The Affair of the Porcelain Dog

223 Pages·2011·1.18 MB·English

by  Faraday Jess

Synopsis

London 1889.
∗ ∗ ∗

For Ira Adler, former rent-boy and present plaything of crime lord
Cain Goddard, stealing back the statue from Goddard's blackmailer should
have been a doddle. But inside the statue is evidence that could put Goddard
away for a long time under the sodomy laws, and everyone's after it,
including Ira's bitter ex, Dr. Timothy Lazarus. No sooner does Ira have the
porcelain dog in his hot little hands, than he loses it to a nimble-fingered
prostitute.
As Ira's search for the dog drags him back to the mean East End
streets where he grew up, he discovers secrets about his own past, and about
Goddard's present business dealings, which make him question everything
he thought he knew. An old friend turns up dead, and an old enemy proves
himself a friend. Goddard is pressing Ira for a commitment, but every new
discovery casts doubt on whether Ira can, in good conscience, remain with
him.
∗ ∗ ∗

In the end, Ira must choose between his hard-won life of luxury and
standing against a grievous wrong.
The Affair of the Porcelain Dog

Brought to you by

eBooks from Bold Strokes Books, Inc.

http://www.boldstrokesbooks.com

eBooks are not transferable. They cannot be sold, shared or given
away as it is an infringement on the copyright of this work.
Please respect the rights of the author and do not file share.

The Affair of the Porcelain Dog
(c) 2011 By Jess Faraday. All Rights Reserved.
ISBN 13: 978-1-60282-525-3
This Electronic Book is published by
Bold Strokes Books, Inc.
P.O. Box 249
Valley Falls, New York 12185
First Edition: June 2011
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are
the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any
resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments,
events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
∗ ∗ ∗

This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form
without permission.
Credits
Editor: Greg Herren
Production Design: Stacia Seaman
Cover Design By Sheri ([email protected])
Acknowledgments

Many thanks to:
Roy, who took my scribbling seriously, even when I had my doubts,
Helen, whose work-sharing scheme made authors of us both,
My writing group: Crystal, Heidi, Helen, Jen, Kam Oi Lee, N.J., and
Wendy, for suffering through four drafts and always managing to come up
with new and helpful observations,
Erastes, Hayden Thorne, Phyl Radford, and Babette Sparr for
professional advice--even when I didn't always follow it,
And my editor, Greg Herren, who helped make this manuscript the
best it could possibly be.
JF 2011
Chapter One

