The Mandarin of Mayfair

by Patricia Veryan

  The large man he guessed to be Rudolph Bracksby asked, "Does that mean all goes as planned at Ashleigh?"

  Ashleigh? Falcon tensed and sat motionless, all thought of retreat at once abandoned.

  "Better than planned, Emerald," said the Squire with a chuckle. "Sir Brian Chandler actually condescended to leave his beloved Lac Brillant and grace the gathering!"

  There was a burst of laughter at this. A chill crept down Falcon's spine. What deviltry were these bastards contriving now?

  He was sure he'd identified all but two of the varmints. The larger of them, with a figurine that gleamed blue in the candlelight, peered at Falcon curiously. "You fail to see the joke, Ruby?"

  Falcon sighed. "So would you if you had my throat," he said thickly.

  The Squire stood. "I've something that will help your throat, my friend. Tonight, we complete our map, plan our final coup, and—celebrate! Let's to business."

  Emerald took up the candle and they all stood and trooped after the Squire. Trailing behind, Falcon wondered uneasily where they were off to. The end wall was of stone blocks that shone damply in the candlelight. It contained neither door nor windows, the surface broken only by a shallow arched recess enclosing what appeared to be a marble washbowl built at waist level and edged by a band of intricately carved stone.

  He wondered cynically if there was to be some kind of baptismal ceremony, but his levity vanished when the Squire suddenly drew out a long-barreled pistol and held it cocked and ready. "For the last time, my friends," he murmured.

  Each of the men facing him held up their figurines, Falcon hastening to join what he at first judged to be a childish ritual. Bracksby, or Emerald, gave the candle to the Squire, and stepped forward. He placed his miniature in the center of a rose carved in the rim of the bowl, then moved back. The large unknown individual fitted a token of lapis-lazuli and sapphires into a slot beside a leaf.

  Falcon's blood ran cold. So this was all done by rote and not only did he not know when his turn came, but he hadn't the faintest notion where his filched figurine belonged! He began to sweat as Hibbard Green placed his opal figure in the center of a flower. Nobody looked at Falcon. The silent minutes seemed to stretch out interminably. Was it his turn now? About to move forward, he restrained himself in the nick of time as the short member deposited his golden crystal and topaz figurine in the loop of a stem.

  Falcon's nerves were tight and strained. There were only two of them left now. Himself, and the Squire, who watched him steadily. Surely, the last move would be reserved for the leader? He thought, "Dearest Grandmama, guide me," and stepped forward. If that trigger finger tightened, he might still have a second in which to blow out the candle and run for it.

  There was no outcry.

  Praise heaven, he must have guessed rightly! He bent over the bowl. Next hurdle—where to put the confounded object? There was an indentation in the very center of the bowl. That, surely would be the Squire's place. Or would it? Might it instead be a very logical trap? There had been two tokens placed in flowers, one in a leaf, one amongst the stems, and there was the center slot. He scanned the carvings around the rim. Ruby's place might very well be somewhere other than flowers and leaves. He thought in desperation, "You're taking too much time, dammit!" roared a sneeze and contrived to drop his figurine in the bowl. Retrieving it, he saw another slot in the very front of the rim in the center of what looked to be an acorn.

  He had his choice. The center slot, or the acorn, and again, his life hung on the right move. His thought of Grandmama Natasha became a prayer for help. He set his token in the slot in the middle of the bowl, and watched for the movement of that deadly trigger.

  Green's brutish voice growled, "Well, stand aside do, Ruby! 'Sblood, but you're dense tonight!"

  Sweating, Falcon moved back and drew his handkerchief. Another test passed. How many more?

  The Squire gave his pistol to Bracksby, and held up his jewelled figurine. It was a striking piece; a deep amethyst set with four large diamonds. Bracksby trained the pistol on him as he positioned the little figure in the acorn.

  Falcon heard a muted rattling, and the bowl seemed to him to move slightly. "Be damned!" he thought. "The little icons are keys to a blasted great lock!"

  Bracksby returned the pistol to the Squire. Sapphire and Opal pushed at the wall above the bowl, and with a soft scraping sound the entire alcove swung back to reveal a pitch black chamber beyond. Falcon's nostrils wrinkled to a foetid stench so powerful that it snatched his breath away. It was evidently not unusual because nobody commented. He retrieved his miniature from the bowl as the others did, but his hope that they were not going into that stinking hole was short-lived.

