Queen's Gambit

by Bradley Harper

  “I have sixpence, but two questions. Love is one, but the other is about my desire to be a writer.”

  “So, one Cross, or two simple passes. What’ll it be?”

  “A Cross, about becoming an author.”

  “Done. Give me a tanner and we’ll begin.”

  “Not love?” Sam asked, giggling.

  “Writing first. I know writing is real.”

  “Now quiet, young ladies, while I shuffle the cards.”

  I placed the sixpence coin, or “tanner,” on the corner of the table as evidence of my ability to pay. We watched as the weathered old woman shuffled the cards three times, then fanned them, face down, before us: “Touch a card, pull it out slowly, then repeat until I tell you to stop.”

  My heart beat faster, and I feared Sam might have noticed my hand tremble just a bit as it hovered over the spread deck. I took a deep breath as I was drawn to one card in particular and pulled it out.

  Mary flipped it over, revealing a woman sitting on a throne, an upraised sword in one hand, the other one empty. “Queen of Swords. This covers you.”

  The next card was a man with a bandaged head with a staff in his hand, eight others upright in a row behind him. “Nine of Wands. This crosses you.”

  The next card: “Ace of Swords. This crowns you.”

  This was followed by the Two of Wands, which went beneath the central cards.

  I flinched when she flipped over the Hanged Man.

  “Don’t fret, Dear,” Old Mary soothed. “I’ll explain in a moment. This is behind you.”

  As I reached again, the cuff of my sleeve caught a card and flipped it over. “Sorry!” I said. “Do we have to start over?”

  “No, Lass. This card was calling out to you.” She examined the card with an odd look. It showed a woman bending over and stroking a lion. “Strength,” Mary explained. “This goes before you.”

  The next four cards formed a column to the right of the cross, and were from bottom to top, Page of Swords, the Tower, Eight of Pentacles and the Chariot.

  “What does it all mean?” Sam asked. “Which card is the most important?”

  Mary snorted. “That depends on the question. Now be quiet while I walk us through.”

  She turned to me as she tapped the card in the middle of the Cross. “Queen of Swords is you. You’ll have to make your own way in the world for most of your life. Perhaps the cards heard you say you’d ask about your dream of writing rather than love. You’ll not have an easy time of it, my dear. Don’t despair, there’s more yet.

  “Crossing is the Nine of Wands. You’ll have to fight to keep whatever you earn, I reckon.

  “Ace of Swords. You’ll have ups and downs.”

  “Any good news?” I asked. “Or should I hang myself now, like the Hanged Man?”

  Old Mary smiled, revealing a few black teeth and one gold crown, a reminder of better days. “Hanged Man usually means a change is coming. Notice the man ain’t dead, just hanging upside down. He sees things differently, that’s all. But this time he’s in the past position. This means there’s something in your life you need to let go of. It’s finished, and you need to move on.

  “Now the next card, Strength. That called out to you. You’ve got battles coming and must be strong to overcome them, but if you do, you’ll shine. Nothing will ever come easy, but if you do your best, you’ll know success.”

  “Finally, a good card!” Sam exclaimed. “I was about to ask for your money back.”

  Mary glared at her. “I’ve no power to summon a card, and since you’re not the querent, I’ll ask you to hold your tongue ’til I’m done.”

  She turned back to me. “Now, from bottom to top, Page of Swords means you’ll need to take precautions in your affairs. Always be ready to defend yourself.”

  “Take precautions,” I said, nodding. “Sound advice for anyone.”

  “Next, the Tower,” Mary continued, “You’ll notice the tower is struck by lightning. You’ll face chaos in your life, and learn to fix what you can and accept the rest.”

  “Good luck with that!” Sam hooted. “Maggie has an opinion on everything!”

  Old Mary glared at Sam again. Some believe that fortune tellers can cast the evil eye, and Sam fell silent.

  Satisfied, Old Mary returned to the reading. “Eight of Pentacles signifies that hard work will pay off. You’ve the talent, and if you apply yourself, you’ll do well.”

