The Death of Me

by M. J. Tjia

  “You monster.” Every nerve in my body leaps, stretching to their very extremes, screaming to hit him, punch him, kick. Hatred runs molten beneath my skin, but drops away suddenly, plunging me in chill water as I glimpse a familiar face duck into view outside Somerscale’s window.

  Ripley. On horseback.

  He gives me a quick salute, his horse trotting on just as Somerscale glances out onto the street. “Don’t be so dramatic, Heloise. You are not on the stage here.”

  Ripley! My thoughts are muddled. Is he hand in hand with Somerscale? Or is it merely a coincidence he is here? Surely not. How would he know to look into this coach in particular?

  The coach wheels lurch over a stone, and I glance out the window to see two ladies step out from Gunter’s Tea Shop. We are near Berkeley Square. I frown. Are we heading for Mayfair?

  “Ah,” says Somerscale. “We are nearly at our destination.” He pulls out his pocket watch. “We still have plenty of time.”

  I think back on Mrs White’s words earlier. “Who is this Thomas, Somerscale? In Audley Street. I suppose he is your target?”

  His fine lips widen into a smile. “Clever girl. I really did underestimate you, you know. Thomas – who of course is a close chum of your Mrs White – is none other than the War Secretary.”

  Again, Ripley trots past, this time travelling in the opposite direction.

  “But why, Somerscale? Why murder him?”

  “Why? For money, of course, Heloise.”

  “But you’re rich.”

  He looks surprised. “Rich? Heloise, you must know better than anyone that there is never enough. And would you have me sitting around, twiddling my thumbs? And in any case, it is not the Secretary I am after, it’s the man he is meeting today. Of course, everyone will think it’s the Secretary who is the intended target but actually it’s a Brazilian businessman. I’ve had my eye on him for a while, for he is constantly cutting me out of business.”

  “Business?”

  “Dealing arms, my dear. A very profitable venture, I’ve found. British arms sustained the Confederates for a certain period – some provided by our government, but a lot supplied by me. Incredibly lucrative, it turned out to be. But what with their little civil war petering out, I have been on the hunt for new buyers, and have hit upon a nice stir-up in Paraguay. Unfortunately, so has this Brazilian… mmm… nemesis of mine. But, if he were simply to be murdered – shot in the night, or stabbed in his bed – I assure you, all eyes would be turned on me. That would put me and my business in a very awkward position. Much better for people to think his death is the sad result of an assassination attempt on the Secretary.”

  “And he’s here?”

  “Yes. Having a meeting with the War Secretary at 11 a.m. I overhead Thomas speaking of it purely by chance at White’s, and it gave me time to distract London with these other bomb attacks.”

  The coachman calls out for the horses to halt, and the coach rocks as someone – Victor, surely – climbs down from above. We’ve pulled in next to a red brick building. I quickly scan the street for a policeman, Ripley, anybody, but apart from a girl who runs past carrying an armful of twigs, and a bent old beggar pulling a rickety cart on a length of rope, there is no one I can call on for help.

  Somerscale unclips the case, revealing the bomb. “Now, Heloise, slowly reach over here, if you would, and take up your pretty bag.”

  Victor, a tall, bulky fellow, with a moustache as thick as a tarbrush, takes up position outside the door that leads to the pavement. He tips his hat at two ladies who stroll by, swinging baskets of flowers by their sides.

  I shake my head. My head whirls, dizzy, as my heart skips the odd beat.

  “Don’t be foolish, dear. Pick up your bag.”

  I don’t know what his game is. I eye the door handle to my left, but even if it were to be unlocked, I would only plummet into Victor’s arms, after all.

  “Fetch your bag,” Somerscale barks.

  Reaching over, I pick up my bag. Dare I risk diving into it for my pistol? But I stare too long and Somerscale chuckles. “Don’t be foolish, Heloise. There would not be time before I would shoot a hole in you. Think of Beveridge and that dreadful racket he made as he lay dying.”

  With the muzzle of the revolver he indicates for me to open the bag. My fingers are stiff, my joints almost ache, as I slowly undo the clasp.

  “Open it wider, dear.”

  I rest it on the seat and pull the bag’s mouth wide.

  His voice is very soft when he says, “Now, lift up the bomb, here, and place it in your bag.”

