The Ruby in the Smoke, Page 5

  He told her what had happened. She did not look up, but her eyes widened.

  "I've got to look for Miss Lockhart, 'cause he said so," she said when he'd finished. "Only I mustn't tell Mrs Holland, else she'll kill me."

  "Well, tell me what he bloody said, go on!"

  She did - haltingly, little by little; for she had nothing of Jim's fluency, and she was so unused to being listened to that she hardly knew how loud to speak. Jim had to prompt her to repeat much of it.

  "Right," he said eventually. "I'll fetch Miss Lockhart, and you can talk to her. All right?"

  "I can't," she said. "I can't never get away except when Mrs Holland sends me out. She'll kill me."

  "Course she won't bleedin' kill yer! You'll have to come out, else--"

  "I can't," she said. "She killed the last little girl she had. She took all her bones out. She told me."

  "Well, how are you going to find Miss Lockhart, then?"

  "I dunno."

  "Oh, blimey. Well, look - I'll come through Wapping each night on me way home, and you meet me somewhere and tell me what's happened. Where can you meet me?"

  She looked down, twisting her mouth, thinking.

  "By the Old Stairs," she said.

  "All right. By the Old Stairs, every night, half-past six."

  "I gotta go now," she said.

  "Don't forget," he called. "Half-past six."

  But Adelaide had vanished.

  13, Fortune Buildings,

  Chandler's Row,

  Clerkenwell.

  Friday 25th October 1872

  Miss S. Lockhart,

  9, Peveril Square,

  Islington.

  Dear Miss Lockhart,

  I beg to inform you that I have discovered something about The Seven (7) Blessings. There is a gentleman called Mr Bedwell at present situated at Holland's Lodgings, Hangman's Wharf, Wapping, he has been taking opium and talking about you. He has also said The Seven Blessings but I do not know what it means. The landlady is Mrs Holland, she is not to be trusted. If you come to the bandstand in the Clerkenwell Gardens tomorrow at half-past two I can tell you more.

  I beg to remain,

  Your humble and obedient servant,

  J. Taylor Esquire (Jim).

  Thus Jim, after the best models of clerkly correspondence. He posted the letter on Friday, in the confident expectation (this was the nineteenth century, after all) of its being delivered before the day was out, and of Sally's tomorrow being the same as his.

  Holland's Lodgings,

  Hangman's wharf,

  Wapping.

  25th October 1872

  Samuel Selby, Esquire,

  Lockhart and Selby,

  Cheapside,

  London.

  Dear Mr Selby,

  I have the honour to represent a gentleman, who has certain information, concerning your enterprises in the East, this gentleman wishes it known, that he will be obliged to publish what he knows in the papers, unless certain conditions is agreed to. As a sample of his knowledge he has asked me to mention the schooner Lavinia, and a sailor named Ah Ling. Hoping this proposal is agreeable to you, and this finds you as it leaves me, Yours truly,

  M. Holland (Mrs)

  P.S. An early reply would be appreciated by all.

  Thus Mrs Holland, on her return (empty-handed, but not unsatisfied) from Swaleness.

  Sally stood under the inadequate shelter of a nearly bare lime tree in Clerkenwell Gardens and waited for Jim. The rain had already soaked her cloak and hat, and was now insinuating itself down her neck. In order to come out at all she had had to disobey Mrs Rees; she dreaded the reception that awaited her return.

  But she did not have long to wait. Presently Jim came running, even wetter than she was, and tugged her over to the empty bandstand that stood on a patch of soggy grass.

  "Under 'ere," he said, lifting a loose panel in the side of the little stage.

  He dived into the gloom like a ferret. She followed him more carefully through the tunnels of folding chairs, and arrived at a cave-like hollow where he was already lighting a stump of candle.

  She settled down opposite him. The floor was dusty, but dry, and the rain drummed on the stage overhead as he set the candle carefully upright between them.

  "Well?" he said. "D'you want to hear, or not?"

  "Of course I do!"

  Jim repeated all that Adelaide had told him, but more crisply. He was good with words; the Penny Dreadful had taught him well.

  "What d'you think of that, then?" he said when he came to the end.

  "Jim, it must be right! Mrs Holland - it's the woman Major Marchbanks told me about. Yesterday, in Kent -"

  She told him what had happened.

