The Ruby in the Smoke (19 page)

Frederick threw him a coin and sat down.

"What do they know about it.^" he said.

"He went off on Friday to look at a schooner near Bow Creek somewhere. He took a skiff at Brunswick Pier, and it never come back. Nor did the boatman. That big feller o' Mrs. Holland's was with him up till the pier, but he never went on the skiff, 'cause there's a witness as saw him waiting. What d'you think of that, then.^"

"Blimey," said Frederick. "And you think it was the man from the Warwick Hotel?"

"Course it was. Stands to reason."

"And did you tell the police that.?"

"What for,?" said Jim scornfully. "Let 'em whistle."

"Jim, this is murder."

"Selby was a villain," said Jim. "He sent her dad to his death, remember? He don't deserve no better. That ain't murder—that's natural justice*^'

They both looked at Sally. She felt that if she said yes, we'll go to the police, the other two would agree. But a part of her mind insisted that if they did, she would never learn the truth.

"No," she said. "Not yet."

"This is dangerous," said Frederick.

"To me, not you."

"That's why I'm concerned," he retorted angrily.

"You don't understand. And I can't explain. Oh, please, Frederick, let me find my own way through this!"

He shrugged. "What d'you think, Jim?"

"She's mad. Best leave her be, in case it's catching."

*'AI1 right. But Sally, will you promise always to let me know what you're going to do, and where you are? If you're determined to thrust yourself into danger, I want to know about it."

"All right. I promise."

"Well, that's something anyway. Jim, what are you going to do today?"

"Dunno. Hang about and annoy people, I expect."

"D'you want to see how to set up the camera and take a photograph?"

"Yes, please!"

"Come on, then . . ."

They went into the studio and left Sally to herself. She turned to the newspaper, intending to look at the financial news. But her eye was caught by a headline; she started to read; and within a minute she was on her feet, white and trembling.

Mysterious Attack on Clergyman

OXFORD BROTHERS IN MURDER MYSTERY

An extraordinary series of events took place in Oxford on Saturday last, culminating in the murder of the brother of a local clergyman.

The murdered man, Mr. Matthew Bedwell, was staying with his twin brother, the Reverend Nicholas Bed-well, Curate of St. John's, Summertown.

The events began with a vicious and unprovoked attack on the Reverend Bedwell as he visited an elderly parishioner. Entering the lane which led to the invalid's cottage, the curate was set upon by a well-built man wielding a dagger.

Despite injuries to his arms and face, the Reverend Bed-well managed to fight off the assailant, who promptly vanished. Mr. Bedwell repaired to a doctor, but meanwhile, a message had arrived at the vicarage, requesting his brother to meet him by the river in Port Meadow nearby.

Thus lured out, Mr. Matthew Bedwell left the vicarage at three o'clock, and was never again seen alive. Shortly after seven in the evening, a waterman found his body in the river. His throat had been cut.

The victim of this desperate murder was a sailor, and had recently returned from a voyage to the East Indies. He and his brother were identical twins, and it is thought that this fact may explain the earlier attack upon the Reverend Bed-well; but the circumstances remain obscure.

Sally put down the paper and ran to find Frederick.

They wrote at once to Nicholas Bedwell and spent the rest of the day working quietly. No one had much to say, not even Jim. Rosa left for the theater earlier than usual.

Jim had made himself so useful that they asked him to stay for supper. He went out with Trembler and Adelaide to the Duke of Cumberland, the public house around the corner, for some beer to have with the meal. Sally was cooking; they were going to have kedgeree, which was one of the only two things she knew how to cook.

Frederick had just come in from the laboratory, and Sally was preparing to lay the table, when the kitchen door flew open and Jim ran in.

"Mrs. Holland!" he gasped, out of breath. "She's got Adelaide—she was hiding 'round the corner—she grabbed her and jumped into a cab—we couldn't stop her—"

"Where's Trembler?" said Frederick, dropping the knives and forks and reaching for his coat.

"The big man knocked him down," said Jim. "It was dark—we was just coming 'round the corner there by the pub, where it's in shadder—we couldn't see nothing! She suddenly come out the alley and grabbed her, and Trembler dropped the beer and grabbed her other arm, and the big bloke took a swing at him and flattened him— he's still there as far's I know—I saw 'em shove her into a cab and it set off^ at a hell of a lick—"

"Sally, stay here," said Frederick. "Don't go out, don't answer the door, don't let anyone in."

