Cut to the Quick (33 page)

]Xfext morning, Julian, Maud, and Miss Pritchard left for London in the Craddocks* sumptuous barouche. Dipper and Maud's maid, Alice, rode behind them in a more demure travelling chaise that carried most of the luggage. Alice could not decide whether Dipper's sojourn in gaol made him sinister or romantic, so she kept him in a state of confusion by flirting with him one minute and cowering from him the next. He consoled himself with memories of Molly Dale, who had welcomed him back to Bellegarde very warmly last night. She had invited him to share a flask of ale with her in a disused storeroom. “I can only stay a very little while," she said, but she stayed a good part of the night. As a result, he got very little sleep, and departed for London heavy-eyed but happy.

Julian asked after the Misses Fontclair, whom he had not seen since the murder. "Miss Joanna was dreadfully upset when she heard about it," said Miss Pritchard. "Miss Philippa took it much better-—asking questions of everybody, wanting to know ‘why’ this and ‘why’ that, till I had to tell her, really, it's not a fit subject for a young lady to be so curious about."

“Isn’t she better off taking too lively an interest in the murder than being afraid of it?"

“But she's afraid now, sir. Or at all events, she's brooding. She

sits by herself and stares at nothing, won’t eat, won’t attend to her lessons—”

“Oh, poor Philippa!” said Maud. “Could I help somehow? I’d be happy to talk to her when we get back to Bellegarde.”

“That’s good of you, Miss Craddock. It can’t do any harm, and it might help, one never knows.”

Soon Miss Pritchard’s head drooped, and little ladylike snores came from under the brim of her bonnet. Julian whispered to Maud, “You seem to have dispensed with my services as knight-errant.” “What makes you say that?”

“You’re going to London on some ticklish errand, and you don’t mean to tell me what it is, much less let me help.”

“I’d like to tell you, but I can’t. Only I can do what needs to be done. And I don’t want anyone else to have to share the blame if anything goes wrong.” She rallied him, smiling, “You haven’t told me your business in London.”

“That’s entirely different. Your enquiring into my business would be merely inquisitive, while my enquiring into yours is an absolute necessity. I’m under an oath of chivalry, and bound to do any dragon-slaying that’s required to be done on your behalf.”

“You mustn’t worry. This isn’t such a very big dragon. And if I really need your help, I’ll ask for it. I always have.”

Travelling by easy stages, they reached London in the late afternoon. The carriages pulled up in front of Julian’s flat in Clarges Street. Maud told him she was returning to Bellegarde the day after tomorrow, and would be happy to take him with her if his business in London was finished by then.

He thanked her and went indoors. He would have liked to take a stroll in Green Park to stretch his legs, but thought it best to avoid being seen in public. “I’m not at home to anyone,” he told Dipper. “If I once begin receiving visitors, I’ll spend all my time in London fending off questions about the murder.”

He went to the window, closing the curtain to screen himself from view. “It’s good to be back. I’ve missed the clatter and clamour of these streets. That country peace and quiet gets infernally on my nerves. No sound but the birds, and they wake up too damned early.

Another one of their daybreak symphonies, and I should have chucked the fire irons at them.”

Dipper thought the birds had sounded very sweet that morning —but, then, Molly had put him in a mood to be beguiled. “I was thinking, sir: before I unpack and put the flat to rights, I’d best bring off to one of the rag-markets and get some togs for tomorrow. I can't go rigged out like this.”

“No, I suppose not. I rather fancy you in a bandanna and an earring, but I suppose that would be a bit showy for an English thief.”

The sign of three gold balls hung outside a shop near the Strand. Inside was a long, narrow room, with pieces of furniture piled up carelessly in the centre, as though someone were planning to make a bonfire of them one of these days. Along the walls, tables displayed small objects—books, lamps, china figurines, dressing cases. Larger items, like walking sticks and fire irons, stuck out inconveniently into the aisles. Valuable objects like watches and jewelry were kept locked up in cabinets. Silas Vorpe was not a trusting man.

The light from the shop's one grimy window petered out long before it reached the counter at the opposite end. An oil lamp burned there, casting a lurid glow on Vorpe's big white face. He yawned. Business was slow this morning. The only customers just now were a young couple who walked about hand-in-hand, occasionally bumping into things. About to be married, and poor, was Vorpe's guess. They would look wistfully at one thing and another, but not spend a farthing. He was right. They moved toward the door, still holding hands. A young man just coming in tipped his cap and stepped aside to let them pass.

