Shadow Conspiracy (39 page)

“The wizard said we were slow,” Grace remembered. “They poured out the secret, and nobody noticed.”

“For a little while.” On his plump fingers Mr. Bucket tallied up the enemies of the Empire. “Ireland, Wales, India, Burma. How many anarchists and revolutionaries have we already arrested? And every one of ‘em will know about this soon, if they don’t already.”

“And that Marx chappie,” the mountainous bobby said. “The Yard is keeping an eye on him. Russian bloke, but he lives right here in Chelsea—spends his time writing about how the common Englishman should rise up and throw over the government.”

“If the common man learns how to make bullets bounce, the Empire is in the soup and no pitch hot,” Mr. Bucket said flatly. “And that’s what they’ve been doing, those Chinese—giving the secret to the common man, here and in India and Lord knows where else. We’ve got to get to the Book View Café!” He put his head out the window and shouted at the driver to get a move on.

In her mind’s eye Grace could see it: revolution and anarchy flaming across England and Europe, as the working poor, able to turn aside bullets, freed of the fear of armed enforcement, rose against their proper rulers. Britain would be like France under Robespierre; the Thames would run red with blood.

The cab jolted to a halt, and the Inspector jumped down. Above a bow window the sign bore curly gold letters on a black ground: the Book View Café. The door was propped open and a pair of muscular men were carrying a bookcase with gears on its sides down the steps. “Whoa!” Mr. Bucket called. “What is this, lads? Is that the Catalogue?”

“Talk to the lady, guv,” the navvy wheezed. “We got our job to do.”

The Inspector ran up the steps and into the café. Grace passed the waiting wagon, already loaded with crates and pieces of machinery. Inside was a large comfortable coffee room. Wing chairs and side tables had been pushed aside to allow the workmen to disassemble bookcases and a large steam engine. A cadaverously thin young man in a narrow black clawhammer coat was ticking off items on a long list. “The Café is closed this week,” he said, not looking up.

“But—the Catalogue! Where is Madame Magdala? And who the devil are you?”

Still the clerk did not look up. “Gulpidge is the name. I represent Carboy, Carboy and Fleer, solicitors for the Lovelace family. We are charged with the safe removal of the Catalogue to Cambridge University.” He inspected the number on a book crate and ticked it off on his inventory before a workman carried it out.

“Well,
I
am Inspector Bucket of Scotland Yard.” Mr. Bucket brandished a card. “And the Carboy firm, of Lincoln’s Inn Fields, is not unknown to me. Old Mr. Kenge has passed, I take it.”

“Indeed he has, Inspector, indeed he has—some years ago. Apoplexy—a belated casualty of
Jarndyce v. Jarndyce
.” As Gulpidge read the card, the sheets of inventory wilted in his grip. His smile was tight and knowing, with no glimpse of teeth. “I yearn to oblige, Inspector, indeed I do! But help you I cannot. Lady Ada Lovelace is on her deathbed, and has given the Steam Catalogue to Cambridge. It should be reassembled and ready for consultation in a couple years, if you would care to wait.”

“Oh, that’s not my business here. Mrs. Stulting is calling on Madame Magdala for a reading.” The Inspector’s cheerful adaptability to circumstance made Grace stare. And the lies that had to be told, for the sake of the nation!

But obedient to the hint she agreed, adding, “Is Madame taking visitors?”

“Yes, yes, do step on up! Her lounge is just above.”

Grace stepped into the stairway out of sight and then hesitated. She knew that Hermanus would be furious if he heard of her consulting a Gypsy. Fortunetelling was specifically forbidden in the Old Testament! He’d sermonize for days, and make the voyage back to China a misery. Furthermore, she had no money. Perhaps it would be all right to just wait here quietly, out of sight?

Besides, it was an education to listen to the Inspector at work out in the coffee room. “Have a cigar,” he offered. “No telling how long these Gypsy stunts may take.”

“Don’t mind if I do,” Gulpidge said. The flare of a match, and then the sociable male smell of tobacco smoke.

“So, Lady Ada is dying? A sad thing, that. She’s not so very old, is she?”

“Not so’s you’d notice. Not even forty. Cancer—ugly way to go.”

“And Carboy, Carboy and Fleer have been representing the Lovelace interests for—?”

“Since Queen Anne’s time, at least.”

“So a sharp man like you, you know all the family stories.”

“Could be,” Gulpidge allowed.

“Including that Poet King business, eh?” There was no response, but Mr. Bucket’s tone became even more confiding. “Now, you know and I know—as men of the world—that it’s them as pays the piper calls the tune. All that magic, researching soul transfers, it must have cost a pretty penny. Lord Byron was pretty well juiced, but to that amount? I don’t believe it, and neither do you.”

