The Death of Me

by M. J. Tjia

  As I inch forward to watch the fight more closely, jostled from each side, I am reminded of another tiresome thing men must put up with; both the barmaid and Violette cling to my arms, gasping and squealing as they peek through their fingers at the skirmish before us.

  Most of the crowd clap and cheer for the Yank, who has a stupid grin on his face and lifts his arms in the air like a boxing champion. Except for the smirky rat-man, who doesn’t look pleased at all. I notice a glint of metal and, stepping forward, I swipe up a wine flagon, and swing it as hard as I can against the side of his head. He topples forward, a nasty-looking dagger clanging to the floor next to him.

  As Ripley takes in what I have done – how I have saved him from a savage stab – a look of surprise vies with the grin on his face. He looks from the dagger to me and back at the dagger again, but, before he can say anything, Bernard, the tavern owner, grasps him by the elbow and indicates for him to leave. Ripley tries to remonstrate, but Bernard ignores him, or maybe cannot understand his English, and summons two burly men to assist him in ousting the Yank. On their way out, Bernard grasps me by the arm too, and drags me towards the doorway. First, Ripley is thrown headlong into the street, his long legs taking him as far as the gutter where he falls to the road, and then I am kicked in the hind so that, after the initial momentum, I roll across the pavement and land neatly against Ripley’s chest.

  “Well, dang it,” he says. “That didn’t seem fair.”

  Violette helps me to my feet as the Yank tries to pull himself up with the assistance of a horse that’s tied to a post next to him. The horse rears its head in fright and steps away, and Ripley falls to his knees again. This is repeated twice, before he finally manages an upright position.

  “I vote we move onto that music hall there,” he says, pointing to a lurid-looking place across the road.

  I shake my head. “Non, non.” I glance back into the Dernier Livre. Light spills from the narrow windows and, twice, the front door swings open as patrons leave.

  I haven’t fulfilled my role for the evening. I haven’t connected with Somerscale’s contact. I must find a way back inside.

  As I walk the short path to the tavern’s entrance, I notice that the bulk in my right coat pocket, where the pistol is ensconced, somehow feels different as it bangs against my thigh. Reaching into my pocket, my fingers close about something that does not have the familiar grooves and chill of the gun. Instead, I feel sharp corners, flat planes. Something like a booklet.

  I freeze, puzzled.

  “Comte-… Monsieur?” says Violette, close behind.

  I look around at Ripley, who’s trying to smooth out the bumps in his ruined derby, before cramming it back onto his head.

  “We must go home, Violette,” I say, in French. “I do not feel so well,” I lie, smiling weakly at Ripley. “Must be the knock to my head.” I shake his hand in a hearty manner and whistle for a cab.

  The Yank noisily beseeches us to stay. I lean from the cab’s window to apologise, and tell him he can find us at a non-existent hotel on the outskirts of Paris. As the buggy pulls away, I take one last look towards the Dernier Livre. A figure in a straw hat stares out at us from the tavern’s front step.

  After sending Violette off to bed, I drag the booklet from the coat’s pocket. It turns out to be a tattered travel guide and map of Paris. I flip through the pages twice, looking for any markings or words. On the third time through, I can just make out a very faint circle has been drawn around a paragraph at the bottom of page nine. Also, there is a slight crease in the corner of the page, where it has been turned down in the past. I’m just trying to decipher the French words on the page when I hear the suite’s door handle rattle. My heart jumps as I leap to my feet. Hatterleigh. And me, still dressed as a man.

  Racing into the boudoir, dimly lit from the one lamp on the bedside table, I shed my male attire as fast as a swift swoops for a grub. I cram the clothing into its box and slam the lid shut. I am just taking a seat at the dressing table, naked, when Hatterleigh enters.

  “But what is this?” he says, tapping the trunk with his shoe.

  “I had Pascale send over some costumes from the Theatre Petit Lazare,” I say, leaning into the mirror. “I thought we could have a soiree here tomorrow night. Play a game of charades.”

  “Ah,” he says, shrugging out of his overcoat. “That could be amusing. What are you doing there?”