  "A ruby," he said, awestruck.

  "But I don't see how it ties in with the rest of it. I mean, Major Marchbanks had never heard of The Seven Blessings."

  "And this bloke of Adelaide's never said nothing about a ruby. Maybe there's two mysteries, and not one. Maybe there's no connection."

  "But there is a connection," said Sally. "Me."

  "And Mrs Holland."

  There was a pause. "I'll have to see him," said Sally.

  "You can't. Not while Mrs Holland's got him. Oh, yeah! I forgot - he's got a brother who's a parson. His name's Nicholas. They're twins."

  "The Reverend Nicholas Bedwell," said Sally. "I wonder if we could find him. Perhaps he could get his brother out..."

  "He's a slave to opium," said Jim. "And Adelaide says he's terrified of Chinamen. Whenever he sees a Chinaman in his visions, he screams."

  They fell silent for a moment.

  "I wish I hadn't lost that book," said Sally.

  "You never lost it. She had it pinched."

  "She did? But it was a man. He got in at Chatham."

  "Why would anyone want a scruffy old book unless they knew what was in it? Of course it was her doing."

  Sally blinked; why hadn't she made this connection? But once he had said it, it was obvious.

  "So she's got the book," she said. "Jim, it's going to drive me mad! What on earth does she want it for?"

  "You ain't half slow," he said severely. "It's that ruby she wants. What's it say on that bit o' paper he left behind?"

  She showed him.

  "There you are. 'Take it,' he says. He's hidden it somewhere away from her, and he's telling you where it is. And I'll tell you something, and all - if she wants the Ruby, she'll be back for this."

  On the following evening, three people sat in the kitchen at Holland's Lodgings, where a filthy iron range gave off a tropical glow. One of the three was Adelaide, and Adelaide didn't count; she sat in the corner disregarded. Mrs Holland sat at the table, turning the leaves of Major Marchbank's book; and the third person was a visitor, seated in the armchair by the range, alternately sipping a mug of tea and mopping his brow. He wore a bright check suit. There was a brown bowler hat at the back of his head, and a sparkling pin in his cravat.

  Patting her teeth into place, Mrs Holland spoke.

  "Nice job o' work, Mr Hopkins," she said. "Very neatly done."

  "Dead easy," said the visitor modestly. "She fell asleep, see. All I had to do was lift it off her little lap."

  "Very nice. How'd yer like another job?"

  "Any time, Mrs H. Always ready to oblige."

  "There's a lawyer up in Hoxton. Name of Blyth. He done a piece of business for me last week, only it went wrong, 'cause he'd been careless. That's what I had to go to Kent for, to sort it out."

  "Oh?" said the man, with delicate interest. "You'd like this lawyer given a ticking-off, is that it?"

  "That's about the size of it, Mr Hopkins."

  "Well, I think I could manage that," he said comfortably, blowing on his tea. "That - er - curious, is it, that book?"

  "Not to me," said Mrs Holland. "I know this story off by heart."

  "Oh?" said Mr Hopkins carefully.

  "But it'd be interesting to that young lady. I dare say t
hat if she was to read this, it would be a first-rate disaster. All my plans would come to nothing."

  "Oh, really?"

  "So I think she better have an accident."

  Silence. He shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

  "Well," he said at length, "I ain't sure as I wants to know about that, Mrs Holland."

  "And I ain't sure you've got much choice, Mr Hopkins," she said, flicking through the pages. "Dear me, these pages is loose. I hope you didn't lose none of 'em."

  "I don't understand, Mrs H. I ain't got much choice about what?"

  But she had stopped listening. Her ancient eyes had narrowed; she read the last page of the book, turned back, flicked through the rest, read it again, held the book up and shook it, and finally flung it down with a curse. Mr Hopkins backed away nervously.

  "What's the matter?" he said.

  "You bleedin' oily popinjay. You tailor's dummy. You gone and lost the most important page in the whole bleedin' book!"

  "I thought you said as how you knew it all by heart, ma'am?"

  She thrust the book at him.

  "Read this, if yer can. Read it!"

  Her horny old finger jabbed at the last paragraph in the book. He read it aloud.

