The Ruby in the Smoke (16 page)

He stopped and rubbed his eyes wearily. But he kept

them closed and kept his hand over them. Frederick said quietly:

"Opium?"

Bedwell nodded. "I made my way to a den and lost myself in the smoke. A week, two weeks—who knows.^ I lost Perak, too. I lost everything. When I came to myself again I found a berth as able seaman on a Lx)ndon-bound steamer, and—^well, you know the rest.

"But you can see now why the ship was sunk. Not by a reef or a typhoon; not for the sake of the insurance.

"This is how I see it. The word had gone out that Mr. Lockhart was aboard, searching around, making inquiries. Someone gave orders to muddle up the cargoes in Singapore so as to keep the ship in harbor for a week, while Ah Ling and his foul crew made haste to come and meet us.

"Sinking the ship was just a way of concealing your father's murder. One death on its own would look suspicious, but one among many in a shipwreck, especially if there's no body to examine—^well, it looks more like an act of God.

"The two days' sailing out of Singapore I can't understand. But one thing I've learned in the East is that nothing's done without a reason; something made them hold off till the night of the thirtieth, when they could have attacked us any time before that.... Though I suppose it did get us clear of the shipping lanes.

"Someone organized all that. Someone powerful and ruthless; someone close to Singapore. It's my guess that the secret society I told you about was at the bottom of it. They have the most terrible penalties for their enemies, or those who betray them.

"But what they're hiding ..."

There was a silence.

Sally got up and crossed to the fire, and put a shovelful of coal on the embers, stirring them up into a bright blaze.

"Mr. Bedwell, is it possible—when you take opium, I mean—is it possible for your memory to recall things you'd forgotten?"

"It's happened many times. As if I were living them again. But I don't need opium to remember that night the Lavinia went down. . . . Why d'you ask?"

"Oh ... It was something I'd heard. But there's another thing—^these secret societies. Triads, are they called?"

"That's right."

"And you said the firm's agents were members of one?"

"Rumored to be."

"Do you know which one it was?"

"I do. And that was where I'd heard the name of Ah Ling the pirate. He was said to be a headman of the same society. It was called the Fan Lin Society, Miss Lockhart. The Seven Blessings."

Arms and the Girl

The next morning sally went out for a walk to think over what Matthew Bedwell had told her. It was damp and cold, and the mist in the air seemed to dull the sound of the traffic. She walked slowly down toward the British Museum.

So her father had been murdered ...

She had suspected it, of course; Bedwell's story only confirmed her fears. But it was more difficult to unravel now, not less: for even though the meaning of the Seven Blessings was clear now, why should that society have needed to become involved with a shipping firm? And what secret did they have that was so precious that several men's deaths were necessary to keep it hidden? Mr. Higgs had known: did Mr. Selby? And who was this stranger, the man from the Warwick Hotel, whose letter had so frightened him?

And then there was her father's dying message: "Keep your powder dry." Be prepared, that meant. Stay on guard.

Well, she'd been doing that, and she'd carry on doing it; but it didn't explain anything. She wished Mr. Bedwell

153

had remembered the other things her father had said— any Httle clue would have been better than nothing. Perhaps it would come back to him when he'd recovered under his brother's care. She profoundly hoped so.

She arrived at the British Museum and wandered up to the great flight of steps. Pigeons pecked among the columns; three girls a little younger than herself, under the care of a governess, climbed the steps, talking cheerfully. She, with her thoughts of sudden death and guns, did not belong in that calm and civilized place.

She turned back to Burton Street; there was something she wanted to ask Trembler.

She found him in the shop, arranging a display of portrait frames. She heard Rosa's laughter from the kitchen, and Trembler told her that the Reverend Nicholas had arrived.

"I knew I'd seen him before," he said. "Two or three years ago in Sleeper's Gymnasium, it was, just when the Marquess o' Queensberry's rules come in. He made a wager with Bonny Jack Foggon, one o' the old bareknuckle boys. They fought fifteen rounds, him with gloves on and Foggon without, and he won, though he was terrible marked."

"The other man had bare fists?"

