by Adam Millard
“We must stop meeting like this.”
Abigale panicked, retracted her hand from the cabinet, and pressed herself against the hole so that it wasn’t so obviously visible. She turned to face the source of the voice and forced a smile, but it was hard work.
“Did I scare you again?” he said. “I am sorry. I really must work on my approach.”
“That’s okay,” Abigale said. “I really must stop finding myself captivated by all these ancient trinkets.” She gestured to the room behind, and not the objects in front. Drawing attention to the vase was not a good idea. It would be easier to steal the thing if no one knew what it was that was missing.
“Yes, I’m the same,” the banker said. “There are coins in that cabinet over there that Emperor Chongzhen would have used. Isn’t that just fascinating?”
Not really. “It is,” Abigale lied, hoping her accord would somehow send the banker packing.
It didn’t. He simply looked at her, intrigued.
“Say, you wouldn’t like to show me around London, would you? The company of a beautiful girl such as yourself would make a lonely old man like me very happy indeed.” He grinned.
Abigale saw a wolf in there somewhere. She hadn’t brought her red hood, though, and grandma hated cookies.
“I really don’t think that would be appropriate,” Abigale said, making sure that she was still pressed against the freshly cut hole. “And I’m sure your wife wouldn’t like it if—”
“I’m not married,” he said, shoving an un-ringed hand toward her face as if to prove that, he was unmarried, and, therefore had every right to proposition any girl half his age that caught his eye.
For some strange reason, Abigale found her hand wrapped around the grip of Big Daddy. It was cold, unforgiving, and a reminder of how dangerous this whole caper was. The banker had no idea where her hand was, or what was in it, but Abigale doubted he would have said what he said next if he’d known.
“I can pay you.”
He had time to grin, but that was all he had time for. Abigale surreptitiously lowered the pistol, aiming its barrel to where she knew the banker’s leg would be. The one thing Octavius had failed to tell her was how noisy Big Daddy was, and so she was taking quite a chance as she squeezed the trigger. Thankfully, the weapon had been constructed with stealth in mind, and there was a faint thwump as the round left the barrel.
“Wha…” The banker looked intently into Abigale’s eyes, trying to figure out what was happening. His lip drooped listlessly to one side as if he’d been unceremoniously afflicted by some silent disease, and then he headed toward the floor, only the whites of his eyes visible.
Abigale re-holstered the pistol, snatched “Bansei” from the cabinet, tucked it under her arm beneath the shawl and rushed to the door just as someone noticed the fallen banker.
“Oh my God!” the woman screamed, covering the distance between her and the unconscious pervert in only a few steps.
The gaggle of boisterous men, never ones to stand by with a fair maiden in need of assistance, rushed across the room to help. One of them yelled for assistance at the top of his voice, and as Abigale made her way coolly into the Mediaeval room, two guards ran past, paying her no heed whatsoever.
That was good. She wasn’t going to stick around to wait for them to find the dart, or the gaping hole in the cabinet next to the comatose fellow, so she pushed on toward the main entrance. The confusion had sent the uninformed crowds into a state of utter panic. Elegant ladies tightly clutched onto their gentleman friends, expecting to be protected. Beethoven had stopped playing, and with its cessation, came an unsettling silence.
Abigale was blending, edging toward the exit without drawing attention to herself. At least she thought she was. Not well enough, though, as a voice suddenly boomed from out of nowhere.
“Don’t move!”
She spun to find a small man blocking her path. His red moustache was almost as wide as his face, but despite the amazing show of hair upon his lip, there wasn’t a dot on his head. A set of handcuffs dangled from his hand, meaning he was either with the police, or he was just one of those men that liked to carry a spare pair of cuffs with them wherever they went.
“You’re Abigale Egars,” the man said, smirking, clearly pleased with himself.
Abigale heard footfall behind her but didn’t turn. She knew there were guards there without having to check.
“If you say so,” she said. —The terrified women and comforting men in the room —all seemed to gasp in unison. It would have been funny under other circumstances.
“Wait until Alcorn hears about this,” the little policeman said. “I always knew I’d be the one to catch you. Not Alcorn.”
Abigale shuddered at the mention of her adversary’s name. She’d always imagined it would be Alcorn that finally incarcerated her, not some midget with ginger face fuzz. “How did you know I was here?” she asked. The guards closed in ever so slightly, but Abigale was very aware of them. She wouldn’t allow them to get too close.
“I didn’t,” the policeman said. “It’s my day off. Just browsing with the missus.” He gestured to a small, plump lady wearing a long, flowery dress. “I don’t even like all this dusty old shit. It’s her. She loves it.”
His wife looked moderately offended, but then realised there were more important things going on, and that a domestic dispute could wait until later.
