Then I noticed the blood trickling from his right temple and the way his pupils dilated. He swayed and nearly dropped to his knees.
I caught him as best I could and steered him back toward the meadow. “We need to get you to a doctor,” I said quietly.
“That man . . .” He waved vaguely toward the road.
“Too far to follow now. And the sun is headed toward setting. We’ll catch him. Not today.”
“He’s got Jeremy, you know,” Ish said. He stumbled against me, barely able to lift and aim his feet.
“I guessed as much. Now we need to get you back to the balloon. Jimmy will take you to a doctor.”
In the background, I noted the sounds of reins slapping against horseflesh and the creak of wheels turning on weakened axles. Stamata made her own escape. Without the crystal and laboratory supplies, she could not do much to restore her lost love. She presented no threat to us. For now.
The bruises blooming on Ish’s face and the flow of blood welling up from his vulnerable temple did. I checked his arm. He’d knocked the bandage loose and it was bleeding freely again. He was in trouble, despite the new bandages I applied once we were aloft.
“There,” Jimmy said, pointing to a cluster of thatched cottages about twenty miles south of Windsor. The only word he’d said since we tumbled Ish into the basket and lifted off from the field with the watching horses.
Ish groaned but didn’t open his eyes. He sat, slumped against a corner of the basket, head lolling.
I straddled him, one foot on either side of his knees. We just did not have room for him to sprawl his legs and leave space for Jimmy to move about as he needed, adjusting the flame and tilting the ailerons.
“Is there a doctor in that village?” I asked, more to hear the sound of my own voice than to confirm what I guessed.
Jimmy nodded.
“I’m sorry they damaged your balloon.” I offered my friend the only apology I could, along with a few pennies for repairs.
He shrugged, but only with his shoulders, not his full body, and he didn’t look me in the eye.
“I don’t know what else to say, Jimmy. We’ve helped each other many times over the years. I thank you for taking us to find Madame Stamata.”
“Sorry we failed,” he grunted and dropped us lower. The coins disappeared into a pocket. “This is for fuel. The crown he gave me earlier will cover the repairs.” He gestured with his shoulder toward Ish in silent thanks for the money.
“I’ll figure out something to stop that madman.”
Jimmy grunted again, still angry about his precious balloon, but we were friends again. Then he busied himself with getting us back on the ground, aiming for a clear stretch of road just west of the cottages. He’d not willingly damage ripening grain in the fields on either side of that narrow dirt track.
Workers in those fields spotted us, paused in their weeding, and pointed at the strange contraption. This close to London, about thirty miles south by southwest, they must have seen steam devices traveling through the area. But they were some distance from the main road. I’d seen many such villages, isolated by choice as much as distance.
The smoke from the coal fires of the cities did not spread this far. Yet. It was only a matter of time.
We landed with a bump and a drag, precisely on target. The light breeze from the north threatened to dump us into a field. The curious workers leaped to steady the basket as Jimmy deflated the balloon enough to keep us in place, but not enough to ground him for any length of time. I watched the gray silk sag, much as my own tension did.
“Please, is there a doctor about?” I asked the villagers as they peered into the basket and spotted Ish, still dripping blood from head and arm. He managed to open his eyes a bit. They looked as glassy as they were bloodshot.
“Aye, Missus.” One man tugged on his forelock, unable to take his eyes off the fascinating horror of so much blood.
Four other men rushed to the nearest fence and unhinged the gate. They ran back with the makeshift litter much as they’d do for a rider thrown in a foxhunt or a man accidentally shot while bird hunting.
Jimmy stamped his feet impatiently while we hoisted Ish carefully out of the basket and onto the flat boards. The men arranged his legs and feet carefully; they’d done this often. I sincerely hoped that thoughtless horsemen waited until after harvest to careen madly through the fields in pursuit of their nasty prey.