"Aye, and that was his undoing. See, the gloves protect your hands as well as the other feller's face, and after fifteen rounds he was punching a hell of a lot harder than Foggon, in spite o' Bonny Jack pickling his fists for years. I remember the punch as laid him out—a lovely right cross, and that was the end of it, and the triumph of the Queensberry Rules. Course, Mr. Bedwell wasn't a reverend then. Did yer want something, miss.^"

"Yes . . . Trembler, do you know where I can get a gun? A pistol?"

He blew through his mustache—a trick he had when he was surprised.

"Depends what sort," he said. "I suppose you mean a cheap one."

"Yes. I've only got a few pounds. And I can't really go into a gunsmith's myself—they'd probably refuse to sell me one. Could you buy one for me?"

"You know how to use a pistol, do you?"

"Yes. I had one, but it was stolen. I told you."

"So you did. Well, I'll see what I can do."

"If you'd rather not, I can ask Frederick to do it. But I thought that you might know someone ..."

"Someone in the criminal way, you mean."

She nodded.

"Well, I might. I'll see."

The door opened, and Adelaide came in with some newly printed stereographs. Trembler's expression changed, and a huge gap-toothed smile appeared under his mustache.

"Here's my ladylove," he said. "Where you been?"

"I been with Mr. Garland," she said, and then saw Sally. "Morning, miss," she whispered.

Sally smiled and went through to join the others.

On Wednesday afternoon, two days after the stranger had got off the boat, Mrs. Holland had a visit from Mr. Selby. This was quite unexpected; she hardly knew the etiquette for the polite reception of a blackmail victim, but she did her best.

"Come in, Mr. Selby," she said, beaming yellowly. "Cup o' tea?"

"Very kind," muttered the gentleman. "Thank 'ee."

They exchanged civiHties for some minutes, until Mrs. Holland began to lose her patience.

"Well, now," she said. "Out with it. I can see as you're bursting to tell me some good news."

"You're a clever woman, Mrs. Holland. I've conceived an admiration for you in the short time of our acquaintance. You've got hold of something about me—I won't deny it—"

"You can't," said Mrs. Holland.

"I wouldn't if I could. But there's richer pickings than me. You've got a hold of the edge of something. How'd you like to get your hands on the rest of it?"

"Me?" she said in mock astonishment. "I ain't the party involved, Mr. Selby. I'm just the broker. I should have to put any proposal to my gentleman."

"Well, o' course," said Mr. Selby impatiently, "the gen-tleman'll have to be consulted, if you insist. I don't see why you don't drop him, and deal direct yourself—but it's your decision."

"That's right," said the lady. "Well, are you going to tell me all about it?"

"Not just straight off, of course not. What d'you take me for? I got to have my guarantees, same as you."

"What d'you want, then?"

"Protection. And seventy-five f>ercent."

"Protection you can have, seventy-five percent you can't. Forty, yes."

"Oh, give over. Forty? Sixty at least .. ."

They settled on fifty percent each, as both had known they would; and then Mr. Selby began to talk. He spoke for some time, and when he had finished, Mrs. Holland was silent, staring into the empty grate.

"Well?" he said.

"Oh, Mr. Selby. You are a one. You sound hke you been caught up in something bigger than what you expected."

"No, no," he said unconvincingly. "Only I'm a bit tired o' that line now. The market's not what it was."

"And you want to get out while you're still alive, eh?"

"No, no. ... I only thought as it might be to our advantage to join forces. Kind of a partnership."

She tapped her teeth with the toasting-fork.

"Tell you what," she said. "You do one thing for me, and I'll come in with yer."

"What?"

"Your partner, Lockhart, had a daughter. She must be—oh, sixteen, seventeen now."

"What do you know about Lockhart? Seems to me you know a bloody sight too much about everything."

She stood up.

"Good-bye, then," she said. "I'll send you my gentleman's next bill in the morning."

"No, no!" he said hastily. "I beg your pardon. I didn't mean to offend. I'm sorry, Mrs. Holland."

He was sweating, a fact she observed with interest, for it was a cold day. Pretending to be mollified, she sat down again.

"Well, seeing as it's you," she went on, "I don't mind telling you that me and the Lockharts, father and daughter, is old friends. I've known that girl for years. The only thing is, I've lost touch. You find out where she's living now, and I'll see you won't lose by it."

