Pious Fraudsters

IX.

The entirety of London seemed to be silent, apart from the occasional rattle of a carriage on the street below us. Every time I hear it I jumped a little bit – but it was always nothing, and never accompanied by a fatal knock on the door.

Me and dear Behan shared a bed in the room across from Patrick’s study – he didn’t know that we shared it, but we were a couple now, or so I thought, so it was rightful that we should be close at all times. But we were anxious that night, so we talked little and eventually he fell asleep while I, trying to stay awake, waited until I couldn’t no more, and I fell into a deep and dreamless sleep.

I woke up some hours before dawn. The covers were strewn where Behan, absent, had thrown them aside. There was a sliver of light that glowed underneath the door. I got up and dressed quickly in a pair of unbuttoned breeches and a loose shirt, and opened the door, creeping across the landing to where I could see the candlelight from Patrick’s study.

Behan and Patrick were both in there, as a quick peek behind the door showed; Patrick was sitting behind the desk, Behan had his back to me. I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but they said it in low voices, and in Irish. But just then Patrick looked up and saw me, and Behan got up, let me through, and then left himself.

“Shut the door, Devon,” Patrick said.

“What’s going on?”

“Sit down.” I did so. “I have to talk to you about a few things.”

“What is it? Are we making our escape? What about the real Banksbridge, who will return imminently?”

“Devon!” he snapped. “One thing at a time please, and lower your voice, for God’s sake! These are precarious times, and you’re one of the only two people I can trust!”

“All right,” I whispered, “but please tell me what has happened, and where is Behan.”

“It doesn’t matter where Behan went,” Patrick said, “or whether he’ll return.”

“What does that mean?” I cried, my voice rising again, until I remembered to lower it. “What are you talking about, ‘whether he’ll return’?”

“I’m just trying to prepare you for a few things,” he replied.

He refused to say what he meant, and I could not understand why a man who had been heretofore honest with me would suddenly shroud his speech in obscurity in my time of need.

“Like what? Paddy, what’s happening? What did you send Behan off for?”

“To do something important,” Patrick replied, “which I was going to talk to you about. You see, Devon, you’ve always been a person with a very strong opinion on what’s right and wrong, which while often lauded as a virtue, can also be a vice.”

“Morals! A vice!” I retorted. “Standards, a vice! Ethics, a vice!” But I suddenly understood him. “Oh – Paddy – what horrible thing have you sent Behan off to do?”

“Like I said,” he interrupted, “You may have your standards and ethics, but you cannot too have your comfort and luxury, not in this world anyway.” His voice turned dark. “It’s a bloody unfair world we live in, in case you haven’t noticed. Who dares, wins –” He held out his arms to illustrate – “Who cares, however, loses.”

I still didn’t know exactly what he meant by all this, and I dreaded the moment that I would. “That’s why, if you don’t want to lose your life, you won’t tell a soul about anything we’ve done,” he said, his voice low and growling. “Not the Police, not any of the others, nobody. I don’t care how loudly your conscience screams at you. You’re staying with us – we’re in it together!”

I was terrified, for he sounded like he was making a terrible threat – Patrick, whose shirt could barely stretch over the muscles of his shoulders and chest, his huge labourer’s hands, his hair dishevelled and fiery, his orange eyes burning like two bright coals in the firelight…

“Yes,” I squeaked.

“Good.” He sat down. “Then you may go to bed, and get up as normal in the morning.”

There were footsteps outside, and I turned. Behan pushed his way into the room. He’d been out in the rain and his face was white and his hands dirty with mud. “It is done.” he announced.

“What is?” I asked.

“Never mind, Devon,” Patrick said firmly. “Now go back to bed.”

“No!” I stood up. “I demand to know what has been done!”

There was a silence. Finally, Behan confessed. “I killed Bartholomew Banksbridge,” he confessed.

I stared at him – at the young man who, not a week before, had sworn he would never do nothing he would get hanged for. “Why,” I growled, “You murderer –”

With one swift movement Behan moved across the room, and, grabbing the material of my shirt and twisting it in his fist, pushed me back until I met with the desk. Patrick stood up behind me.

“Now I don’t know what he’s told you,” he snarled, alluding to Patrick, “But I know that you stand to make a choice about what you want: here, or the slums? Us, or telling the constables?”

“Behan – stop it – you’re hurting me –”

“Do you want to berate us for killing him, or tell the police? Do you suppose somebody will find out, so you want to tell them? Do you think you’ll save your own skin like that, at the expense of ours?”

“No Behan I don’t –”

“You’d better stay true to your pledge,” Behan said, “your silence about this matter will save all our lives, but should you speak, you will surely die.”

“I know – Behan, please!” There were tears in my eyes. “I won’t say anything!”

“So you see now,” said Behan, unhanding me, “the price of dishonesty is a cheap one if we can stay in our current roles.”