A Scandal in Battersea Read online

  “Part uv th’ ’ire, guv,” the man said, with a hint of sympathy. “Oi cain’t letcher in, an yew wouldn’ loik it, anyways. Gulls is dressed down t’their toesies an’ up t’their necks, an’ the singin’s all carols an’ senteemental ballads an’ suchlike. No dancin’, the jokes is all fer kiddies, an’ nothin’ sportin’. Come on back arter midnight, we got a midnight show. Or come back tomorrer.”

  No hope for it. He turned away, and just to complete his dissatisfaction, it began to snow. It was chancy enough to find a cab in this wretched part of town, but inclement weather made it nearly impossible. He had to trudge for blocks before he managed to catch one just as the driver was letting off his fare, before the man could whip up the horse and speed away to a more lucrative part of the city.

  He gave the man the first address that popped into his head, which, on reflection, was the very last place he wanted to go to: Pandora’s Tea Room in Chelsea, frequented by the artistic, poetic, and esoteric sets. Not that he didn’t frequent Pandora’s—just not at this hour, when the . . . less adventurous made it their haunt. But it would at least be warm and dry there, and assuming that the snow would keep most of the people he didn’t want to see away, he could get something to eat while he decided on another destination.

  Alas. The snow had only made the place more crowded than usual. It seemed that every single member of the airy-fairy-type artistic circles had decided to descend, and eat tea cakes, and blather about Truth and Beauty.

  Nearly every one of the mismatched tables was taken, and there was no hope of getting a seat near the fire. Cigarette smoke formed a haze up near the ceiling. And . . . just to add to the visual cacophony of mismatched furniture, linens and crockery, the place had been bedecked in garlands and scarlet bows and tinsel for Christmas, which further irritated him. Beatrice Leek was holding forth in her usual corner but paused in one of her interminable stories to give him a look that was one part contempt, one part amusement and one part warning. And to his chagrin, he spotted that new girl, another would-be poet he’d wanted to introduce to his occult set, sitting right next to the Leek woman. He would have no chance at her now.

  He spotted a tiny table and chair in the coldest corner of the room, right up against the windows, and made his way there, feeling sour the entire time. He was slightly mollified by the excellent ham sandwiches—unlike far too many places patronized by either socialists or artists or both, the food here was outstanding. But although he was not precisely being ostracized, it was quite clear that Beatrice had poisoned her little clan against him, and the rest of the people here were too bound up in their own conversations and interests to pay him any heed. He ate quickly, seeing no chance for any opportunity here today, paid for his fare, then went and stood ostentatiously at the fire, leaning up against the mantelpiece and having a smoke himself to soothe his injured temper. He was, by heaven, going to make sure he was completely warmed before he went out into that damned mess. And to the devil with the people who cast him annoyed glances for soaking up the heat. He had paid, and he was entitled to it.

  He kept one eye on the street, and as soon as he saw a cab pull up outside, he shoved his way to the door regardless of the objections of those he’d jostled. He barged into the middle of the three who had clambered out of a two-person hansom in order to engage the driver before he trotted off.

  “I say there!” objected one of them, but he ignored them. The driver, who had not expected to get a fare this soon, ignored them as well.

  “Where to, guv?” the man asked, as the three who had arrived sniffed with ostentatious contempt and made their way into the tearoom.

  Alexandre had not even thought of a destination, at least, not consciously, but his subconscious must have been working on the combination of “warmth,” “satisfaction,” and “idle occupation,” for his mouth opened and out came, “Treadman’s Books. Thirty-three Store Street.”

  “That’d be Bloomsbury, ain’t it?” the man said, but it was obviously a rhetorical question. “Right you are, guv.”

  Alexandre swung himself up into the cab, the man gave his horse a smart touch of the whip, and they were off.

