The Ruby in the Smoke (12 page)

''Where is it?''

''Not with me! I pray —/ beg of you — it is with a friend —"

"They are coming! Be quick/''

Voices she could understand, though they weren't speaking in English—a strange sensation, like seeing through a wall. But of course! It was Hindustani! She and her father had used it as a secret language when she was younger. And it —what could it be, that was with a friend.^ Could it be the ruby.^ Impossible to tell. And her father's face, so young, so fierce; and the voice which now, after that bleak day at Swaleness, she knew was that of Major Marchbanks . . .

A chill gradually crept over her that no amount of coal on the kitchen fire could dispel. Something had happened in those few minutes, sixteen years ago, which had led after all this time to pursuit and danger and death. Maybe to more deaths than one. And if she wanted to know more, she'd have to enter the Nightmare again . . .

She shivered and sat down to wait for the others to come back.

That day, Jim Taylor took an unauthorized afternoon off^. It was a simple enough dodge: he just walked out of

the building with a fake parcel, as if he was going to the post office, and left two or three contradictory messages behind about where he was and who'd sent him. He'd used the trick before, but he didn't want to do it too often.

A train from London Bridge Station took him out along the same dreary stretch of coastline that Sally had traveled, toward Swaleness. He wanted to have a look around; and besides, he had an idea. It was a penny dreadful idea, but a good one. It involved a lot of waiting about, and the exercise of a great deal of persuasion, but in the end he knew he'd been right. As he sat in the train going back (rather more carefully than Sally) he wondered what it might lead to, but he wasn't in any real doubt. After all, here was something straight out of Stirring Tales for British Lads^ or The Adventures of Jack Hark-away —the penny dreadful once again proving to be a sound and accurate guide to life. And the penny dreadful line on anything Eastern was unequivocal: it meant trouble.

Trouble, in particular, for Sally, to whom Jim had conceived a fierce attachment in the past week or so.

ril keep it to meselffor the time beings he thought. Wll he safer all ^round. There 'II be plenty of time to tell her later on.

Meanwhile, Mrs. Holland had had some news.

One of the agents she sometimes employed, a villain called Jonathan Berry, came to see her at about the same time as the Reverend Bedwell called at Burton Street.

Mr. Berry was a huge man, six and a half feet tall and broad in proportion; he filled the narrow hall of Holland's Lodgings and terrified Adelaide. He picked her up with one hand and held her close to his dirty ear.

*'M-M-Mrs. Holland's with the gentleman, sir," she whispered, beginning to sob.

"Go and get her," growled Mr. Berry. "There ain't no gentleman here, you lying little earwig."

He dropped her. She scrambled away like a mouse, and he laughed—a sinister rumbling sound, like a subterranean fall of rock.

Mrs. Holland was not pleased to be called away. Bed-well was talking, in his confusion, of a figure called Ah Ling, whose name never appeared without a tremor of fear; a junk came into the story, and a knife, and lights below the water, and all manner of things. She cursed, and told Adelaide to stay and listen careful. Adelaide waited until the old woman had left and then lay down beside the sweating, murmuring figure of the sailor and cried in earnest, clinging to his unheeding hand.

"Mr. Berry, I declare," said Mrs. Holland to the visitor, having inserted her teeth. "You been out long.^"

She was referring to the Dartmoor jail.

"I been out since August, ma'am." Mr. Berry was on his best behavior; he had even taken off his greasy cap and was twisting it nervously as he sat in the small armchair that Mrs. Holland offered him in the parlor. "I hear as you're interested in who killed Henry Hopkins," he went on.

"I may be, Mr. Berry."

"Well, I heard as how Solomon Lieber—"

"The pawnbroker, of Wormwood Street.^"

"That's him. Well, I heard as he pawned a diamond pin yesterday, the very double of the one Hopkins used to wear."

Mrs. Holland was up at once.

"You busy, Mr. Berry? Care for a stroll?" "Nothing I'd like better, Mrs. Holland." "Adelaide!" called the lady from the hall. "I'm going out. Don't you let no one in."

"A DIAMOND PIN, lady?" said the ancient pawnbroker. "Got a lovely one here. Present for your gentleman friend?" he asked, squinting up at Mr. Berry.

Mr. Berry's reply was to seize the cotton muffler hanging loosely around the old man's neck and drag him right over the counter, knocking off a shelf full of watches and a tray of rings.

"We don't want to buy one, we want to see the one you pawned yesterday," he said.

