Masked by Moonlight (21 page)

T
he world seemed to grind to a halt until Thursday. Georgia nearly ran to breakfast Thursday morning, eager to see the Bandit episode printed in the
Herald.
It appeared exactly as she had written it. If Stuart suspected anything or was annoyed with her call for an impromptu celebration on the docks that night, he showed none of it. As a matter of fact, he was up and at the offices long before she even woke. She laid her hand over the newsprint and prayed.
Send these words out in Your name, Father. Let Your will be done today. Raise up a throng to fill the docks, and let the police find what they need to find.

Her heart constricted as she contemplated Stuart’s fate by this time tomorrow.
Is there no way to save him from this, Lord? Turn him back from this mistake, I beg You. Can You not see Your way clear to a fate that is neither prison nor the highbinders? Can You not work a miracle?
Her soul fell upon the words she’d so long resented from Stuart:
he’s all I have in the world.

Matthew thought it would be far more difficult to locate the boxes. As head of Covington Enterprises, he found it easy to gain access to the ship’s manifest when it docked. Within an hour, he’d managed to sort out a dozen or so likely crates from the legitimate cargo. Then, by discreetly watching the unloading, noting how each crate was handled and by whom, he had narrowed it down to six by the end of the day. He had his target. Matthew went home to get ready, the first part of his role done. Now it was up to Bauers to direct the crowd Georgia had summoned.

As evening fell and he pulled on his boots, Matthew took a moment to run a finger across the glossy leather. How odd that he had to hide in a sea of Bandits tonight in order to drop that persona forever. He looked up at Thompson, who seemed to understand the irony of the moment. “I won’t be home tonight, Thompson. Not till daylight at best.”

“I gather the Bandit is facing a great challenge this evening, sir?” There was no hint of teasing in the valet’s voice.

Matthew thought of all the times throughout his life he’d kept things from Thompson, tried to outwit him. It struck him that today might be the time for a new tactic—to tell Thompson everything. To allow him to be the ally he had always quietly been. Without saying a word, Matthew got up, poured two cups of coffee from the service on the sideboard and added two sugars to one—that was how Thompson took his coffee. He offered it to him, a gesture of service to the man who had so faithfully served him.

Thompson seemed to understand what Matthew was doing, and offered a rare, wide smile. “Thank you, sir.”

“Matthew. Just Matthew will be fine.”

“Thank you…Matthew.”

He sat down opposite the valet, and they sipped their coffee in silence. “Covington Enterprises has been corrupted,” Matthew began. “Stuart Waterhouse is planning to smuggle opium into the country through our shipments, beginning tonight. Waterhouse is taking on the highbinders, powerful Chinese smugglers, and trying to undercut them. To his danger and Georgia’s.” He looked into Thompson’s face. “I care a great deal for Georgia Waterhouse.”

The valet set down his cup. “I have been waiting a long time for you to find someone, Mr. Cov…Matthew. I believe you have chosen exceptionally well.”

Matthew managed a lopsided grin. “Does one really choose such things?”

“No,” replied Thompson, “I suppose they come upon us—even when we would have chosen otherwise.” He sighed, taking another sip of coffee. Matthew remembered that Thompson had been married once. His wife had died several years earlier. Had Matthew ever truly paid attention to his grief, or just assumed that the man’s service would simply endure, at it always had?

“Waterhouse—and Covington Enterprises—will be exposed tonight. It will be an ugly evening for all of us, Stuart most of all. I doubt this division of the company will survive the month, either. I’m sorry for that.”

“Your father will not be pleased,” Thompson agreed. “But Covington Enterprises has many holdings. The fall of one office will not bring down so vast an empire.”

“So vast an empire,” Matthew echoed, the enormity of the evening pressing down upon him.

“The Bandit is a clever man. I believe he can manage it.” Thompson caught his eye with a strangely confident look. “And she is worth it.”

Matthew found himself sharing Thompson’s smile. “Yes, she most certainly is.”

While she knew it was the least dangerous, Georgia felt as though she had the most difficult task of all: keeping Stuart occupied. Even sharing the happy news of her engagement to Matthew—which provided her a bevy of small details to “pretend” the need to discuss—it was as though she and Stuart were different people. No longer the lone siblings. At first, she thought it was because Matthew had entered that very private circle, but she recognized that deceit had been the true invader.

What had come between them was not Matthew, but Stuart himself.

“What fun you shall have with new British relatives!” she said too cheerfully. “I imagine several of Matthew’s family will share your love of operetta.”

“They might at that,” said Stuart, also grasping at conversation. He checked his watch again.

“Crisis at the presses tonight?” she inquired stiffly.

