won't be at the Criterion."
Lazarus didn't even try to hide the pleasure that flushed his usually pasty features. I glanced toward the waiting room to catch a glimpse of St. Andrews. One might think it impossible for someone so conspicuous to lose himself in a room full of indigents, but it seemed he had. I looked closer, but saw only the usual suspects, plus one well-groomed young woman with the earnest air of a missionary.
As the nurse made her way back down the corridor, Lazarus looked out toward the waiting room and sighed happily.
"You're going to have to learn to be more discreet," I said. "If the blackmailer doesn't send you both to prison, your swooning will."
He gave me a look of distaste.
"I can't imagine what you mean by that. Besides, my romantic life is no concern of yours."
"Fine." I turned and started down the corridor. "Just don't say I didn't warn you."
Before I had gone three steps, he added, "You gave up any right to comment when you walked out of my surgery that night with Goddard. You'd never set eyes on him before. But the moment you did, it was as if nothing else existed. Not even the needle and thread I was using to repair the cut above your eyebrow. You didn't even say good-bye."
I whirled, meaning to meet his thoroughly undeserved self-pity with a torrent of harsh, well-chosen words. But there was no self-pity in his expression, only a devilish smirk.
"That was a good, sharp needle," he said. "I miss it."
"You--you're impossible, Lazarus," I sputtered. "Something I'm certain that St. Andrews will discover in time. But
"Thank God," I panted once the door was open. I pushed him aside in my haste to get out of the miserable little room. "You might want to get a building inspector in there, Pearl. I swear the walls are caving in."
I leaned against the doorjamb, reveling in the cool rush of air. I knew it was the same stale clinic air that had been through a thousand sets of consumptive lungs, but in that moment it felt like a clean country breeze. Nurse Brand eyed me as if sizing me up for a straitjacket.
"I meant to tell you," she said warily, "Nate stopped by earlier this week. Asked about you."
"Nate?" I asked.
"Said I ain't seen hide nor hair of you in two years. All the same, he said if you was to turn up, I should tell you he lunches at the Criterion on Thursdays."
"Nate Turnbull ?"
I'd known Nate almost as long as I'd known myself. He'd been born in the workhouse; I'd come at age three. He'd taught me to pick a pocket, tease open a lock, and charm an orange from a coster's wife. And later, much later, Nate had stumbled upon the knowledge that the money to be made working with one's hands was laughable compared to the price the less noble parts of the body could command. We'd been like salt and pepper, and he'd saved me more times than I could count.
I hadn't meant to cut him off when I left the 'Chapel. But I'd left under the shadow of the gallows. By the time that little misunderstanding was cleared up, we'd both moved on--I to greener pastures, and he to parts unknown. And when your home is whatever bed you can afford that night, it's difficult to receive letters.
Not to mention that Nate was as indiscreet as a tipsy kitchen maid. Not the sort of person one wanted lurking about the front door of the Duke of Dorset Street.
But now the man was lunching at an exclusive Piccadilly establishmment catering to the most fashionable men's men in London. The mind boggled.
"Thanks, Pearl," I said.
"You'll look him up?"
And that was the question, wasn't it? If I didn't, guilt and curiosity would eat me alive. On the other hand, the man could not be allowed anywhere near York Street.
"Too fine for an old friend, is you?" she sniffed, when I remained silent. "Wasn't so fine when you was beggin' me to check you for the clap. As for you, Doctor," she continued much more cheerfully, "Your... friend is here to take you to lunch as well, though I trust that it won't be at the Criterion."
Lazarus didn't even try to hide the pleasure that flushed his usually pasty features. I glanced toward the waiting room to catch a glimpse of St. Andrews. One might think it impossible for someone so conspicuous to lose himself in a room full of indigents, but it seemed he had. I looked closer, but saw only the usual suspects, plus one well-groomed young woman with the earnest air of a missionary.
As the nurse made her way back down the corridor, Lazarus looked out toward the waiting room and sighed happily.
"You're going to have to learn to be more discreet," I said. "If the blackmailer doesn't send you both to prison, your swooning will."
He gave me a look of distaste.
"I can't imagine what you mean by that. Besides, my romantic life is no concern of yours."
"Fine." I turned and started down the corridor. "Just don't say I didn't warn you."
Before I had gone three steps, he added, "You gave up any right to comment when you walked out of my surgery that night with Goddard. You'd never set eyes on him before. But the moment you did, it was as if nothing else existed. Not even the needle and thread I was using to repair the cut above your eyebrow. You didn't even say good-bye."
I whirled, meaning to meet his thoroughly undeserved self-pity with a torrent of harsh, well-chosen words. But there was no self-pity in his expression, only a devilish smirk.
"That was a good, sharp needle," he said. "I miss it."
"You--you're impossible, Lazarus," I sputtered. "Something I'm certain that St. Andrews will discover in time. But
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