The Empress of India (9 page)

The Rodent—Charles—was the leader of a group of street urchins called the Limehouse Coneys, who made a precarious living snatching blows, rozzers, and skins—handkerchiefs, pocket watches, and
wallets—from such gentlemen as passed through their neighborhood who were well off enough to possess such fineries. He and his associates had recently accepted another sort of employment from Dr. Pin. “They are my eyes and ears throughout London,” as Pin had explained to the Artful Codger.

“They’re nothing more than a bunch of dirty young hooligans,” Codger had responded.

“Exactly!” Dr. Pin had smiled his crafty smile. “And as such they can go anywhere and see anything. They may be met with kicks or blows, they may be forcibly ejected from here or there, but they will incite no suspicion that they are any more than they seem to be. Sneak thieves, scamps, and hooligans, yes. Spies, no. Give someone something bad to think about you and he will be satisfied, and will seldom try to imagine something worse.”

And the Coneys were performing their assignments well. For the cost of six shillings a week, Pin Dok Low had eyes and ears all over London. Such was the price of the souls of a dozen boys.

“Well, Charles?” Pin Dok Low demanded, sitting on his high red chair behind his high ebon desk and staring down unblinkingly at the young street arab. “What have you for me today?”

“There’s nuffing stirring at the Baker Street crib,” Charles replied, hat respectfully in his hands, feet together, eyes focused on the little ivory idol on the desk. “Mrs. Hudson, the landlady, she goes out and comes in ’bout twice a day. That Dr. Watson, ’e come there yesterday for a bit, kind of stared at fings in the study—you could see him fru the winder from the ’ouse across the street—and went away again. But no sign of Mr. Sherlock Holmes.”

“Welcome news,” Pin said.

“And?” “And that professor cove in Russell Square—’e’s going away.”

Pin Dok Low stood up and slapped his hands down on the desk with a sudden noise that made the Rodent jump. “Going away? What do you mean, going away?”

“I means what I says,” the Rodent said, trying not to cringe as Pin Dok Low towered over him. “ ’E put this ’ere great trunk in a growler first fing this morning and sent it off to Victoria Station, didn’t ’e? And then ’e followed ’imself with another trunk in a second growler, didn’t ’e?”

“Blast!” said Dr. Pin Dok Low. “Where on earth could the man be going?”

“India,” Charles told him. “ ’E’s going to India. Calli-cutta, as ’e said.”

“Indeed?” Pin sat slowly back down on his chair. “Calcutta, is it? And just how do you know that?”

“Didn’t I follow ’im to Victoria Station? Didn’t I wisk life and limb by ’anging on to the back of ’is growler? ’E met another cove at the station, see, and I overhears their gab.”

Pin leaned forward and fixed his gaze on Charles. “And who was the other gentleman?”

“I didn’t ’appen to ’ear that, did I? They didn’t ’appen to mention ’is name. Big, ’eavyset cove, struts about like a soldier.”

“And what did they do?”

“They booked a first-class carriage on the Continental Express. They’re going to cross the Channel tomorrow morning, and take the boat train to Paris. Then they’re going to Calli-cutta.”

“And how are they going from Paris?”

“They didn’t say, did they? I mean, they ain’t going to discuss their entire aytinny-arary standing there in front of the station, just so’s I can overhear it, now, are they?”

“And you heard nothing more?”

“No, sir,” Charles said. “Well, not much. The professor, he said as how he figures that going as far as they can by train will cut a couple of weeks off the time, ’cause of ’ow a train’s faster than what a boat is.”

“Ship,” Pin corrected automatically.

“Yessir, ship. They wants to get there before the regiment sails.”

“The regiment. Ah, of course—the regiment. Just which regiment would that be?”

“They didn’t say.”

Pin Dok Low leaned back and closed his eyes. For several minutes he said nothing, and the Rodent waited with his hat in his hand, unsure of what to do and afraid to make a sound. Finally Pin opened his eyes again. “Interesting,” he said. “But for now . . .” He leaned forward and lowered his head until his eyes were level with those of the young street arab. “You are doing well. Keep it up and don’t fail me, and you and your fellows will be adequately rewarded. Keep an eye on sixty-four Russell Square, in case Professor Moriarty should suddenly return. Keep watch on the house of Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and regularly report who goes in and comes out.”

