The Red Duke

by Matt Spencer

part 2 of 3

Frederick landed against the man. It felt like hitting a stone wall. Giant hands clamped on his shoulders and muscled him around. Aye, these were tough brutes, and he’d not go out of his way to tangle with them, but they were the normal, natural sort of tough, as life ’round here bred. When the whore had held onto him, she hadn’t even needed to jerk him about.

“Oh, one more thing,” the whore added. “He had this on him.”

She closed Frederick’s knife and tossed it. The big man caught it, looked it over then watched the whore leave. Frederick’s animosity had been set brewing when the whore had coerced him with his own prized weapon. Now he realized it had cut through his shirt, mildly puncturing his skin. For the first time, he noticed the trickle of cooling wetness running down his side, pooling at the seam of his trousers. Seeing this big dullard handling his knife, his bones sang with rising rage. His heels ground into the floorboards, and he stayed calm. This weren’t the time for a fight.

Next Frederick knew, they were headed through near perfect blackness, down a shaky wooden staircase. At the bottom, a fine red candle hung from a stone wall. They stepped into an alcove, which led into another staircase, leading even deeper, between dripping black walls lined on either side with the same crimson candles. The stairs wound deeper, till they must have been beneath the sewers. At the bottom of the steps was a thick wooden door, held together with iron bolts and bars.

The men shoved Frederick forward. “There now, go on in an’ see ’im. Make any trouble, we’ll hear.”

Frederick looked at the thick door, then doubtfully at the men, then pushed it inward. The stone walls within were clean of the stairwell’s black mold, furnished instead like those of a proper English sitting room. In the center sat a small oak table, surrounded by a set of chairs. Velvet curtains hung where windows might have been. A fireplace blazed. Frederick ventured no guess how the smoke found the open air above, or how fresh ventilation got in. The log burned merrily just the same, warming the room and bathing the red adornments in orange.

Next to the hearth stood the man Frederick hadn’t seen since childhood, a year after the death of his parents. The years had left him paler, with dark circles beneath his eyes, and his clothes weren’t the flashy aristocratic fabrics Frederick remembered, nor were they pauper’s rags, but rather the plain trousers and shirt of a middle-class man, such as Frederick himself normally wore. Still the man’s arrogant bearing shunned the need for greater finery. There in the eyes were same crafty, wicked embers. It was from those embers, rather literally, that all else about him blazed.

The Red Duke regarded Frederick without ire or surprise. “Ah. So you’ve arrived. Please sit. I’d offer you sherry.”

Frederick approached cautiously, though so much fuss found him eager for a drink. “Aye, lovely.” He sat in a fine comfy chair while his host filled two crystal glasses.

“Now then...” The Duke sat across from Frederick, passing a glass. “Tell me all about yourself, and what business you fancy is between us.”

Frederick concealed his surprise. He’d expected the Duke to know him once they faced each other. But there wasn’t much left in him of the boy from days past. There’d been color in that boy’s face, and no scar, his green eyes several shades closer to blue. Swiftly he reshaped his plans around this new advantage.

“The name’s Edward March.” Frederick held his eyes on the Duke’s. Already, he saw those eyes dancing in their sockets, seeming almost to spin, but always with those two tiny black pupils as the axis. “I’m a businessman like yourself, though not so far along in my endeavors.”

“Indeed.” The Duke stared fiercely, eyes intensifying like spinning whirlpools, all the powers of hell at their center. “Clearly, you’ve not come so far in years or experience to have accumulated so much.”

“No.”

“You’ve heeded the legends of the great Red Duke of the East End, however. And found the courage to seek the truth behind them.”

“Aye, though not so outright as others. So how’d you realize I was looking for you?”

“I was told that a man had been coming around my businesses, asking all manner of deliberate, yet queerly ambiguous questions. Your disguises are quite impressive. Indeed, you’d likely have continued unrecognized, yet you failed to account that some of my men on the front lines manage multiple establishments. It so happened that a proprietor you’d spoken with earlier in one guise happened to walk into another place while you spoke to another employee, now disguised differently. He overheard strikingly similar words, in a very similar voice. This prompted closer inspection.”

Frederick sipped his drink, wishing to look away in shame. By now, however, he couldn’t have turned from those eyes if he’d tried. Now he walked a fine inner line, between the illusion of submission and the true loss of willpower. The Duke’s whirlpool eyes were potent weapons, and Frederick now saw how so many had fallen before them. But he’d strengthened himself for this silent battle since reaching manhood, since coming to understand the damning moments of his childhood.

“Tell me again, sir,” said the Duke in a more measured voice, “what is your name, and for what reason have you sought me?” Then sharply, “Speak true.”