"Certainly, sir! Wouldn't dream of objecting!" gasped the old man, clutching weakly at Mr. Berry's jacket to avoid being strangled. His legs were caught on the counter; Mr. Berry dropped him, and he crashed to the floor.

"Oh, please—please don't hurt me—^please, sir—don't knock me about—I beg you, sir! My old wife—"

He was shaking and stammering and trying to pull himself up by Mr. Berry's trousers. Berry kicked him away.

"Bring your wife in here, and I'll pull her legs off," he growled. "Find that pin, quick."

The pawnbroker opened a drawer with trembling hands and held out a pin.

"That the one, ma'am?" said Mr. Berry, taking it.

Mrs. Holland peered closely. "That's it. Now, who brought it in, Mr. Lieber? If you can't remember, Mr. Berry might be able to help."

Mr. Berry took a step toward him, and the old man nodded vigorously.

"Course I remember," he said. "Name of Ernie Black-ett. Young chap. Croke's Court, Seven Dials."

"Thank you, Mr. Lieber," said Mrs. Holland. "I can see you're a sensible man. You got to be careful who you lends your money to. You won't mind if I takes the pin, will you.^"

"It ain't—I mean I've only had it a day—I ain't allowed to sell it yet—it's the law, ma'am," he said desperately.

"Well, I'm not buying it," she said, "so that's all right, ain't it? Good morning, Mr. Lieber."

She left, and Mr. Berry, after absently emptying several other drawers on the floor, breaking half a dozen umbrellas, and knocking Mr. Lieber's legs from under him, followed her out of the little shop.

"Seven Dials," she said. "Let's get the omnibus, Mr. Berry. Me legs ain't what they was."

"Nor's his," said Mr. Berry, rumbling with admiration for the quickness of his own wit.

Croke's Court, Seven Dials, was as crowded and villainous a warren as you could find in the whole of London; but its villainy was different from Wapping's. The closeness of the river lent a certain nautical dash to the crimes that flourished around Hangman's Wharf, whereas Seven Dials was merely sordid and metropolitan. Besides, Mrs. Holland was out of her territory there.

However, the massive presence of Mr. Berry made up for that. By the exercise of his charm, they very soon found the room they were looking for—in a tenement inhabited by an Irishman, his wife, their eight children, a

The Stereographic Repertory Company 117

blind musician, two flower girls, a seller of printed ballads and murderers' last confessions, and a Punch and Judy man. The room in question was pointed out to them by the Irishman's wife.

Mr. Berry kicked open the door, and they entered to find a fat youth asleep on a filthy bed. He stirred, but did not wake.

Mr. Berry sniflfed the air. "Drunk," he announced. "Disgustin'."

"Wake him up, Mr. Berry," said Mrs. Holland.

Mr. Berry lifted the foot of the bed and tipped it— sleeper, blankets, and ail—in a struggling heap on the floor.

"Wossat?" said the youth, his mouth full of pillow.

For an answer, Mr. Berry picked him up and flung him at the only other piece of furniture the room possessed, a rickety chest of drawers. This promptly split asunder; the youth sprawled groaning among the fragments.

"Get up," said Mr. Berry. "Where's yer manners?"

The youth struggled up, supporting himself on the wall. The fright, on top of what must have been a substantial hangover, had turned his face a distinctive shade of green. He looked blearily at his visitors.

"Who are yer.^" he managed to say.

Mrs. Holland tutted. "Now then," she said. "What d'you know about Henry Hopkins?"

"Nuflink," said the youth, and Mr. Berry hit him. "Gerroff! Ow—leave me alone!"

Mrs. Holland took out the diamond pin.

"What about this, then?"

His narrow eyes flicked to it painfully.

"I never seen it in me life," he said, and flinched. But

this time Mr. Berry merely wagged a finger at him.

"You want to think hard," he said. "You're a disappointment to us, you are."

And then he hit him. The youth fell to his knees, sniveling.

"All right, I found it. I took it to Solly Lieber's and he give me a fiver for it. That's all, honest!" he wailed.

"Where'd you get it?"

"I told you, I found it!"

Mrs. Holland sighed. Shaking his head at the stubborn wickedness of human nature, Mr. Berry hit him again; and this time the youth lost his temper. He shot across the room like a rat and delved swiftly into the wreckage of the chest of drawers, coming up with a pistol.

His two visitors fell still.