  “I will not!”

  He leans forward, presses the small, round tip of the revolver to my breast. I can feel my heartbeat drum back against it. “Heloise, Heloise. The bomb is quite stable. It won’t explode unless ignited. Take it. Place it in your bag.”

  I bend forward, reach towards the bomb. My skin jumps as my fingertips touch the bomb’s cool frame. But nothing happens. Keeping well away from the wooden fuse, I press my thumb to the sphere and grip. I’m not sure of its weight though, and I’m scared I might drop it. But the longer my fingers rest on the iron casing, the more I worry that maybe the warmth of my skin will ignite it, change its composition in some way. I lift it and, as gently as possible, nestle it into my velvet bag.

  Finally, I look back up at Somerscale. Sweat stings my upper lip.

  “Well done.” With the revolver still trained on me, he looks out the window, towards a large Georgian house on the next corner. A short, barrel-chested man, in a dark overcoat and bowler hat, stands, stalwart, by the front steps.

  “A guard,” murmurs Somerscale. “Mrs White has been busy.”

  “What do you plan to do?”

  “Well, of course, the original plan was for Beveridge to disguise himself as a delivery man, in order to leave a nice little package on the doorstep. But when I saw him cornered like that by you and that policeman, I knew he’d talk.”

  “So you killed him.”

  “Yes. However, that plan has come unstuck.”

  “Why don’t you take it yourself?” I say, glaring across at him.

  He peers at me. “But I’ve had a better idea, Heloise. A plan that I believe Victor could manage for me. I rather think that if he were to rush to that guard for assistance, surely the man would lend Victor assistance; perhaps even – hopefully – allow entry to the premises? The only problem would be ensuring the fuse lasts long enough for Victor to escape, or else…” His eyes widen, and his head tips to the side. “I might have to offer him a bonus of some sort. But he’s a loyal sort of chap, he’ll do my bidding I daresay.”

  I don’t like the smile that hitches the side of his mouth. Every muscle in my body tenses. “Why would Victor need assistance?”

  Somerscale taps the glass with the revolver, catching Victor’s attention. “He’ll have an unconscious lady and her bag clasped in his arms, of course.”

  He drops the revolver to the seat and lunges for me, his hands aimed at my throat.

  I struggle against him, kicking as hard as possible with my boots. His thumbs dig into the base of my throat, cutting short my scream. He presses hard, his fingernails piercing my skin. The door to my left swings open, and Victor, eyes starting from his head, makes ready to climb in to assist his master.

  Glass crashes about my ears. Shards fall over my shoulders, my right sleeve. Somerscale falls back, just as the muzzle of a Colt nudges its way through the broken window, fires one shot. Victor rears back, clutching his shoulder. Through the gun smoke I see the valet lift his own pistol, firing back through the middle of the carriage.

  “Take care, you fool,” roars Somerscale.

  But Ripley – for it could only be Ripley – has dropped out of sight.

  Somerscale picks up the revolver again, and shifts over on his seat, craning to see through the broken glass without making a target of himself. “You’d better sit still,” he growls at me. He bangs the roof of the coach and screams at the d
river to get a move on.

  The coach starts to rock again, and we look upwards as footsteps clamber across the top of the coach. Somerscale leans out the open doorway, and fires his gun once, then a second time, into the air. Someone screeches, and tumbles to the road beside me. A fat man, balding, a dark stain blooming across the back of his red coat. The coachman.

  “Blast,” says Somerscale. “Get up there, man,” he shouts at Victor. “Get us out of here,” but Victor stares above us, to the top of the coach, and turns tail, scuttles off down the street, his hand still clapped over his wounded shoulder. “Blast,” Somerscale shouts again, stamping his foot. He pants, looking swiftly from right to left. He grabs my sleeve, forces me through the doorway. I fall to the pavement, scraping the heels of my hands, but don’t have time to catch my breath before he picks me up by the scruff of my gown and hauls me to my feet. Grabbing me around the waist, he tugs me close into his body. The black tip of Hatterleigh’s revolver wavers close to my right eye. I hear that terrible creak again, as he cranks the hammer ready.

