Trafalgar and Boone in the Drowned Necropolis

by Geonn Cannon

  “Clara and Carter, Desmond and Dorothy,” she had said with a laugh as they climbed into the hackney cab. “Why, aren’t we adorable?”

  Desmond and Dorothy, the very soon to be Professor and Mrs. Tindall, if gossip was to be believed. They’d been engaged for years, they were the light of the social scene, and everyone wondered when Desmond would officially take her to church and make an honest woman of her. It would behoove everyone if he did it quickly so she could get to work making him a family instead of running off on her “adventures.” Every woman needed their hobbies, but a married woman had duties to perform. Whenever the topic came up, Desmond would laugh it off.

  “You know Dot. She’s only interested in things that happened a hundred years ago, if that recently. Trying to get her to consider the future is like herding cats.”

  Of course, everyone on that evening’s excursion was aware of the true story. Dorothy preferred the company of women, and Desmond was of the exact opposite persuasion. Carter was there was Desmond’s date. Ideally the woman they brought along as the fourth member of their little ruse would be someone for Dorothy, but Clara the Librarian was merely an ally who was willing to “suffer” a night of culture to help out a friend. Everyone deserved a nice night on the town, she said, and she didn’t understand why it was necessary for one couple to hide while another could flaunt their romance.

  Midway through the first act, Dorothy tapped Clara’s wrist and indicated they should take a powder. They stepped out of their private box and Dorothy hooked her arm around the younger woman’s elbow to guide her to the stairs. She kept her pace slow; it wouldn’t do to return prematurely. Clara was dark-haired, with large eyes the color of sweet milk chocolate. Her nose and chin were pinched, and her mouth was a wide bow. Her orientation was a huge disappointment to Dorothy; the things she could have taught this scholarly little virgin...

  She forced herself to find a less distracting topic of thought as they ventured downstairs. “I apologize for making you miss the performance.”

  “Oh, don’t apologize. This theatre is a palace. I found it difficult to concentrate on the story anyway, what with those chandeliers, the dome, and oh! Did you see the electric lights?”

  Dorothy laughed. “I did, yes.”

  Clara blushed a bit at her own exuberance. “I’m sorry. I don’t get much opportunity to be fancy.”

  “Well, you should do it more often. It suits you very well. The next time Desmond and I go out on the town, you shall be my first call. Assuming you don’t hit it off with Mr. Marsh.”

  “Truth be told,” she leaned in close and lowered her voice to a whisper, “I don’t believe he’s quite my type.”

  “Yes, he didn’t quite strike me as your kind of man.”

  Clara grinned as they reached the lobby. A pair of theatre attendants were lingering near the stairs, so Dorothy and Clara lapsed into silence until they were far enough away that their voices wouldn’t carry back to the young men.

  Clara said, “It’s a good thing you’re doing for them.”

  “I benefit from it as well,” Dorothy said. “In fact, my rewards are greater than Desmond’s. If I were a single woman without a man courting me, I’d have far more headaches to deal with.”

  “I suppose. And he... does the same for you? For instance, if I were, um, of the persuasion...”

  “Then Desmond would offer to drive Carter home on some pretense whereas you would be far too exhausted to leave. And I would offer you my guest room for the night.”

  “But I wouldn’t spend the evening there.”

  Dorothy smiled at the pink flush rising on Clara’s cheeks. “No. It is highly likely you would not.”

  Clara pressed her lips together and looked around the lobby. They could hear the voices of actors echoing through the historic hallways of the old theatre, but they were too indistinct to understand. It was like being underwater and hearing voices on the surface. Dorothy chided herself for letting her thoughts drift back so easily to her work. For the past few days she had done nothing but research the flooding of the Mediterranean. She was now convinced it had actually happened, a world-changing flood that might even have been the origin of the Noah mythology. An entire sea crashing through the desert. What a sight it must have been. What an awe-inspiring and horrifying thing to experience...

  “Lady Boone?”

  She realized Clara had been speaking to her. “Yes, I’m sorry?”

  “No, I shouldn’t have asked. It’s not my place...”