“Yessir,” Charles the Rodent said.

“For now”—Pin scribbled a note on a sheet of foolscap, folded it, and passed it to Charles—“you know where to find the Twopenny Yob?”

“ ’Is digs is off Bensby Street.”

“Ah, yes, Barnesbury Street it is. Go and find him and give him this note.”

“Yessir,” Charles said, stuffing the note into the pocket of his tattered jacket.

“Very good.” Low reached into his pocket, pulled out a small cloth purse, and extracted a few coins. “Here’s a week’s wages for you and your boys. Be off with you now!”

The Twopenny Yob appeared at the warehouse about two hours later. “I wish you’d send your notes by someone that looks a mite more respectable,” he said. “You never know just whom I might be entertaining. I hope this is important, ’cause you pulled me away from what could be a promising evening with the pasteboards. I found me a mark from Newcastle who thinks he’s hot stuff, and I was aiming to cool him down five or ten pounds’ worth.”

“Have you ever been to India?” asked Pin Dok Low.

“Naow,” the Yob answered, stretching out the vowel until it sounded like a complaining tomcat. “What on this earth would I ever want to go to India for? I went to Paris once; it was raining. I might go back sometime when I hear the rain has stopped. I went to New York once. I was working the ocean liners. Nothing to do but play cards for upwards of three weeks. Bridge, poker, and euchre—the Americans like euchre. A man can make an honest living on the ocean liners, if he knows how to cold-stack a deck and can do a convincing second deal. On this one crossing on the
Teutonic
the purser was starting to give me the eye, so I got off at New York to wait for the next ship, whichever it might be. Got into a friendly poker game on the Bowery, and narrowly avoided getting shot. Probably won’t go back to New York. But India? I never considered India. I never intend to consider India. What has India got that I might want?”

Pin waited patiently for the Yob to stop talking. “Pack,” he said.

“Excuse me?”

“Professor Moriarty and a companion just left for Calcutta. The gold is shortly to be shipped out of Calcutta. It could be a coincidence. I don’t believe in coincidences, do you?”

“I’m with you there, Pin, but just what do you want me to do about it?”

“Does Professor Moriarty know what you look like?”

“Well, I’ve never met him formally, but with the professor you never know.”

“We’ll take the chance,” Pin said. “I want you to catch up to him and stay with him. Stalk him like you would a dangerous animal. Observe his every move; read his every thought. At the same time, I want you to remain invisible to him, and keep from him our interest in his whereabouts and his doings.” He tapped his finger on the desk. “You won’t even come close to this ideal, but approach it as nearly as possible. With an emphasis on not letting him know of our interest.”

“I see,” said the Twopenny Yob.

“Keep me informed of your progress by telegraph. Once you have established where he is, where he is going, and what he is doing, let me know and I will send someone to meet you.”

“Oh? For what purpose?”

“All in all, I think it might be wise to alter our plan in one respect. Rather than use the professor as a foil, I think we should find out what his plans are, and, if they conflict with ours, have him eliminated. Perhaps even if they don’t conflict with ours, it might be simpler.”

“Do we not need the agreement of the others for such a move?” the Yob suggested.

“I will call a meeting. But if any disagree, I will be very curious as to why. You have no problem with eliminating Professor Moriarty, I assume?”

The Twopenny Yob nodded calmly, as though Pin had just suggested stepping on a bug. “I wouldn’t want to attempt it myself,” he said. “But as I’m just to catch up to him and follow him, you can do what you think best.”

“Thank you,” Pin Dok Low said, with a slight bow. “And now you’d best be on your way.”

“And just how am I to catch up with him?”

“He and his companion just took the Continental Express to Dover. They’re planning to cross the Channel tomorrow morning. We will hire a special, which should get you to Dover sometime late tonight. With luck, you’ll be on the same ferry.”

“I’ll pack,” the Yob said. “Give me an hour.”

“I’ll see about hiring the special. Meet me at Victoria Station. You will need all your wits if you are to accomplish anything.”

“I’ll be sure to bring them along,” said the Twopenny Yob.

