by M. J. Tjia
I think back on my meeting with Somerscale. If I am going to sink in this mire of intrigue, he is coming with me. Presumably this woman is from his lot, anyway. “An acquaintance of mine, Sir Simon Somerscale, asked me to contact someone for him.”
The older woman nods. “Ah. I did wonder. He’s a bit of a fool, but convenient to our needs once in a while. Doesn’t help matters when he gets himself locked up, though.”
“Yes, he found himself in a pickle and that is why I was at the Dernier Livre.”
The yeasty smell of the bar comes back to me, the green of the absinthe, the barmaid’s sly eyes. And daffodils. The old lady, with bright eyes, who tried to sell me a bunch of daffodils.
“I remember now,” I say. “How extraordinary. You were there, at the Dernier Livre, selling flowers.”
A small smile softens Mrs White’s features. “You remember. Good girl. What else do you remember of that night?”
I begin to tell her of what I told Somerscale: that I didn’t see who his point of contact was; that I didn’t know who left the note in my pocket, stealing Hatterleigh’s pistol in turn. My voice trails off. Because that’s not entirely true anymore. I do know who left the note in my pocket. The man I found dying at the cemetery.
“What is it?” she asks me, her voice sharp.
I stare at her. There’s something about her plain countenance, the intelligent expression on her face, how her mouth is set in a no-nonsense line, much like Amah’s. I know I can trust her. I tell her of that day at the cemetery when I tried to reach the assignation as outlined in the note. How in the crypt I found the man with the dark beard and red kerchief. The same man that the French inspector had seen rifling my pockets the night before.
“And you are sure he said the word bomb?”
“Yes, I am certain. It was the very last thing he said.”
“And are you sure he was dead?” she asks.
“Yes. He died before me. There was so much blood…” My eyes glaze a little as I look across the table at Mrs White. In my haste to leave Paris I had totally forgotten about the torn missive he had tucked into my hand. Where had I left it? I look about me, as though I might find it to hand in Isobel’s parlour. I jump to my feet. “Wait here. I must find something.”
I run up the stairs to Pidgeon’s room and there, lying neatly beneath two pearl rings in my jewellery case, I find the folded scrap of paper. I pick it up, trying to avoid touching the stain of dry, rusty fingermarks. Bounding back downstairs again, I nearly bowl Hitchins over as she squeezes through the parlour doorway with a tray of tea things. Impatiently, I help her lay out the pot, the milk jug, the little saucer of lemon, the teacups. Finally I lift off the plate of shortbread and bid her leave us.
“Here,” I hand over the note to Mrs White. “He gave this to me just before he died.”
The older woman unfolds the paper and reads the fragmentary words out loud. “’reen’s Court. Must be Green’s Court, surely. Yes, ’oho, must be Soho. Soho…” Her eyes wander the room as she thinks on something, and then she gives a little nod. “And the 28th of March. That’s terribly soon. It’s a pity the full address was torn off. What the devil are they up to?”
“Who?”
“Well, the French would like us to believe there’s a group of assassins – rebels of some sort – who call themselves the Red Brethren.” Her voice curls with mockery as she speaks. “But I’m not so sure that the people behind these recent attacks are from something as childish as a group who call themselves the Red Brethren.”
I think of what the inspector told me. “You mean the bombing here in London? The shooting in Paris?”
She nods. “And just last week there was another bombing not far from the palace. The bomb was concealed in a costermonger’s barrow. The explosion quite destroyed a sixty-foot section of the wall.”
“What havoc,” I say, shaking my head in wonder.
“Yes, it would seem that havoc is the intended goal. That, and a terrible death toll.” Her voice is dry. She scrunches up her face and closes her eyes. “Let me think.”
I pour two cups of tea, add a dash of milk to each. The tinkling of the teaspoon against china seems to rouse Mrs White, who opens her eyes again and says, “It would seem that this message was to be handed to someone of this group, someone who is central to their plans. Perhaps the note leads to one of their major conspirators, here in London, or, perhaps this is where we will find the makings of the bomb.” She pauses, and her eyes widen. “Or perhaps—”
“This is where there will be another bombing,” I say.
She scrutinises the piece of paper again. “What are these numbers along here?”
I take the proffered note.
“Can you see?” asks Mrs White. “I think it must be some kind of code. Someone’s deciphered those words from a numbered code.” She leans back into her chair. “Very interesting. This might come in handy if we manage to intercept any more communications such as these.”