“Isn’t there always?” he answered with another question—a sure sign he was on the defensive. Georgia pretended to be engrossed in her embroidery, praying for God’s sovereignty with each distracted stitch. It would be so long a night.

Still, she had come to a significant realization today: this was about more than Stuart and his faults. Today—in fact for many weeks now—she was discovering how to be Georgia Waterhouse. Not merely “the other Waterhouse,” or “Stuart’s sister.” God was granting her the gift, however painful, of becoming her own person.

Such a gift took courage of a whole other kind to receive. Not the courage of sword or whip or strength in the face of danger, but one of trust and faith and confidence. No matter what transpired tonight, none of those blessings would be taken away. Challenged, perhaps, but they were hers now, and could no longer be stolen from her. Not even by Stuart.

When she looked up from her stitches, Stuart was staring at her. “Do you love him, Peach?” he asked in a tone that tightened her throat. “Really?” The old Stuart, the wild, misguided, big-hearted child returned in his eyes.

Suddenly, for the first time ever, Georgia felt older than her brother. As though she had grown in a way he never had. Stuart had loved once—fallen madly in love—but it was always a possessive sort of craving with him. It seemed a shallow echo of what she felt for Matthew. A tinge of pity stole into the mixture of fear and anger she’d felt since she’d learned of his plans.

“Yes,” she said. “Very much.” And there, right there, was faith working itself out in her life. Faith giving her the strength to love when it was not deserved. Faith enabling her to love the sinner, yet hate the sin. Faith to grasp her life apart from Stuart, to release him to his fate, and yet still love him. “Thank you,” she said sincerely, “for extending your blessing. It means a great deal to me.”

“We’re all we have in the world,” he said, nearly hiding the hint of sadness in his eyes.

No,
she thought,
there’s where you’re wrong.

Matthew waited outside Dexter Oakman’s house until the man left around ten o’clock. While Stuart would never sully his hands with the actual dirty work, Matthew had seen him apply enough pressure that he suspected Oakman would personally oversee the transfer. Sadly enough, the man who would come out the worst for all of this was Oakman. Stuart might have the finances and wit to recover one day, but Matthew doubted Oakman would ever regain any position whatsoever.

He followed Oakman’s carriage down toward the docks and Covington Enterprises. The closer they got to the shipyards, the noisier the streets became. Bauers, who had always been resourceful, must have outdone himself, for the area was packed with loud, raucous people, many dressed as the Bandit. Slipping into the crowd, Matthew became instantly invisible.
Thompson, old man, I’ve finally mastered it,
he thought to himself, tipping his black hat in the general direction of the Palace Hotel.

Policemen were trying desperately to keep some semblance of order. If there was one thing this part of the city did well, it was raise a ruckus. Put the crowd in masks, add a generous amount of ale and inspiration, and it quickly turned into May Day chaos. In the three-block radius around Covington Enterprises, Matthew saw more policemen than he had witnessed during his entire visit.

He flattened himself against a wall as Oakman met up with two men.
Come on now, Dexter, come take your precious present home from the party.
Matthew looked around to make sure there were plenty of policemen in view. Carefully, with a few nervous glances, Oakman motioned for three of the half-dozen crates Matthew had suspected to be loaded onto a wagon.

What Oakman and his men did not know was that Matthew had loosened the bottom of each of those crates so that they would come loose when lifted. The string of curses let out when the first crate collapsed would have burned Georgia’s ears. A rainbow of Oriental silks spilled out onto the street. An expensive mistake, but it confirmed Matthew’s suspicion that the opium had been hidden inside something like fabric or fiber.

The mishap caught the attention of a few of the policemen, who made snide remarks about the careless nature of dockworkers.

The second crate caved in the instant it was lifted, signaling it contained more than just fabric. Sure enough, small paper parcels rolled out of their silk cocoons and sent Oakman into a panic. Now was the time.

Matthew lit the fuse on a firecracker wound with a wad of cotton he had purchased earlier, and tossed it into the center of the pile. The sound, one of many firecrackers going off in the melee, brought little attention. The flare, however, sent the cotton up in flames, which ignited the silk—a slower fire that resisted stamping out. It in turn ignited the real target by the time the police gathered. The pile began to give out the thick, musty odor every San Francisco policeman knew as opium smoke.

The scene reminded Matthew of the passage in his namesake’s gospel where Christ said He would separate the sheep from the goats. Within the space of a minute, the police force divided itself squarely into men trying to cover things up and men trying to find things out. Pulling off his mask and hat, Matthew stepped into the light and headed straight for the latter.