  I stumble as he backs us both further onto the pavement, so that I’m between him and the road. I stare up at Ripley, who stands atop the coach, hat pushed to the back of his head, a Colt pistol, cocked and ready, in each hand. The man guarding the Georgian house has run forward, but stands frozen at the sight of so many guns.

  Somerscale calls out, from where he crouches behind me, “If you don’t drop those firearms, sir, I will surely blow a hole in this pretty head here.” He taps the muzzle to my temple. He’s regained his composure. His voice is calm and pleasant again.

  Ripley considers us for a moment, his eyes narrowing, measuring the possibilities. My heart sinks when he shrugs, disarms his pistols, flips them into his hip holsters.

  “You got a deal, there, Mister. Don’t want anyone else to come to harm, do we?”

  “Come now,” calls Somerscale. “You mustn’t take me for a fool. You think I don’t know how quickly you can draw those Colts of yours again? Throw them to the ground, would you?”

  Ripley’s wide jaw clenches tight. He shakes his head a little. Everything seems to slow down, drowned in aspic again. Ripley takes the guns from the holsters. The two women with the baskets of flowers look back over their shoulders. Ripley keeps a sharp eye on us as he kneels, dropping one pistol to the ground, where it clatters against the coach’s wheel. The beggar crosses the road towards us, dropping the rope to his cart. As Ripley stretches out his arm to drop the second gun, I sense Somerscale’s attention is focused on the American, and the black and gold revolver wavers, is no longer pointed directly at my head. I decide that this might be my only moment to act, and if I am quick enough, maybe Ripley will still be in possession of the second Colt.

  I wriggle in Somerscale’s grip, try to break free. As we sway, a bullet lodges in the bricks behind us, and Somerscale lifts his arm instinctively, fires his gun at Ripley. I lift my arm under his, twist free, and think of trying Ripley’s stamp to the foot, or palm-smash to the nose, but I’ll resort to my usual line of defence. I steel my frame and, with all the force I can muster, I lunge my knee into Somerscale’s groin. I can’t make perfect connection because of my blasted skirts, but it’s enough for him to gasp and step away. The revolver shakes as he lifts it again, but another bullet tears the skin from the fleshy part of his hand and he throws his head back and howls. The revolver falls with a clunk against the toe of my shoe.

  The shots still ring in my ear as I turn around. Ripley stands atop the coach, looking about himself, puzzled, his hands empty. My eyes find both his Colts, lying in the gutter where they have fallen. The two women run towards us, shedding lilies and peonies behind them. They shove me out of the way as they draw truncheons from beneath the flowers in their baskets. They wrench off their bonnets and wigs, shouting at Somerscale to get to the ground.

  “Constable Jones and Merryweather, madam,” the taller one explains to me, in a deep voice, sweat trickling down his forehead.

  “Good work, Mrs Chancey.” I turn to look at the beggar. Behind the dirt and charcoal that darkens her face, Mrs White’s eyes glitter out at me. “I didn’t know how we were going to get you out of such a sticky situation, but you managed very nicely indeed.” Her fat cheeks lift into a smug smile as she holds up a silver pistol. “With a little help from me.”

  CHAPTER 30

  AMAH

  Taff helps Amah climb the stairs to her rooms in Mayfair, Bundle following close behind with her bag.

  “Thank you, Taff,” she says to the coachman, as he stands, watching her from the middle of her sitting room. She sinks into the armchair, and stares at her linen handkerchief. It’s positively black with soot from rubbing her hands upon it on the train.

  “You sure you’m all right?” he asks again.

  “Yes, Taff, yes, I am.” She’s terribly tired, and only wishes for bed, and she struggles to keep the snappish note from her words, for Taff has been good to her, patient. When Christopher Crewe had sent for him to fetch Amah in the middle of that dark night at Crewe Hall, Taff and the coach had arrived with the orange glow of dawn, careening up that long driveway, pebbles spitting from beneath the speeding wheels. He’d taken her back to the hotel, telling her how much he had worried; how he’d scoured the docks and tormented the local police about her disappearance. In her room, he packed her portmanteau in between bullying her into eating more chicken soup and what he called ‘stirabout’.

  “Them oats were’m good enough for my mother – who, I might add, lived until she were sixty-eight years old! – and they be good for you too,” he said, stirring swirls and swirls of sticky treacle through the hot porridge.