“What will you do now? Watch Soho?”
Mrs White stares across the table at me, and her intelligent eyes glitter. “I have an idea. Seeing as you already seem to be embroiled in this mess of ours, I’d like to make you a proposition. It just happens that we’ve had word that a shady character indeed has arrived in Soho. Surely this cannot be a coincidence. My idea, Mrs Chancey, is that you go into Soho, to this Green’s Court, and keep an eye on things for us.”
“Be your spy?”
She nods. “Keep an ear out for who might be the criminal we are after. Find out what is planned for the end of the month. Meanwhile I will look into what is happening on that date in parliament, and at the palace.”
Excitement surges through my body, buzzing beneath my skin. My immediate enthusiasm falters though, at the thought of being in such close proximity to a bomb.
“You must have any number of spies at your service,” I say, cautiously.
“Of course we do. Any number of men. But you must know as well as I do that nobody takes notice of a woman in anything considered important. It’s the ultimate disguise, my dear.”
I think of poor Violette. Of how someone has already tried to murder me twice.
“I might be recognised, Mrs White. I’m not sure how much the Inspector told you in Paris, but it would seem that I am already in their sights.”
“Well, dear, perhaps it is time to stop running and start hunting. Until you – we – know who is behind all of this, you are in danger. And we only have a matter of five days until the 28th of March. You really must get to work as soon as possible.”
CHAPTER 12
AMAH
The hotel room is cast in shadow when Amah wakes. She’s unsure of how long she’s been asleep for, or how late it might be. She lifts her head, and peers out the window. The sky glows with the last light of day. Amah swings her feet off the bed and sits up. She must indeed be exhausted to have needed such a rest.
She washes her face and looks out her window down to the harbour. A man sells baked potatoes on the corner and a boy walks by with a tray of silver fish. Her stomach stirs. She missed lunch, but it’s too early for supper. She decides to find something to nibble upon and a cup of tea on the way to Golda’s shop.
Opening her jewellery box, she lays the beads and brooch out in a neat row across the bed, mentally calculating how much she thinks each trinket might be worth to the pawnbroker. Gathering them up again, she drops them back into the jewellery box and tucks it into her reticule. She sets out towards the docks, just as she had earlier in the day, but this time she turns left, her stride sure. She passes a number of taverns and eating houses, tobacco shops and bagnios; everything a seafaring man might need from his brief sojourn. A little girl, dressed in a tattered nightdress, her dark hair matted to her scalp, offers Amah limp watercress, while another, not much older, crouches in a doorway, her sharp, expectant eyes on passing sailors.
Amah turns up a road, away from the waterfront. Passing several nondescript build
ings, she pauses in front of a squat shopfront squeezed between a butcher’s that advertises a ‘galore of delicious pork’ and a cobbler’s, his boots and shoes strung like streamers across his display window. Amah feels a tic of disappointment as she gazes upon the closed door, white and mute. The windows are dark, as vacant as a cold stare. Even before she steps closer to peer inside, she can tell the shop is empty.
“Moved on,” says the cobbler, a pipe hanging from the corner of his mouth. “About a year ago.”
She had hoped Ping Que and his eating house were still around. She had hoped for a bowl of noodles at the very least, if not for a little gossip.
“Do you know where to?”
“Can’t say,” says the cobbler, cramming his bowler hat down so low his ears bend under the force. “Bit of trouble, there were. Him taking up with a local girl and all. Some of the people around here didn’t like it. No, they didn’t. Don’t see the problem, myself. One more girl off the streets is what I say.”
Amah stares at the shopfront again. Probably just as well. Ping Que would probably put her straight to work in the kitchen again. She rubs her fingers together and, although encased in silk gloves and softened thanks to Heloise’s crème, she can almost feel her skin itch like it did in those days, from the daily scrubbing and washing.
She thanks the cobbler and walks on, deciding to go straight to Golda. Perhaps, just like before, she will offer Amah a coffee or tea.
“Well, you’ve come up in the world, Li Leen,” says Golda, from behind the magnifying glass she uses to inspect Amah’s jewellery. “Very nice pieces you have here.” She picks up the strand of pearls. “These are especially nice.” Her eyes, as sharp as a squirrel’s, watch Amah, but she doesn’t probe, a characteristic of the pawnbroker’s that Amah has always appreciated.