  “Now I have to know.”

  Clara worked her lips back and forth and looked down at the carpet. “Is it wrong that I find it... the idea of what Professor Tindall and Mr. Marsh are doing right now... I mean, presumably what they’re doing... I find it arousing.”

  Dorothy laughed and patted the girl’s hand. “It’s human nature. We’re a very voyeuristic species, Clara. There’s nothing wrong with you.” She leaned closer and lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “In fact, though nothing about the mechanics appeal to me in the slightest on their own, I’ve been known to fantasize from time to time myself.”

  Clara covered her mouth when she laughed. “How long do you think it will take?”

  “Desmond will be... efficient. But still, probably best not to rush him. Perhaps a stroll around the lobby.”

  “Sounds splendid.”

  They took a slow tour of the theatre lobby before they returned to their box. Desmond and Carter were facing forward to watch the show, but there was a distinct odor in the air that told Dorothy their absence hadn’t been wasted. Desmond had a sheen of sweat on his forehead and Dorothy reached over to pat his wrist as she took her seat. Behind them, Clara sat next to Carter and asked him how the show was going. When he told her it was absolutely bloody splendid from where he sat, Dorothy had to bite down on her finger to keep from laughing out loud.

  After the show, Desmond braved the crowds and summoned a hackney for the four of them. Their plan was to return to Threadneedle Street for tea and a late dinner, after which Clara would be given the spare room while Desmond and Carter took advantage of Dorothy’s room. She would spend the evening with her research. If she got too tired, she would bed down with Beatrice.

  They were nearly to Paternoster Square when Dorothy’s attention was drawn to the row of offices above the Viaduct Tavern. One of those windows was Cora’s office, and Dorothy leaned forward craning her neck to watch it as they passed. The shades were drawn, but a lamp was burning within.

  “Cora is still institutionalized, isn’t she?”

  “Last I heard,” Desmond said.

  Dorothy patted the roof with the back of her hand. “Stop the car, please.”

  “What are you doing?” Desmond asked as the driver pulled to the curb.

  “If someone is attempting to rob Cora, then it’s my duty to stop it.”

  Carter said, “Forgive me, Lady Boone, but isn’t that explicitly the job of the police?”

  “Excellent idea, Mr. Marsh. Kindly alert them to the break-in. While you’re doing that, I will apprehend the thief myself.” She stretched back into the car and kissed Desmond’s cheek. “Thank you for the lovely evening, Des. If you choose to continue to my home, Beatrice shall let you in. I shall hopefully not be out too late.” She caught Clara’s awed look and threw her a wink. “I do hope we meet again, Miss Levy. A curiosity left unexplored can be a dangerous thing.”

  With that, she stepped away from the cab and gathered her skirts as she hurried across the sidewalk. After a moment she heard Desmond order the driver to continue on their trip. She knew the delay had been his masculinity insisting he stay behind the help her, but they’d had that discussion before. Desmond was no fighter. He would only get in the way. He was best served continuing to Threadneedle Street and either calling the police or sending Beatrice back to offer her assistance.

  An exterior entrance revealed a flight of stairs that led up to the third floor, where Cora kept her offices. Before ascend
ing, Dorothy lifted her skirts and removed the gun she had tucked into her boot. She wished she had the opportunity to change into something a bit more intimidating than her finery, but she couldn’t allow the thief to escape just because she was uncomfortable.

  Dorothy made as little noise as possible as she went up the stairs. Cora’s office was the second on the right, its door currently standing ajar. She paused for a moment and heard something crash to the ground within, followed by a muttered curse. There was no response or an admonishment to keep quiet or be more careful, so she assumed she was dealing with a solitary intruder. She pushed the door open with her shoulder and stepped over the threshold.

  The office was small to begin with, but Cora had further reduced space with deep bookshelves against three of its four walls and a roll-top desk beside the window. A woman in a black coat was crouched with her back to the door, a stack of papers in one hand while she used the other to clean up the books she’d knocked off the shelf. She was wearing a pageboy cap, but her dark black hair fell across her shoulders like a mantle.

