Pandora(20)

The basement.

Dora has never been down there, never gone any further than the doors, not so much as set one foot on the top stair. She had no need to, not even in her parents’ day; as their private space Dora had been taught to respect it. When they died she had been too young to catalogue everything they left behind – Hezekiah did that – and after it was cleared and he claimed it as his own office and workshop, Dora never felt the need to question the fact … until today. For tonight a crate is stored there, a shipment he does not want her to see. And if there is a shipment he does not want her to see, what else is he keeping down there? What else does he hide from her?

Dora quietly replaces all the items in the cupboard. She picks up the candle, turns around, retraces her steps.

The large basement doors rise before her. On her shoulder Hermes bristles.

Dora stares down at the padlock, tries to assess how easy it would be to pick. But just as she reaches out to touch it, there comes a quiet keening sound. Dora’s hand stops in mid-air. Her eyes widen, and Hermes curls his talons into the padding of her banyan. But then there is another sound, a much more familiar one, and in part-relief, part-disappointment, Dora drops her arm.

Strains of Hezekiah’s voice find their way up the stairs. She puts her ear to the door. He is muttering to himself, as he so often does when he confines himself to the basement. Dora glances at the padlock again. It is open a little at the catch, the chain looped round only one door handle, not both. Of course he is down there; she should have known he would be. And Lottie too, by the sound of it.

So, then. Her adventure this night is done. Dora makes her retreat and begins her slow creep back upstairs to the attic. Halfway up – disguising a misplaced foot on the stair – Dora hears a snore coming from the housekeeper’s room. Her old room. Lottie, then, is abed after all.

Frowning, she continues up. And when she slips into her own bed and pulls the covers to her chin, Dora finds herself wondering how her uncle could have produced a sound that reminded her so much of a woman, weeping.





CHAPTER TEN





It will not open.

By God he has tried – for hours, it seems, he has tried – but the thing remains firmly shut. He could break it, of course, but then the second part of his plan will have failed and this whole enterprise will have been for naught. The time, the years he will have wasted! The money he will have lost! No, he cannot bear it.

This was meant to be his salvation. It was to have solved everything.

Hezekiah frowns deeply. His leg throbs.

He runs a finger over the seal. There must be a mechanism, something dastardly clever that he has not yet discovered. He mutters distractedly, taps the sides with his knuckles, searches for a weakness in its structure, a way to get in …





CHAPTER ELEVEN





Despite Cornelius’ misgivings, Edward determines to visit the Blake establishment and at the very least put his curiosity to rest.

Last night’s snowfall has already turned to sludge; the snow is stained ochre and has formed wet scores along the road where carriages have come and gone. Still, the air is as sharp as a knife edge and Edward pulls his collar up about his neck, hunches his chin into his scarf. By the time he reaches the top of Ludgate Street his fingers are numb.

It does not take him long to spot the shop – its bowed window protrudes over the pavement – and Edward pauses a moment to take it in. The white paint on the panelled window frames peels in large clumps, there is a crack in one of the glass panes. The sign above the shop is faded, the spacing between the words not quite in keeping with its size. Edward squints. Ah, yes. The word ‘Hezekiah’ has been squeezed inelegantly between the edge of the board and the word ‘Blake’. Beneath, the faint outline of ‘Elijah’ peeps its way through. The white-haired gentleman was quite right; the shop is clearly not what it used to be.

A sudden push at his shoulder knocks Edward off balance and he must grasp at the windowsill for support. ‘Gerroutha’way, will ye?’ a gruff voice barks and Edward rubs his shoulder, looks to address the man who has pushed past him.

‘I beg pardon …’ he begins, but he speaks now only to a strange and throbbing crowd, one body very much like any other.

‘You have to keep moving in these parts,’ another voice says, this one infinitely softer, and Edward spins to find a young woman leaning against the doorframe of the shop. ‘Standing still will only get you run down.’

Edward stares.

This must be Pandora Blake … and she is quite unlike anything he has seen before. Tall – the top of his head would come in line perfectly to her nose – her skin a paler colour of the walnuts he and Cornelius ate the night before. Her dress is plain, a serviceable blue, and – though little acquainted with feminine fashions – looks to Edward to be a number of years out of date. A pair of unflattering spectacles frames eyes of which, in the shadow of the door, he cannot fathom the shade. Her hair is as dark as molasses and piled atop her head; a rose-coloured ribbon keeps a few stray curls in place. Bizarrely, a magpie is perched on her shoulder. It peers at him with beady black eyes that seem to know perfectly what Edward is about and why.

He has stared so long that the woman’s wry smile has vanished and she has shifted from one foot to another. The magpie chitters. Edward shakes his head to loosen his tongue.