"But—" she cried, too late; for he had gone, and Jim had gone with him. "But what about Trembler.^" she said to the empty kitchen. She looked at the steaming kedgeree, just ready to be eaten, and felt tears of frustration come to her eyes. Why should I stay here? she thought angrily; isn't it my affair?

She flung herself into the big chair and chewed her lip. What she might have done next she didn't know; but there was a rattle as the door handle turned, and she looked up startled to see Trembler, shaking and white-faced and bleeding from a cut on the cheek. She jumped up and helped him in and sat him in the armchair.

"What happened?" she said. "Jim came running and said Mrs. Holland had—"

"They got her, the bastards," he said. He was earning his name now: shaking more than her at her worst. "They grabbed hold of her, poor little scrap, and snatched her up into a bloody cab—and I couldn't even stop 'em—that big bugger hit me and I fell over. ... I tried, miss, God's truth I tried—but he was so big . . ."

"Fred and Jim have gone out after them," she said,

wringing out a cloth and holding it to his face. "They'll get her, don't you worry. Fred won't let anything happen to her. She'll be safe back here within an hour."

"Gawd, miss, I hope you're right. It's my fault. I didn't ought to have let her come. She's a lovely little thing . . ."

"Hush, don't blame yourself. Of course it wasn't your fault. It wasn't anyone's. Look—supper's ready, and there's no one to eat it but us. Are you going to have some?

"I dunno if I can. I ain't hungry anymore."

Nor was Sally; but she made him have some, and ate some herself. Neither sfK)ke until they had finished. Then he pushed his plate away and said, "Very tasty. Very nice." It had only taken them five minutes to eat.

"How's your cheek?" she said.

His eye was closing. "Bloody useless, I am," he muttered as she dabbed at it gently with a damp piece of flannel. "Can't do anything right."

"Don't be silly," she said. "This place would fall to pieces without you, and you know it. So stop feeling sorry for yourself."

She put down the flannel and suddenly found herself in the grip of an idea. She had to sit down: she had begun to tremble.

"What is it?" said the little man.

"Trembler, will you do something for me?"

"What?"

"I—" She didn't know how to put it. "Trembler, you know what happened when I went to the opium den with Fred?"

"Yes. You told us. Why? You ain't planning on going there again?"

"No. I don't have to. I've got some opium here. . . .

When Reverend Bedwell asked me to get some, I—well, I put a bit aside. I knew I'd have to go through it again. I've been steeHng myself. I won't know how Mrs. Holland comes into it unless I do. I'll have to bring on my Nightmare, you see. I was going to put it off and put it off and hope she just went away, but she hasn't. And it's all coming to a head and ... I want to do it now. Will you stay with me?"

"What—you're going to smoke the stuff here?"

"It's the only way I'll ever find the truth. Please, Trembler. Will you stay here and look after me?"

He swallowed hard. "Course I will, miss. But supposing it goes wrong? What'll I do?"

"I don't know. I trust you, Trembler. Just . . . hold me, perhaps."

"All right, miss. I'll do it."

She jumped up and kissed him, and then ran to the cupboard in the corner. The opium was wrapped in a piece of paper behind the Toby jug on the top shelf, and she had to stand on a chair to get it. She had kept a piece about the size of the tip of her little finger, and she had no idea whether that was too much, or not enough, nor how to smoke it in the first place, since she didn't have a pipe ...

She sat at the table and pushed the plates aside. Trembler drew up a chair and sat opposite her, moving the lamp so that it shone clearly on the red oilcloth. The fire was banked up and the kitchen was warm; but to make it more secure she locked the door. Then she unwrapped the opium.

"Last time," she said, "I just happened to breathe in the fumes from someone else's pipe. Perhaps there's no need

for me to actually smoke it. ... If I just set light to it and breathe the fumes, like I did before. . . . Or maybe I ought to make sure. This is all I've got. What do you think?"

