Shanghai Sparrow (6 page)

“Hello, Lady Sparrow.”

Liu was perched on the windowsill, grinning at her.

“Bugger it, Liu, you made me stab meself. Look!” She held up a bleeding finger.

“I am desolated.”

“You’ll be worse if Ma catches you up here. Are you off your chump?”

“You missed our appointment. I thought perhaps you had found more congenial company. But instead you are locked away. I have brought you one of those disgusting pies you like.”

“Ooh, I could just do with that. Thank you.”

He passed her a pie, wrapped in a handkerchief. She shook it out, and the little green jade fox tumbled onto her lap. “What’s this?”

“A gift.”

“Liu...”

“He spoke to me and said that he was very bored of my company, and would rather be with you. He thinks you might have troubles. Perhaps you could tell him about them, when there is no one else to listen.”

The little fox had its head on one side in a quizzical way. It did look friendly. “I can’t...”

“I ask nothing in return except, if you are in great trouble or distress, you tell him.”

“You
are
off your chump, you know that? But... thank you. He’s bone.”

“He is jade,” Liu said. “I should be very interested to see something with bones like that.”

“
Bone
like ‘nice,’ silly.”

“Oh. Well, I am glad you like him.”

“I’m out in four days.”

She could have got out before, had she wanted – there were ways – but she didn’t want to risk getting on Ma’s bad side. Ma had ears like a hound and eyes like a hawk and seemed to sleep with one of each open.

“You do not wish to leave now?”

“Nah, I’m here to be safe. There’s been some cove sniffing about after me. Ma thought it’d be best to keep me out of view a while.”

“Has there, indeed? Would he be a certain fellow in a grey coat, with a silver-headed cane?”

“Why?” Eveline gave him a hard look.

“You think I would betray your whereabouts?” He looked at the little fox and shook his head sadly. “See how little she trusts me.”

“I got to be careful, Liu. You know that.”

“I do, yes. And I must be careful too, and leave, or your Ma Pether will be hounding me.”

“Yes, you’d better. But thank you. I’ll see you later... If your ship’s still here?”

“Oh, well, if they decide they must leave, then perhaps they will do so without me.” He waved, and disappeared – upwards, onto the roof. She ran to the window and caught a glimpse of his foot and some sort of fluffy scarf trailing behind him – she hadn’t noticed that before – and he was gone.

She sewed the little fox into a pocket in her shift, where it would be safe. The little cold lump warmed quickly, and though she had no intention of gabbing to it like a sapskull, it was nice to know it was there.

Three nights later Ma Pether took her aside.

“Well, seems like no-one’s seen that cove of yours. So you can get back to it. But I’m going to be straight with you, Eveline.” She was sitting in an ancient chair with the stuffing crawling out. She had a glass of brandy in one hand, a pipe in the other and her boots off, but her eyes were sharp and hard. “You get picked up, you don’t say one word about me, or the house, or the other girls, no matter what they ask you or what they offer.”

“Of course not, Ma.”

“You’re a bright girl, Eveline. Stick by me and I’ll see you right. But you draw the law down on us and you’ll be sorry for it.”

“Yes, Ma.”

“You got a home here, but only so long’s you follow the rules.”

“I understand, Ma.”

“Good. See you do. And bring me back a pouch of tobacco tomorrow, I’m running out.”

“A
H,
H
OLMFORTH.
” R
UPERT
Forbes-Cresswell looked up with his usual small, slightly pained smile. “Do take a seat, dear fellow. I shan’t be a moment.”

Holmforth strove to place himself in the deep, comfortable chair with the casual elegance that the Forbes-Cresswells of the world managed with such unconscious ease, knowing, all the time, that he could not relax too much or he would have to struggle to his feet, and Forbes-Cresswell would look at him with that smile again.

The dark-panelled walls, the leather-topped desk with its green-shaded lamp, the crisp rustle of documents and subdued murmur of well-educated English voices surrounded Holmforth. Home. But a home in which he did not quite belong.

He had been delighted, at first, with his own office, though it was small, and cold, and ill-appointed. The desk wobbled, the chair sneaked out intrusive splinters at every opportunity, the lamp had an ancient, stained parchment shade and the panelling had been gouged by the removal of better furniture. But it was an office,
his
office, in the Ministry. An office of one’s own, at his level, was exceptional. A sign, he’d believed, of great favour; of acceptance, and good things to come.

But turning back for his umbrella one wet November evening he had overheard two of his colleagues, to whom he had just bid goodnight, gossiping in the corridor.

“Bit much, giving him Faldwell’s old office.”

“My dear fellow, they could hardly do anything else. I mean, would
you
want to sit in the same room? Share one’s pens, and so forth? Next thing one would have to invite the fellow to dinner!”

“Ah. See what you mean. Really, the whole thing’s a disgrace, if you ask me.”

“Under the circumstances, there wasn’t a deal of choice. Besides, better here than the Treasury, old boy; come in one morning and discover the entire budget’s been calculated in leaves, or some such?”

Laughter, burning like acid.

He had left, without his umbrella, the rain running cold down his neck.

“There,” Forbes-Cresswell said, pushing aside the document he’d been working on. “Now, what can I do for you?”

“I wanted to speak to you about the Britannia School.”

“Dunfield’s pet project! Not your area of interest, surely?”

“Hardly. It’s just that I have a candidate. I think she may be of use, but at the moment her situation is unsuitable. I want her somewhere secure, and the training could be helpful.”

Forbes-Cresswell’s right eyebrow inched a fraction northwards. “A candidate.”

“Yes.”