  "I have therefore withdrawn the Ruby from the Bank. It is the only chance I have left of redeeming myself and saving something from the wreck of my life. The Will I made, under the directions of that woman, has been annulled; her lawyer failed to foresee a way out of the contract I signed. I shall die intestate. But I mean you to have the stone. I have hidden it, and to make doubly sure, I shall conceal its whereabouts in a cipher. It is in -"

  There was no more. He stopped and looked at her.

  "Yes, Mr Hopkins," she said, smiling. "You see what you done?"

  He quailed.

  "It weren't in the book, ma'am," he said. "I swear it!"

  "I said something about an accident, didn't I?"

  He gulped.

  "Well, like I say, I--"

  "Oh, you'll manage a little accident for her. You'll do that all right, Mr Hopkins. One look at the paper tomorrow, and you'll do whatever I want."

  "What d'you mean by that?"

  "Wait and see," she said. "You're going to get that piece of paper - she'll have it somewhere - and then you're going to finish her off."

  "I ain't," he said unhappily.

  "Oh, you are, Mr Hopkins. You take my word for it."

  Chapter Seven

  THE CONSEQUENCES OF FINANCE

  It did not take Mr Hopkins long to find the story in the newspaper. It seemed to leap out of the page at him, accompanied by alarm bells, police whistles and the clink of handcuffs.

  MYSTERIOUS DEATH OF RETIRED MAJOR.

  HOUSEKEEPER TELLS OF MAN IN CHECK SUIT.

  A SURVIVOR OF THE MUTINY.

  The Kent Police were alerted this morning to the mysterious death of Major George Marchbanks, of Foreland House, Swaleness.

  His body was discovered by his housekeeper, Mrs Thorpe, in the library of his isolated dwelling. He had apparently been shot. An empty pistol was found nearby.

  The Major lived a retired life, and his housekeeper was his only servant. According to a statement made by Superintendent Hewitt of the Kent Constabulary, the police are anxious to trace a man in a check suit, with a bowler hat and a diamond pin. This man visited Major Marchbanks on the morning of his death, when it is believed that an altercation took place.

  Major Marchbanks was a widower, with no surviving family. He served in India for many years...

  Mr Hopkins was overcome with rage, and had to sit down and catch his breath.

  "You old crab," he muttered. "You spider. You calculating old bitch. I'll..."

  But he was caught, and he knew it. If he failed to do as she wanted, Mrs Holland would manufacture some cast-iron evidence that would send him to the gallows for a murder he didn't commit. He sighed heavily, and went at once to change his clothes for a new serge suit in dark blue, wondering what this game was that Mrs Holland was playing. If murder was one of the stakes, what must the prize be worth?

  Mrs Rees's maid Ellen hated Sally, and didn't know why. Spite and envy were at the bottom of it, and the whole bundle of feelings was so uncomfortable that when she was offered a justification for her antipathy, she seized it at once without examining it too closely.

  This justification was provided by Mr Hopkins. Mrs Holland had ferreted Sally's address out of the lawyer's clerk, and Mr Hopkins's smoothness of manner did the rest. He represented himself to Ellen as a police detective, and told her that Sally was a thief who had stolen some letters - a matter of such delicacy - family very highly connected - the slightest breath of scandal - the noblest in the land, etc. All that, of course, means nothing, but it was the sort of thing that filled the pages of the magazines that Ellen read, and she lapped it up at once.

  Their conversation took place on the area steps. She was very soon persuaded that her duty to herself, her mistress, and her country lay in admitting Mr Hopkins secretly to the house after everyone had gone to bed. Accordingly, towards midnight, she opened the kitchen door, and Mr Hopkins, fortified by a quantity of brandy, found his way upstairs to the door of Sally's room. He had some experience at this game, though he preferred the clean, manly sport of picking pockets, and he made no noise at all. Signalling to the maid to go on up to bed and leave him to his task, he settled down to wait on the landing until he was certain that Sally was asleep. A silver flask kept watch with him; it had made two journeys to his lips, and come back lighter, before he judged it time to move.

  He turned the handle of her door and opened it no more than eighteen inches. Beyond that, Ellen had told him, it squeaked. A gaslamp in the square outside gave sufficient light through the thin curtains for him to be able to see most of the room, and he stood quite still for two minutes, getting his bearings, being particularly careful about the floor; there was nothing worse than a loose edge of carpet, or a hastily dropped article of clothing.

