The Ruby in the Smoke (3 page)

"That's better," she said. "I always forgets me teeth indoors. Me pore dear husband's, these were. Real ivory. Made for him out East twenty-five years ago. Lx)ok at the workmanship!"

She bared the brown fangs and gray gums in an animal snarl. Mr. Blyth took a step backward.

"And when he died, pore lamb," she went on, "they was going into the grave with him, being as he was took so quick. Cholera, it was. Gone in a weekend, pore duck. But I whipped 'em out his mouth afore they shut the lid on him. There's years o' wear in them teeth, I thought."

Mr. Blyth gulped.

"There, sit down," she said. "Make yerself at home. Adelaide!"

The child materialized. She could not, thought Mr. Blyth, be older than nine, and so should, by law, have

been at school—for the new Board Schools had been set up only two years before, making education compulsory for children under thirteen. However, Mr. Blyth's conscience was as wraithlike as the child herself—far too insubstantial to inquire, let alone protest. So his conscience and the child both remained silent while Mrs. Holland gave directions for tea; and then they both vanished again.

Turning back to her visitor, Mrs. Holland leaned forward, tapped him on the knee, and said, "Well? You got the doings, have yer? Don't be coy, Mr. Blyth. Open yer case, and let an old lady in on the secret."

"Quite, quite," said the lawyer. "Though strictly speaking there is, of course, no secrecy as such, our arrangement being made in perfectly legal terms. ..."

Mr. Blyth's voice had the habit of fading away rather than coming to a stop at the end of a speech; it seemed to suggest that he was open to any alternative proposal that might be made at the last moment. Mrs. Holland was nodding vigorously.

"That's right," she said. "All square and aboveboard. No hanky-panky—I won't have that. Go on, then, Mr. Blyth."

Mr. Blyth opened his leather case and took out some papers.

"I went down to Swaleness on Wednesday last," he said, "and secured the agreement of the gentleman to the terms we discussed at our last meeting. . . ."

He paused there to let Adelaide enter the room with a tea tray. She put it down on a dusty little table, curtsied to Mrs. Holland, and left without a word. While Mrs. Holland poured the tea, Mr. Blyth resumed.

"The—er—terms. .. . To be sure. The article in ques-

tion is to be deposited with Hammond and Whitgrove, Bankers, of Winchester Street—"

"The article in question? Don't be coy, Mr. Blyth. Out with it."

He looked exquisitely pained at having to name something clearly. He lowered his voice, leaned forward in his chair, and looked around before he spoke.

"The—ah—ruby will be deposited at Hammond and Whitgrove's bank, to remain there until the death of the gentleman; whereupon, by the terms of his will, duly witnessed by myself and—ah—a Mrs. Thorpe—"

"Who's she? A neighbor?"

"A servant, ma'am. Not entirely reliable—drinks, I understand—but her signature is, of course, valid. Ahem— the ruby will remain, as I say, with Hammond and Whitgrove, until the death of the gentleman; whereupon it will become your property. ..."

"And that's legal, is it?"

"Perfectly so, Mrs. Holland "

"No nasty little snags? No last-minute surprises?"

"Nothing of the sort, ma'am. I have here a copy of the document, signed by the gentleman himself. It provides, as you see, for every—ah—eventuality. ..."

She took the paper from him and scanned it eagerly.

"Seems all right to me," she said. "Very well, Mr. Blyth. I'm a fair woman. You've done a job of work—I'll pay yer fee. What's the damage?"

"Damage, ma'am? Oh—ah—of course. My clerk is preparing an account at the moment, Mrs. Holland. I shall see that it is sent in due course. ..."

He remained another five minutes or so before leaving. After Adelaide had shown him to the door, making no

more noise than a shadow, Mrs. Holland sat for a while in the parlor, reading once again the document that the lawyer had brought her. Then she put away her teeth, after first rinsing them in the teapot, put on her cloak, and set out to look for the premises of Hammond and Whitgrove, Bankers, of Winchester Street.

The third of our new acquaintances was called Matthew Bedwell. He had been second mate on a tramp ship in the Far East, but that was a year or more ago. At the moment, he was in a sorry state.