On the journey Holmforth had stared unseeingly at the ever-changing cloudscape, wondering how to handle this moment. He didn’t want to reveal too much too soon. He knew there was every chance that should the slightest hint leak out of what he was really about, either his efforts would be dismissed as nonsense or credit for his work would somehow, mysteriously, attach to someone else. But without a good reason, why would they provide the girl with a place at the Britannia? He had planned to use a little of the truth – he had seen her at work. She was a thief, a trickster of unmistakable talent, but she was also an orphan of the streets and – should she be troublesome or simply unsuccessful – could be disposed of easily enough.

“She is...” Holmforth stalled. In the face of that raised eyebrow, his efforts seemed foolish, his story ridiculous. A thief and trickster at Her Majesty’s service? Before he could go on, Forbes-Cresswell’s mouth curled with a faint but unmistakable hint of prurient amusement.

“My dear chap, I’m sure something can be done.”

Holmforth, wrong-footed, opened his mouth and hastily closed it again.

“There’s no need for details,” Forbes-Creswell said. “Not quite what Dunfield intended, as if such a ridiculous idea could ever bear fruit, but there’s no doubt that the school is proving useful. You’d be surprised if you knew who she’ll be mixing with!” He looked about himself theatrically, like a prank-planning schoolboy scanning the corridor for prefects. “At the
very highest level,
I assure you, there are sometimes unfortunate reminders of indiscretion to be... tactfully dealt with. In any case, I’m sure I can arrange something.”

“Thank you,” Holmforth said, with a smile that felt painted on. “I would be most grateful.”

Perhaps he had been naïve. Dunfield’s plan for a school for spies – female ones, at that – had struck more than a few as a folly of the highest order, but it had, nonetheless, been passed, and funded. Perhaps even then it had been seen as a potential dumping-ground for the unwanted female offspring of Ministry men. An operation funded by the government, intended to provide useful servants of the Empire – and instead it was providing for ministers’ bastards, freeing up both the ministers’ consciences and their pockets.

Holmforth was no candidate for such an arrangement. Once he was properly established, he would make a respectable marriage to an appropriate woman of character. There would be no mistresses, no improper liaisons. In the meantime he, at least, was perfectly capable of exerting self-control.

The misuse of a government facility offended him, on a number of levels. But for the moment, it made this easier.

“I assume they do actually
have
lessons?” he said.

“Oh, indeed, Dunfield’s original timetable is very much in operation. I’m almost tempted to go along some time and watch the poor dears wrestle with navigational charts and poke at each other with hatpins!”

“I wish to arrange specialised tuition for her. Would that be possible?”

“Of course, of course, just as you wish – so long as it doesn’t cost enough to make the Treasury blink. I will give you a letter of introduction to the headmistress. I warn you, she’s a veritable dragon. Just what one needs, of course, in that situation, otherwise one dreads to think what they might get up to. The first pupils are due to ‘graduate’ in a few months. I don’t know what’s to be done with them. It will have to be handled with great discretion, or it might cause embarrassment.”

“They may prove useful after all,” Holmforth said.

“You really think so?” Forbes-Cresswell laughed, but his eyes were suddenly hard-focused on Holmforth. “You have plans for your little... protégée?”

“Yes.”

“Fascinating.”

F
ENCHURCH
S
TREET STATION,
a morning heavy with rain.

Men with stovepipe hats shedding glistening drops, clutching high collars about their throats with one hand and leather cases with the other, bustling to make their trains. Beggars everywhere; a beached sailor, one hand resting on the wall for fear of his peg-leg slipping on the rain-slick floor, the other hand holding out a shapeless, greasy cap. A woman collapsed against the wall, a small pallid child cupped in the lap of her ragged black dress, her face emptied out with exhaustion and hunger. A peeler, high helmet, blue coat and brass buttons, making his way through the crowd towards the pair with
move-along
in his eyes.

The clanging roar and reek and hiss; great clouds of steam exploding along the platforms, the smooth tug-and-pull of the great shining rods heaving around the wheels, slow then faster
, chuh-chug, chuh-chug
. The high imperious shriek of the whistles, sending pigeons in a great fluttering rush up into the rain-streaked iron-framed dome of the roof. The great engines of Empire, proud in their glossy paint and noble names, the
Flying
this and the
Royal
that, hustling their human cargo to its many destinations. And far above, like a fat, expensive cigar, the prime airship
Gloriana
humming her way over them all, carrying pricey necessities, like diplomats and brandy, far over the sea.

Eveline glanced up as the
Gloriana
’s shadow flowed over the station. The
Gloriana
. What a prize she would be! Stuffed to the gills with rich travellers and fancy cargo.

Sometimes she amused herself with schemes to rob the
Gloriana,
but she always got stuck at getting the stuff away. Unless you could fly the whole ship somewhere, without interference from passengers or crew, and whisk away the loot once it had landed, she couldn’t see how to pull it off. It would need too many people, and someone who could fly the blasted thing, and all in all it was far too complicated.

She preferred schemes she could manage all by herself, without relying on other people – at least, no-one other than the marks.

The station was crowded and noisy, and everyone was flustered and in a hurry, which gave plenty of opportunities for a quick profit. But she was finding it hard to pick a target. Frankly, she was bored. She liked something more challenging than pockets. Something that required a bit of planning. She looked around. Plenty of people who would yield, at most, a handkerchief or a handful of coppers; hardly worth it. Small stuff. She had bigger plans, like Ma. Ma was forever talking about one final big scheme, something that would set her up for life, so she could retire, but somehow it never happened. And even if Ma happened on such a thing, Evvie didn’t think she’d tell her – though she should. Ma was clever, yes. But Eveline knew that when it came to a proper scam, though she had less practice, she was better at seeing how things went together, and where they might fall apart. Maybe it was all the reading that had done it. Who knew?