"You come any closer and I'll b-b-bloody shoot," he said.

"Go on, then," said Mr. Berry.

"I will! I will!"

Mr. Berry reached forward and plucked the gun out of his hand like an apple from a tree. The youth collapsed.

"Shall I hit him again, ma'am?" inquired Mr. Berry.

"No! No! Don't hit me!" quavered the youth. "I'll tell yer everything!"

"Hit him anyway," said Mrs. Holland, taking the pistol. That formality completed, she went on: "What else did you take from Henry Hopkins?"

"The pin. The shooter," he sobbed. "A couple o' sovereigns. A watch and chain and a silver flask."

"What else?"

"Nothing, ma'am, I swear it."

"No pieces of paper?"

The youth gaped.

"Aha," said Mrs. Holland. "Go on, Mr. Berry, do as yer Hke, only leave him with a voice."

"No! No! Please!" cried Ernie Blackett as Mr. Berry raised his fist. "Here y'are—take 'em! Take 'em!"

He scrabbled at a pocket and threw down three or four scraps of paper and then turned away, shaking. Mrs. Holland snatched them up and scanned them while Mr. Berry waited.

She looked up. "Is that all? Nothing else?"

"Not a bleedin' thing, I swear it! Honest!"

"Ah, but you ain't honest," said Mrs. Holland severely. "That's the trouble. Well, come on, Mr. Berry. We'll take the pistol, to remind us of our good friend Henry Hopkins. Deceased."

She hobbled to the door and waited on the malodorous landing while Mr. Berry spoke to their host.

"I don't like to see a young man of your age drinking,'* he said solemnly. "It's the young man's ruin, drink is. I could tell you was drunk as soon as I come in. The smallest glass of drink is the first step on the road to madness, hallucinations, softening of the brain, and moral decay. It'd break your heart to know how many men's lives have been ruined through drink. Keep off it, is my advice. Go and sign the pledge, like I done. You'll be a better man for it. Here—" He fumbled at an inside pocket. "I'll leave you a useful tract, what'U help you improve. It's called *The Drunkard's Lament, by One Who Has Seen the Blessed Light.' "

He tucked the precious document into Ernie Blackett's nerveless hand and joined Mrs. Holland on the stairs.

"That it, Mrs. Holland?"

''That's it, Mr. Berry. She's cleverer than I took her for, the httle bitch."

''Eh.?"

"Never mind... Back to Wapping, Mr. Berry."

It was well for Ernie Blackett that he had owned up and given Mrs. Holland the pieces of paper. Her next step would have been to tell Mr. Berry to search him; and when they were found, Ernie would swiftly have joined Henry Hopkins in that comer of the afterlife reserved for metropolitan minor criminals, where they could have improved their brief acquaintance. As it was, he came quite well out of the transaction, with only two broken ribs, a black eye, and a temperance tract for punishment.

Substitution

Just as mrs. Holland and mr. berry boarded the omnibus back to Wapping, a cab drew up at Hangman's Wharf. Frederick Garland asked the driver to wait, and Mr. Bedwell knocked on the door of Holland's Lodgings.

Frederick looked to the left and right. The little row of buildings stood just behind Wapping High Street and seemed to be crowded so close to the river that a slight push would send them in. Holland's Lodgings was the dirtiest and narrowest and most decrepit of them all.

"No reply?" he said as Mr. Bedwell knocked again.

"Lying low, I expect," said the curate, trying the door and finding it bolted. "This is awkward. What do we do now?"

"Climb in," said Frederick. "We know he's in there, after all."

He was looking up at the side of the building. Between Holland's Lodgings and the house next door a narrow passage a little over two feet in width ran down to the open river, where the masts of boats were clustered. At second-floor level a small window overlooked the passage.

"Can you manage?" said the curate.

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"Just keep knocking. Make a row, so no one'll notice what I'm up to."

Frederick had cHmbed mountains both in Scotland and in Switzerland, and it was the work of a minute to push himself, back against one wall and feet against the other, up the gap between the houses. Opening the window took a little longer, maneuvering himself through longer still, but eventually he stood on the narrow landing, listening hard.

The curate was still pounding on the front door, but apart from that the house was silent. Frederick ran downstairs and unbolted the door.

"Well done!" said Mr. Bedwell, stepping in quickly.

"It looks as if the old woman's out," said Frederick. "But according to Sally's friend Jim, the little girl Adelaide hardly ever leaves the place. . . ."