Once Ish was settled, I slung my legs over the rim and jumped clear. Seconds later Jimmy cranked up the burner. A whoosh of hot air brought refreshed rigidity to the silk. As I balanced against the wicker, it rocked and lifted. I stumbled away and nearly kicked the gate where Ish lay breathing shallowly.
Jimmy departed without a wave of farewell.
The local men each took a corner of the gate and trotted toward the jumble of rooflines in the near distance. I followed as best I could. Men started moving closer to us from the far fields. The women and merchants of the village moved into the street, more curious than wary. The jabber of their questions, and speculations, grated on my ears. All I wanted was for Ish to open his eyes and give me one of his endearing smiles.
We came to an easy halt before a cottage door that overlooked the town square—a meadow more than a village common, bigger than most with signs that sheep had recently grazed there before moving them to summer pasture closer to the river.
Alerted by the noise of conversation the door in front of us opened with a hard jerk at the same time a youngish priest made haste to join us from the tiny stone church on the opposite side of the green. He carried a Bible under one arm, his stole draped over the other and a small black box in his hands—the kind men of the cloth used to hold already blessed Eucharist wafers, wine, and holy oil. Emergency tools for any serious injury or illness.
The man of middling years who stood in the doorway assessed the situation with keen eyes and a straightening of his slouched posture. His frock coat had seen better days, but once was of fine cloth and tailoring. The same for his boots and trousers. I guessed he’d once thrived in a city and moved here to finish out his years in relative peace. And boredom. Ish presented him with an interesting challenge.
With sharp gestures, the physician waved us all in. He and I both assisted the four farmers in transferring Ish from the gate to a long metal table, akin to the ones in Stamata’s laboratory. There the resemblance ended. Tools and equipment, as well as books, filled the built-in bookcases. Though scrupulously clean, not a bit of whitewash alarmed my sense of smell or my eyes.
When the farmers left with their gate and nods of respect to the doctor, Ish opened his eyes fully for the first time. He flapped his hand for me to move closer. I clasped his fingers tightly.
“Magdala,” he whispered.
The doctor looked at me sharply while he felt his patient’s scalp gently for evidence of his wounds and clucked his tongue at my clumsy bandages. “Magdala? The bastard daughter of a Gypsy king?” he asked in cultured tones with hints of Edinburgh behind the lilt. The Scottish school of medicine was the finest in the western world. That affirmed my guess of earlier prosperity and significant education. I felt easier about leaving Ish in his care.
“Yes. One and the same,” I admitted.
“Mags. You must go, pursue the crystal. I need that crystal,” Ish said, as if we hadn’t interrupted the flow of his thought. “Leave me. Now. I will return to Oxford when I can.”
Gently I kissed his brow. “Good-bye, Dr. Ishwardas Chaturvedi. You have been a great help and a good friend.”
With that, I left—slapping all the shillings I had with me into the doctor’s hand for his care of Ish and for his silence.
As I trudged out into the street, I wiped away a single tear, knowing that while Ish and I would always be friends, he was not cut out for my adventurous existence, and I couldn’t allow his hesitations to hold me
back. Some things I had to do, no matter how dangerous.
In that arcane manner I could never quite grasp, Jimmy had communicated with his tribe. The young groom from the camp met me on the village green with two horses and a crowd of villagers eyeing the fine horseflesh. He escorted me back to London. Jimmy and his balloon were long gone and I wondered if I’d see him any time soon. My life felt rather empty and devoid of friends at the moment.
I’d no sooner dismounted than the groom gathered up my reins and headed out of town. The horses’ hooves made no sound on the cobbles. Of course they didn’t. They were Romany horses and knew the value of muffling stealth.
Shaking my head to clear it of a thousand images and details, I descended the back stairs to the kitchen and let myself in with my key. Emma and Philippa were cleaning the kitchen. Mickey supervised Lucy as she counted the day’s take.
Everything looked normal.
And yet it wasn’t.