  The traffic was abominable, but the man made good time anyway, and soon enough had pulled up in front of the dark windows of Treadman’s. Treadman’s was always dark; the proprietor preferred to keep the lighting dim to save fading of his books. Yet Treadman’s, so far as Alexandre had been able to tell, was always open. He paid the cabby and hurried inside.

  Rather than a bell, Treadman had a curious little clockwork contraption over the door that wound up when the door was opened, allowing a couple of beaters on a small drum to beat out a rapid tattoo when the door closed. Treadman himself was not behind the counter at the front, but Alexandre had barely had time to look around and shake the snow off his coat and onto the mat when he appeared, seemingly out of nowhere.

  “Ah, Master Harcourt,” the tall, thin man with the perpetual stoop and squint of a scholar said, looking over his spectacles. “It has been some little while. I have several volumes I held aside for you. Would you care to take them to a reading room to look them over, or would you prefer to browse?”

  Treadman was no ordinary book merchant. He specialized in the rare, the occult, the esoteric, the profane and the obscene. He treated all books equally. There had never once, in all the time Alexandre had known him, been a moment when so much as a flicker of disapproval passed over that thin, contemplative face, no matter what Alexandre bought.

  “I judge the condition of books, I do not judge the content,” he had said once, to someone else, but within Alexandre’s hearing.

  The first floor was devoted to rare books of . . . ordinary content. The third and fourth floors held literature that in other times would have gotten Treadman burned at the stake—and might these days have gotten him hauled into court for obscenity. Except that Treadman was clearly well connected enough to avoid that particular unpleasantness. Alexandre suspected he was supplying a long list of politicians, peers of the realm, and wealthy captains of the business world with those of their pleasures that could be contained within two covers.

  The second floor was made up of a block of little “reading rooms.” Each one had a lock, a good light, and a comfortable chair and reading desk. There, in complete security and privacy, a prospective customer could examine the wares he had selected—or Treadman had selected for him—at his leisure. There was no chance someone could, accidentally or purposefully, look over one’s shoulder to see what one was perusing.

  This was not the only use for these rooms. There were scholars that were too impoverished to buy some of the rare books Treadman offered. For a select, trusted few, Treadman would rent the books, allowing these scholars to study and even copy them so long as they never left the store.

  There were also times when two people were in contention over the same book. If it was the contents of the book, rather than the rarity, that someone was after, Treadman would, for a higher rental fee, keep the wealthier party at bay while the poorer one copied what he wanted.

  Thus, Treadman realized a great deal more money out of his second-floor reading rooms than if he’d kept his stock here. Not that he was altruistic. If you could not afford the rental he stipulated—then too bad. You would have to languish knowing that some knowledge was out of your reach, forever.

  At the moment, being ensconced in a comfortable armchair with a good light over his shoulder and a stack of books was his best option for entertainment. Well, there are worse things . . . sitting and listening to a gaggle of stupid women gossip and pretending to be interested, for instance.

  “I would very much like to peruse what you’ve held back for me, Treadman,” he said, with a brief nod of approval. “And anything else that’s come in that you think might be of interest to me.”

  “Then allow me to send up the boy with your selections, and while you wait for the room to b
e prepared, perhaps you may care to browse the shelves?” Treadman suggested.

  “Fourth floor, I think. Send the boy when my room is ready,” he replied, and made his leisurely way up to the fourth floor, where the vast collection of prurient material was housed, from erotica to outright obscenity.