  The Squire said, "Are you brave tonight, Ruby?" and handed him the lighted candle. "Cheer up! We've a fine candelabrum in there now."

  Hibbard Green sneered, "Go on, Sir Galahad. They've likely already gone, sooner than risk catching your cold."

  He was clearly expected to lead the way. Darkness didn't unnerve him, but—who were "they"?

  He walked inside. The air was disgusting and so thin that it was an effort to breathe. The flickering candlelight shone upon a silver candelabrum overturned in the center of the table. Six fairly modern chairs were positioned around it. There was a massive chest against the left-hand wall, and two more chairs flanked a credenza on the opposite wall. He was evidently required to light the candles. He walked over to the table and reached out. Something lean and dark, with a long pointed nose and a whip of a tail darted from behind the fallen candelabrum. His heart seemed to stop. His brain screamed, "A rat!" My God in heaven! A rat!" The one thing of which he was deathly afraid! And almost he had touched it! He felt weak and nauseated, and had a stunned thought that it was a good thing he was masked, for he was sure he'd turned white. His need to escape was overpowering and he had to clench his fist until the bones ached to keep from shrieking his terror and running madly from this nightmarish place.

  Somebody laughed, and a hand snatched the candle. He couldn't make out what was said, but despite the mockery it was clear that they all were revolted by this room.

  The Squire tossed a rag at him. "Here, see if you've enough courage left to clear off the table."

  Fighting waves of sick dizziness, Falcon made himself wipe dust and droppings from the tabletop. There had just been one. It was gone now. They mustn't see how his hands trembled. He'd promised poor Jamie, and to allow a childish fear to defeat him would be unforgivable. Besides, he must find out what they meant about Ashleigh…

  Now that the rest of the candles were burning he could see that the room was large and low-ceilinged and that there were no windows or any normal kind of door. Opal and Sapphire, both big men, started to push the alcove shut, but Topaz, a scented kerchief held to his nose, protested and said they could surely let some air in "this grisly dungeon" for a few minutes. The Squire nodded, and the alcove was left a few inches ajar. There was an identical bowl on the inside, which likely meant they'd have to go through the whole unlocking rigamarole again in order to leave. It became unpleasantly clear to Falcon that once the alcove was closed his chance of escape in an emergency would be nil. Common sense whispered that he should get out now, on whatever pretext, before that deadly "door" swung shut. But that was the coward's way and must not be heeded.

  The Squire took a seat and pulled a folded map from his cloak pocket. They all gathered 'round to inspect it, and joining them Falcon thought "Jupiter! 'Tis practically identical to the map Ross drew up!" In place of X's the sites of the League's pilfered estates were indicated by red squares, each shaded in and connected by lines drawn to adjacent blue circles marked by initials. Military objectives, of course. He scanned the map narrowly. There were more sites than Gideon had guessed. A large one in north Devon, another some miles east of Bristol, and to the south— He caught his breath. "Ashleigh" was printed in a square connected to Portsmouth. Unlike the other squares it had not been shaded in. His thoughts flashed back t
o the meeting in Falcon House—it seemed years ago now—when Ross and Jamie had been set upon in the street. He could almost hear Gordon Chandler asking why Glendenning had been sent down to Bosham and pointing out that the League already had seized nearby Larchwoods. And Tio Glendenning answering that Larchwoods was a small estate and if the League armed it with a view to attacking Portsmouth, they would need a larger base. Ashleigh would give them a "larger base"! Why in the devil had he been too dim-witted to foresee and guard against that menace?

  He was stunned when the Squire bent forward and with a red crayon shaded in the Ashleigh box. There was great excitement. Questions rang out and were rendered incomprehensible as they overlapped in the outpouring of enthusiasm.

  Smiling broadly, the Squire straightened and gestured for quiet. Bracksby was at the credenza, pouring wine. Topaz offered the first glass to the Squire, then served the others. Falcon was last, but his attempt at thanks was drowned by a roaring sneeze. Topaz fairly leapt back, and several annoyed glances came his way.

  "My 'pologies," he mumbled.

  "Of all the times to catch a cold," grumbled Opal.

