The Ruby in the Smoke (8 page)

"I will not!" he shouted. "I detest all lawyers on principle, and that goes for their spotty little clerks as well—"

'Tm not talking about lawyers, you lazy oaf!" came the equally passionate voice of a young woman. "It's an accountant you need, not a bloody lawyer—and if you don't get something sorted out soon there won't be any business left at all!"

"Balderdash! Stick to your mumming, you shrieking virago—here, Trembler, there's a customer in the shop."

A little wizened man ran anxiously out, with the air of one ducking away from flying bullets. He shut the door behind him, but the shouting continued.

"Yes, miss?" came a nervous voice from behind a huge, soup-strainer mustache.

"1 came to see Mr. Garland. But if he's busy . . ."

She looked at the door, and he cowered away from it, as if expecting some missile to come hurtling through.

"You don't want me to go and fetch him, do you, miss?" he pleaded. "I daren't, honest."

"Well . . . no. I suppose not at the moment."

"Was it about a sitting, miss? We can fit you in anytime. . . ."

He was looking at an appointment book.

"No. No, it was—"

The door opened, and the little man ducked under the counter.

"Be damned to the whole tribe of—" came a roar from the photographer, and then he stopped at once. He stood in the doorway and grinned, and Sally realized that she'd forgotten how full of life and movement his face was.

"Hello!" he said, in the friendliest possible manner. "Miss Lockhart, isn't it?"

He was suddenly propelled into the shop, and there in his place stood a young woman two or three years older than Sally. Her red hair flared over her shoulders, her eyes blazed, and she held a sheaf of papers in her clenched fist. Sally thought: But she's beautiful! And so she was— astonishingly lovely.

"You're slovenly, Frederick Garland!" she stormed.

"These bills have been waiting since Easter, and what have you done about it? What have you spent the money on? What do you ever do but—"

"What do I do?" He turned back to her, his voice rising powerfully. "What do I do? I work harder than any band of painted mummers who loaf about in the back of a theater! What about the polarizing lens—d'you think I got that by whistling for it? And the gelatin process—"

"The devil take your bloody gelatin process. What do you mean, loaf? I will not have my work insulted by a second-rate . . . daguerrotypist whose only idea of art is—"

"Daguerrotypist? Second-rate? How dare you, you ranting puppet—"

"Skulking bankrupt!"

"Howling termagant!"

And the next moment he turned to Sally, as calm as a bishop, and said politely: "Miss Lockhart, may I introduce my sister, Rosa?"

Sally blinked and found herself smiling. The young woman held out her hand and smiled in return. Of course they were brother and sister—he was nowhere near as good-looking as she was, but the sheer life and energy of expression was the same in both of them.

"Have I called at a bad time?" she said.

He laughed, and the little man came out from under the counter like a tortoise out of its shell.

"No," said Miss Garland, "not at all. If you want to be photographed, you've come just in time—there might not be a business at all tomorrow."

She cast an angry glance at her brother, who waved it aside airily.

"No, I don't want to be photographed," said Sally. "In fact, I only came because . . . well, I met Mr. Garland last Friday, and . . ."

"Oh! You're the girl from Swaleness! He told me all about it."

"Can I go back to me plates now?" said the little man.

"Yes, go on, Trembler," said the photographer, seating himself calmly on the counter as the little man touched his brow nervously and scuttled out. "He's preparing some plates, you see. Miss Lockhart, and he got a little worried. My sister tried to assassinate me."

"Someone ought to," Rosa said darkly.

"She's very excitable. She's an actress—can't help it."

"I'm sorry to interrupt," said Sally. "I shouldn't have come."

"Are you in trouble?" said Rosa.

Sally nodded. "But I don't want to—"

"Is it the witch again?" asked the photographer.

"Yes. But ..." She stopped. / wonder if I dare? she thought. "Did you say—I'm sorry, but I couldn't help hearing—did you say you needed an accountant?"

"So my sister tells me."

"Of course we do," Rosa said hotly. "This photographic clown has got us into the most appalling muddle, and if we don't sort it out soon—"

"Exaggeration," he said. "It won't take long to sort out."

"Well, do it then!" she flared at him.