“My name is Edward March,” Frederick repeated monotonously. “I’m a businessman like yourself, and I fancy we can help one another. I own this pub in Whitechapel, see...” Something fluttered loose in Frederick’s brain, one tiny truth that threatened to let all others spill out. “And I’ve a few more debts than I care to pay off by honest means.”

“So you’ve sought the Red Duke, feeling I should help you out of your debts?”

“Aye.” Frederick leaned inward. Time to focus on the lies he’d concocted, to believe them himself a bit. “Fact is, I fancy we can help each other greatly. There’s this high society widow, see, left in charge of her husband’s great estate. Naturally she’s arranged one of the most extravagant balls London society’s seen in ages. All with her husband six months in the earth mind you, and naturally it’s a charity event, held piously in his memory. So’s not to violate the customs of mourning, understand.”

“Naturally.” The Duke sipped his Sherry.

“Duke, is the title by which you are known one of birth, or one you’ve given yourself?”

“The title itself is an affectation, though I am born to high station, do well to remember.”

Frederick stopped himself from smiling. He’d given the Duke something to prove. “Aye, of course. Though Duke, how you’ve shut yourself away from your own society. No doubt you’ve found it necessary to sever some ties, to avoid attention, but the name’s still yours, along with all it entitles you to.”

“Indeed. But what has that to do with this high engagement?”

“Merely that, were you so inclined, you could easily re-emerge into society, within enough time to make an appearance at this lady’s celebration. Think of it! The grand old eccentric, the one they called mad, returns to their sight, finer for his adventures than any of them combined. Think how they’d fall at your feet! Oh, I... assume it could be done...”

“It could,” said the Duke sedately, though he leaned forward, clutching at the arms of his chair. His eyes had drifted upwards towards waking dreams, forgetting to hold Frederick in thrall. Aye, he’d spurned his privileged roots, creating a life of greater privilege by his own means. But the itch for recognition by his own kind was in his blood. “And you, no doubt, want to obtain entrance to this event as well, through me. To what end?”

“As I’ve said, the widow’s come into quite a stash of wealth. There’ll be a small fortune for the taking, right on display, not to mention all them handsomely lined pockets to be picked.”

“And with your share of the plunder, you’d settle your debts?”

Frederick nodded enthusiastically. “And you as well, Duke. Them two thugs you employ, the ones waiting outside, surely you could dress ’em proper for the occasion. You could bring them right in, say they’re your personal servants. You could bring me in under the same guise. While you were off reveling in your new glory, your servants and I’d be busy making us both rich men.”

“I am already a rich man.”

“A rich man can always grow richer, Duke. A rich man who...” — now came the great gamble — “... has a foot nicely planted in Whitechapel.” He watched the Duke’s face perk up. “Yes, Duke, your reign stretches far on the underside of this city, but there’s much you’ve yet to expand into. Were you to aid me on this, your prize would be direct stock of ownership of my pub. With my connections there, I could arrange many another door to open for you.”

The Duke put a skeptical hand to his chin.

“Come into the place any night,” Frederick said, a bit anxiously. “I even have papers I could show you, our nightly business records. I assure you, you’ll find no better avenue of moving your business to Whitechapel.”

The Duke chuckled. “Very well, Mr. March. I dare say, you’ve already done me a fine turn by pointing out this mildly lucrative opportunity. For that alone, I shall let you accompany me. After that, we shall discuss your pub.”

Frederick smiled.

“Should I find your little establishment unappealing, however, I shall decide on my own how you shall repay me. Tell me, Mr. March, in your research of my enterprises, did you become at all acquainted with any of my male brothels? They’re sorely understaffed of late.”

* * *

Frederick stood in General Lariviare’s private study, held up the late General’s shaving glass, and adjusted the cravat about his neck. His servant’s clothes lay neatly folded in the old wardrobe, along with the discarded turban. He wiped some dark grease paint from his face and spread the rest thin, till the shade of his flesh better matched the guests downstairs.

Now, he remarked before replacing the mirror, he might actually pass for a gentleman. The scar was now visible, despite the paint. If anyone asked, it had been acquired at war, under General Lariviare’s command.

Since meeting with the Duke, Frederick had steered clear of the Draft. Despite his offer, he had no intention of leading the Duke’s men within sight of the pub. He’d sent word to Mickey, with business instructions for the week. Since arriving it had taken him nearly an hour to slip away. He’d entered the house alongside the two brutes from the riverfront tavern. The Duke, head high, hair scrubbed and combed, body lined in red velvet, had introduced them as his servants. The hostess hadn’t greeted them personally. Frederick fancied she’d remember their visit, whether she knew whom to thank or not. It had been Frederick’s idea to come as an Arab servant, acquired in the Duke’s travels.

“A wise mind for details, Mr. March,” the Duke had remarked with arched eyebrows.