When ’Omer smote ’is bloomin’ lyre,
’E’d ’eard men sing by land and sea;
An’ what ’e thought ’e might require,
’E went an’ took—the same as me!
—Rudyard Kipling

W
hen the red and white carriage carrying Brigadier General Sir Edward Basilberg St. Yves, I.C., and his daughter suddenly pulled to a stop, in the middle of Kalutala Street, right past the Temple of the Seven Winds, St. Yves hitched his dress sword around to a more comfortable position, put his cocked hat carefully beside him on the seat of the coach, lowered the window, and stuck his head out as far as dignity would allow. “Blast and d-damnation,” he said after a few moments, withdrawing his head back into the carriage.

Margaret St. Yves attempted to look shocked. “Father!” she said sternly, suppressing an urge to giggle.

“It’s cows, Peg,” he said. “It’s always b-bally cows.”

“Cows?”

“In the road,” he explained, tapping on the window glass with his knuckle. “Just standing there in the middle of the b-bally road, with no interest in moving in any direction, doing their b-bally bovine-headed b-best to make us late for the viceroy’s dinner.”

“Really?” Margaret considered. “Do you suppose they’re afraid we’re going to eat one of their relatives?”

“There isn’t enough beef on any of these scrawny creatures to be worth eating,” St. Yves said. “Although I suppose if you b-boiled one for long enough you’d get some sort of stew.”

“Well, then,” Margaret suggested, “perhaps they’re trying to save us from having to listen to the viceroy’s speech. If we arrive late enough, perhaps his speech will be over.”

“No chance of that, I’m afraid,” St. Yves said, patting his daughter on the shoulder. This was as close to a show of affection as the general allowed himself.

“Oh, dear,” Peg said, letting her eyes go round. It made her look winsome and innocent, and when she was sixteen she had practiced it in front of her looking glass. “Is Sir George going to be aiming his speech at us?”

“Probably at least a small part of it,” St. Yves told her. “This burra khana is being held, at least partly, for the officers of the Duke of Moncreith’s Own, so it’s not likely that he’ll start without us.”

“Burra khana?” Margaret asked.

“Banquet or b-big feast, or something of the sort.”

“Yes, I know what it means. I’ve learned a little Hindustani, you know.”

“Yes,” St. Yves said, patting his daughter on the knee. “Quite a lot, apparently. And I do admire you for it. You’ve learned more about Indian customs and, er, that sort of thing in the past two years than I’ve picked up in the five years I’ve been here. But I will say that staying up-country with me since you arrived in India has saved you from learning about some of the more unsavory sides of Anglo-Indian life.”

“Like banquets and balls and fetes and the like?” Margaret asked, smiling.

“Exactly,” her father agreed. “Damn nuisances. Overdressed people stuffing themselves with indigestible food and making conversation about matters in which they’re not interested or know nothing whatever about.”

“Yes, Father,” Margaret agreed. “Thank you for saving me from that.”

He looked at her suspiciously, but she smiled sweetly at him and turned to peer out the window.

The three cows that had been standing in the road with their heads together, as though plotting the overthrow of some bovine autocracy, moved off in single file, in search of greener roadways. The carriage gave a jerk, and another. St. Yves pushed his nose up against the window glass. “Ah! We seem to be moving,” he said.

“Well,” Peg said, holding firmly onto the leather handstrap, “I suppose up-and-down is a form of motion.”

Brigadier General Sir Edward Basilberg St. Yves, I.C., commanding officer of the Duke of Moncreith’s Own Highland Lancers, lately returned from suppressing minor rebellions in Assam and Bhutan, sank, or rather bounced, back into the unyielding leather of his seat. Why, he wondered, was it so bally difficult to have a talk—a real man-to-ah-woman talk—with his own daughter? There were things that a parent was supposed to say to his child—that a father was supposed to say to his daughter—and St. Yves had managed to avoid saying most of them. But over the past two years, since Margaret had come out from England to join him in India, the feeling had been growing on him that something must be said. He might, for instance, say, “Peg, m’dear, we’ll be going back to England shortly. I think I shall open the house in London. Retire my commission. What would you think of that? What would you like to do, that is, with yourself, I mean?”