"I can't. I haven't got the time, I haven't got the talent, and I certainly haven't got the inclination."

"I was going to say," Sally went on diflidently, "that I'm good with figures—I used to help my father draw up his company balance sheets, and he taught me all about

bookkeeping and accounts—I'd be glad to help! I mean, I came here to ask for—for help. But if I can do something in exchange, that would be better, perhaps. I don't know."

She finished lamely, blushing. That speech had been difficult to make, but she was determined to get through it. She looked down.

"D'you mean it.^" said the girl.

"Honestly. I know I'm good with figures, or else I shouldn't have said anything."

"Then we'd be delighted," said Frederick Garland. "You see?" he said to his sister. "I told you there was nothing to worry about. Miss Lx)ckhart, you'll join us for lunch?"

Lunch, in their bohemian household, consisted of a jug of ale, the remains of a large joint of roast beef, a fruitcake, and a bag of apples, which Rosa said she had been given the night before by one of her admirers, a porter in Cov-ent Garden market. They ate it, with the help of one large pocketknife and their fingers (and empty chemical jars for the beer) at the crowded laboratory bench behind the shop. Sally was enchanted.

"You'll have to forgive 'em, miss, begging yer pardon," said the little man, whose only name seemed to be Trembler. "It ain't want of breedin', it's want of money."

"But think what the rich are missing, Trembler," said Rosa. "Who'd ever discover how delicious beef and plum cake are unless they had nothing else to eat?"

"Oh, come on, Rosa," said Frederick, "we don't starve. We've never gone without a meal. We go without washing dishes, though," he said to Sally. "A matter of principle. No dishes, no washing."

Sally wondered how they managed with soup, but

■jS The Ruby in the Smoke

didn't have time to ask, for every gap in the conversation was filled by their questions, and by the time the meal was over they knew as much as she did about the mystery. Or mysteries.

"Well, Sally, tell me this," said Frederick (somehow, during the consumption of the plum cake, they had progressed to first-name terms without noticing it). "Why don't you go to the police?"

"I don't really know. Or—yes, I do know. It's just that it seems to concern my birth—or my father's life in India—my background, anyway—and I want to keep that to myself till I know more about it."

"Of course you do," said Rosa. "The police are so stupid, Fred—it's the last thing she should do."

"You have been robbed," Frederick pointed out. "Twice."

"I'd still rather not. There are so many reasons ... I haven't even told the lawyer about being robbed."

"And now you've left home," said Rosa. "Where are you going to live.^"

"I don't know. I must find a room."

"Well, that's easy. We've got acres of space. You can have Uncle Webster's room for the time being. Trembler will show you where it is. I've got to go and rehearse now. I'll be back later!"

And before Sally could thank her, she had swept out.

"Are you sure?" said Sally to Frederick.

"Well, of course! And if we're going to be businesslike, you can pay rent for it."

She thought of the tent he'd let her hide in on the sea-front, and her foolish oflfer to pay, and found herself confused; but he was looking away and writing something on a scrap of paper.

"Trembler," he said, "could you run across to Mr. Eeles's and ask to borrow these books?"

"Righto, Mr. Fred. But there's them plates to be got up, and the magnesium."

"Do them when you come back."

The little man left, and Sally said, "Is his name really Trembler?"

"His name is Theophilus Molloy. But honestly, could you call anyone Theophilus? I couldn't. And his previous associates used to call him Trembler; I suppose the name stuck. He's an unsuccessful pickpocket. I met him when he tried to pick mine. He was so relieved when I stopped him that he practically wept with gratitude, and he's been with us ever since. But look—I think you ought to read your newspaper. I see you have a copy of The Times. Have a look at page six."

Sally, surprised, did as he said. Near the foot of the page she found a small paragraph which related the same news that Mr. Hopkins's rather brisker paper had told him the day before.

"Major Marchbanks dead?" she said. "I can't believe it. And this man—the one in the checkered suit—he was the one who stole the book! The one in the train! Do you think he'd just come from . . ."

"One of the old girl's agents," Fred said. "Probably skulking around at Swaleness. Mrs. Holland must have got a message to him. And then last night he came back for the rest of it."

"He took my gun as well."