  Bundle returns with a tray of tea things which he places on the round table. He bends to light the fire, and she sees he’s in his dressing gown. “I am so sorry to have woken you,” she says to the butler. “I had no idea it was so late. Please, leave it. I can light the fire myself.”

  But he ignores her and carries on with his task. “It is no problem, Amah. I was still reading the newspaper, in fact. Not yet asleep.”

  When he’s satisfied the flames have caught, he taps Taff on the shoulder, says, “Come, Taff. Share an ale with me. I’m sure Amah is in need of rest.”

  The door clicks behind them as they leave. On the tray is a shallow pile of post for Heloise, reminding Amah of that fateful day she opened the letter from that woman, demanding she meet them at that tavern. Amah shakes her head. That woman and her spineless husband. Christopher said that he’d take care of them, threaten to take them straight to the magistrate should they persevere with their idiotic prank. That was the word he had used. Prank. Not ‘blackmail’. Not ‘kidnapping’. Not ‘violence’.

  Amah shakes her head again at the unfairness of it all. What could she expect? He was that woman’s brother, after all. She lifts the teapot and pours herself a cup.

  Christopher had also promised to send her jewellery back to her, and the other earring, the twin of the gold orb she has locked away. She prays he does. It would make her so happy to own the pair of earrings again, so she could pass them to Heloise. They would be the girl’s only inheritance from an ancestor who wasn’t Amah herself. For Amah doubted she would receive anything from Christopher or his wicked sister, despite the fact that if there was true justice, Heloise’s place in the world would supersede that woman’s. Amah would be Lady Crewe. She almost smiles at the thought. But of this she would never tell Heloise. Never. If she were to tell Heloise of her half-brother, Sir Christopher Crewe, it would go to Heloise’s head in some way. She would either peacock the news, or worse, rage at the unfairness of it all. Either way, it was best Heloise didn’t know more of who her father truly was.

  The teaspoon trembles against the china as she remembers what Christopher told her, of how her John passed away. Originally, she was too numb, too dazed by her escape to truly think on Christopher’s words. And since then, her exhausted mind has shied from dwelling on it. She places the spoon do
wn, stares at the pattern of lilac flowers on the teacup, trying to gauge how the idea of John’s death sits in her heart. She thinks of how his fair hair feathered across his forehead, of the brush of his skin against her thigh, of the first night she had lain in their cold bed, quite alone. Her mind lingers over the memories like she might shift a morsel of food in her mouth, tasting it, savouring it. Her chest feels a little heavy, but perhaps the sadness is not for him, Jonathan Crewe, this man she didn’t really know, but for her youth, for those early, cheerful days in Liverpool.

  There’s a soft scratching at her door and she feels a slight peak of exasperation. Surely Taff is not still worrying at her.

  When she opens the door though, her impatience falls away.

  “Amah.” Agneau breathes the word. His dark eyes take her in. “Amah, I heard Bundle and Taff talking of you, of the hardship you have faced… Please, do not stand here in the cold draught of the hallway. Go back, go back, to your fire.” He touches her elbow lightly, guiding her back to her armchair.

  He places a piece of cake next to her teacup. “Your favourite gâteau, Amah. The one with the cherry filling. Not too sweet, how you like it.”

  Again, his eyes search her face. Before she can stop herself, she tucks a stray strand of hair behind her ear, hopes she doesn’t look too haggard. Prays the firelight is kind.

  “That is very nice of you, Agneau.”

  “Non, Amah. To tell you the truth I was anxious about you when you went away so suddenly.”

  “Oh. That’s very nice of you,” Amah says again. Heat rises to her face, and her heart beats uncomfortably.

  “I can see you are tired. I will not pester you. But tomorrow I will prepare your favourite dishes. Please visit me in the kitchen.”

  He cups her cheek in his hand, softly rubs his thumb across her brow. And then he is gone. She closes her eyes, and for a few moments she can still feel the gentle sweep of his thumb.

  Carrying her cup of tea into her bedroom, she places it on her dressing table. As she unbuttons her blouse, she gazes at herself in the oval mirror. Her hair tumbles to her shoulders as she unpins it. She angles her face from side to side, so that the light of the fire catches the shadows of her cheekbones, the lustre of her dark skin, and in her reflection, she can almost see that young woman who first found love.