The Anubis Gates

“Oh… I like to walk,” Coleridge answered, a little shamefacedly, and Ashbless realized that the man didn’t have cab fare.

“Tell you what,” Ashbless said casually. “I’ve about had my fill here, and I don’t particularly like walking. Perhaps I could give you a lift.”

Coleridge brightened, then asked cautiously, “But in which direction are you going?”

“Oh,” Ashbless said with a careless wave, “I’m heading in all directions. Where are you staying?”

“Hudson’s Hotel, in Covent Garden. If it isn’t an inconvenience … “

“Not at all. I’ll go make excuses to Mr. Murray, and fetch our hats and coats.”

A few minutes later they were being let out the front door, and Murray leaned out and scowled at the vagrant lad who was still loitering a few doors away.

“Thank you, Mr. Ashbless, for seeing our friend home.”

“It’s no trouble—and I believe I see a cab now. Hey! Taxi?”

The cab driver didn’t understand the call, but the waving arm was a clear enough summons. He slanted his vehicle in toward them and Murray bade them goodnight, closed the door and re-bolted it.

The cab had just rocked to a halt when there came a cry of, “Mr. Ashbless! Wait a moment!” and the ragged boy came dashing up.

My God, thought Ashbless as the boy’s face was lit for a moment by the street lamp, it’s Jacky. He’s shorter than he used to be; no, that’s right, I’m taller. “Yes?”

Jacky stopped in front of them. “Excuse me for interrupting,” she panted, “but I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news about a friend we have in common.”

Ashbless stared at Jacky in the light from the curtained window at his back. The months have dealt harshly with him, Ashbless thought. The kid looks starved and exhausted and … somehow, in spite of those things, even a trifle more effeminate than he used to. Poor devil.

“I really think,” said Coleridge awkwardly, “that a walk would be restorative. I—”

“No,” protested Ashbless. “This damp fog would do you no good, and I’d like to hear more of your thoughts on the Logos. I’m sure this lad—”

“Does anybody want the bloody cab?” called the driver, twitching his whip impatiently.

“Yeah, let’s all three hop in,” said Ashbless, opening the door. “And maybe after we see Mr. Coleridge home, young man, you’ll let me buy you some dinner.”

“I’ll ride along,” said Jacky, scrambling in, “but I’ll have to … decline your kind offer of dinner. I’ve got… an appointment on the river to keep.”

“Don’t we all?” grinned Ashbless, helping Coleridge in and then climbing in himself. “Driver! Hudson’s Hotel, please, Covent Garden!” He slammed the door and the overloaded cab lurched back out into traffic.

The carriage that Jacky had seen waiting near Murray’s got under way too, following the cab at a distance of a dozen yards, though not even the cab driver noticed it.

“So what friend and what bad news?” asked Ashbless, who had wedged his tall frame into the corner by the port window.

“You… knew a man named Brendan Doyle, I think,” said Jacky.

Ashbless raised his eyebrows. “Knew him pretty damn well, yes. Why?”

“He’s dead. I’m sorry. I knew him myself, briefly, and I liked him. He was trying to find you before he died—he thought you’d help him, and you do seem to be as generous as he said. You just… arrived too late.” There was real grief in Jacky’s voice.

The cab halted at the Chancery Lane intersection, and Jacky reached for the door handle. “I’d better leave. This isn’t getting me any closer to the river. Good to have met you both.”

Alarmed by the flatness of Jacky’s voice, and suddenly guessing the nature of the river appointment, Ashbless closed his hand firmly over Jacky’s and held the door shut. “Wait.”

The driver seemed to be having some difficulty getting the cab going again—it sounded as if he jumped to the pavement and punched the horse—but eventually they got moving again, and Ashbless released Jacky’s hand.

“He’s not dead, Jacky,” he said quietly. “Later I’ll tell you how I know—right now just take my word for it. And I don’t care if you saw his corpse. As you know,” and Ashbless winked, “there are cases where that’s not conclusive evidence.” Jacky’s eyes widened with comprehension, and Ashbless smiled and sat back as much as he could. “In any case! Mr. Coleridge and I were discussing the concept of the Logos. What are your thoughts on the subject?”

It was Coleridge’s turn to raise his eyebrows in surprise at asking a grimy street urchin such a question; and his eyebrows climbed even higher when Jacky answered.