Frederick headed back into the hallway, hoping he’d not sold too much of his soul over this. Such would be to contribute to a putrid collection, to which many had given without choice. Among such victims had once been Frederick’s sister. Frederick thought about Elizabeth, back in their early street days, still a girl and already a stronger, more savage woman than he had ever known before or since. She’d never go selling herself, she’d always sworn, no matter how bad things got. She’d rob and kill before following that road.

Then came that crimson-coated swell, with those weird, whirling eyes and that voice that never lost its lulling rhythm. Next one knew, there was Elizabeth, walking the streets as one of the Duke’s girls, surely as the one Frederick had met on Nickels Street. Of course, in time, the Duke had let Elizabeth slip from his hook, no doubt as he acquired younger, finer girls as business grew.

The Duke’s eyes and the voice explained it all, explained how anyone fell under his thumb, as it explained the inhuman strength of the Nickels Street whore. Frederick had grown to understand it in the intervening years, had seen it a thousand times in Whitechapel. Amongst the many quack doctors, organ grinders, waxwork showman, masters of muzzled dancing bears, and all others who made up the East End’s hellish carnival, there was a spectacle to which he’d never quite grown jaded. On ramshackle stages and back-alley tents, men called up marks and dared them to surrender their minds and wills for the amusement of onlookers. Before the crowds, volunteers’ eyes followed a swinging pocket watch or spinning coin, while showmen spoke measured incantations. Gradually the volunteers were lulled by the methodical monotony, until the showmen claimed temporary control of their faculties. Under such spells, the volunteers could be convinced they’d changed into beasts, or sat naked when not a stitch had been removed.

Much of it was quackery. Once, though, Frederick watched an old man, perhaps days from the grave, convinced to the core of his brain that he was possessed of Herculean strength. And at the showman’s command, brittle arms shattered bricks and splintered wood. The crowd went mad with cheers and applause, all save Frederick. For days, he’d thought of nothing but the strange lulling ritual, of an even stranger pair of eyes, and a voice that was stranger still. If the street fakirs could so manipulate the mind, might a man refine the craft so’s to have no need of rituals? Might he, through the most intense control of his expressions and articulation, affect a deeper hypnosis than any street showman dreamed possible?

Frederick scoured libraries and bookshops on the history of hypnosis, following footnotes and obscure references. The ancient secrets he found would shame and chill simpler fakirs. Might folks, for example, guided deep within themselves, find the key to primordial powers of the ancient, forgotten beasts from whom they descended? Ever more, Frederick was convinced this was how the Red Duke had risen. When businessmen didn’t willfully agree to his terms, when women refused to surrender themselves, the Duke had only to slip their wills from beneath them, as undetected as a pickpocket.

Frederick swore one day to seek out the Duke. He’d not be lulled like the others, no matter how strong the enemy’s sway. Now he’d found the Duke, had resisted the pull as he’d sworn. Yet here he was at the Duke’s side, assisting him in taking another victim. Hadn’t that been his plan from the start, to lead one enemy to humiliate another? To do that, he’d placed at stake much that was dear to him. He’d have to murder the Duke soon. There lay the true challenge, for the Duke kept himself well guarded.

Those two thugs were under no spell but the one sprinkling their pockets. Still, such spells could insure deadlier loyalty than more arcane ones.

The halls were dark and still, but Frederick heard chatter and bustle from the ballroom. Those two thugs would be lightening the pockets and purses of the same men and women with whom the Duke fraternized. Of course the Duke’s silken voice and swirling eyes would prevent anyone noticing. They’d realize it later, saying how it happened at the Widow Lariviare’s party. A small fortune from the study already weighted Frederick’s pockets.

Ahead in the dim corridor, a large shape pressed against a wall. Frederick advanced cautiously as the shape shifted and scuffled. From beneath the hulking mass came a girl’s stifled pleadings. In the gloom, one brutish hand clamped over a delicate face, another tugging the drab servant’s skirt upwards. So the Duke was letting his dogs run loose in the house!

Frederick sprang, his arm latching around the thick neck, hauling the hulking body off balance. The thug might have cried out, but his head struck the wall and he staggered. Frederick’s knee bludgeoned a crotch, before he loosed a series of sharp blows with both fists on the face. The man’s head hit the wall again, harder, so he slumped senseless.

The girl stayed pressed to the wall, breathing frantically, eyes wild. She recoiled when Frederick reached out.

“Don’t be foolish,” Frederick growled. “If I meant you harm, I’d have waited my turn.” Bloody hell, he’d slipped into his natural accent.

“You’re not one of the guests, are you?” she said.

“Not here.” He yanked her by the arm through the hallway, into a small sitting room. After lighting a small lamp, he set her in a chair. “Now what makes you say I ain’t a guest?”

Proceed to part 3...