The Mark of the Golden Dragon (28 page)

"Did you ever do any actual work?" asks the ever practical me, cocking a knowing eye at him.

"I was, Miss, indulged, you might say, and given special privileges, due to my aptitude for learning."

"Ah."

"The taste for the high life in London was probably the cause of my rather ill-considered decision to apply for a post as steward for the wretched Captain Scroggs of the
Wolverine,
following the death of Lord Hollingsworth. After the good lord's death, I had the choice of remaining in a rather dull post at Hollingsworth Manor, tending to the needs of the young daughters of the house, who, though delightful young ladies, would soon, I knew, be heading off into marriage and leaving the estate quite bereft of any joy and excitement. I stupidly thought that a life at sea might lead to a life of some adventure."

"It did do that, Higgins," I say, laughing. "After we both had a dose of some very good luck."

"That is true, Miss. Luck that you made happen."

"Oh, bother that, Higgins, you have saved my hide many more times than I have saved yours. So anyway, what is this Kubla Khan stuff? It seems I should be familiar with it."

"Ah. Well. You have been gone from the London scene for quite some time now and it might take a while to bring you up to speed in a poetical way. I took the liberty of obtaining some copies of Mr. Coleridge's work. Here they are," he says, laying some sheets of paper on the table. "The bit that Lord Byron was referring to goes like this, if you will pardon my rather inept recitation..."

In Xanadu did Kubla Khan
A stately pleasure-dome decree:
Where Alph, the sacred river, ran
Through caverns measureless to man
Down to a sunless sea.

"Sounds good to me, Higgins, as I'm all for pleasure, though I don't know about those 'sunless seas' as I rather like my seas warm and comfortable, but sing on, Orpheo," I say, grandly waving a bread stick. "Sing on..."

"Yes, Miss ... ahem ... this from later in the poem, and more to the point of which Lord Byron was referring in relation to you the other night..."

A damsel with a dulcimer
In a vision once I saw:
It was an Abyssinian maid,
And on her dulcimer she played,
Singing of Mount Abora...

"That is good. I like it. Yet another mountain to sing of. I already do 'The Mountains of Mourne' and 'Kilgarry Mountain,' so that should fit right in."

"Indeed, Miss," says Higgins. "I had thought, given your current mode of dress and ... coiffure, you might profitably add a version of the poem to your act."

"You bet, Higgins, it's already in there, even as we speak. Now, what is a dulcimer and where can I get one? And where the hell is Abyssinia?"

"A dulcimer is a form of the classical zither. There are many about. I shall find one for you," he replies. "And Abyssinia is very close to Ethiopia, I believe."

"Ah. And this Mr. Coleridge has been there and gazed upon these Abyssinian maidens frolicking about?"

"Only in his dreams, I'm afraid. It is said that he composed the poem in an opium trance, and I do not doubt it. He was well on his way to full addiction when I knew of him back in those days." Higgins pauses to dab his napkin at his mouth. "Mr. Coleridge is now on the island of Malta. You see, Miss, it is common practice for the young men of fine families to be sent off on the Grand Tour of Europe to cure them of what the families perceive to be various personal ... eccentricities."

"Oh?"

"Yes, I have observed that it seldom works ... not as intended, at least. Generally, it makes those eccentricities more pronounced."

"And your Lord Byron?"

"Alas, yes. He, too, is to be sent off soon, as well, as an antidote to what his family perceives to be his rather wicked ways."

"Soon, Higgins?" I ask with a smile and a wink at him over the top edge of my wineglass.

"Yes, Miss, soon, but not yet..." he replies with a secret smile of his own.

There is a tap on the door, and I say, "Come in."

A dark-suited gent, unknown to both Higgins and me, enters and bows. My hand goes to my shiv and Higgins's hand slips under the lapel of his jacket to rest, I'm sure, on the grip of one of the small pistols he wears there.

"Your pardon, Miss," says this man, holding out a letter. "But I bear a message from Mr. Peel."

I relax and take the proffered letter. The man bows again and leaves. I crack the seal to open the letter...

My Dear Miss Faber,

I regret to inform you that the Black Highwayman is back on the High Road, and plying his former profession. Yesterday, he stopped the Plymouth Coach at the Kent Road and, at gunpoint, bade the gentlemen within to step out. There were two merchants, and of these he relieved them of their purses. The third was a Naval officer, a Post Captain Oliver. Of him he was most respectful and demanded of him only the gentleman's sword, which was tendered to the Highwayman, who then disappeared in a cloud of dust, the merchants' money in his sack, the Naval officer's sword slung over his back. That same sword reappeared this morning, stuck through a torn piece of paper
and thrust into the front door of the Admiralty itself. The paper, obviously taken from a broadside sheet, showed the Puss-in-Boots tattoo with the word "Vengeance!" under it ... and below that was lettered two names:

Lieutenant Alexander Bliffil
Lieutenant Henry Flashby

The Bliffil name was crudely crossed out in red ink. That was the extent of it, but all concerned believe the message was quite clear.

P.

After reading the note, I pass it on to Higgins. He takes it and reads, then leans back, thinking.

"Hmmm. I suppose the tattooists must be taking their pattern from somewhere, the image being rather standard."

Oh, Jaimy, what if we cannot get you back in time? What if you are taken? What if...?

Higgins gazes at me, knowing exactly what I am thinking.

"What if we cannot bring Mr. Fletcher back?" he asks gently. "To both safety and sanity? Have you given any thought to that eventuality? You must think of your own future as well. We cannot know how all of this will turn out, and life will go on."

Heavy sigh.