  “Finally, the Chariot. The time has come to seize the reins, so to speak. If you want to take this path in life, you’ll need to take action soon and set upon it.”

  “Thank you, Mary, you’ve given me much to think about. Enjoy your well-earned sixpence.”

  Mary slid the tanner off the table and into a small bag hung around her neck, then she laid her hand on top of mine. “The Strength card called out to you. A challenge is coming soon. You mustn’t waver, and if you hold fast, you can take your desired path with confidence.” She looked up at the darkening clouds. “Looks like a storm’s coming. I’d best be off, or the bridge’ll be crowded by the time I gets there.”

  “You sleep under the bridge?” I asked, stunned by the image.

  “Aye, lass. But thanks to your fortune, me belly’ll be full tonight. Good day to you.” Mary wrapped her dark shawl around her thin shoulders and was off toward the nearest pub.

  That night, a fierce winter storm came growling from the north. I begged Father to open the church to the beggars under the bridge. “They’re Catholics.” He sniffed. “Let them take care of their own.”

  “They’re children of God!” I shouted. “Do you think God cares if you pray in Latin or English?”

  “That’ll be quite enough, Margaret,” he said. “I’d have to pay the sexton to stay the night to keep them from stealing. I’ll not have it.”

  I stormed to my room on the upper floor of our home and slammed the door. My anger was made all the hotter when I heard a key in the door, locking me in. I looked out and saw the snow coming down so hard I could scarcely see across the street. I thought of Mary under the bridge with the other beggars, then grabbed the quilt on my bed, wrapped myself up in my coat and scarf, and opened the window to crouch on the ledge.

  I looked down. Twelve feet, more or less. Snow was piling up already, perhaps two feet or more, but as I contemplated jumping, I froze. Too far. I tried to force myself out into the air three times but couldn’t do it. The tears first burned my cheeks, then nearly froze as I grappled with—and ultimately succumbed to—my fear. I looked up at the dark skies once more, then slid back inside, defeated. I’ve been afraid of heights ever since.

  The next morning I went to the bridge with some hot porridge in a pot, only to find four people frozen to death underneath, Mary among them. She died because of my fear, and I took her cards as a reminder of what my weakness had cost others, so that I would never hesitate to do what I knew was right, ever again.

  Elizabeth had sat silent, spellbound during my recitation. She shook herself as though returning from a dream once I finished my tale.

  “How could your father allow those poor people to freeze to death, just because they were Catholic?”

  “Because in his eyes, they had the dual sins of being Catholic and poor. He feared the prosperous members of his congregation would be scandalized if he gave them shelter inside their very clean, shall I say, ‘sterile,’ church. Unlike a Catholic priest, my father could be turned out by his congregation if he offended them too severely. He enjoyed his position in the local community as well as his secure salary and took great pains to never make his parishioners the least bit uncomfortable. The storm was one of many battles he and I fought during my time under his roof. It wasn’t long after that I left for London to become a nurse, which was scandalous enough for him to nearly disown me. By the time I became a journalist and author, we rarely communicated at all.”

  “When was the last time you spoke?”

  “Nine years ago, while I was living in Whitechapel t
o do research for a book. My father showed up unexpectedly, telling me he’d selected a ‘suitable’ young man for me to marry and that I should pack my bags. He didn’t like my answer and returned home without me. He died shortly after, and I’m afraid our parting words were not tender.” I rubbed the back of my neck. “I was never the daughter he wanted, nor he the father I needed. I hope you appreciate the character of yours.”

  Elizabeth said nothing for a moment, but her eyes grew round as I stowed my derringer in my purse. “Have you ever used it?” she asked.

  I laughed. “Occasionally, though the first time I didn’t actually fire it. Its presence was enough. Thankfully, I’ve never had to shoot anyone, and I intend to keep it that way, though with this anarchist about I’d best keep it on me for the moment.”

  “What stories! I want to be you when I’m fully grown.”