  “I believe those items belong to my friend,” Dorothy said, “and I would thank you to leave everything where it is.”

  The woman twisted at the waist and struck out with her leg in the same fluid movement, kicking the gun from Dorothy’s hand. Disarmed, Dorothy grabbed the woman’s ankle and twisted. Her quarry was thrown off balance and collapsed on the floor. Dorothy reached for her gun, which had fallen onto one of Cora’s shelves. Before she could get a grip on it, the woman in black threw herself at Dorothy’s waist and knocked her into the doorframe.

  “Ah, crumbs!” Dorothy yelped. Pain radiated from her shoulder as she swung her fist like a bludgeon, catching the other woman in the side of the head. The woman absorbed the blow and responded by punching Dorothy in the gut. The air was knocked out of her and she stumbled forward, wrapping her opponent in a sloppy embrace. They both fell hard to the office floor, but the other woman recovered first. She pushed herself up and then dropped her weight down, elbowing Dorothy so that her head cracked against the floor.

  “You’ve got guts, I’ll give you that,” the woman said in a thick Irish accent. “But do yourself a favor and stay down.”

  Dorothy saw the woman shoving a book into her belt. “Cora Hyde is my friend. I will not allow her to be robbed.” She pushed herself up and grabbed the woman as she was moving for the door. They spun together before the woman growled and threw herself back. She slammed Dorothy against the shelves and caused an avalanche to cascade down onto them. Dorothy cried out at the sharp edge of a book bounced off her crown. The woman turned and punched Dorothy hard in the face twice, again in the stomach, and then threw her onto the floor.

  “I’ll leave you alive this time, but if you follow me... well. Just don’t make me regret it. Ta.”

  Dorothy was too sore to even think about giving chase. She felt blood trickling through her hair, and she had bit her tongue at some point during the scuffle. For a long moment she lay on the floor taking account of her injuries. She was definitely bleeding from the injury on top of her head, and she knew that there would be a string of bruises along her shoulder and torso come morning. She reached up to touch her shoulder and massaged it through the pain. Not broken. That was a blessing, at least.

  After a long moment she managed to sit up. Her abdomen ached, and she pressed a hand against it as she looked around the office. The intruder had certainly made a mess of it. She hoped Cora had some manner of organization that would allow them to discover what had been stolen. There was a box of tissues on the floor next to the desk and she reached out to grab a handful of them. She dabbed at the blood on her cheek and chin, then hissed as she pressed a wad of it against the wound.

  Dorothy hated losing. She despised being bested in a fight, but more so when she didn’t even know her opponent’s name. She felt humiliated and weak. When Desmond and Beatrice arrived, as she knew they soon would, she would have to admit to them that she’d been beaten. They would treat her like a child. The idea was maddening. But fortunately, she knew it was not a feeling she would have to carry for long. She would meet her Black Irish enemy again, and on their second encounter Dorothy would not be dressed for a night at the theatre. She would remember each ache and pain she suffered over the next few days so she could inflict it back ten-fold.

  Chapter Six

  Dorothy retired to her study, an ice pack pressed against her head, listening to jazz on the gramophone in an effort to calm her jangled nerves. Beatrice had been a dervish upon arriving at Cora’s office to find Dorothy bruised and bloodied. It took her and Desmond both to convince Beatrice not to race off into the night in search of the thief. Her biggest regret was that coming to retrieve her and staying to make the police report required Desmond to cancel his evening with Carter Marsh. Dorothy felt almost as bad about that as she did about letting the Black Irish go. Almost.

  There was a knock on the door and she bit back a growl. “Trix, I assure you, I am one hundred percent fine. I don’t require anything. Thank you.”

  “It’s me,” Trafalgar said. Dorothy furrowed her brow and twisted in her seat as Trafalgar stuck her head around the door. “May I come in?”

  “Yes. Certainly.” Trafalgar closed the door and took a seat across from Dorothy. “This is quite a surprise. I know Desmond called to let you know what happened, but I wouldn’t have expected you to come by in the middle of the night like this.”