Vorpe peered across at the young man, and all at once a broad smile split his face. “As I live and breathe!” he exclaimed in a full, melodious voice. “Dipper!”

“Morning, Mr. Vorpe!” Dipper came forward, making his way dexterously through the clutter. “You're looking very niblike, I must say. Business good?”

“My dear boy, I barely keep my head above water. Things are the same as ever—I struggle along on the brink of ruin. But you— where have you been all these ages?” He leaned across the counter and whispered sympathetically, “Been polishing the King’s iron with your eyebrows, have you?**

Dipper put on a sweetly pathetic face. “I’d as soon not chop about it, if it's all the same to you. I'm trying to put it behind me."

“Of course, my boy, of course. These little setbacks happen to the best of us from time to time. Best not to dwell on them, isn't it?" He sank his voice again. “You wouldn't happen to have any little article you care to dispose of? Because this seems an excellent opportunity, there being no other customers in the shop who might—er—distract my attention."

Dipper glanced swiftly around him, then reached into an inside pocket of his coat and produced a silver snuffbox. “Have a gun at that, Mr. Vorpe."

“Very nice, very nice. A pity there's so little demand for this kind of thing."

They haggled for a while, Dipper pleading, and Vorpe regretfully shaking his head. “I wish I could, my boy, I wish I could," he said. “But times are so hard, you understand, and silver just isn't fetching the price it used to."

They settled on an amount at last. Dipper pocketed the money and was bidding Vorpe good-bye, when all at once he appeared to recollect something. “Mr. Vorpe, there's some'ut I want to know, and I was thinking you might be able to put it down to me."

“Of course I should be delighted to oblige you any way I can. What is it?"

“Well," said Dipper softly, “there's a jewel coffer, black and gold japan, and I heard it was lumbered here. You know anything about it?"

“My word, there's a deal of interest in that box. It must be worth far more than I had any idea. I haven't got it, I'm afraid. The Owner took it for himself."

“That's no matter. It ain't the coffer I'm on the lay for. It’s the person as lumbered it."

“I can understand that.” Vorpe smiled slyly. “Why, if I were a boy your age, I’d be looking for her, too. She was a very dainty morsel, indeed.**

Dipper hid his excitement at this, playing up to Vorpe with a conspiratorial smile. “Can you tell me aught about her, then? I been trying to find her ever since I come out of the jug.*'

“Well I wish you luck, my boy, but I’ve heard nothing about her since the other girl came asking after her, and that was weeks ago.**

“If you was to start at the beginning—” Dipper suggested. “When I first saw the two girls, you mean? That was more than a year ago now, but you know I pride myself on my memory for faces. You have me to thank, by the way, for the fact that the young lady you’re seeking isn’t in the hands of the law. The Owner questioned me closely about the jewelry box and how I came by it. I was very much surprised—I thought the girl was legitimate. But, of course, once the Owner started asking questions, I concluded the young lady must have—er—found the box before it was lost. After that, I promise you, my lips were sealed. I pretended to remember nothing about her. I even went so far as to—misplace—the record of the entire transaction. Such is my devotion to you and your professional colleagues.**

“You*re a bob cull and no mistake, Mr. Vorpe.**

“Thank you, my boy. Now, let me see, it must have been in February of last year that I did business with the two young ladies, since it was this past February that the jewelry box was due to be redeemed. One of the girls was called Louisa—a towheaded creature, very sturdily built, not pretty, poor thing. The other, the young lady who brought the jewelry box to be placed in my care—but I needn*t describe her to you, since you’re obviously well aware of her charms already.**

Dipper thought quickly. “How do I know it’s the same mort?** “Don’t be silly, my boy, who else should she be? I must say, she was a lovely piece of French porcelain. I quite applaud your taste.*’ “French, was she?'* By now Dipper felt secure enough to gamble. “A small mort, red hair, blue glims?"

“Exactly so. She spoke very little English. The other girl, Louisa,

acted as her interpreter. A very disagreeable young person, Louisa —most unbecomingly insistent about the price.”

Louisa had done nearly all the talking, he said. The French girl seemed very shy and skittish. He gave her a pawn ticket, and she told him her name and address: Miss Amy Fields, residing in Puddle Street, not far from Vorpe’s shop.

