“Well?”
“You say he knew you?”
“By name,” Moon said stiffly. “And he mentioned a poet.”
“A poet. Is that so?”
“Why are you smiling? Does that suggest something to you?”
Barabbas gurgled. “It’s really too perfect, Edward. I wouldn’t want to spoil it for you.”
“Damn it, man!”
Barabbas stifled a belch, only half-successfully. He leered at the conjuror through rows of yellow tombstone teeth, flanked by mustache and tangled beard. “You’re in danger of letting this become an obsession. I’ve never seen you so excited. You should calm down. Do something to relax.” A mucus cough. A grin. “How is Mrs. Puggsley, by the way?”
“You’re the last person to lecture me on morality.”
“Remember what I told you,” Barabbas confided, his voice dripping with honey, rising and falling with the silken cadences of the practiced liar. “I’m above morality now, beyond good and evil.”
“The case,” Moon insisted.
“You know, I don’t think these squalid homicides are the real mystery.”
“No?”
“I think they’re a symptom. There is a corrosive influence abroad, Edward. There is a plot against the city and these murders are only the tip of the iceberg.”
“What do you know?”
In response, Barabbas moved silently forward, his grotesque frame slithering across the floor like some Brobdingnagian slug. “Let me out, Edward. Help me escape and together we can discover the truth.”
Moon stepped hurriedly back, falling against the iron bars of the cage. Behind him, Owsley emerged from the shadows.
“Time’s up,” he said, producing a ring of keys from his pocket with an officious flourish.
Barabbas wailed and thrust out his hands in supplication. “Edward! Edward!”
The door was unlocked and Moon stepped sharply back out into the corridor.
Owsley said, “Your friends are waiting.”
Barabbas brought his face up to the bars and peered out into the darkness.
“Edward?”
Moon turned around.
“Will you come back?”
“Perhaps.”
“I hope I’ve been of some small assistance.”
Moon spoke carefully. “Maybe you have.”
“All the color has seeped from my life. Next time, bring me scarlet. Bring me violet and vermilion and gold.”
“I’ll come back,” Moon conceded.
Barabbas grinned in triumph. “Then you still need me,” he hissed. “Even now.” Overexcited, he suffered a violent fit of coughing. “Edward,” he said more gently, once the attack had passed. “Edward, if I were you I should go home.”
“Oh?”
“I should hurry, Edward.”
Something was needling at the back of his mind. “What do you mean?”
“Something terrible is happening,” Barabbas said simply. “Go now.” The prisoner’s face vanished from the bars of the cell and he disappeared back into the gloom.
Moon felt a sudden surge of panic. He turned to Owsley. “Let’s go,” he said, and they set off along the corridor almost at a run.
They were several streets away from Albion Square when they saw that Barabbas was right.
The sky was lit up by flashes of crimson. Thick black smoke poured past, as though a storm cloud had been dragged to earth. Seeing that some disaster lay ahead, the coachman refused to take them any further, so Moon leapt from the vehicle and ran on alone to the square. Despite the lateness of the hour, the whole of the East End seemed to be abroad and Moon had to battle through droves of idle onlookers to reach his destination. When he eventually emerged from the gawping masses he saw the truth of it. The Theatre of Marvels was aflame.
It was horribly clear that nothing could be saved. The blaze must have started shortly after they had left for the prison and now the building was burning down to its skeleton, its flesh and features long since scorched away. It’s windows were empty, blackened sockets, its door a melted heap of slag. Of the sign which had read:
THE THEATRE OF MARVELS
starring
MR EDWARD MOON
and
THE SOMNAMBULIST
BE ASTONISHED!
BE THRILLED! BE ENLIGHTENED!
a mere fragment had survived and only the half-word “LIGHTE” was still visible.
A group of men had formed a line to pass buckets of water to and fro from the disaster site but their valiant efforts were in vain. The theatre was lost, and as the flames began to spread, licking greedily at the adjoining buildings, they were forced to transfer their attention elsewhere.
A man was standing beside Moon in the crowd. “Pity, isn’t it?” He grimaced, displaying more gaps in his mouth than teeth. “Saw the show there once. Bored to tears, I was.”
“How did this happen?”
“Why you asking? You local?”
Moon pushed him aside and ran toward the theatre. Hammered by waves of heat, stung by smoke, eyes streaming, he staggered helplessly back.
“Grossmith!” he shouted. “Speight!”
Even against the roar and crackle of the flames he recognized a horribly familiar sound, one so hateful to him that he would have given anything not to hear it at that moment — a discreet, dry, ticklish cough.
“Mr. Moon?”
He spun around.
“Good evening to you,” said Skimpole.
The conjuror snarled, “What have you done?”
“Drastic measures. I did warn you.” Flames reflected in the lenses of his pince-nez, lending his eyes an infernal aspect. Moon lunged forward but the albino stepped nimbly aside. “Your temper does you no credit,” he chided. “Your friends are quite safe. They were removed before the fire was set. The monkey, I’m afraid, refused to leave. No doubt he’s fricasseed quite nicely by now.”
“You admit to it?” Moon asked furiously. “This was your doing?”
“I told you we were desperate. By rights you should be flattered.”
Moon was speechless, choked by rage. “You’ve gone too far,” he managed at last.
Skimpole flashed a quick smile. “I did think that might be your reaction. So I brought this.” The albino produced a bulky manila file from his briefcase. “Take a look.”
Moon snatched the thing from Skimpole and riffled through it. As he realized its full significance, even he was momentarily at a loss for words. “How long have you had this?”
“We’ve kept a dossier on you for years,” Skimpole said coolly. “Of course, I’d hoped never to have to use it — but then you can’t say we didn’t ask nicely.”
“You wouldn’t use this, surely?”
“I might. The Puggsley material is here, of course. But some of the other items… Even the release of my records on our mutual friend in Newgate would mean your public ruin and disgrace.”
Moon cursed, loudly and at length. This is not the place to reproduce such colorful material verbatim.
“I’ll ask you a final time,” said Skimpole. “Will you help me?”
The fire was reaching its zenith, throwing out furnace waves in its final rush to consume the last flammable matter. Moon staggered under the blast, dizzy and faint, flailing about to regain his balance.
“Mr. Moon?” The albino was insistent. “Will you help us?”
Feebly, the conjuror nodded.
Skimpole smiled. “Very good,” he said briskly. “We’ll be in touch.” And he strutted away into the crowd. Left alone, gasping for breath as the Theatre of Marvels died before him, Moon tried to run in pursuit of his tormentor only to stumble and fall. Strong arms helped him up, and as Moon staggered to his feet, he looked into the eyes of the Somnambulist.
“We’ve lost,” he muttered.
The giant looked gravely back, surveying the ruins of his home. Remarkably, a few tears ran down his cheeks. Behind him, Merryweather emerged from the crowd with Mrs. Grossmith and Speight.