  The Squire said triumphantly, "Gentlemen— Let us drink to our final and most brilliant success!"

  Falcon's toast was silent and very differently worded.

  His voice eager, Bracksby asked, " 'Tis in our hands, then?"

  "As good as."

  "The devil it is!" thought Falcon grimly.

  Opal, alias Hibbard Green, rumbled, "I cannot credit that he was so stupid as to agree to such madness. He must be desperate, indeed!"

  "He will walk into our trap, I promise you," said the Squire.

  "And—the others?" asked Topaz.

  "Are en route. Like lambs to the slaughter."

  Sapphire sounded unconvinced. "What about young Falcon?"

  "With luck, the breed is off somewhere blowing his brains out, because he cut down that fool, Morris," said Green.

  Falcon was seized by a scalding desire to cut down one toad named Hibbard, Lord Green. He was astonished when Topaz came up and slapped him on the back, saying admiringly, "Thanks to you, Ruby. Even if it did work in reverse."

  "A most successful ploy," agreed the Squire, raising his glass. "I'll own I really didn't think 'twould work at all!"

  Work in reverse? What the deuce were they talking about? Falcon managed a bow and said hoarsely, "The benefit of a devious mind."

  "And a damned diabolical drug," said Green much amused. "Do not ever use any of the stuff in my glass, Ruby!"

  A drug? Kade had drugged him? His friend… Kade? So that was why he'd felt so—

  "A toast!" Topaz rested his hand on Falcon's shoulder and called in that strange, husky voice. "To—the devious—"

  Shaken by another explosive sneeze, Falcon could not stop and had to set his glass down and drag out his handkerchief. Perhaps he really had caught a cold. 'Twould not be surprising after lurking about these damned dank ruins for hours on end!

  He lowered his handkerchief, and was at once aware that something in the room had changed.

  Topaz was standing close beside the Squire, who had risen to his feet, and both were staring at him. The other members were looking at each other uncertainly. The familiar sense of danger made his pulse quicken. He tensed, every muscle ready. The candle—then the door.

  Topaz said shrilly, "I demand an unmasking!"

  "Our Topaz believes there is a traitor among us," purred the Squire.

  They all jumped up in alarm.

  "Now!" thought Falcon. With a sweep of his cloak he brought darkness to the room, then sent his chair tumbling and lunged for the door.

  The blackness was absolute. Shouts and howls of rage deafened him. Reckless, he collided with the wall, groped along it and found the alcove. It took all his strength to wrench it open an inch or two, but it was done and he was through and breathing cleaner air.

  He raced across the outer room. His groping hand touched the table and then the door. Sprinting dangerously and desperately, he thought, "Around the next corner… then wind about till you reach the stairs!" He felt the corner and turned it, then set off in what was, hopefully, the right direction.

  Voices were howling fury and confusion. Someone had tumbled over a chair by the sound of it; someone else was roaring for a light; feet came stumbling in pursuit. If he could just get to the outside steps, he might have a chance, but it was so damnably dark.

  He ran full tilt into a wall and, falling, flung out an arm instinctively. His fingers touched a stair! Gasping for breath, bruised but elated, he sprang to his feet. With one hand on the wall and the other gripping his pistol, he galloped up the stairs. There had been another turn here—then the wide hall, and the outside door. From the corner of his eye he detected a faint following glow. They were hot after him, and they could see! He muttered breathlessly, "We'll get there, Jamie old lad! We'll get there—yet!" He found the corner and the light behind him was blotted out briefly. The sound wasn't. Lord, how they howled! He must go by instinct now. He moved as swiftly as he dared and suddenly there was a rectangle of less dense blackness off to his left. The door! Praise heaven and Grandmama Natasha! The door! Scarcely daring to believe such luck, he ran straight for it, was through, and taking the outer steps two at a time.

  The night air was cold and blessedly clean and threaded by raindrops that touched his brow like a cool caress.

  From behind him came a thin nasal scream of, "There he goes! Shoot, you fool! Stop him!"

  It was a voice he knew. A voice that took his breath away. But before his lips had time to form the name, a deeper shadow loomed before him. A mighty club slammed across his ribs driving the air from his lungs and sending him hurtling back down the steps.