Wednesday, July 3, 1889
Wednesday's letter arrived in the evening post--a brief but pointed
threat scrawled across ordinary white stationery in a startling lavender ink.
But Goddard hadn't filed this one neatly behind the gilded cigarette box on
the mantel with its predecessors. Instead, he had cast it down like a gauntlet
onto the table between our twin armchairs. Hours later it remained like an
uninvited guest.
"'I know what you are.'" Goddard picked it up and read aloud. "'Soon,
the police will know as well. Unless.'"
"Unless what?" I asked.
Not that it mattered. Cain Goddard, a.k.a. the Duke of Dorset Street,
did not negotiate with blackmailers. At that moment, his entire network of
spies, cracksmen, bludgers, urchins and whores was scouring London in
search of the person who dared threaten a criminal of his stature. When they
found him, his skin wouldn't be worth a farthing. But what if they didn't find
him? I imagined being led away in shackles, never again to put my feet up
on the mahogany desk before the window, run my fingers over the
leather-bound volumes lining the walls, or drape myself across the
olive-colored velvet divan where Goddard had taken my hand and asked me
to stay. At that time, I swore I would never return to Whitechapel. But even
Whitechapel would be preferable to prison--and prison it would surely be,
should the police learn the nature of Goddard's and my domestic
arrangement.
The grandfather clock in the vestibule struck eleven. Goddard
fingered his mustache thoughtfully, then shrugged.
"To convict us of criminal sodomy, dear boy," he said, patting my
cheek on his way to the drink cart, "would require evidence that simply does
not exist. Whisky?"
I nodded.
I relaxed as the liquor burned its way toward my stomach. We'd been
discreet. Only Goddard's manservant had any inkling I was anything but a
confidential secretary. Though the man had never liked me, Goddard paid
too well for him to go telling tales.
"To convict me, on the other hand," he continued.
"What?"
How he could laugh when the cold fingers of panic were reaching for
my throat was anyone's guess. Thus far, no one outside of Goddard's tight
coterie connected Dr. Cain Goddard, the self-effacing night lecturer at
King's College, with the hated, feared Duke of Dorset Street. But once the
police had him for buggery, it would all come out. Even if I did manage to
slip away into the night, I'd be back on the streets--two years older, broke,
and far too spoilt to go back to selling my arse.
"Ah, the mistakes of youth," Goddard said. "I'd hoped it wouldn't
come to this, but now that it has, how fortunate I am to have a
nimble-fingered young protege to set things right."
He glanced at me over the cut crystal glasses.
"You can't mean me," I said.
"Come, now. I need you, Ira. Not to warm my bed this time or run
messages on the wrong side of town. I need you to retrieve something for
me, something I'd feared lost, but which has now been found. My freedom,
and, I daresay yours, depends on it. Can I depend on you?"
I looked around our beloved morning room. The armchairs in front of
the fireplace, the rack of expensive, unused rifles over the doorway, the
dearth of gewgaws and knick-knacks with which most people felt the need
to litter their living spaces--after two years ensconced in this unspeakable
luxury, how could I go back to doorways and doss-houses?
"I--I suppose," I stammered.
"Excellent. My carriage is waiting outside. The driver will take you to
a pawnshop on Dorset Street, where you will find a black porcelain hound of
unusual repugnancy. Bring it back, and our blackmailer won't have a
wooden leg to stand on."
"That's all?"
I laughed. A simple burglary in my home territory. With my talent for
locks, it would be easy. Goddard smiled. It was a rare expression, but it
transformed his purposefully bland face into something beautiful.
"Do this, and you'll have roast beef and Islay malt for breakfast, lunch,
and dinner for the rest of your days, and all the books of Greek art your
delicate arms can carry."
The tightening in my chest eased. It's sad how easily I can be
convinced. But being a mere two years off the streets, the simple promise of
even these small luxuries was enough to fortify me for the task.
"But who's sending the letters?" I called as he stepped out into the
vestibule to fetch my coat. "What does he want?"
What he came back with was not my coat, but he draped it around my
shoulders anyway.
"Never mind that, dear boy," he said, buttoning the ratty tweed across
my chest. "Just get the dog."
"In this?"
In addition to its shabby condition, the so-called coat was much too
large and stank of another man's tobacco. Moreover, it was July and
anything heavier than linen was going to be hotter than hell. Goddard liked
to dress me up sometimes, but never in secondhand rubbish ten years out of
fashion.
And never in tweed.
Ignoring me, Goddard tucked his Trinity scarf beneath the collar and
the lavender letter into my trouser pocket with a satisfied nod.
"The pockets are deep and have more give than a whore's bedsprings.
Besides," he said with a smirk, "it'll make you look like Andrew St.
Andrews."
"St. Andrews!" I sputtered.
That meddling popinjay of a detective had never rolled up his sleeves
to pick a lock, or hiked up his coat-hems to keep from tripping across a
doorstep. Being the third son of an earl, he'd never had the need to burgle.
And if he were to do it for kicks, he'd no doubt commission a special
garment for the adventure.
The question at the front of my mind, though, was why Goddard
would compare me at all to someone he so loathed. The question was
answered by Goddard's teasing chuckle.
"St. Andrews, indeed," I grumbled.
Goddard patted my arse, slipping my silver flask into the pocket of the
coat. There was a faint tinkle as the flask hit bottom. He'd even remembered
my picklocks.
"Remember," he said. "A porcelain dog, half as long as your forearm,
black as sin and twice as ugly. Now go."
With a sniff, I swept the horrible thing around me. Then, feeling a bit
ashamed--it was an easy job, after all, and most of the time, Goddard didn't
ask much of me--I pecked him on the cheek. When the carriage pulled away
from the big house on York Street with me inside, Goddard was still
standing in the doorway, running his fingers thoughtfully over his jaw, a
little smile pulling at the edges of his lips.
What self-respecting housebreaker sets off wearing a Trinity scarf,
you might ask? Blame Goddard's sentimental streak. He had taught at
Cambridge once, and though he refused to talk about the experience itself or
the circumstances of his dismissal, the scarf meant a great deal to him. You
might also wonder what sort of imbecile takes a shiny private hansom to the
building he intends to burgle. A necessity, I'm afraid, unless he intends to
walk. The pawnshop stood nearly five miles away in Miller's Court, and no
cabbie in his right mind ventured down that wicked quarter mile after dark.
The streets were deserted, and the weather was clear. Not half an hour later,
we had left the red brick houses and well-tended gardens of York Street
behind, and the rubbish-strewn East End closed around us in a cocoon of
filth and desperation.
I instructed the driver to let me out in front of the Blue Coat Boy pub,
two blocks removed from my destination. An excited throng had gathered
around the entrance--another fight, no doubt--and I was able to pass by
unnoticed. Closer to the shop, jolly old Do-As-You-Please Street, possibly
the most lawless quarter mile in London, was quiet. I strode up to the front
door as if I owned the place--the only way to break into a building in plain
sight--slipping my picklocks into my hand. Seconds later, I nudged the door
shut behind me. Silence descended, and I relaxed, knowing I'd be able to go
about my work in peace.
The word "dollyshop" might conjure images of china-faced pretties
with real hair for a little girl to comb, and blue eyes that open and close. This
shop belonged to a grubby matron who doled out ha'penny loans against
objects that were hardly worth that. Crates of rust-scabbed metal were
stacked as tall as a man along the back wall. The other walls were lined with
ill-fitted shelves, bowing under haphazard loads of mildew-encrusted boots,
stiff and stained rags, salt-encrusted horse collars, and what appeared to be
bones. In the center of the room, piles of rubbish sat where they'd been
dropped, layers of dust testifying to how long they'd been there. An attempt
had been made to organize some of it into bins, but the bins were already