  “I was concerned. If Cora’s office was ransacked because of what happened to her in the Med, there’s every chance that you and I might also be targeted.” She started to say something else, stopped herself, but then shook her head. “And I wanted to see if you were all right. We’ve been working together for a year. I’ve grown fond of you, despite my best efforts.”

  Dorothy smirked. “So sweet, Miss Trafalgar. The worst damage was done to my pride, and that’s not permanent. I don’t suppose you’ve ever encountered my attacker before. Female, Irish, black hair, close to my height. Hell of a right cross.”

  Trafalgar said, “She doesn’t sound familiar. Have you contacted Wraysbury?”

  “Cora is unharmed. The institute’s security has been alerted to the situation and they’ve assured me they’ll keep an eye out.”

  “I’m a bit wary to trust an asylum.”

  Dorothy nodded, then winced as the motion caused her headache to flare. “Indeed. I felt much the same, but it’s what Cora wants. She was reasonable and seemed to be herself. I just have to take her at her word that she chose to be there.”

  “I knew a woman before the war,” Trafalgar said, “who was institutionalized for political excitement. In my attempts to get her released, I discovered those hellholes were little better than holding pens for women who dared used their mouths and brains in conjunction. As a matter of fact, Lady Boone, you should have been a prime candidate for committal.”

  “Thank you for the compliment,” Dorothy said. “My grandmother did much to protect me from men who would’ve locked me away. You weren’t lucky enough to have a guardian, making your independence much more impressive.”

  Trafalgar nodded her head in thanks, then looked around. “A woman of loose morals such as yourself must have a wet bar at hand...”

  Dorothy chuckled and pointed to the globe in the corner. Trafalgar rose and went to make them both a drink.

  “We’ll go to Wraysbury tomorrow. Hopefully Cora will have some idea of who her intruder was.”

  The door had opened and Desmond slipped inside while she was speaking. “I may be able to give you some help with that. Constable Curry questioned the bartender at the tavern below and gave your description of an Irish woman with black hair. He reported a woman who sat in a table facing the window drinking nothing but Jameson on the rocks with ginger and lime. He never heard her speak, but she matched the description. She was there for at least the past three days. He said that was when he started noticing her.”

  “She was watching the of
fice to see if anyone was using it. From that, we can at least deduce that it wasn’t a crime of opportunity. Whoever Black Irish is, she was targeting Cora specifically. The question is why.” She fixed her gaze on a random spot across the room and tried to call up the image of the book her opponent stole. “It may have nothing to do with Cora’s most recent expedition. We’ll know more when we’ve spoken to her. Trafalgar, you’re more than welcome to join me on the trip to Wraysbury in the morning. You may bed down here for the night if you wish. It’s extremely late and I won’t send you back across the river only to return in a handful of hours. I’m sure there is something here that will fit you so you won’t have to wear the same clothes tomorrow.” She checked the clock and groaned. “Or rather, later today.”

  “If you have the room, it would be much appreciated.”

  Dorothy nodded and told her where she could find the spare room, since it wouldn’t be used by the lovely and curious librarian.

  “We’ll leave at eight, after breakfast. Desmond, would you like to accompany us?”

  “I’m afraid I have a class.” He bent down and kissed her forehead. “Do be safe. I realize it’s not a realistic request, but it makes me feel better to say it out loud. At least then perhaps you’ll feel guilty while running headlong into danger.”

  Dorothy smiled. “I’ll have Trafalgar with me.”

  “Yes,” Desmond said, eyeing her warily. “I’m not entirely certain she’s a calming influence on you. Last month you went to the countryside for target practice. What were the charges you came home with?”

  Trafalgar said, “Trespassing, arson, assault, and felonious wounding.”

  Dorothy said, “Don’t forget cruelty to children.”

  “That ‘child’ was fourteen if he was a day. And he certainly gave as well as he was getting.”

  Desmond cleared his throat and nodded to prove his point had been made. “I leave you to take care of each other. May at least one of you survive.”

  Trafalgar chuckled as he left. “He’s a good man, but he’s unfortunately fun to tease.”