  He was leafing through a Japanese “pillow book” of woodcuts—not a particularly well-done volume, but amusing in its way—when the boy arrived with a key. He reshelved the volume, having given up on trying to determine if he was looking at a ménage a trois, or just an illustration accidentally created with too many limbs, and took the key from the lad. The boy, like Treadman, seemed utterly incurious. Perhaps having been around all this, any pubescent curiosity in erotica had long since been sated. Treadman had never said where the boy came from, but Alexandre fancied he had been plucked from the streets at a young enough age to have been mere putty in Treadman’s hands. Certainly he was better off here than most of the urchins out there. He looked well fed, he was well clothed and clean, and presumably had a warm place to sleep here in the shop. That was more than the refuse of the streets had, however many hours in the day and night Treadman worked him. For as long as Alexandre had been coming here, there had been “the boy,” this same, compact, dark-haired, dark-eyed boy, who looked at one with no interest whatsoever, and yet with the light of intelligence in his eyes. Was he kin to Treadman? It hardly seemed likely. Alexandre had seen women enter this shop, some quite beautiful, as many expensive mistresses frequented the place, and never had he seen Treadman show more interest in them than he did in any other customer.

  The tag on the key only read “20.” This suited him, and once again Treadman had anticipated his mood. The twentieth room was the one farthest from the stairs; he was unlikely to have any neighbors. It also shared a wall with one of the chimneys, so it would be quite cozy.

  He took the three volumes he had found to be of some slight interest with him down to the second floor, and made his way to the door marked “20.” When he opened it with the key, he found everything in readiness for him: a lamp, newly cleaned, chimney well-polished, fastened to the wall behind the chair, the chair itself dusted and supplied with a lap robe should he need it, and the gratifying pile of books on the reading desk next to the chair. He put the volumes he had brought with him on the desk and lifted the first of Treadman’s choices from the stack.

  There were several French novels, only one of which interested him; the others were copies of works he had obtained himself on the Continent. There was a much superior pillow book—one in which he was not left to guess whether the participants had too many limbs, or limbs with extra joints. It was not in particularly good shape, but the woodcuts themselves were fine and detailed. He put that in his “will buy” pile, once he satisfied himself it was worth Treadman’s asking price.

  There followed three occult books. One was errant nonsense—he had long ago worked out that Treadman himself could not tell wheat from chaff where the occult was concerned. One was a disfigured copy of a book he had in its entirety. And the third—

  He almost discarded it. On first glancing through it, it looked like nonsense, and the book itself was in terrible shape. He almost put it aside—but hesitated. There was something about it—

  He gave it a second chance, pursing his lips as he realized some of the loose pages were out of order. There might be something worth looking at, here, he thought, and looked inside the back cover for the discreet little note that would tell him Treadman’s price.

  The price was ridiculous. Ridiculously low. Low enough that if it turned out this thing was nothing but a farce, he could probably pass it off to one of the Leek woman’s set for ten times the price. That decided him; he added it to the “will buy” stack and checked his pocket watch. He was gratified to see that several hours had passed, and if he had not experienced the pleasure he would have had at the music hall, well, he also hadn’t experienced the usual tedium of being in the company of a lot of unwashed, half-drunk buffoons.

  He left the room and descended the stairs to find Treadman behind his counter. A few moments later the boy came down with his “will buy” stack in a basket. Treadman tallied up the purchases and wrapped them tidily in discreet brown paper, then wrapped them again in waxed paper to keep off the snow. “One moment, Master Harcourt, I’ll send the boy out to fetch you a cab,” Treadman said, in his usual pleasantly neutral tone, as if the parcel contained essays and poetry, rather than some of the most eye-popping pornography in all of London. The boy wrapped himself in an enormous muffler and pulled on a hat and went out; within five minutes he was back, and a cab was pulling up to the front door.

  Alexandre gave the cabby the address of his flat in Battersea; although he intended to dine at his club, he really did not want to take the chance, however slim, that the parcel should come apart and his purchases be exposed to the world’s curious eyes.

  But once safely home, and the books disposed of, a glance out the window showed the storm worsening. If he could get a cab, it would be a miserable ride, and for what? The dubious pleasure of a chop and some overcooked vegetables in the company of a lot of stuffy old bastards who had been friends with his father . . . there would be no one young or interesting there tonight, and knowing that the old gents were pretty indifferent to their food, the cooks tended to slack off on evenings like this. And after an indifferent dinner at the club, what then?