“I just need some ready cash in the short term, Golda. I’ll return soon enough to reclaim my property.” Amah takes a sip of her sweet coffee and places the cup back on the bench.
Golda laughs. “You never missed a repayment, Li Leen, unless you wanted to.” Her hair is as woolly as ever, but now white strands streak the brown.
Footsteps boom across the floorboards above. Amah looks up at the ceiling.
“Your father?”
“Passed away, Li Leen. Two summers ago now.” Golda looks a little sad. “That’s Yosef. My uncle. He’s taken it upon himself to watch over the business now my father’s no longer here.”
They listen as Yosef’s heavy steps make their way down the back stairs. His wheezy voice precedes his bulbous stomach as he enters the shop. “If that crook Simpson didn’t come back for his fob watch…” His eyes light upon Amah and he pauses. “I am sorry, my dear, I didn’t realise you had custom.” His hair, as bushy as Golda’s but far more grey, tumbles from below the brimless, cloth cap on his head.
“This is an old friend of mine, Uncle Yosef.” Golda’s fingers are deft as she folds the velvet display cloth over the jewels. She pours him some coffee, and says, “She’s just leaving some of her things with me for a little while.”
Golda tries to pull the velvet towards her but Yosef catches hold of its corner, and flicks the cloth wide. An acquisitive smile lights his face at the sight of the baubles, revealing three missing teeth in his upper jaw.
He beams at Amah. “Fine jewellery, madam. What fine jewellery.”
“Yes. I am very fortunate.” Amah avoids Golda’s eye, sensing the other woman’s discomfort.
Yosef’s stomach gurgles. Golda stands still behind the counter, a smile fixed on her face. Amah feels unaccountably shy of asking Golda for her money in front of Yosef. Perhaps she’ll expose Golda’s generosity to the old rogue. Perhaps he will remonstrate, block Golda from giving Amah a fair amount of cash.
Yosef bends to inspect the diamonds, saying, “Golda, let’s have some dinner brought over from The Anchor.” He glances up at Amah. “You will be our guest.”
Amah tries to demur, but Yosef is insistent. He waves her objections aside, striding to the shop’s front door, calling for someone named Bert. He stuffs coins into the lad’s fist and tells him to fetch them three roast beef meals and a jug – no, make it two jugs – of ale. He glances over his shoulder at Amah and says, “No, make it one jug of ale and a jug of claret.”
Amah and Golda keep up a light conversation about people they have known, about life in London, as Yosef noisily pulls a small table and chairs into the middle of the room. He draws a blind down over the front windows and lights candles. But he can’t help but peer at Amah’s jewellery each time he passes.
Bert arrives back with the first of his deliveries. He slides two jugs of grog onto the counter, the glitter of the brooch catching his eye. Golda tells him to move on, go collect the rest of their meal, and packs the jewellery back into its box.
“Come, come,” Yosef waves Amah to the table. “Have a drink with us.”
Amah wonders if his plan is to make her inebriated and then… what? Swindle her of some of her money? Rob her of a pearl or two?
“I’ll have another coffee, if you don’t mind.”
Disappointment flickers across Yosef’s face, but he nods at Golda to fill her coffee cup. The meal is mostly a quiet affair apart from Yosef’s slurping of meat and beer, and his prying questions to Amah and her evasive replies. The beef is rubbery and the gravy greasy. Amah sips her coffee while Golda drinks a fair amount of the claret. By the time Yosef’s knife and fork clatter onto his empty plate, Golda seems more relaxed; is more effusive than Amah has ever seen her before. She tells Amah of the strange things some people try to pawn, and of the last time the police checked their inventory for stolen goods.
“Oh, I will sleep well tonight,” Golda says, her face flushed, her eyelids heavy, as she rises from the table. She walks behind the counter and lifts out a money tin. Amah follows her, a little put out to find Yosef closely behind.
He watches Golda count out notes and coins for Amah. There’s almost an imperceptible shake of his head and his finger strokes an agate bead.
Suddenly Amah realises she can’t leave her valuables in the vicinity of this man. He might have paste replicas made. Or disappear with them. Anything could happen.
“Golda, I believe I will return tomorrow for the money,” says Amah, reaching across to tuck the jewellery back into its box. “I wouldn’t want to walk about with such a large amount of ready. I’ll come back with my coachman.”
Golda and her uncle watch Amah push the jewellery box deep into her reticule.
“But Amah,” says Golda, “it’s just as risky to gad about with a bag full of gems.”