"Naturally he would, seeing it there. But you've got a copy of the papers—let's have a look."

She opened her diary and passed it across the top of the scarred pine bench. He bent over it to read.

" '. . . a place of darkness, under a knotted rope. Three red lights shine on the spot when the moon pulls on the water. Take it. It is clearly yours by my gift, and by the laws of England. Antequam haec legis .. .' Good Lord."

"What? Can you read the Latin?"

"Don't you know what it says?"

"No, what is it?"

"It says: 'By the time you read this, I shall be dead. May my memory be . . .'—what's the word—'may I be as swiftly forgotten.' "

She felt suddenly cold. "He knew what was going to happen," she said.

"Perhaps it wasn't murder," said Frederick. "Perhaps it was suicide."

"The poor man," said Sally. "He was so unhappy." She found tears in her eyes. It was the cold, bare house, and the gentle way he'd spoken to her. . . . "I'm sorry," she said.

He shook his head and offered a clean handkerchief. When she had dried her tears, he said, "He's talking about a hiding place, you realize. He's telling you where the ruby is, and saying that it belongs to you."

"By the laws of England," she said. "Which law could make it belong to me? I can't understand."

"Nor can I—yet. And then there's the opium smoker, Mr. Bedwell. In some ways he's easier to deal with. . . . Ah, here's Trembler."

"Here you are, Mr. Fred," said Trembler, coming in with three large books. "Can I do me plates now?"

"By all means—aha— Crockford's Clerical Directory. Bedwell—Bedwell . . ."

Frederick flicked through the pages of a fat and sol-

emn-looking volume until he found what he was looking for.

" 'Bedwell, the Reverend Nicholas Armbruster. Born 1842; educated at Rugby and Balliol College, Oxford; graduated B.A., 1861, M.A., 1864; Curate of St. John's, Sum-mertown, Oxford.' "

"They're twins," said Sally.

"Exactly. I should think that if anyone can get this man out of Holland's Lodgings, it'll be his own brother. We'll go to Oxford tomorrow and see him."

During the rest of that day and evening Sally learned a little about the Garland family. He was twenty-one, she eighteen, and the house and shop belonged to their uncle, Webster Garland, who was, according to Frederick, the greatest photographer of the age. He was at present in Egypt, and Frederick was in charge, with the result that had so enraged Rosa. Trembler told her all this while she sat in the back room and began to make sense of the accounts. Frederick went out at three o'clock to take some pictures at the British Museum, and Trembler became loquacious.

"He's an artist, miss, that's the trouble," he said. "There's plenty of money in the photography game for them as wants to make it, but Mr. Fred ain't interested in yer portraits and yer weddings. I've seen him spend a whole week sitting as still as stone in one spot, waiting for the right light on a patch o' water. He's good, mind you. But he will invent things, and it swallows the money at a rate you wouldn't believe. It's Miss Rosa what keeps this place afloat."

Rosa was an actress, as Frederick had said, at present

playing in Dead or Alive at the Queen's Theater. Only a tiny part, said Trembler, but she was bound to be a star one day. With those looks, and that temperament—well, the world had no chance of resisting her. But so far the rewards were meager, though her income was the greater part of the revenue of 45 Burton Street.

"But PVederick's made quite a lot of money," said Sally, sorting through a pile of untidy receipts and scribbled bills and putting income on one side, expenditure on the other. "In fact, there's quite a lot of money coming in. But it all seems to go out again."

"If you can see a way of keeping some of that cash in, miss, you'll be doing 'em the greatest favor as could be done. For he'll never manage it."

She worked on through the afternoon, gradually reducing the chaos of unpaid bills and tattered invoices to some sort of order. She enjoyed it immensely. Here at last was something she understood and could deal with, something with a clear and straightforward meaning! Trembler brought her a cup of tea at five, and from time to time left the back room to serve a customer in the shop.

"What do you sell most of?" Sally asked.

"Photographic plates and chemicals. He laid in a great store of stereoscopes, Mr. Fred, a few months back, when he got some money for an invention. But they ain't selling. People want the pictures to go with 'em, and he's hardly got any of them."

"He ought to take some."

"You tell him, then. I've tried, but he won't listen to me."