“Mickey, please send for Inspector Witherspoon. Tell him I need some additional information regarding a man with a withered hand.” I stared down the interior stair toward the bathtub.
“I knew it!” Mickey chortled. “He’s up to no good, ain’t he?”
“Probably. Emma, when you finish, would you bring me clean clothes and a cup of hot tea.”
“Aye, Missus. We had a good day. The shortbread biscuits with icing and a half cherry sold out twice,” Lucy said.
“Good thing you taught me to make a decent shortbread,” Emma said. She pulled the plug on the washbasin and toweled her hands dry. “Philippa, you be careful putting away the china,” she called to the girl.
Philippa frowned deeply. “I knows. I knows. No need to keep reminding me.” As she spoke, a crockery bowl slipped from her hands to crash against the tiles.
I sighed and retreated to the bathtub before Emma could take a rolling pin to the girl. They’d work it out.
For the first time in many years I found the problems of the kingdom more important than running my own tiny kingdom. Crisis loomed, and I had run out of ideas.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
“ARE YOU CERTAIN THAT Lord Ruthven is at the center of the plot and his target is the archbishop?” Witherspoon asked as he sipped milky tea and wolfed down three jam scones as if he hadn’t eaten in days.
For that matter, the dark circles of exhaustion around his eyes suggested he hadn’t slept in that long either.
“I’m not certain of anything. But I followed the logic.” Rigby had pushed me through to that logic. Did I trust him to lead me down the proper path?
“Well Ruthven has gone to ground, that’s for certain. I’ve had my boys out looking for the lord and his amanuensis with the black leather gloves that never come off. Nowhere in London. Nor the beggar with the withered hand.”
“Does Lord Ruthven maintain a house in London?”
“Don’t think so.” Witherspoon looked longingly at the empty plate in front of him.
I ignored his silent suggestion. Then my own stomach growled from lack of sustenance. “Oh, well, we might as well both eat. We’ll find something in the kitchen.”
“You asked for a private consultation, Madame Magdala,” he reminded me. Still, he got to his feet and held the door of my parlor open for me.
“My employees have access to more information than your entire army of runners,” I said blithely and led the way down the broad staircase to the center of the café.
“And so does that library of yours.”
“The most obvious place to start is the most obvious.” I reached down a battered copy of Debrett’s Peerage as we passed and continued down the stairs to the kitchen.
While Witherspoon thumbed through the pages of the thick book, I put together a tray of cold meats, cheeses, the last of this morning’s bread, and some sticks of vegetables. The aroma of new bread rising in the brick cubby beside the oven that stayed warm long after the oven fires died away sharpened my appetite.
“Are you certain he’s a peer?” Witherspoon asked. He shoved the open book toward me as he took possession of the cold collation. “If he’s not well known in London, he could easily invent a country title and few would suspect. Except those with an up-to-date copy of Debrett’s.”
Before I even glanced at the page, I repossessed some of the food. “Tea will be along in a minute,” I said around a mouthful of sliced mutton, cheese, and bread.
Then I looked. Backward and forward. I checked indexes and cross references.
No mention of Ruthven at all. Not a past title or a current one. No record of the name or place at all.
“This can’t be,” I muttered. “He was introduced to me by . . . a dear friend. And confirmed by a respected Oxford don.” I flipped to the page showing Sir Andrew Fitzandrew as the first baronet of Fitzandrew with a home seat in Lancashire. I’d viewed that page many times over the years, wishing I’d taken the opportunity to visit his home, even if I had to go clandestinely and view it only from the outside.
Finally, I drew out my reading glasses and donned them. Details jumped out at me. Details I didn’t want to see.
Witherspoon didn’t bat an eye at the unflattering addition to my accessories.
“Someone has removed that page with a very sharp blade. I have no way to determine if Ruthven is the family name or the name of the estate, or if they are one and the same. I have no geographical references to even find the estate.” I thrust the book away and attacked my food.