  Shocks; sudden fierce pain; shouts and a shrill scream; a fading wry amusement because he must have sent them all tumbling like ninepins…

  Chapter 14

  Gwendolyn awoke when Apollo growled and hauled himself to his feet. She had dozed off in the fireside chair in her private parlour. A book lay at her feet and she picked it up and read the title sadly. Mandarin—The Elite Superbly Educated Princes of China." Tears stung her eyes and she quailed from the all too familiar pang of loss and disillusion.

  Someone scratched on the door. A hoarse whisper was half drowned by Apollo's growls, but she heard enough to recognize her evening caller, and ordering the dog to "Lie down!" went to open the door.

  The black habit did not become Enoch Tummet, making him look haggard and older. "Might I pop in, Miss? Jest fer a minute like? I know it's late and not proper, but—"

  "Don't be silly. This is my parlour, not my bedchamber." She returned to her chair, waved him to the sofa, and watched him expectantly. Well?"

  He spread his hands. "Nought, miss. Nigh four days now, and not a word." He searched her face anxiously. "I don't s'pose he's bin in touch wiv you today? No letter nor nothing?"

  "No. But—in the circumstances…"

  "Yus, Miss. I know."

  "You're worrying," she said gently.

  He shrugged in a helpless fashion. "Mr. August ain't a easy gent, I know. And there's no denying he's fought a lotta doo-ells. But 'cept fer one time what was forced on him, none of the other parties was left in a bad way. Fact is, they goes 'round boasting 'cause they fought him! I bin wiv the guv a good few months now, and we bin through a thing or three tergether. And I feels like I knows him."

  Gwendolyn said nothing.

  Slanting a quick glance at her pensive face, he rubbed his big hands on his knees and went on pleadingly, "You know, don'tcha, Miss, that a lotta things Mr. August says is said outta pride, or 'cause he's down-hearted, and not wanting no one to see it. Dead set he always bin 'gainst Miss Katrina wedding the poor Lieutenant, I know. But—this here! It's all wrong, Miss Gwen! I see him fight together when we was in Cornwall, and they fight like—like a team. If one of them's in a ticklish spot, t'other's right at his side. I tried to tell the other gents. I dunno if they paid
no 'tention. Now I can't find none of 'em. And all this time going by! I don't blame you fer not finding it in yer heart to fergive Mr. August, arter wot he done. But—but I were hoping, seeing as Cap'n Rossiter's yer brother, Miss, well, I thought if you was to go to the Cap'n—"

  Her heart already over-burdened, Gwendolyn responded rather more sharply than she intended, "And tell him—what? That you're afraid because Mr. Falcon picked up a bag of feathers?" Tummet's rugged features reddened, and she said quickly, "Oh, I'm sorry. I'm afraid I'm rather tired."

  "Ar. Well it's been hard on all of us. No doubt o' that."

  "No. And you're so good to have faith in him in—in spite of— I didn't mean to be unkind."

  "Don't you go worrying yer pretty heart over me, mate. I'm jest a rough sorta cove. And it's truth what you said. That there bag o' feathers is in me dreams o' night! But if you'd seen some of what went on while we was in Cornwall! No 'counting fer it, no how! Only—'tis more'n that, Miss Gwen. 'Tis the way Mr. August were took!"

  Confused, Gwendolyn blinked. "Took?"

  "Ar. So sudden-like, it were. No matter what people say, me guv's loyal to them as he takes a fancy to. And he'd took a fancy to the Lieutenant, I'd swear it, Miss." He scowled darkly. "That there Fete! That's what done it!"

  Gwendolyn said in bewilderment, "Why, we had that horrid accident, but—"

  "What weren't no accident," he interpolated grimly. "I went back next day and took a look 'round. That there tree trunk was drug 'crost the road. You could see the marks on the grass still. They knowed we was arter 'em!"

  "Good heavens! But—but even if that is so, I don't see how—" She fought away the bittersweet memory of strong arms about her; tender words, and those very dear kisses… "Do you mean because he fainted like that?" she asked hurriedly.

  "Thing is, Miss Gwen, I don't reckon he did no such thing. I gotta say it without pride, but I've knowed some low persons in me lifetime. Low persons! Some what had took to the poppy. And hashish—and wuss!"

  Gwendolyn said angrily, "Do you dare to imply that Mr. Falcon is in the habit of resorting to drugs?"