He was wandering through the maze of dark streets behind the West India Docks, a kit bag slung over his shoulder, a thin jacket done up tight against the cold.

He had a slip of paper in his pocket with an address on it. From time to time he took this out and checked the name of the street he was in, before putting it back and moving on a little way. Anyone watching him would have thought he was drunk; but there was no smell of alcohol around him, and his speech was not slurred, and his movements were not clumsy. A more compassionate observer would have thought him ill or in pain, and that would have been nearer the mark. But if anyone had seen into his mind and sensed the chaos that reigned in that dark place, they would have thought it remarkable that he managed to keep going at all. There was one idea, flickering dimly like a candle in the swirl of dreams and fears that blew around it. Just one, and it had brought him twelve thousand miles to London—but it was burning very low.

Then something happened that nearly put it out for good.

Bedwell was passing through an alley in Limehouse—a narrow, cobbled place, the bricks black with soot and crumbling with damp—when he caught sight of an open door, with an old man squatting motionless on the step. The old man was Chinese. He was watching Bedwell, and as the sailor came past, he jerked his head slightly and said, "Wantee smoke?"

Bedwell felt every cell in his body strain toward the doorway. He swayed and closed his eyes, and then said, "No. No wantee."

"Good number one smoke," said the Chinaman.

"No. No," repeated Bedwell, and forced himself onward and out of the alley. Once again he consulted his piece of paper; once again he moved forward a hundred yards or so before doing it again. Slowly but surely he made his way west, through Limehouse and Shadwell, until he found himself in Wapping. Another check, and then a pause. The light was fading; he had little strength left. There was a public house nearby, its yellow gleam cheering the drab pavement and drawing him in like a moth.

He paid for a glass of gin and sipped it as if it were medicine—unpleasant but necessary. No, he decided, he could go no farther tonight.

"I'm looking for a lodging house," he said to the barmaid. "Any chance of finding one hereabouts.^"

"Two doors along," said the barmaid. "Mrs. Holland's place. But—"

"That'll do," said Bedwell. "Holland. Mrs. Holland. I'll remember that."

He shouldered his kit bag again.

"Are you all right, dearie?" said the barmaid. "You

don't look too good. Treat yerself to another gin, go on."

He shook his head automatically and went out.

Adelaide answered his knock and led him silently to a room at the back of the house, over the river. The walls were sodden with damp, the bed was filthy, but he knew nothing of that. Adelaide gave him a stump of candle and left him alone, and as soon as the door was shut he fell to his knees and tore open the kit bag. For the next minute or so his shaking hands worked busily—and then he lay on the bed, breathed deeply, and felt everything dissolve and soak away into oblivion. Very soon, he was lost in a profound sleep. Nothing would awaken him for the best part of twenty-four hours. He was safe.

But he had nearly given up in Limehouse; the Chinaman, the smoke . . . An opium den, of course. And Bed-well was a slave to the mighty drug.

He slept, and something of great importance to Sally slept with him.

The Gentleman of Kent

Three nights later, sally had the nightmare again.

And yet it wasn't a nightmare, she felt herself protesting: it was too real. . . .

The terrible heat.

She couldn't move—she was bound hand and foot in the darkness. . ..

Footsteps.

And the screaming, starting so suddenly, and so close to her! Endless screaming and screaming—

The light. Flickering toward her. A face behind it—two faces—blank sheets of white with open, horrified mouths—nothing more—

Voices from the dark: "Look! Look at him! My God—"

And then she woke.

Or rather, surfaced like a swimmer in mortal fear of drowning. She heard herself sobbing and gasping, and remembered: There's no father. You're alone. You must do without him. You must be strong.

With an enormous effort she made herself stop crying. She pushed aside the suffocating bedclothes and let the

cold night air drench her with chill. Only when she was truly shivering, the nightmare heat gone, did she cover herself again; but it was a long time before she slept.

Next morning, another letter arrived. She evaded Mrs. Rees as soon as breakfast was over and opened the letter in her bedroom. It had been forwarded by the lawyer, like the previous one, but the stamp was British this time, and the writing educated. She took out the single sheet of cheap paper—and sat up sharply.

