“We need to see what they’re not showing us,” Hel said.
“Without them noticing,” Van Helsing agreed. “Perhaps one of us could slip away, while the others?—”
Shouting broke out behind them, voices tangled into unintelligibility. The three of them turned to see Mr. Keene barring the door, fury written in every line of his body, blood dripping from his knuckles. The crowd hushed. The poet, it seemed, hadpunchedsomeone.
“How dare you come here,” Mr. Keene said. “This is aremembrance.”
“Now it gets interesting,” Hel murmured.
Van Helsing shoved his way through the gawking crowd, Sam and Hel trailing behind, until they were near enough to the front door that they could see the object of Mr. Keene’s ire: a man on his hands and knees just outside, his black cloak falling around him like a shroud.
His hands curled into fists on the cobblestones, but no one helped him up. In fact, they pulled back, whispering amongst themselves. He stood slowly, sweeping his dark brown hair back from his face with both hands, revealing a bloody nose. Éamonn Bishop. Strange that they should run into him here as well.
Mr. Bishop turned, catching the cane that came sailing after him in one hand. Holding it before him, he raised an eyebrow at Mr. Keene and looked around theatrically. “A remembrance? This? Where are the tears? The wails? The lamentations of the women?”
Sam and Hel exchanged a look. It was true, if a tad melodramatic. But then, this was Mr. Bishop they were talking about. The mood, despite the somber attire, was far from funereal. There was almost an edge of anticipation.
“You,” Mr. Keene said, his voice gilded with scorn, “are an arse.” He moved to shut the door.
“No, no, no, wait!” Mr. Bishop said, a strange note of almost desperation in his voice. Mr. Keene must have heard it, too, for he hesitated. “I spoke too swiftly. I’m sorry, I can’t help myself. You are... right. I am an arse. But you must listen.”
“Oh?” Mr. Keene said grudgingly.
“You have no idea what you’re dealing with,” Mr. Bishop said, his fingers wrapping around the frame, as if he were a contortionist and meant to pull himself through the crack. “But I?—I do. I just, if you would let me in?—”
Sam recalled what he’d said in the Shelbourne Hotel, before Mr. Enfield had died:You have no idea what I’m dealing with?—what she’s capable of.Noticed the dark circles under his eyes, the ragged edges of his nails. Was this whole argument about a woman? Somehow, Sam had thought it would be something more... arcane, given Mr. Bishop’s fearsome reputation.
“Of course,” Mr. Keene said, sounding disgusted. “I don’t know what I expected. Rest assured you will never see her again.”
“No, no, stop, you can’t do this,” Mr. Bishop said as he tried to force his way inside, like a rat trying to escape a flooded cage. But Mr. Keene sent him stumbling back with a boot to the chest.
“Take care that you do not darken our doorstep again, Mr. Bishop,” Mr. Keene said. “Or I will use every art I know to ensure you cannot.”
“For once in your life, don’t let your self-righteousness get in the way of your self-interest, you sanctimonious old fool!” Mr. Bishop snapped. “Or you can be sure you will regret?—”
The door slammed in Mr. Bishop’s face. It rattled on its hinges, a strip of black crepe wafting down past the sidelights, twisting in the wind. The crowd quickly found other things to occupy their attention.
Mr. Keene looked at the bloody handprint on the doorframe and sighed.
Sam felt a quiet thrill. There it was again?—our doorstep,Mr. Keene had said, like Lord Lusk’sus. There was some understanding here, somesociety. Something Mr. Enfield, Lord Lusk, and Mr. Bishop all had a part in.
Van Helsing was apparently of the same mind. “We need to speak with that man.”
Sam caught his arm before he could barge up to the front door and attract attention. “Not that way.” Whatever they might glean from Mr. Bishop, she didn’t want Mr. Keene and the others to know of it. “There’s a servants’ door. I’ve been watching the staff go through it all evening. Come on.”
To Sam’s surprise, he listened. The crowd was distracted, chattering excitedly amongst themselves about Mr. Bishop and what he might portend, as Sam led the way out the servants’ door. They found the iconoclast still staring at the front door, his hands fisted and his face oddly drawn. He almost looked afraid. Van Helsing strode ahead of Sam and Hel to confront him.
“Mr. Bishop,” he said. “What exactly is your relation to the people in this house?”
Mr. Bishop turned. Whatever shadows Sam thought she’d seen in his face had gone.
“Oh, it’s you.” He looked vaguely disappointed, but still he put in the effort, cocking an eyebrow. “I thought my reputation wasn’t fit for a lady’s ears.”
“I’m not asking after your reputation,” Van Helsing said. “I’m asking after what you know. It sounds as if you’re in some sort of trouble. Perhaps we could assist you.”
“If you do not know already, then I highly doubt it, curious stranger,” Mr. Bishop said dismissively. “Now, if you’ll excuse me.”
Van Helsing scowled. “Have you no shame?”