  I press my fingers to my upper lip, grinning, as I turn to him. “Practicing for tomorrow night. What do you think?”

  He catches sight of my lustrous moustache and laughs. “Very becoming.”

  He moves to his dressing room, calling out for poor old Chiggins. Snatching up the travel guide again, I have another look at page nine. My French is rusty, but the word cimetière is not so difficult to decipher. My heartbeat quickens. It seems someone wants to meet me – or Somerscale, to be precise – at the cemetery.

  CHAPTER 6

  AMAH

  Amah comes in from her afternoon walk, closing the back door behind her. She pulls her bonnet ribbons loose as she listens to Agneau discuss something with his scullery boy. She is not sure what they speak of for his murmur is too low. Standing in the shadows of the narrow corridor, she watches them through the kitchen doorway, where Agneau is bent over the kitchen bench. He chops a bunch of parsley finely, then stops, offers the knife to the boy, urging him to have a try. As he turns back to the stove, Amah whisks past, glad of the hallway rug that muffles the click of her heels. Avoiding the servant stairs, whose creak would surely give her presence away to those below in the kitchen, Amah makes her way through to the front of the house. Her steps are quiet as she climbs the carpeted stairs and she can’t help but startle when a voice behind says, “Amah.”

  Turning, she sees Bundle looking up at her.

  “Yes, Bundle.”

  He holds up an envelope. “A young fellow delivered this earlier. Said to give it to the mistress of the house as soon as possible.”

  “Did you tell him Mrs Chancey is away from home?”

  “I did. And he appeared to be nonplussed. Said his instructions were to make sure the mistress of the house received the message as soon as possible. He said the message has something to do with an assignation for today.”

  Amah’s eyes are on the missive in Bundle’s hand. Probably one of Heloise’s ridiculously assiduous admirers bent upon a private assignation, or a reminder to attend some absurd folly or other. How Heloise enjoyed such foolishness.

  She holds out her hand to the butler, taking the missive. “I’ll take care of it, Bundle. Thank you.”

  “Thank you, Amah.”

  Amah turns the letter over in her hands as she takes the stairs to her own rooms. She really hopes it is not some embarrassing drivel from one of Heloise’s admirers. Taking up a letter opener, she slits the envelope open, pulling out a single sheet of paper.

  Dear Madam,

  I believe I might have in my possession something that is of value to you. Please meet me at The Mitre on Great Marlborough Street, today, no later than five o’clock. I will wait for you in the private dining room to the left of the corridor. To whet your appetite, I have drafted a rough copy of what I think will be of particular interest to you.

  Yours sincerely,

  JC

  Amah’s eyes widen as they reach the bottom of the page for, sketched in graphite, is a neat replication of her mother’s earring. Golden orb, coiled dragon.

  She drops the note on her desk and turns to look at the dressing table in her bedroom. But how…? She checked her secret drawer after the intruder rifled through her things and the earring was quite safe. Her skirts rustle as she hurries to her dressing table, again pulling free the drawers and frame to reveal the hidden aperture. She squeezes the silk pouch, feeling for the hardness of the earring between her fingers and palm before opening it to double-check. Yes. The earring is still nestled deep in its pouch. But if the earring is here… if the earring is here…
The other earring must be… Her breathing quickens as she thinks of the possibilities; if indeed the letter is in regards to the matching earring. She’s puzzled, but she feels a thrill of excitement.

  Amah shoves her jewellery and drawers back into place. Glancing at her watch, she sees that it is almost four o’clock. She opens her desk and takes out a leather wallet in which she keeps spare money. She empties the notes and gold coins into her reticule. Snatching up her bonnet and the note from where they lie on her desk, she strides out into the hallway and down the servants’ stairs. She’s about to call for Bundle to fetch her a cab but pauses at the sound of Taff’s voice. He stands in the kitchen, gulping down a cup of tea, and she notes that he’s wearing a neat tweed coat and moleskins rather than his usual attire of red and black satin that Heloise insists upon.

  “Taff,” she says to the coachman, “what are you doing right now?”