Foreland House Kent

October 10, 1872 Dear Miss Lockhart,

We have not met—you have never heard my name—and only the fact that, many years ago, I knew your father well, could excuse my writing to you. I read in the newspaper of the unfortunate affair at Lockhart and Selby's in the City, and I recalled that Mr. Temple of Lincoln's Inn used to be your father's lawyer. I trust that this letter will reach you. I understand that your father is no more; please accept my deep condolences.

But the fact of his death, and certain circumstances in my own recent affairs, make it necessary for me to speak to you as a matter of urgency. I can say no more at the moment than the three facts that, first, it concerns the Indian Mutiny; second, that an item of incalculable value is involved; and finally, that your personal safety is at present under a deadly threat.

Please, Miss Lockhart, take care, and heed this warning. For the sake of my friendship with your father—for the sake of your own life—come, as soon as you can, and hear what I have to say. There are reasons why I cannot come to you.

Allow me to sign myself as what I have been, without your

knowledge, throughout your life: namely.

Your good friend, George Marchbanks

Sally read it twice, astonished beyond measure. If her father and Mr. Marchbanks had been friends, why had she not heard his name until the letter from the Far East.^ And what was this danger?

The Seven Blessings ...

Of course! He must know what her father had discovered. Her father had written to him, knowing that a letter would be safe there.

She had a little money in her purse. Putting on her cloak, she went downstairs quietly and left the house.

She sat in the train, feeling as if she were at the beginning of a military campaign. She was sure that her father would have planned it coolly, staking out lines of communication and strongholds, forging alliances—well, she must do the same.

Mr. Marchbanks claimed to be an ally. And, at the very least, he would be able to tell her something; nothing was worse than not knowing the threat that hung over you....

She watched the gray edge of the city give way to the edge of the gray countryside and gazed at the sea to her left. There were never less than five or six ships visible, scudding up the Thames estuary before a brisk east wind, or steaming efFortfully down into the teeth of it.

The town of Swaleness was not very large. She decided not to take a cab from the station but to save her money and walk, having learned from the porter that Foreland

House was an easy step away, not more than a mile; go along the sea front and then take the river path, he said. She set out at once. The town was cheerless and cold, and the river a muddy creek that wound its way among salt flats before entering that distant line of gray that was the sea. The tide was out; the scene was desolate, with only one human being to be seen.

This was a photographer. He had set up his camera, together with the little portable darkroom that all photographers of the time had to use, right in the center of the narrow path beside the river. He looked like an amiable young man, and since she could see no sign of a foreland, far less a house on it, she decided to ask him the way.

"You're the second person who's passed me already going that way," he said. "The house is over there—a long, low place." He pointed to a grove of stunted trees half a mile farther on.

"Who was the other person.^" asked Sally.

"An old woman who looked like one of the witches from Macbeth, " he said. This allusion was lost on Sally; seeing her puzzlement, he went on. "Wrinkled, don't you know, and hideous, and so forth."

"Oh, I see," she said.

"My card," said the young man. He produced the white slip of pasteboard deftly from nowhere, like a conjurer. It

read FREDERICK GARLAND, PHOTOGRAPHIC ARTIST, and

gave an address in Lx)ndon. She looked at him again, liking him; his face was humorous, his straw-colored hair stiff and tousled, his expression alert and intelligent.

"Forgive my asking," she said, "but what are you photographing?"

"The landscape," he said. "Not much of one, is it? I

wanted something dismal, d'you see. I'm experimenting with a new combination of chemicals. I've got an idea that it'll be more sensitive in recording this kind of light than the usual stuff."

"Collodion," she said.

"That's right. Are you a photographer?"

"No, but my father used to be interested. .. . Anyway, I must get on. Thank you, Mr. Garland."

He smiled cheerfully and turned back to his camera.

The path curved, following the muddy bank of the river, and finally brought her out behind the grove of trees. There, as the photographer had described it, was the house, covered in peeling stucco, with several tiles missing from the roof; the garden, too, was overgrown and untidy. A more unhappy-looking place she had never seen. She shivered slightly.