“Family business,” Gulpidge returned. “Private.”

“But poor Lady Ada’s the last of the family,” Mr. Bucket noted. “And she’s dying, God help her. You could say, who’s left to be harmed?”

“It’s a ripping story,” Gulpidge said. “Not that I believe it, entire. But we clerks, the story among us is that the project was paid for with treasure.”

“You mean, Lord Byron’s treasure?”

“Not his. Given to him. In a bag.”

“You don’t say!”

Flattered by this response, Glupidge further confided, “No harm in telling you I’ve seen the bag itself. They still have it, folded in a deed-box in the safe. Big as a gallon jug. Black silk.”

“And the treasure?”

“Pearls,” Gulpidge said in a low thrilling voice. “The size of your eye, a whole bag of ‘em. A king’s ransom.”

“Chinese pearls.” Suddenly Mr. Bucket’s tone was hard. “A long-term investment that nearly paid off in a magical war between the Poet King and the Crown. Hey, Mrs. S.! We’re leaving!”

“I’m here,” Grace said, hastily stepping around the corner again. Gulpidge goggled at her sudden reappearance.

“They’re trying it again,” the Inspector said to her. “That spell to turn bullets. They don’t need to win the next Opium War in China, if they can beat us here. We’ve got to get to the Yard.”

A female voice, low and vibrant, spoke from behind. “But you have not had your consultation.” Grace turned in surprise. An older lady in a very fashionable purple gown had just come down the stair behind her. Her substantial front was frosted with lace but supported by no hint of whalebone, and a huge Paisley shawl trailed from one arm, its elaborate knotted fringe dragging on the floor. This must be the café’s proprietress, the famous Madame Magdala. She had been crying, hiding a handkerchief balled up in one hand, but she was impressively calm now.

“I’m sorry,” Grace admitted, “but I have no money for your fee.”

Madame Magdala took her hand in her own free one, heavy with rings. “The Gypsy’s palm does not always need to be crossed with silver. Let me see...”

“Sorry to hear about Lady Ada, Madame,” Mr. Bucket said. “But we’re pressed for time, so if you don’t mind—”

Madame Magdala ignored him. She stared into Grace’s eyes with an intensity that made Grace nervous. “Name her Pearl, as you have been advised,” she said. “Your grand-daughter. She will be what you long for, a bridge between East and West.”

 “Mrs. S., we’ve got to get on!” The huge bobby had kept the cab waiting, and in his impatience the Inspector was blocking the doorway and annoying the movers.

“I’m afraid I can’t quite believe in fortunes,” Grace said. “But thank you for your good wishes.”

Quickly the bobby handed her up into the cab. Her little paper dragon was still lying on the seat. Grace picked it up, her hand still tingling from the Gypsy’s grasp, and looked at the spell again with a new thought. It was not right for the poor to be oppressed—Jesus had said so. For people to be forever hungry and without hope was wrong, an evil to be fought. Surely there was a way to achieve justice without bloodshed and revolution. They had been able to do it in America, hadn’t they? What were she and Hermanus going to do in Nanjing, but teach and empower and raise up the poor, and yes, build a bridge between East and West? Neither the British Empire nor the Chinese had to explode like an overloaded steam boiler. The pressure could be relieved.

“I can help,” Grace said to Mr. Bucket. She was not sure if she was doing an un-Christian thing, but she was certain it had to be done. The only hope for civilization now was if all nations had this terrifying knowledge at once, together. Then one and all could face rebellion and chaos, and defeat it. “I will translate it back into Mandarin. We can empower the Chinese peasantry. They hate their masters as much as—” As much as our poor hate theirs, she would have said, but one could not say such things aloud. “And—and if all the people on Earth are disarmed at once, maybe we can win through. We can agree to stop this madness, and share with our brothers and sisters in peace.”

“Yes.” Mr. Bucket nodded. With a sinking heart, Grace saw from his plump grim face between the sidewhiskers that he had no hope of it. “Let’s all go down into the abyss together.”

Author’s note: Pearl Stulting was born in 1892 and is better known by her married name, Pearl S. Buck.

Brenda W. Clough is a meek mild-mannered reporter at a major metropolitan publication. She has published seven novels, many short stories, nonfiction, and innumerable book reviews that revolve around death, misery and grief. She has traveled around the world under the aegis of the US government, and now lives in a cottage at the edge of a forest, surrounded by animals.

Her latest novel,
Revise the World
, is available at
Book View Café
. A version of it was a finalist for both the Hugo and Nebula awards.

… by Judith Tarr

“When the perishable has been clothed with the imperishable, and the mortal with immortality, then the saying that is written will come true: ‘Death has been swallowed up in victory.’”

—The Holy Bible, Corinthians 15:54