  “Making your way in a man’s world is difficult, Elizabeth. I’ve had to fight every step of the way. For every hand up there are two boots to shove you back down, some of them, sadly, other women’s.”

  “But you’re a success. A published author, a journalist, and you go on adventures with famous men. If you can do it, so can I.”

  The girl’s admiration was touching, and I hadn’t the heart to tell her what my life choices had cost me. I’d worn an engagement ring once, until the budding young politician told me that although he shared my Christian Socialist philosophy, he would not “permit” me to continue my career once we were married as I would be “too busy” supporting his. Good thing I won’t be around long enough to disappoint her.

  She next asked me about a pendant I’d made of an 1888 penny on a tri-color ribbon.

  “A gift from an enemy. Odd perhaps, but your enemies can be your greatest teachers. I keep this coin to remind me of dangers I’ve faced, and overcome. Every woman has her secrets, Elizabeth. Let this one be mine.”

  I knew my answer would only provoke further questions later, but we needed to move along before it became dark.

  “One more thing: I need to tell the post office where to forward my mail. Can’t have a royalty check go astray, can we? Oh, and is there anything we should pick up for the larder on the way home? Although we’ll be in separate flats, I’d like it if we could dine together. It would be nice to cook for more than one for a change.”

  Elizabeth considered the question carefully, and it was clear she’d been the lady of the house for some time. She shook her head. “No. Unless you like a lot of sugar in your tea, we should be fine for a day or so.”

  “Well, Elizabeth, if you don’t mind carrying the two suitcases with clothes, I’ll take the other with books and my typewriter, after I change my attire.”

  “What’s wrong with what you’re wearing?”

  “Nothing, except that I’m dressed as a woman. If Herr Ott is watching my residence, he won’t be looking for a man. Wait for me in the sitting room, please. I’ll be right back.”

  It took but a moment for me to dress as a respectable middle-aged gentleman and return to where Elizabeth was waiting, and I admit her reaction pleased me. Her mouth dropped open before she gave a low whistle. “Margaret, I’d never have recognized you on the street!”

  “Precisely the point, Elizabeth. Let me go out first and look for any suspicious men loitering about. Give me ten minutes, then if all is clear I’ll be back and we can proceed as planned. If I don’t return within a half hour, go to your father and tell him what happened.”

  “I won’t leave you!”

  “Thank you, but I may have left you. If I see a likely suspect I may follow him. I’m just considering the possibilities.”

  She nodded her understanding, her lips pale as the true nature of our situation finally sank in. I made a slow circuit outside the building, but after five minutes saw no one of interest. I returned to my flat to collect my young companion, and off we went with our assigned burdens.

  The British Mail was its usual efficient self, and after filling out a forwarding address card and buying some stamps we were soon at the apartment building in Soho. Elizabeth enjoyed helping me unpack and sort my things, and we were laughing like schoolgirls when James knocked on my new door.

  “It seems I’ve gained a second daughter,” he said, smiling. “All sorted?”

  “Yes, we are. Would you mind if I prepare dinner in your flat for all of us? I’ve always hated cooking for one. Cheese and mushroom omelets with fried potatoes alright?”

  James and his daughter exchanged glances. “How long can you stay?” asked Elizabeth.

  Dinner was an unqualified success, and after everything had been cleaned and put away, the three of us adjourned to the sitting room. I was careful not to sit in the chair that appeared to belong to the man of the house.

  “What did your superiors have to say about Elizabeth’s possible sighting of Herr Ott? Do they take our concerns seriously?”

  “No. When I said my daughter was my source of the sighting, I believe they stopped listening.”

  “Of course they’d say that about a woman,” Elizabeth snapped.

  “Almost a woman,” her father corrected her. “You seem to forget that at times.”

  “Almost a woman, then. And at what age can I finally be taken seriously and do as I want to do?”

  I cleared my throat. “As for me, Elizabeth, I cannot say. Apparently, I’m not old enough yet.”

  We elders laughed at the echoes of conversations we’d each surely had with our own parents at some time. The question, and the answer, were still the same.

