Pandora(83)

He breathes deeply, tastes the staleness of gin. ‘There’s a fortune.’

Another beat. ‘What fortune?’

Hezekiah gives her a sideways look. ‘There is money. A lot of money. It’s tied up, somewhere, in a place Elijah kept secret from me. Me!’ Hezekiah exclaims on the shout of a bitter laugh. ‘His own brother!’ He takes another breath, clenches tighter his fists. ‘There was the contents of the shop, of course; I sold it all long ago, to make sure there was nothing for her. But there was more. Far more. And I don’t know where. This vase is the key.’

‘I see.’

In the dim of the basement, with her standing so far away from him, he cannot read her bruised face. Does she see? Or does she disapprove? But she has held no such qualms before. The money he has made over the years, she has never once questioned it. Not when it kept a roof over her head. Not when it kept her secure.

‘The vase is the key?’

He wipes a hand across his eyes, suddenly overwhelmingly tired.

‘There was a note. A piece of paper written by Helen under Elijah’s instruction. It stated how Dora could claim it. The fortune.’

Lottie is silent. Then, ‘And the note was in that?’ She points a finger at the vase. Hezekiah nods. ‘What did you plan to do with it?’

‘Claim it all as mine. Destroy the proof. Sell the shop.’

Hezekiah shifts on the floor, wincing at the stabbing pain in his leg, tries to ignore – though it is becoming increasingly difficult – the smell.

‘Why did they not write it in the will?’

‘There was no will.’

‘Then how—’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ Hezekiah says, waves his hand to stop the words building on Lottie’s infernal tongue. ‘The point is the note was written, it was left in that vase, and it is not there now.’

She is silent again. His leg spasms. He breathes out through the pain.

‘Hezekiah.’

‘What.’

‘What of Dora?’

‘What of her?’

‘You said you had a place for her. What did you mean by that?’

Hezekiah stares unseeing in front of him.

‘I went to your old bawd. She has a room for her, when I’m ready.’

He hears Lottie’s intake of breath, the scratchy pull of air in her throat.

‘No. You can’t.’

‘I can, and I will.’

‘But—’

Above them, there is an almighty hammering. The bell jingles loudly on its coil, a painfully tinny screech.

Lottie turns, pulls herself up the stairs – for Hezekiah the feat takes far longer – and by the time they both have reached the shop floor, the door is trembling dangerously in its casement.

‘Hang on, hang on!’ Hezekiah shouts, panting as he grapples along the shelves. A faux-Wedgwood bowl falls to the floor and shatters.

‘Open up, Blake! Open this door, damn you!’

Hezekiah stops short; his innards turn a sickly somersault.

Hell’s teeth, it is Coombe.

Hezekiah swallows, raises a shaking hand.

‘Lottie, don’t—’ But it is no use, for Lottie has already drawn the bolt across.

The door is opened only by a mere crack, but instantly Lottie is flown aside as the door is flung wide and Coombe barges through it. The man stops as his eyes adjust to the gloom, searching through it for Hezekiah. When he sees him Coombe comes forward, arms outstretched, and Hezekiah cowers, must grip the shelf for support.

Coombe has him by the collar in an instant. Behind him the shelf tips, and there is a deafening crash as the rest of the forged Wedgwood falls to the floor.

‘He’s dead!’ Coombe is shouting, and Hezekiah smells rotting flesh. ‘He’s dead, he is dead, and it is your fault, yours!’

With each cry of ‘dead’ Coombe gives him a hard shake, making Hezekiah’s teeth chatter in his skull. Above the hum of blood in his ears, Hezekiah thinks he can hear Lottie shrieking.

‘Who is dead?’ he gasps, and then he feels – to his utter shame – piss begin to soak through his trousers, begin to pit-pat-pit on the floorboards.

‘Who is dead?’ Coombe’s eyes widen, the whites of them stark in the dark. ‘Who is dead?’

The man breaks off into a laugh that holds no humour, and he releases his quarry. Hezekiah falls, cries out as he hits the ground, for he lands on the overturned shelf, on the shards of broken pottery. Coombe is turning away, tearing frantically at his hair.

‘That’s just like you, isn’t it, Hezekiah Blake? To not remember, or even care, selfish bastard that you are.’ He looks back at him. Hezekiah sees for the first time that his face is wet with tears. ‘Don’t you even know his name?’

‘Samuel.’

Lottie’s voice. Coombe sighs.

‘Yes. Samuel. The fever took him. You should have seen …’ His voice cracks. Coombe puts his head in his hands, and for a time there is only the sound of his sobbing.

‘I’m sorry,’ Lottie whispers.

Coombe wipes his cheeks, gives a disjointed nod. ‘I see how you might be. But him …’

Very carefully Hezekiah manages to extricate himself from the debris but he cannot stand, not just yet. He forces himself to perch nonchalantly on the edge of the shelf, tries to pinch his wet trousers – already cooling – away from the flesh of his thigh, but the too-tight material has no give; it cleaves to him like a second skin.