“Got another copy of that book hidden below in your fancy library?” Witherspoon raised his tufted eyebrows and bit into his bread, now spread liberally with butter and jam.
I stilled a moment. “This is the most recent. Debrett’s is updated frequently to mark the changes as old men die and younger men assume the titles, or everything reverts to the crown.”
Therefore, I must have older copies stashed away in the stacks of books in the basement, the walls, the attics, in the next building connected by cellars, and anywhere else the great machine knew about. I took my food with me back up the shallow stairs to the café proper. After a few minutes of fiddling with the keys I had a search working for the three previous versions of Debrett’s.
The machine barely hissed or rotated at all before sending three books down the chute.
“That’s one good thing about having the majority of books hidden away,” I said. “Only the most current and popular books remain available to anyone wandering the café. Destructive hands can’t get to the older versions. Even I don’t know where to find most of the volumes I own.”
The oldest of the previous versions revealed only the name Ruthven as both family and title. Estate not mentioned. But the title had reverted to the crown after a seven-year search because Adam Blackwell, heir presumptive to his great uncle the eighth baron, had gone to India and not returned.
India, the home of the Thuggees and their death cult honoring Kali. The purple crystal known as the Eye of Kali. India was also a place where a man of small income might make a large fortune. Ruthven seemed to have a great deal of money if he purchased an oversized black hot air balloon and outfitted it with a cannon that shot green light.
Coincidences began to fall into place.
The next volume said that Adam Blackwell-Ruthven, ninth baron, had returned from India and reclaimed the title and the estate. Not much of an estate—three hundred impoverished acres of land, a house built upon older foundations during the Restoration, and a seat in the House of Lords. Income estimated from the land was only about one thousand pounds a year—mostly from sheep—hardly enough to keep the roof from leaking and the servants fed. One shouldn’t expect more after being abandoned and neglected for seven years.
Then I noticed in the older version that the land and title came with an endowed curacy and a seat in the House of Commons. Both of those positions could be sold outside the parish for m
ore than they were worth. But the Reform Act would have moved both positions elsewhere and out of Ruthven’s hands.
“Where is the manor?” Witherspoon asked as I read.
“Devonshire. Hard upon the coast.” Jane had said that Violet was headed toward Devonshire when they saw each other at the train station.
“Smugglers’ caves,” Witherspoon said on a nod.
“A proposed rail line through the village,” I mused. Then I went in search of a map.
Fortunately, I have a bad habit of not returning books to the stacks or even the shelves in the café. My atlas of historic maps still rested on my reading table. I fetched it forthwith.
Old maps of Devonshire showed the Ruthven estate before Cromwell, and the rebuilt manor as mere dots near a no-name village. Only the most recent map showed the proposed railroad running north of the village and a wagon track—a thin squiggly line—connecting the two. This map was five years old. More and more rail lines were constructed every year.
“We need a newer map,” I said.
“I’ll be back here tomorrow morning at opening with the latest. We at Bow Street need to keep these things on hand.”
“Best we both get some rest.” I showed him out by the back stair. Then I lay down on my bed for just a moment before changing into one of my beggar disguises to prowl the streets.
The next thing I knew, Emma was creeping down the stairs to set the bread to baking at dawn.
Curiously, the new maps showed the rail line had diverted south to run through the village now named Ruthven Abbey Downs.
Abbey?
That sent me looking for listings of abbeys and other church properties dissolved during the early reformation.
It took some time and three books until I found a line drawing of a small square building from about 1500. The travel guide mentioned the three hundred acres supporting the Dominican chapter in residence. I surmised that inside the square two-story building lay an open courtyard with a covered, possibly partially enclosed, walkway—the cloister. A square Norman tower dominated one corner, the chapel. Standard. Nothing unusual. The new manor was reported to be built on the same square, but rose three stories plus attics and a modern tiled roof. No open cloister.
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