“Mister Croup here,” said Croup. Then, obsequiously, “Oh. It’s you, sir . . . ” A pause. “At present, as you requested, she is walking around, free as a daisy. I’m afraid your bodyguard idea went down like a dead baboon . . . Varney? Yes, he’s quite dead.” Another pause.
“Sir, I am commencing to have certain conceptual problems with the role of myself and my partner in these shenanigans.” There was a third pause, and Mr. Croup went paler than pale. “Unprofessional?” he asked, mildly. “Us?” He curled his hand into a fist, which he slammed, hard, into the side of a brick wall. There was no change, however, in his tone of voice as he said, “Sir. Might I with due respect remind you that Mister Vandemar and myself burned down the City of Troy? We brought the Black Plague to Flanders. We have assassinated a dozen kings, five popes, half a hundred heroes and two accredited gods. Our last commission before this was the torturing to death of an entire monastery in sixteenth-century Tuscany. We are utterly professional.”
Mr. Vandemar, who had been amusing himself by catching little frogs and seeing how many he could stuff into his mouth at a time, said, with his mouth full, “I liked doing that . . . “
“My point?” asked Mr. Croup, and he flicked some imaginary dust from his threadbare black suit, ignoring the real dust as he did so. “My point is that we are assassins. We are cutthroats. We kill.” He listened to something, then said, “Well, what about the Upworlder? Why can’t we kill him?” Mr. Croup twitched, spat once more, and kicked the wall, as he stood there holding the rust-stained, half-broken telephone.
“Scare her? We’re cutthroats, not scarecrows.” A pause. He took a deep breath. “Yes, I understand, but I don’t like it.” The person at the other end of the phone had hung up. Mr. Croup looked down at the telephone. Then he hefted it in one hand and proceeded methodically to smash it into shards of plastic and metal by banging it against the wall.
Mr. Vandemar walked over. He had found a large black slug with a bright orange underbelly, and he was chewing it, like a fat cigar. The slug was trying to crawl away down Mr. Vandemar’s chin. “Who was that?” asked Mr. Vandemar.
“Who the hell do you think it was?”
Mr. Vandemar chewed, thoughtfully, then sucked the slug into his mouth. “A scarecrow man?” he ventured.
“Our employer.”
“That was going to be my next guess.”
“Scarecrows,” spat Mr. Croup, disgusted. He was moving from a red rage to an oily gray sulk.
Mr. Vandemar swallowed the contents of his mouth and wiped his lips on his sleeve. “Best way to scare crows,” said Mr. Vandemar, “you just creep up behind them and put your hand round their little crow necks and squeeze until they don’t move anymore. That scares the stuffing out of them.”
And then he was silent; and from far above they heard the sound of crows flying, cawing angrily.
“Crows. Family Corvidae. Collective noun,” intoned Mr. Croup, relishing the sound of the word, “a murder.”
Richard waited against the wall, next to Door. She said very little; she chewed her fingernails, ran her hands through her reddish hair until it was sticking up in all directions, then tried to push it back down again. She was certainly unlike anyone he had ever known. When she noticed him looking at her, she shrugged and shimmied down further into her layers of clothes, deeper into her leather jacket. Her face looked out at the world from inside the jacket. The expression on her face made Richard think of a beautiful homeless child he had seen, the previous winter, behind Covent Garden: he had not been certain whether it was a girl or a boy. Its mother was begging, pleading with the passers-by for coins to feed the child and the infant that she carried in her arms. But the child stared out at the world and said nothing, although it must have been cold and hungry. It just stared.
Hunter stood by Door, looking back and forth down the platform. The marquis had told them where to wait, and then he had slipped away. From somewhere, Richard heard a baby begin to cry. The marquis slipped out of an exit-only door and walked toward them. He was chewing on a piece of candy.
“Having fun?” asked Richard. A train was coming toward them, its approach heralded by a gust of warm wind.
“Just taking care of business,” said the marquis. He consulted the piece of paper and his watch. He pointed to a place on the platform. “This should be the Earl’s Court train. Stand behind me here, you three.” Then, as the Underground train—a rather boring-looking, normal train, Richard was disappointed to observe—rumbled and rattled its way into the station, the marquis leaned across Richard and said to Door, “My lady? There is something that perhaps I should have mentioned earlier.”