But Amah is quite determined. She needs time to think about what to do. “No, no, I’m quite used to carrying them around.”
They walk her to the door. Amah turns and squeezes Golda’s hand, saying, “I’ll come back in the morning.” She will think on it.
She looks to Yosef to say goodbye but his mouth hangs ajar, and all he can do is lift his hand in farewell, his eyes on her reticule.
CHAPTER 13
The cab lurches over a bump and my glasses slip down my nose. I push them back in place, thankful that I don’t require them in the normal run of my life. The glass I had fitted into these spectacles earlier in the day is of no actual use to a person with faulty eyesight. The glasses are merely a part of my disguise. My hair is parted in the middle, its length coiled into a tightly arranged braid. On my head is my plainest hat, its floral and cherry arrangement discarded with. Luckily Isobel’s cousin, Charlotte – a pastor’s daughter – had a rather dull cotton gown I could borrow, and Hitchins managed to procure another like it, secondhand, from a street seller she knows. The part I am to play is sober governess, in between posts, although I rather regret the itchy woollen stockings.
The last thing Mrs White told me of was the suspicious fellow I’m to look out for. A Prussian. All she could tell me was that he answers to the name Ernst – she couldn’t be sure if Christian or surname – and he is getting on
in age, and tall. Last seen with a fulsome beard, but of course he may have cut it off by now. Apparently the Austrians have had their eye on him for a while, convinced his constant travels around the Continent harbour mischief. And his first port of call when he arrived from France had been Waltham Abbey, suspiciously close to the Gunpowder Mills. My stomach flips again at the thought of being so near a possible bombing.
Peering out the cab’s window I can see that we have finally arrived in Soho. There are any number of boarding houses in the area, and I hope to find a vacancy in one. I also know that there is a surfeit of private rooms here, too, used by gay girls, and the occasional Molly-house. We make slow purchase down Broad Street, the cab weaving its careful way around countless people – factory workers, street vendors, beggars – and a long line of buggies. We pass an ironmonger, a grocer and a large building that houses a ‘mineral teeth’ workshop, whatever that might be. On the other side of the road, signage for a local bonnet-maker vies for room on the wall with advertisements for a furrier and a trimming-seller. I catch a whiff of freshly baked bread and promise myself I will visit one of the two pastry shops beneath the surgeon’s rooms. The cab turns right and a costermonger, ropes of onions held high, offers me his wares through the side window.
The driver calls out to me that Green’s Court is not much further ahead. I press my forehead to the glass and look for any lodging houses with vacancy signs.
Pinned to a lamppost outside a rather dusty-looking building is a small placard touting good rooms for single gentlemen. Not much good to me. A little further on, a house in the middle of a row of dilapidated dwellings advertises beds for four pence a night, which is not what I’m looking for at all.
The cab pulls to a stop. “As far as I can go, Miss. Green’s Court is too narrow for me to squeeze through.”
I hop down into the street and turn to haul my portmanteau after me. Green’s Court is a cramped laneway. The air is close, has a grimy feel against my skin, from the black smoke that coughs from thin chimney pipes. The buildings are not tall, but frown down upon each other so closely that only a tepid inlet of light breaks through from the sky above. A sandwich-board man waddles by, bids me visit the tavern on Brewer Street for a hearty dish of salted pork trotters and I become distracted, thinking on the pork trotters in Chinese sauce Amah used to cook for us in Liverpool – delicious they were, caramelised and sticky – and I have to dodge a milk cart that swerves around the corner. The lane is quiet, except for the occasional bleat from a nanny goat a boy leads along the dirty paving. At street level, the buildings – brick and unadorned – seem to be taken up with small, dreary businesses – a barber’s shop, a tobacconist, a rag shop, the front office for one Baxter Brewery. I can only suppose that the upper floors are occupied by private inhabitants, or by offices perhaps. In the window of a shopfront is a sign – not professionally printed like the others, but rather just a hasty scrawl across a piece of writing paper – that declares ‘rooms for let, respectable only need apply’. Entering the dim shop, which is filled with an odd assortment of candles, hats, raincoats, slippers, crockery and even some dusty bottles of cordial liqueurs, I ask the man behind the counter about the room for let. He walks me back outside and points me towards the building to the left, a three-storey brick building, plain, the trim work peeling away. A laundered shirt and breeches drape the balustrade that encloses a tiny terrace on the second floor.