  “Just taking Miss Heloise’s horses for a little trot, Amah,” he says to her. “Popped in to see if Agneau here’m needed anything picking up.”

  “Could you drive me to… ” She checks the slip of paper. “Great Marlborough Street? To a tavern called The Mitre.”

  “What you’m need there, Amah?” he asks, popping two almonds into his mouth.

  She ignores the urge to tell him that it’s none of his concern, conscious of Agneau’s dark eyes on her. “Just some business on behalf of Mrs Chancey,” she says, her voice reproving. She moves into the corridor, hoping the coachman will follow, equally eager to make the meeting in good time and to remove herself from Agneau’s inquiring gaze.

  They walk out to where Heloise’s handsome chestnuts wait. Taff tosses a farthing to the boy holding them steady and then opens the door of the barouche for Amah.

  “What you’m up to, Amah?”

  She makes ready to climb into the carriage. “Nothing at all. I don’t know what you’re talking about, Taff.” Although she feels a nonsensical urge to tell him about the earring. But what nonsense he will think it is. He might even try to talk her out of meeting the anonymous letter-writer.

  “Don’t sell me a dog, Amah,” he says. “I’ve known you many a year now, and I can see when there’s a bit o’ colour in your’m face.”

  She lifts an eyebrow at him as she pulls the veil down over her face.

  The roads are clogged with coaches, cabs, equestrians, pedestrians. Stray dogs and thin children dart in and out of the teeming milieu, causing more confusion. Costermongers line the gutter, brandishing baskets of coal, pottery, baked eel, puppies. By the time they pick their way around a phaeton with a broken axle, they are running late. Amah lifts her watch to look at the time. The cover of the watch is thinned with age, and Amah’s thumb rubs the slight dent where Heloise had sunk her straight little baby teeth into the gold many years before when she was teething.

  When Amah sees the sign for The Mitre swaying outside the tavern, she hops down from the carriage before Taff has a chance to assist her.

  “Where will you wait, Taff?” she calls up to him.

  “How long do you think you’ll be?”

  “I’m not sure.” She looks uncertainly through the front door of the tavern. The interior is still dark. An ostler comes out, points Taff the way of the stables.

  “Look for me in the taproom, Amah,” he says, guiding the horses forward. “I’ll have an ale while I wait for you’m.”

  Amah lifts her skirts over the mud and steps into The Mitre’s tiny lobby. The thin carpets smell of dirt and ale, a peculiar reek of cabbage and something rancid reaches her nostrils. On her right, several men sip quietly from tankards in the taproom but, when she’s not approached by anybody, she continues down the corridor. As she steps, the boards under the carpets dip and creak. A bit further on, to her left, a door is ajar, and she can hear a voice say, “What could be keeping her? We have been waiting an age.”

  She’s heard that voice before. Plaintive. Whiny.

  The door’s hinges squeak as she pushes it open. Sure enough, seated at an oak dining table, are the two people she’d passed the day before on the street—the woman with the big eyes and the man with the ferret features.

  A pulse of disappointment moves through her. She had hoped…

  The man notices her hesitating in the doorway and stands, bows, asks her to join them.

  “Mrs Chancey?”

  Amah doesn’t say anything as she takes a seat opposite. Who are these people? How’d they get hold of her mother’s earring?

  The young woman sighs. “How can we do business with you when you wear that ridiculous net over your face?”

  But with each moment, Amah is increasingly loath to reveal her identity. It becomes clear to her that these are the people who were in Heloise’s house. They weren’t looking for Heloise’s diamonds. Could it be that they were after the other dragon earring all along?

  “You said that you had something of mine?”

  “I never said it was yours.” The woman sits back and crosses her arms. “But I bet you’d like to get your hands on it again.”

  “May I see it?”

  “We have it safe.”

  “If you are unwilling to show it to me, what am I doing here?” asks Amah. The stress of the last hour, along with her dashed hopes, leave her feeling disinclined towards polite games with these people.

  “We thought…” the man glances at his partner.