He shook his head. "I dunno, miss," he said. "My mum used to give me laudanum for the toothache when I was a boy. But that's all I know about it. They smoke it like tobacco, do they.^"

"I don't think so. The people I saw at Madame Chang's were all lying on beds, and a servant was holding the pipe for them. And lighting the opium. Perhaps they couldn't hold it for themselves. If I put it on a plate ..."

She jumped up and brought an enameled plate to the table, and then took the box of matches from, the shelf over the fire.

"I'll just hold the match to it," she said. "Then if I fall asleep or something, the match will drop on the plate and it won't matter."

She took a clean fork and pierced the sticky little ball of resin, and then held it over the plate.

"Here goes," she said.

She struck a match and held it to the opium. Her hands were perfectly steady, she saw. The flame curled up around the drug, blackening the surface; and then it began to fume and bubble. She leaned forward and breathed in deeply, and was instantly overcome with dizziness. She blinked and shook her head, and felt sick, and then the match went out.

She dropped it on the plate and reached for another.

"All right, miss?" said Trembler.

"Could you light the match for me and hold it under the opium?"

"Righto. Are you sure you want to go ahead with it?"

"Yes. I've got to. Just keep lighting matches—keep it smoking."

He struck a match and held it in place. She leaned forward, resting her arms on the table and pulling back her hair so that it wouldn't catch fire, and then breathed in deeply. The smoke tasted sweet, she thought, and bitter at the same time; and then the Nightmare began.

Wapping in those days was very like an island. On one side was the river, and on the other side were the docks and their entrances. To get into Wapping, therefore, you had to cross a bridge—and they were not solid, imposing structures like London Bridge, made of stone or brick, but lighter ones of iron and wood. And they all moved: they were swingbridges, or hydraulic bridges, and from time to time they swung aside or elevated themselves out of the way of the ships moving in and out of the docks. There were seven of these bridges: seven ways in, and seven ways out. It was an easy matter to put a man by each of them. There were plenty of people who owed Mrs. Holland favors, and plenty more who were frightened of her.

Frederick's cab, with Jim clinging excitedly to the apron, rattled across the swingbridge over Wapping Entrance, the channel that led into the larger of the two London docks. Neither Frederick nor Jim noticed the two men by the winch on the right-hand side.

"Where to, guv?" the cabman shouted down.

"Stop here," called Frederick. "This'U do—we'll walk the rest."

They paid the driver, and the cab turned and drove back the way it had come. Frederick wished that he had more money with him, so as to keep the cab waiting there.

but he had only just enough to pay for the fare as it was.

"What are we going to do?" said Jim. "I know where her house is. I been spying."

"I'm not sure," said Frederick. "Let's go and see what's happening. . . ."

They hurried along Wapping High Street, between the high, dark warehouses and the overhanging gantries and pulleys that swung above them like the equipment for some multiple execution. After a minute or two they were at the corner of Hangman's Wharf, and then Frederick held out his hand to stop them.

"Wait," he said.

He looked around the corner and tugged urgently at Jim's arm.

"Look!" he whispered. "Just in time—they're just arriving—she's getting out of the cab, and she's got Adelaide with her—"

"What are we going to do?" whispered Jim.

"Come on! Let's just grab her and run!"

Frederick leaped forward, and Jim followed at once. It was only a matter of twenty yards or so to the entrance of Holland's Lodgings, and Frederick ran lightly. Mrs. Holland was still fumbling with her keys when he reached her.

"Adelaide!" he cried, and Mrs. Holland turned in a flash. "Run! Go with Jim!"

Jim hurtled up, full pelt, and seized her hand. He tried to drag her away, but she hung back, paralyzed.

"Come onV he cried, and pulled harder, and finally she went. They ran for the corner of the street and vanished—and then Frederick saw why Mrs. Holland had not moved, and why she was smiling at him; for standing

right behind him, holding a short stick, was the big man, Jonathan Berry. Frederick looked around—but he was trapped. There was no way out.

The corner Jim had turned was not one Adelaide would have chosen: it led them into a blind alley. But she was dazed by panic and went where he pulled her.

The place was called Church Court. It was curved, so Jim could not see the closed end, and in any case it was nearly in total darkness. When he got to the end he stumbled over a heap of refuse, ran his hands up the dark brickwork, and cursed.