"But how am I going to do that?"

"That's your affair, and it's my price. That—and fifty percent."

He frowned, and growled, and twisted his gloves and thumped his hat; but he was caught. Then another thought occurred to him.

"Here," he said, "I've told you a good deal, I have. Now what about your coming clean as well? Who's this gentleman o' yours, eh? Where did you hear all that stuff in the first place?"

She peeled back her upper lip in a reptilian snarl. He flinched, and then realized that she was smiling.

"Too late to ask that now," she said. "We made the bargain already, and I don't recall as that was part of it."

All he could do was sigh. With the uneasy feeling that he had done the wrong thing, Mr. Selby got up to go, leaving Mrs. Holland smiling fondly at him like a crocodile with a new baby.

And ten minutes afterward, Mr. Berry said to her:

"Who was that gent as left just now, Mrs. Holland?"

"Why?" she said. "D'you know him?"

"No, ma'am. Only he was being watched. A thickset feller, sunburned sort of look about him, was hanging about by the cemetery. He waited till your gent left, then he made a note in a little book and follered him without being seen."

Mrs. Holland's rheumy eyes opened, and then the lids came down again.

"D'you know, Mr. Berry," she said, "this is an interesting game we're in. I wouldn't miss this for the world."

It didn't take Trembler long to find Sally a gun. The very next day, while Adelaide was helping Rosa with some sewing, he beckoned Sally into the shop and thrust a brown paper parcel across the counter.

"Cost me four pounds," he said. "And there's powder and ball as well in there."

"Powder and ball.^" said Sally, dismayed. "I was hoping for something more up-to-date ..."

She gave Trembler the money and opened the parcel. The little box-lock pistol inside was no more than six inches long, with a short stumpy barrel and a large curved hammer. The handle was oak, and fitted her hand neatly; it did not seem badly balanced. The maker's name— Stocker of Yeovil—was one she recognized, and the government proof marks were stamped under the barrel as they should be; but the top of the barrel around the nipple, where the percussion cap exploded, was deeply pitted and worn. A packet of powder, a little bag of lead bullets, and a box of percussion caps completed the armory.

"Ain't it any good?" said Trembler. "I gets very nervous around guns."

"Thank you. Trembler," she said. "I'll have to try it a few times, but it's better than nothing."

She drew back the hammer, testing the strength of the spring, and looked down the narrow metal tube where the flash of the percussion cap was led to the powder. It needed a good cleaning, and it hadn't been fired for a long time; that barrel^ she thought, looks distinctly frail.

"Sooner you than me," he said. "I'm oflf to clean the studio; we've got a sitting this morning."

Frederick was setting up the big camera. She borroweo some of his light oil and settled herself at the kitchen table to take the gun apart. The smell of the oil, the feel of the metal under her fingers, the sensation of removing little by little all the obstructions which lay between a machine

and its function, all gave her a feeling of calm, impersonal happiness. Finally it was done, and she laid it down and wiped her hands.

She would have to test it. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. She was afraid of that corroded barrel. The mechanism was in order; the trigger moved cleanly; the hammer swept down precisely on the right spot; nothing was bent or twisted, nothing was cracked. But if the barrel could not contain the force of the explosion, she would lose her right arm.

She tilted a quantity of the black, gritty powder into the barrel and tamped it down firmly. Then she tore off a little square of blue cloth from the hem of the dress Rosa had been altering, and wrapped it around one of the balls of lead to ensure a snug fit; and then the ball joined the powder in the barrel, and a patch of wadding followed it. 1 She rammed them down hard and then took a percussion cap from the box—a little copper cylinder with a closed end, containing a quantity of fulminate, a chemical compound which exploded when struck by the hammer. She pulled the hammer back until it had clicked twice, fitted the cap over the nipple, and then with extreme care held the hammer while she gently pulled the trigger. This let the hammer down halfway, to a position where it was locked.

Trembler and Adelaide were in the shop, Frederick was in the studio, Rosa had gone to the theater; there was no one to watch and distract her. She went out into the yard. The peeling door of the wooden shed would do as a target. Checking that there was nothing in the shed but broken flowerpots and empty sacks, she measured out ten paces from the hut and turned.