“I
’m Matthew Covington,” he said to the one who appeared to be in command. “I’ve discovered this man trying to smuggle opium into the port through my shipping, and I want him arrested along with his accomplice, immediately.”

Dexter Oakman went white. The scent of opium smoke hung in the air as he stared at Matthew.

“I’m Sergeant Dickenson, Mr. Covington.” The officer extended a hand. “And what do you mean by accomplice?”

Matthew pulled a roll of ledger papers—unaltered ledgers he’d managed to dig out of some back files at his office after considerable searching—from one of the pockets of his trousers. “A quick study of these should point straight to Stuart Waterhouse. You’ll find him at home awaiting a report from our friend here.”

Dickenson briefly riffled through the papers. “I’ll have to get someone to look at these more closely, but this is a serious charge, Mr. Covington. I wouldn’t make it lightly.”

“Nor do I set fire to my own cargo lightly, Dickenson. This was to be the first shipment Waterhouse smuggled in, but I gather with a little digging you’ll find a host set to come in behind it. I’ve marked the involved transactions in these ledgers here. I’m prepared to cooperate fully with your authorities and open up all of Covington’s books to your perusal. But I’ve found many of my books to be altered. And I guarantee you, Waterhouse will disappear within the hour if you don’t move quickly.”

Several other policemen, the ones in obvious disagreement with Dickenson’s planned course of action, came up behind them as they spoke. “I hope you know what you’re saying, Covington,” the sergeant warned. “Waterhouse is not a man to count among your enemies.”

“I know full well what I’m saying.”

Dickenson motioned to two of his colleagues. “You two, go bring in Stuart Waterhouse for questioning.” They looked as though they’d been asked to wrestle a cobra with their bare hands, but they went. “You’ll need to come with me, Covington. Highly unusual, what you’re doing.”

“You don’t want to do this,” snarled a burly older officer from behind Dickenson’s shoulder. “You might want to think this over if you like yer job.”

Dickenson caught Matthew’s eye before turning to the man. “And you might want to think about what you’ve just said in front of a witness like Mr. Covington here. Just in case any of it might happen to be true. Which I’m not saying it is. I’m sure Mr. Waterhouse will be eager to tell us his version of the facts—” he returned his gaze to Oakman “—but for now we gotta put out this fire. Nasty smellin’ stuff, it is.”

Dickenson’s glower put Oakman in a panic. “Matthew,” he said, pulling against the pair of policemen who had just taken him by the elbows, “don’t. We’ll lose everything.”

“I’ve lost nothing of real value,” Matthew replied.

Dickenson glanced again at the papers, holding them up to a gaslight in the corner. “You realize what you’re doing? You ready to tangle with Waterhouse? It could get just as nasty for you. We can stop at your friend here.”

“I’m quite certain, Sergeant. It’s a matter of some personal consequence to me.”

Dickenson sighed like a man who had just resigned himself to a very nasty fight. “I been waiting for something like this to crawl its way up to Nob Hill. Like my mama used to say, it ain’t just cream that rises to the top—grease does, too.”

“Matthew,” called Oakman, “think of your family.”

“I am,” he said calmly.
The one I will someday start with Georgia.

“You’ve a long night of questioning ahead of you, Covington,” said Sergeant Dickenson, tucking the papers into his coat pocket, “if we can carve our way through the sea of Bandits.” He pointed to the full-scale calamity enjoying itself farther up the dock. “Nice Bandit costume, by the way. You must have had a good time at Waterhouse’s ball, though—it looks a mite ragged around the edges.”

When Matthew rang the bell, Reverend Bauers opened the front door of the Waterhouse estate. The sun was just coming up. Bauers shook his hand heartily, then led him to the front parlor, where Georgia was dozing on the settee. She held a handkerchief with the initials SW embroidered on one corner in her hand.

“He’s going to be all right, Georgia,” Matthew said when she opened her eyes, thinking it was what she needed to hear.

“No,” she said, pulling herself upright, “he won’t. But God is wise and kind, and no less God than He was yesterday.” She looked at him, rumpled and dirty in his Bandit costume. Her gaze traveled to his waist. “You’ve lost your whip. And your hat—where is your hat?”

Matthew smiled. “I gave them to Quinn. My mask as well. I wanted to say thank-you to him. You should have seen him, stirring up the crowd. Besides, I won’t be needing them anymore.”

“No more Bandit adventures? Matthew, whatever shall we do now?”

“I’m afraid I haven’t the foggiest idea. Can you live with that?”

She smiled. “I imagine George and I can find a way.” She stood up and adjusted his collar, running her hand across the stubble on his chin. “Tell me, what do they eat for breakfast in England?”