Page 4 of A Case of Possession
Colour rushed to Rackham’s cheeks, and for a second, Crane thought he would lash out, and braced himself, but Rackham kept control with a visible effort.
“I know what you’re doing.” His voice trembled with anger. “Well, it won’t work. If you attack me, I’m allowed to defend myself. And I’m not going to touch you with power until then, whatever you call me. So your little boy friend can’t touch me. Justiciars have to obey mundane law too, you know, and sodomy is a crime, so I can say what I want and he can’t stop me, and if you want me to keep quiet, you’d better give me my money.”
“It’s not your money. It’s mine. And I’d rather spend all of it on lawyers than give you a penny. Now get out of my sight.”
Rackham’s eyes were wild. “I’ll go to the Council. I’ll report Day. I’ll tell the police. They arrested that baronet just last month, they’ll arrest you too. They won’t care about your family name or your title.”
“Nor do I,” said Crane. “So I suggest you go practise your extortion on somebody who gives a monkey’s balls for what you have to say. Get out. And give my regards to Merrick when you see him.”
“Merrick?”
“You know. Merrick. My manservant.”
“Why would I see Merrick?” said Rackham blankly.
“Well, perhaps you won’t. But some night soon, in a dark alley, or near a nice deep ditch, or in the back room of some opium den, I expect he’ll see you. In fact, I’m sure of it. Now fuck off, and shut the door behind you.”
Rackham had gone a liverish colour, as well he might—Crane’s henchman had been notorious in even the darkest back ways of Shanghai. He tried to say something; Crane hand-waved irritably and went back to his desk. After a few seconds Rackham managed, “You’ve got three days to change your mind. You give me my money by Friday, or I go to the Council and the police. And if I see Merrick, I’ll, I’ll…”
“You’ll soil your trousers and beg for mercy.” Crane picked up a bill and turned his attention to it. “But don’t worry. I’ll tell him to make sure you don’t see him coming.”
Rackham muttered something and stormed out. Crane waited a few seconds, heard the door slam, took a very deep breath.
He had never been blackmailed before. He had been expelled from three schools and thrown out of the country at the age of seventeen for his unlawful tastes, but that had been part of his war against his father, and he had fought it openly. And since then he had lived in China, where the laws of man and God were sublimely uninterested in who he shared his bed with. Eight months back in England hadn’t instilled the constant sense of fear and persecution and terror of exposure that might have led him to bow to Rackham’s demands.
He had considered the problem before he returned to England, of course, and had determined before his ship even reached Portsmouth that, if he ever faced arrest, he would bribe anyone necessary, post bail and be on the next ship back to China. It would be effortless, he would feel no shame in running, and frankly, he would be glad to go home.
That had been before Stephen. Irresistible, astonishing, intriguing, fiercely independent Stephen, with his implacable sense of justice, and so very many enemies.
He could not, in conscience, run and leave Stephen alone. He had a responsibility there.
Crane frowned, considering how bad this might be. Stephen was wary and cautious, as most men’s men were in this country, but he had said he wasn’t at risk. He had said that he preferred, like any sensible man, to avoid trouble, but the Practitioners’ Council turned a blind eye to nonmagical peccadilloes and eccentric private lives that hurt nobody. He had said he could use his powers to prevent any difficulty with mundane law.
Unfortunately, as Crane was well aware, Stephen was a fluent and unrepentant liar. He would have lied about danger to himself with no compunction, and Rackham clearly felt he had enough to serve as a serious threat.
Stephen needed to know about this, and quickly.
Crane scrawled a neutrally worded summons and put Stephen’s address on it, a room in a small boarding house north of Aldgate. He had never set foot there himself, probably never would, for fear of discovery, but he couldn’t imagine a note would bring Stephen’s life crashing down around his ears, and if it might, then that just made the Rackham situation all the more urgent. He had no other way to get in touch with his elusive lover, and so he put the whole business firmly to the back of his mind, locked up, and headed out to find a hansom and some distraction.
Merrick would be in Limehouse, most likely, and if he wasn’t then Chinese friends would be, but Crane would have to trawl the pubs and gambling dens to track anyone down and, alone and too well dressed, that was not a risk he was prepared to take. Most of his English friends were school or social acquaintances and would doubtless be entertaining themselves at the sort of elegant evening event he abhorred, so, for the lack of anything better to do, he headed off for the Far Eastern Mercantile club, known as the Traders.
Chapter Two
The Traders was frequented by travellers, businessmen, a smattering of explorers and scholars: anyone who had travelled further East than India and wanted to talk about it. It was not busy, but there was a small group of old China hands that he knew, so Crane joined them, pulling up a deep leather armchair to savour a very decent whisky and listen to “Town” Cryer’s latest news.
Town, whose real first name Crane had long forgotten, finished an account of a piece of triple dealing involving Macau import-export law to a general murmur of approbation, and turned to Crane, who contributed an amusing anecdote about his purchase of a minority holding in Sheng’s.
“Oh, jolly good, Vaudrey!” said Shaycott, a Java man. “Crane, I mean. You always tell a good story. You should come more often, we haven’t seen you here in an age.”
“I’ve been cursed busy with family matters.” Crane acknowledged the sympathetic nods. “What news, Town? Bring me up to date.”
“Well,” said Town thoughtfully. “I suppose you heard about Merton?”
Crane’s lip lifted in a twitch of distaste. “What about him? Got on a boat, I hope?”
“His last voyage.” Shaycott intoned the words. “Dead, just last week.”
A youngish, tanned fellow, slightly the worse for drink, murmured, “Oh, dear, poor chap. I, er, should we…?” He started to raise his glass.