“Amy Fields,” repeated Dipper. “It don’t sound French.”

“No. But not many in your profession go by their real names, do they? I suppose I ought to have guessed she was one of your compatriots, but the other girl, Louisa, seemed so moral and upstanding. I couldn't imagine her mixed up in anything irregular. Obviously she was taken in by her pretty friend. Because a month or two ago, she came in and asked me if I’d seen Miss Fields. It seems her friend Amy had up and run away without a trace.”

Louisa thought Amy might have come to his shop to redeem the jewelry box, he explained. He told her that he had not seen Miss Fields since February of last year, and that the jewelry box had been sold a few weeks earlier. “I thought it best not to mention the Owner had it,” he explained. “Louisa seemed rather a strong-willed girl. She might have made trouble of one kind or another.”

“You always was one to drop down to a person, Mr. Vorpe. You know life, that's what you do.”

“My dear boy, these tributes quite overwhelm me.”

“This mort Louisa—where does she doss?”

“I had the impression the two young ladies lodged together, in Puddle Street.”

“Thanks, Mr. Vorpe. I knew you’d do the trick for me.” “Impatient to be off now, are you, and keep on with the search. I can't say I blame you. What a delightful thing it is to be young and in love. You must let me know if you find her. And if any more little trinkets should happen to come your way, I do hope you'll let me take them off your hands.”

*

“I knew it!” Julian paced his front parlour, like an animal on the prowl. “I knew there had to be a connexion between the murder and Colonel Fontclairs letters. How did this girl Amy Fields come

by the jewelry box, I wonder? She could have been a servant or acquaintance of Gabrielle Deschamps—then again, she might have found the box, or stolen it. She doesn't seem to have known about the secret compartment containing the letters. But if she knew nothing about Colonel Fontclair or his secret, then how in the name of all that’s wonderful did she end up murdered at Bellegarde?” “It’s a rum start, sir,” said Dipper, shaking his head.

“The other girl, Louisa, might know something to the purpose. She lives in Puddle Street, you said?”

“Yes, sir. I went there, after I left Mr. Vorpe’s, and asked after a bleached mort named Louisa. Seems she lives and works at her mother's nob-thatching crib—E. P. Howland, Milliner, it’s called. I went by and had a peery at it, but it was shut up.”

“I'll go there all the same, and see if I can find her, or anyone who knows where she is.”

Dipper brought him his tall silk hat, gloves, and walking stick. “I almost forgot, sir. Here's the blunt I knapped for your sneezing-coffer. Mr. Vorpe didn’t fork out much for it, he never does, but it put him in a cheery mood.”

“Then it was well worth the sacrifice. I had no use for it, anyway. It was given to me by a marchesa I once knew, who had me confused with another Englishman who took snuff. She gave him the music stand that was meant for me. He didn't play, but it made rather a good hat tree.” He drew on his gloves. “Amy Fields,” he mused, as though tasting the name on his tongue. “I wonder if that was her real name. It certainly isn’t French—Good Lord. Dipper, I am an idiot.”

“Sir?”

“It isn’t an alias—it's a translation. Fields, in French, is ‘Deschamps.' ”

*

Puddle Street was one of London's little self-contained worlds. It had its own greengrocer and barber-surgeon, stationer and public house. Each shop thrust out a minute bow window, displaying a single item to identify the shopkeeper’s trade: a workman's boot, a secondhand book, an apothecary's mortar and pestle. In the window

of E. P. Howland, Milliner, was a papier-mache head with faded black eyes and pink cheeks, wearing a calico bonnet.

Julian tried the door but found it locked. He peered in through the window. The shop was dimly lit, but he could make out two small worktables and a few plain wooden chairs. A large deal table was strewn with bolts of cloth, ribbons, and artificial flowers. Several heads like the one in the window displayed finished bonnets, while skeletal straw frames lay about waiting to be trimmed.

There was nobody inside. He knocked at the door, but no one answered. Several passersby looked at him curiously. A gentleman like him—a regular swell—was a rare sight in this neighbourhood.

He knocked again, more loudly. This time there was a sound of movement overhead. The shop might be empty, but there was someone on the floor above. He heard footsteps coming to the door. It opened, and a young woman looked out.