  A quick perusal of his invitations left him with the impression of similar barrenness for the evening. They were all for “Christmas” this and “Christmas” that. He’d have accepted a decent musical evening, or a card party at which the stakes would be mere tokens at this point, but there wasn’t even the promise of that. At least two of the invitations made him grimace; they were for “family” parties. Of course, neither of the men who had invited him had any idea of his interests and nature—and they were probably fishing for prospective husbands for their daughters. Still. The prospect of a deadly boring evening that would probably feature parlor games and the inexpert warblings or tinklings of (very) amateur musicians was enough to make him contemplate feigning a fit or flinging himself out a window rather than endure it.

  He rang for his man. “Can you contrive something in the way of supper, or need I send you down to the ‘Parrot’?” he asked.

  “Oi reckoned we was in for a bad un, an’ Oi took the liberty of sendin’ t’ the shops this arternoon, guv,” the fellow said. He was rough-hewn, but he suited Alexandre. They shared similar tastes in food, drink, and women, he organized the flat well, he never forgot his place, and he was quite resourceful. And, within limits, he could cook. “If yew fancy a bite now, Oi can ’ave a nice Welsh rarebit, or cold roast beef.”

  “The rarebit will do nicely, Alf. And I believe I will have beer with it.” The evening did not seem quite so bleak, with hot food in the offing.

  “Good choice, guv,” Alf touched one finger to his temple by way of a salute, and disappeared in the direction of the flat’s tiny kitchen. Alexandre had, curiously enough, “inherited” Alf from another occultist who had run afoul of the law and found it necessary to flee the country. Alf was utterly useless at many of the “normal” duties of a valet—he was hopeless at dressing his master, for instance. And there was no mistaking he was a direct import from the East End. But Alexandre was perfectly capable of dressing himself and running his own bath, and Alf more than made up for any deficiencies with his absolute discretion, his resourcefulness, and his cunning. It was he, for instance, who had gotten his former master out of the country one step ahead of the police. And on seeing his master safely on board a smuggling ketch and well underway, he had turned right around, gotten his own worldly goods packed up and presented himself to Alexandre, leaving the barren and stripped flat for the baffled Bobbies.

  Alexandre, who knew Alf’s valuable qualities from visits with his fellow magician, and who had been increasingly frustrated
with his (then current) valet, fired the old one and hired Alf on the spot.

  Alf was that rarest of rarae aves of the underclass. He knew what he wanted, and what he wanted was to be comfortable. He wanted to not have to work too hard for that comfort. He did not aspire to wealth. He knew better than to shear his sheep too often, or kill the proverbial golden goose. His former and current masters all had the same arrangement with him. He woke them after he woke. They shared a breakfast, a morning smoke, and papers. His master dressed himself and went on about his business, and Alf had the run of the flat and carte blanche to do what he wanted until his master returned. When the master returned, Alf might or might not cook dinner depending on whether he’d stocked the larder, gotten something at the pub on the corner that could keep, or his master intended to dine out. Alf might or might not procure women for himself and his master, might or might not slip a cosh in his pocket and follow his master off as a guard, either when venturing into the bowels of London in search of entertainment, or into other places for esoteric experiments. If his master went off unaccompanied, Alf put a hot brick in the bed but did not wait up. Alf was paid very well for these light duties, and this life suited him down to the bone. Very occasionally, his master needed something quasi-legal or outright against the law, and Alf would supply that thing for an extra consideration.

  Alf, in short, suited his master, and his master suited Alf.

  Alexandre retired to his bedroom and returned in soft trousers, slippers, and a warm smoking jacket at about the same time Alf appeared in the dining room with a laden tray. He set it down on the table, and as Alexandre took his seat, served him several triangles of toast, over which he spooned the cheese sauce, before making a plate for himself. He opened and poured his master’s beer, and his own, and settled himself across from Alexandre with every sign of contentment. In that moment. Alexandre envied him.