  “We thought that perhaps you would like to purchase the item back from us,” the woman says.

  Amah realises that she’s much younger than she first imagined, no older than nineteen, twenty years of age. The man, however, looks much older – late thirties perhaps – although, Amah guesses, of a much less stern temperament than the woman.

  “Well, I must insist on seeing it before I agree to any terms,” says Amah.

  Her heartbeat picks up a little as the woman nods to her partner. He takes a small purse from his coat’s inner breast pocket. Folding back the opening, he taps the purse gently so that the earring falls onto the table with a light clatter. Warmth floods Amah’s chest as she gazes upon it. It’s clearly the twin to her mother’s earring that she keeps hidden at home. She thinks of the palm she’d placed it in over twenty years before. How she’d taken his fingers and curled them over the earring, the one gift she could offer.

  “But how did you find it?” Her voice is hoarse and she needs to repeat herself. “Where?”

  “Never you mind that,” says the young woman, tartly. “Now, how much is it worth to you?”

  But Amah must know how these people came to have her earring. Were they working for him? Was it stolen? Or worse… Was it sold to this reprehensible couple for mere money?

  “I will pay you what you ask, but please tell me how it came to be in your possession?”

  The young woman takes to her feet and approaches a trolley that holds a profusion of bottles and glasses.

  “I find it fascinating that you are so very determined to find out how we came across this trinket,” she says, pouring a small glass of sherry. She offers it to Amah who shakes her head. As the young woman returns to her seat, she swings around and grasps Amah’s veil, pulling it away so that Amah’s hat wrenches to the side.

  She goggles at Amah, half falling across the table, spilling the sherry on the carpet.

  “You’re a foreigner!” she gasps.

  Amah straightens her hat, pushing the netting back from her forehead. “I’ve lived here many a year now.” Her voice is flat.

  “But you’re a foreigner,” the woman says again. “You’re coloured.” Her protuberant eyes widen even more. “And you’re old. We thought you were young.” She turns to the man. “We thought she was younger, didn’t we Joshua?”

  He nods. “We did, my love. We heard that the lady of the house – Mrs Heloise Chancey – was a young lady.”

  Amah sees her chance. “Ah. But I am here on behalf of Mrs Chancey. She’s my mistress. She is abroad at the moment and has left me to take care of he
r affairs as I see fit.”

  The woman takes her seat again and contemplates Amah. Someone calls for the ostler from the road, and a servant walks past clutching a pair of newly polished boots.

  “And yet, I think your interest in this earring is more personal than that. I don’t believe your story of working on behalf of your mistress. Tell me, what is your name?”

  Amah sits up straighter. “I will tell you my name when you tell me yours.”

  The young woman watches her some more and something seems to occur to her. She claps her hand over her mouth and says, turning to Joshua, “I don’t know whether to laugh or heave, Joshua. Do you know what this means?”

  But he doesn’t seem to. He shakes his head, says, “No, my love. I have no idea.”

  She squeaks with frustration.

  “Should we not go back to the earring?” he says. “This lady might still want to purchase it.”

  Amah clenches her teeth. Anger settles over her, leaving her feeling as hard and implacable as marble. She wants to utter waspish words but hasn’t quite lost sight of her desire to settle the business of the earring.

  The young woman leans across the table as she asks Amah, “First, tell me, do you have children?”

  Amah’s fury slips for a moment at the unexpected question. “That is none of your business.”

  “You do. I can see that you do,” the woman almost pants, clapping her hands together. Her eyes stray to the tabletop as she tries to calculate something in her mind.

  Joshua clears his throat. “The earring. How much is it worth to you?” he asks Amah.

  Amah looks at the gold orb again. She thinks of the notes and coins in her reticule. She’ll start with an amount that she thinks the earring might be worth. “£5?”

  Joshua looks startled, but the young woman laughs.

  “We were thinking more like £200,” he says. “We were hoping that it was of particular value to you.”

  The young woman interrupts him and there’s a mean gleam in her eye as she says, “Let’s double it. I think £400 would be more suitable. Now that we know who we are dealing with.”