The Sin Eater(43)

‘Ragbag?’

‘—and coming up with things I learned or read years ago. Those people – Nicholas Sheehan and all the rest – they aren’t real. They never lived. This is all just a projection of some deeply buried guilt I have, which might even explain all that sin-eating stuff . . .’ He broke off, frowning, struggling with this new idea, then said, uncertainly, ‘But what am I guilty about?’


It’s not your guilt, Benedict. It’s mine. Because Nick Sheehan existed and I existed, as well. If you don’t believe it, look for my birth certificate. And, of course, my death certificate.

‘That wouldn’t prove anything.’

Wouldn’t it? A jab of bitterness and anger pierced Benedict’s mind, and the surface of the dressing-table mirror shivered slightly as if water had trickled down over it. Benedict could see his own reflection, but overlaying it was that indistinct figure with its long dark coat, and the familiar way it had of standing a little way off, only partly facing the light.

‘Why won’t you ever face me completely?’ he said, and with the words felt his mind start to splinter as it had done that day in Holly Lodge. It was as if dazzling spears of light were slicing deep into his brain, tearing open that strange unreal world where his great-grandfather walked. He’s doing it again, thought Benedict in panic. He wants me in his own world and he’s pulling me into it.

And for the second time it was London that was opening up in his mind. London in the 1890s, with its crowded, noisy, gas-lit streets. London in the days when, according to those old newspaper articles, a murderer had prowled the streets and had slaughtered five people.

The Mesmer Murderer who had never been brought to justice and who had the face of Benedict’s alter ego.





London, 1890s


Neither Declan nor Colm really wanted to return to Holly Lodge, but, as Colm pointed out over breakfast in their modest lodgings, it was the only way to find Romilly.

‘And didn’t we come to London to do just that?’ he demanded.

‘Didn’t we come to make our own fortunes as well?’ countered Declan.

‘We’ll do that afterwards,’ said Colm.

Holly Lodge, seen by full daylight, was larger than it had seemed the previous day.

‘And a lot more dissolute, wouldn’t you say?’ asked Colm.

‘Yes, but that’s probably because today we know what kind of a house it is. Actually,’ said Declan a bit awkwardly, ‘I’ve never seen a brothel, have you?’

‘You don’t get many brothels in Kilderry,’ said Colm noncommittally. ‘Will we knock on the door or are we standing here for the rest of the day, debating the sins of London town?’

‘I’ve had a word with one of the girls,’ said Flossie Totteridge, ushering them into the same over-furnished drawing room. In the afternoon sunlight her hair was more insistently red. ‘And it was definitely Canning Town where your cousin went. I told you I thought it was, didn’t I? Sit down – oh, not there, those chairs are wretchedly uncomfortable. Belonged to my husband’s family, and they had the ugliest taste . . . Anyway, it was Canning Town, for sure.’ Mrs Totteridge came to sit by Colm on the horsehair sofa. ‘You wouldn’t know Canning Town, being just off the boat,’ she said. ‘And it’s a bit rough. But there’s nothing wrong with the rough, I always say. In the right place.’ Declan saw with a mixture of embarrassment and repulsion that her hand came out to lie with intimate suggestion on Colm’s thigh. He’ll brush it politely off, thought Declan.

But Colm did not. He put his own hand over it, and leaned closer to Flossie. ‘You said we could talk to any of the girls,’ he said, in his silkiest voice. ‘Could we do that now? And afterwards I could take that drink with you – the one you mentioned yesterday. I’ve been thinking about that ever since.’

Mrs Totteridge hunched a shoulder coyly and said, ‘I’d be agreeable. But get the business about your cousin dealt with first. Second floor back and her name’s Cerise.’

‘God, is it really?’ said Colm, caught off guard.

‘It’s her professional name. She does a bit of acting. I don’t ask questions.’

‘And after all,’ said Colm, ‘what’s in a name?’

The lady whose professional name was Cerise was considerably younger than the house’s owner, but the boys thought she was no less venal. She occupied a comfortable, rather untidy room on the first floor, and she curled up on the bed like a plump kitten, and said she was ever so pleased to help with their search for their cousin.

‘I don’t know if I can tell you very much, although Canning Town was where she was going, I do know that.’

‘Would you know the name of the street?’ asked Colm, sitting on the edge of the bed. ‘For we don’t know London at all well.’

‘We’re only just over from Ireland,’ put in Declan, who did not want to admit this, but felt it was time he got into the conversation.

‘Oh, Ireland. Oh, fancy. Well, Romilly talked about a room in Canning Town,’ said Cerise, examining her nails with careful attention. ‘But I don’t know exactly where, I’m sure.’

‘Isn’t there anyone who would know? Any of the other girls?’