  As I prepared to go to my flat, Elizabeth asked if she could accompany me. “I’ve not had another woman to talk to in ages. Would you mind?”

  “More woman-to-woman conversation?” I said, half-teasing.

  “Something like that, yes.”

  James waved his vague goodnight wishes as he trudged off to bed, and soon we two ladies were alone in my flat.

  The girl’s happiness at having another woman to talk to was touching, and we chatted away for at least a half-hour.

  “It would be unfair to ask you what your father really said about me,” I said, as we got comfortable in my sitting room.

  “And?” Elizabeth giggled.

  “Well, are you going to tell me or not?”

  Elizabeth yawned elaborately, drawing the moment out. “He said that you were unlike any woman he’d ever met before, and he wanted to know you better. I could tell he was intrigued by how forthright you are.”

  “Some would prefer the term ‘blunt,’ but forthright will do. And the day after our dinner together?”

  “Oh, he didn’t say too much about it, but he didn’t have to.”

  “Why is that?”

  “I heard him humming as he shaved the next morning. He hasn’t done that since mother died.”

  “He really is a good man. You’re lucky to have him as your father.”

  She nodded. “Even at his worst he was never cruel, not to me at least, but merciless with himself. It’s good to see him like he used to be.”

  We chatted a while longer about things best kept in confidence, until Elizabeth finally yawned in earnest and I bade her good night.

  That night, I dreamt I was sixteen years old again and walking toward the bridge over the Severn the morning after the storm. I wanted to run away, but my feet moved in slow motion closer and closer to where Old Mary lay.

  Her thin form lay huddled beneath an old horse blanket.

  “Mary?” I called. No answer. My feet pulled me closer, my heart thrusting against my chest. My hand reached out to the still form and uncovered the head. I looked down at the unmoving visage and saw that the frozen, gray face, was mine.

  19

  Friday night, June 11, to Sunday, June 13

  Herman stood vigil outside Margaret’s old apartment building, certain she hadn’t passed him since he took his post near the entrance. The rifle’s case had not caused a second glance as he made his way to her residence; nor did anyone take
notice of it now, as he sat on the steps of a nearby bakery. He quietly smoked a pipe while he tried not to pick at the newly formed scabs on the back of his left hand, a reminder of the publisher’s cat’s displeasure at being placed at the scene of the crime.

  Herman rarely smoked but knew that pipe smokers were generally perceived as harmless, and the smoke helped obscure his face. He had another to kill, once the woman was dead, so no need to risk capture yet. If he succeeded in killing the two of them, a hangman’s noose would mean little except an end to his pain.

  Finally, as nearby church bells tolled midnight, he gave up. She wasn’t here. Tomorrow was another day. He’d found her once, he could do so again.

  “How may I help you?” The middle-aged woman behind the counter seemed sincere, and Herman smiled despite himself. The British are polite, if nothing else.

  “I have a package to deliver, but the woman who lives at the address I was given appears to have moved. Could you direct me?”

  “Do you wish to mail the package, sir?”

  “No, thank you. I was paid to deliver it personally.”

  The woman clucked her tongue in sympathy. “Then I’m afraid I can’t help you. I’m not allowed to give out personal addresses.”

  Herman knew better than to argue. He nodded and went outside to consider his next move. It appeared he needed a package. Anything large enough not to fit in a mail slot. He went into an adjacent bookstore and, on a whim, purchased a book of poetry. One poem in particular caught his eyes, John Donne’s “For Whom the Bell Tolls.” He was tempted to underline the final line: “Therefore, send not to know for whom the bell tolls, It tolls for thee.”

  No. Best she thinks the book a gift from an adoring fan so as not to scare her into moving again. With great difficulty, he wrote a brief note inside.

  Dear Miss Harkness,

  On behalf of a devoted reader. May these words bring you as much joy as your words have brought me.

  H

  His face slowly grew a tight smile. Inspired.

  He had the bookstore clerk wrap it for him, then he returned to the post office, the book under his arm.