Van Helsing shook his head. “Iron.”
But then, what had withered the moss? The shapeshifting pooka was said to ruin crops on Samhain, but that was still days away. Spriggans summoned storms and blighted fields, but she’d never heard of one that could fly. Then there were witches, who might do all three and be political besides; but if Mr. Enfield’s attackers had been a coven of witches, one of them would be limping from Van Helsing’s shot.
But Sam, of all people, knew better than to cry witch. It was not so long ago witches had been burned at the stake. Once the burning started, it was hard to put out the flames.
“Come, help me carry him,” Lord Lusk said, attempting to scoop Mr. Enfield up in his arms and falling back with a wince. His cane was not entirely ornamental, apparently. “Danny Fionnail’s is closest. We can talk there, once he’s been seen to.”
Van Helsing’s brow furrowed. “The pub? Surely we should call the coroner. Or at least a priest.”
“It’s the coroner’s law that dictates we go to the pub,” Lord Lusk said shortly.
“Cold storage,” Hel said by way of explanation, before helping Lord Lusk with Mr. Enfield’s shoulders, leaving Van Helsing to take up his feet. Either Van Helsing or Hel could likely carry Mr. Enfield on their lonesome. But the set of Lord Lusk’s jaw told them he was not for giving up this burden.
“But the curfew,” Sam said, picking up his cane. “Will they even be open?”
“They will be for me,” Lord Lusk said firmly.
The walk to Danny Fionnail’s was perhaps ten minutes, but it seemed much longer in the dark, the streets filled with the kind of emptiness that felt like a living thing. Sam’s eyes darted as she picked the way back toward Grafton Street, flinching every time the wind rose to tumble leaves across the cobblestones or rattle branches against Georgian windows.
Unlike Keogh’s, Danny Fionnail’s felt more like something she might find on the Left Bank of Paris, painted black, with slender, ornamented columns andDanny Fionnailin gilt cursive on the lintel. Being the only one not occupied with carrying Mr. Enfield, it fell to Sam to pound upon the door with the flat of her hand and hope that Danny Fionnail, like most publicans, lived in the apartments above.
“Fionnail!” Lord Lusk called, his voice a crack against the night. “Danny Fionnail!”
“We’re not open!” a muffled voice called. “There’s a curfew, you would-be drunkards.”
“We’re not here for that,” Lord Lusk said.
“Oh?” the muffled voice returned. “Then why aren’t you letting me sleep?”
“Houl yer whisht!” another voice called from an apartment down the row. “It’s three in the bloody morning.”
Lord Lusk was undeterred. “I’m afraid we need to engage your other services.” He did not sound grief stricken, as one might expect of the man who had fallen to his knees at the sight of Mr. Enfield crumpled in the street. Dimly, Sam recalled her mother saying how you mustn’t show too much sadness over the dead or you would tempt the spirit to stay, leaving them at risk of becoming an unquiet spirit.
Still, something in his voice must have given it away, for a light flickered in one of the windows above. The curtains parted, and a disheveled man peered out, holding a gas lamp. He caught sight of Lord Lusk without his cane, his arms full of Mr. Enfield, and he didn’t speak, but slammed the window shut.
Moments later, light flared behind the curtains of the pub, and there was the rattling of keys, and the front door swung wide.
“Quickly now,” Mr. Fionnail said, a gas lantern in his hand.
Sam hesitated. “We can go in?”
Hel snorted. “Of course. Corpses are a woman’s business. It’s the men who don’t belong.” Whereas drinking was, apparently, for men. Women had gotten rather the worse end of that deal.
Mr. Fionnail took them past a bar, spilling light on velvet stools and statuettes of cavorting fauns, before leading them into a back room, unfurnished save for a few stored barrels and a scored marble table. He hung the gas lamp on a cord above the table, where it swung about, shadows dancing on the walls like they would come alive. Sam eyed them warily, remembering the dark shapes cut out against the starry night.
“Lay him out here,” Mr. Fionnail said briskly, and they obliged, laying Mr. Enfield down on the marble slab. His body was soft, his head lolling, not yet taken by the rigors of death. Lord Lusk brushed the hair out of his face and clasped the dead man’s hand in his. “Has the priest seen to him yet?”
“No,” Lord Lusk said, releasing the hand. He squeezed his eyes shut, as if he’d forgotten an important detail and was just now remembering. “He’s Protestant.”
No priests. Which meant that Lord Lusk’s insistence on pretending he was still alive was for his own sake, not Mr. Enfield’s?—he was the Catholic. A rarity amongst the upper class.
“Right.” Mr. Fionnail strode over to a staircase and shouted up, “Will! Dress yourself and get down here.
“My son,” he explained when he returned. “He’ll fetch who needs fetching. You all wait here. I’ll pull you some drinks.”
The publican left and Lord Lusk turned to them, leaning on the table, wincing a little, as if he’d pushed himself too hard. “While I appreciate your aid, strangers, further intercession is unnecessary.”
Lord Lusk’s words constituted a dismissal, that much was obvious. To everyone save Van Helsing, at least.