  The only sound in the room was Sally's quiet breathing. Occasionally the rattle of a late cab came from the road outside, but nothing else was stirring.

  Then he moved. He knew where she kept her papers; Ellen had been very free with her information. Hopkins emptied Sally's bag on the carpet, finding it heavier than he expected. And then he found the pistol.

  He gaped for a moment, thinking he'd come to the wrong room. But there was Sally, sleeping only four feet away... He picked up the weapon and tested its balance.

  "You little beauty," he said silently. "I'm having you."

  It went into his pocket, together with every scrap of paper in sight. Then he stood and looked around. Should he check all the drawers? But they might be full of papers, and what would he do then? After all, of all the bloody stupid things to ask a man to steal, a piece of bloody paper took the bloody biscuit. Now the pistol - that was worth having.

  But he wasn't going to kill Sally for it. He looked down at her. Pretty girl, he thought; only a kid. Be a shame when Mrs Holland catches up with her. But she can arrange her own accidents; I'm not playing that game.

  He left as silently as he'd come, and not a soul heard him go.

  But he didn't go far.

  As he rounded a dark corner in the wilderness of streets behind Holborn, an arm encircled his neck, a foot swept his legs from under him, and a very heavy knee plummeted into his midriff. It was too sudden; and the knife that slid into his ribs was cold, very much too cold, and froze his heart at once; and all he had time to think was, "Not the gutter - my new coat - the mud..."

  Hands ripped the new coat open and plunged into the pockets. A watch and chain; a silver flask; a gold sovereign, and some copper; a diamond pin in the cravat; a few scraps of paper; and what was this? A gun? A voice laughed lightly, and footsteps died away.

  And presently it rained. Little scraps of anguish still fluttered in Henry Hopkins's brain; but it was not long before they settled into baffled oblivion as the blood tha
t sustained them leaked away, out of the hole in his breast, and his life mingled with the dirty water in the gutter, and then plunged into the sewers and the darkness.

  "Ah," said Mrs Rees at breakfast, "our dear guest has descended. And strangely early, for the toast has not yet come. Usually it is all but cold when you arrive. But there is bacon - will you have bacon? And could you contrive to leave it on the plate, unlike the kidneys of yesterday? Though bacon rolls less well than kidneys, I dare say you could force it off the plate if--"

  "Aunt Caroline, I have been robbed," said Sally.

  The old woman looked at her with intense and savage surprise.

  "I do not understand," she said.

  "Someone has come into my bedroom and stolen something. Many things."

  "Did you hear that, Ellen?" said Mrs Rees to the maid, who had just brought in the toast. "Miss Lockhart claims to have been robbed in my house. And does she blame my servants? Do you blame my servants, miss?"

  The question was addressed in such a furious tone that Sally nearly quailed.

  "I don't know who to blame! But when I woke up I found my bag upset all over the floor, and several things missing. And--"

  Mrs Rees had gone red. Sally had never seen anyone so angry; she thought the old woman had gone completely insane, and took a step backwards in fright.

  "See, Ellen, see! She repays our hospitality by pretending to be the victim of a robbery! Tell me, Ellen: was the house broken into? Are there shattered windows, and footprints? Are any other rooms disturbed? Tell me, child. I will not wait a moment for an answer. Tell me at once!"

  "No, ma'am," said the maid in a pious whisper, looking everywhere but at Sally. "I promise you, Mrs Rees. Everything's where it should be, ma'am."

  "On your promise at least I may rely, Ellen. Then tell me, miss," turning back to Sally, her face now twisted like some tribal mask, pale eyes bulging and papery lips drawn up in a sneer, "tell me why these robbers who did not enter the house should select you for their imaginary attentions? What did you have that anyone would want?"

  "Some papers," said Sally, who was now shaking from head to foot. She could not understand it: Mrs Rees seemed possessed.

  "Some papers? Some papers? You wretched girl - papers - let me see the scene of the crime. Let me see it. No, Ellen, I can rise without assistance. I am not so old that all the world may take advantage of my weakness - out of my way, girl, out of my way!"