"Of course I have thought of that awful possibility, Higgins. I'd be a fool not to." I take a deep breath, then say, "I could renew my vow to live single all my life."

Higgins raises an eyebrow. "And devote yourself to good works, I suppose, from the confines of some worthy convent," he says with a slight smile. "Knowing you as I do, I consider that a highly unlikely prospect."

And I, too, certainly know myself better than that.

"Well, for now, all I can think of is rescuing Jaimy and getting him back, hale and hearty, to stand by my side, where he belongs."

"We can only hope that will be the outcome."

"Indeed. We will hope ... and we will put things in motion as well."

Higgins takes a sip of his wine and does not ask me what I mean by that, no doubt figuring I have something disastrous in mind. Instead he asks, "And Lord Allen? You two seem to be sharing very close company of late."

Again I heave a heartfelt sigh and say, "Although I would mourn Jaimy Fletcher all my days, the prospect of being Richard Allen's bedmate is not at all distasteful to me."

"That might not be an ill-considered choice, Miss," says Higgins, considering this. "The protection of a landed lord would be very helpful to you if you do not succeed in gaining a pardon for yourself through the antiquities gambit."

"Richard certainly couldn't actually marry me, being, as you say, a landed lord. The British Empire would totter and fall."

Higgins chuckles at the thought. "But, then again, he seems extremely fond of you."

"And I of him," I say, smiling.

"I have observed that Lord Allen is a bit of a reckless sort," muses Higgins. "He might well defy convention and make you Lady Allen in spite of it."

The possible Lady Allen gives out with a ladylike snort and reflects, "You know, Higgins, Richard has sometimes viewed me as an object of desire—though I can't imagine why—and I certainly get worked up myself when I am with him in intimate circumstances. But I think he mostly views me as ... well ... an amusing child. He is, after all, a good ten years older than me. Being a gentleman, he has held off, for the most part, on the lusty stuff, knowing as he does my continued commitment to Jaimy. But ... oh, Higgins, as usual I don't know anything about anything and can only let things play out as they will and drift along on the tide."

"Indeed, Miss. That is all any of us can do, when it comes down to it."

There is a light tap on the door and Joannie comes in, dressed in her black rig.

"You ready?"

"I am," I say, rising.

I don my black watch cap and black gloves and strap my long glass across my back.

"Good night, Higgins. Pray have a good time. My regards to Lord Byron. Joannie, let's go!"

We take to the streets, loping along in the pale moonlight like any two black-clad gazelles. We stick to the shadows, the side streets and alleyways, pounding through the town. And oh, Lord, it feels so good to be out here running through our old turf, chest heaving, with cold air tearing down my throat and into my lungs as I'm dashing through the night with purpose and determination, my worries and troubles falling, for the moment, from my mind.

When we get above Fore Street, we clamber up to the rooftops and work our way through the maze of chimneys, leaping from roof to roof till we come to a spot directly across the street from Flashby's rooms on Chiswell Street.

"There! See?" Joannie points in the gloom at a window glowing in the night. "That's his bedroom. He's got a couple of blokes stationed down below and they check everyone goin' in. Sometimes it's girls, sometimes it's coves in black suits."

"Aye. Those gents would be his contacts in the Intelligence Service. I guess he's still got to do his job, in spite of it all," I say, squinting at the window.

"When Crespo brings a girl, she is hooded and given over to them thugs, who take 'er up to Flashby. Creepo comes back with the coach at midnight and picks up the girl," Joannie says, then falls silent. I can hear her breathing in the dark.

Then she says, "One time
two
girls were brought ... and another time the girl had to be carried back to the carriage."

Joannie and her Shankies have been keeping a close eye on the blighter.

"All right, Joannie, you been doin' a real good job," I say softly. "It's gonna be a real pleasure bringing this bastard down."

"Jacky," says Joannie, tapping my arm and looking down. "It looks like we're just in time for another one."

A hackney cab has pulled up below and Benny Crespo steps out, followed by a female figure wearing a hood. Creepo grabs her arm and leads her inside. In a moment, he is escorted back out by two very large men. He climbs back into the cab and is gone.

I squat down and bring my long glass around to my eye, resting my elbows on my knees for steadiness. I train the glass on the brightly lit window and focus the lens.

Presently I am startled to see Flashby's face appear in the window.
You son of a bitch,
I hiss under my breath. I see that he is still handsome and continues to wear his big mustachio.
I am sure Satan is good-looking, too, you devil, and I hope you'll be meetin him soon!
He opens the sash and peers out, looking up and down the street. If I had my pistol with me, I could've put him away right then and there with a bullet through his bloody brain, but I don't want to do that. No, I don't...
You've got an appointment to keep, you cur, and you're gonna keep it.

Flashby starts and looks over his shoulder. I suspect he has heard a rap at his door. That will be the girl being delivered.

A smile breaks over his face. He reaches up and slams down the window. With his right hand he latches it, then turns away to the nasty business at hand.

I keep my glass trained on the window, not to watch Flashby's performance but to examine the latch.

It is a simple but effective lever-type lock, easily thrown open or engaged.

Hmmm.

The bed seems to be located across the room. Probably Flashby doesn't want to worry about an assassin drawing a bead on his hairy butt when he's takin' his pleasure.

Well, that will all have to be taken into consideration,
I'm thinking, as I close up my long glass and rise. I look to the rooftop above his room and see that there are many handy chimneys there.
Good.

"Come on, Joannie," I say. "Let's go back. Our work here is done. For tonight, anyway."

We leap across the rooftops and head back to the
Nancy B.