“Put your hands up,” the copper said, waving the handcuffs so that they tinkled.
“You don’t have a gun,” Abigale said. “Surely you need a gun to say that.”
The policeman thought about it, then said, “Look, just put your hands up anyway. I’ve heard all about how tricky you are.”
She couldn’t put her hands up, not without the vase slipping from the nook of her armpit. She was already pressing her arm down just to keep it in place. But she knew she was stuck, backed into a corner, and that the little rozzer was not going to let her pass. Things were about to get very, very ugly.
“Okay,” she said, sensing the guards edging closer still, two of them, one much larger than the other. “Don’t say I didn’t give you the chance to let me walk out of here.” She smiled and lifted her arms.
She felt “Bansei” begin to slip, and then something hard and heavy clattered against her knee and continued all the way to the ground, where it shattered into what sounded like a million pieces. It all happened in less than a second, but Abigale had already been plotting her next move. As soon as the vase came apart, she was down, fishing around in the broken fragments, searching for something that could have been just about anything.
The guards lunged for her, as she knew they would, and while she was bent forward looking for the first part of the triptych, she swung a leg high and behind her. There came a grunt as her boot connected solidly with the first jaw. She then flicked out her leg, jabbing at the area she believed the second guard would be, and hit him diametrically in the stomach. Both guards went down, one of them struggling for breath and the other having a little snooze.
“You bi—” the copper said, launching himself forward and swinging the handcuffs around his head like some tribal barbarian.
Abigale dropped onto her haunches and pulled the shards apart, revealing the object—a golden L shape no larger than her pinky finger. She’d have plenty of time to examine it more closely later if she made it out of the museum in one piece. First, she had to dodge the copper and his handcuffs, which were already arcing down on her.
She stood, sidestepped the man and drove a roundhouse kick into his sternum. It was a lot easier than it should have been, since his sternum was where most people’s navels sat. There was a collective gasp from the onlookers as the policeman went down, and then a scream from his wife, which would probably have been audible in Peckham.
Abigale dropped the L-shaped whatnot into her satchel and ran toward the exit, leaving two guards and a rozzer sprawled behind her. “Everyone remain calm,” she said. “This
will all be over in a moment, and you can all go about your business as normal.” Quite why she felt the need to explain herself was a mystery. Perhaps she believed they would bear her graciousness in mind when the police were taking statements later on and would suddenly forget what the thief had looked like. The police had many enemies, and Abigale hoped that some of them were present.
She reached the door that led out onto the street, where she could disappear amongst the hustle and bustle of London, but the man blocking her way shot her a glance that said she would have to work for it. It was old misery-guts, the man who’d waved her indifferently through upon her arrival. He was making himself as large as possible, blocking both doors behind him, and the determination on his face reminded Abigale of Octavius. He always had the same look when he was hammering away at a particularly recalcitrant piece of brass.
Fine, Abigale thought. “Step aside,” she said. “I don’t want to, but if I have to, I will go through you.” She thought about pulling Big Daddy but decided against it. What if Octavius was wrong? What if the banker was back in the Chinese room, dead or dying? The last thing she wanted to do was kill the curmudgeon, no matter how hard he frowned at her.
“You ain’t going nowhere, missy,” the concierge grunted. “The police are already on their way. I hope you like prison food, missy, ‘cos that’s what you’re going to be eating for the next—”
Someone grabbed Abigale around the neck and tried to drag her backwards. She hadn’t heard them approaching, but the cheap perfume stinging at her nostrils suggested her assailant was of the female persuasion.
“Take her to the ground!” the concierge bellowed.
Not likely, Abigale thought. She reached around with her right arm and grabbed a handful of hair. The woman—Mrs Rozzer?—screeched as Abigale pulled. The hefty arm relaxed a little, and Abigale seized the opportunity to throw the woman across her shoulder. It was hard going, but over she went, hitting the museum tiles with a meaty thud. She looked up at Abigale with a sort of wounded confusion, as if she had no idea what had just happened.
Abigale straightened and rushed across the museum, heading for a door that she had not yet used. Behind her, there were shouts of “Get her!” and “Don’t let her out of your sight!” However, none of them seemed to be following, and when she burst through the door, into a room filled with wooden crates, she realised that none of the bystanders had attempted to pursue her.
Without stopping, she traversed the huge boxes and found herself at the foot of a set of stairs. As she began to climb, she heard the guards calling to one other behind her. She un-holstered Big Daddy, just in case. She had no qualms with taking out a few guards if it meant she could escape. Failing was not an option. If she was caught and thrown in a cell, she wondered how long it would be before The Guild flipped the switch. How long before the poison was released into her system? It would be much tidier for them if she didn’t get the chance to talk. Abigale pushed the thought from her mind as she reached the top of the stairs.
A long and regal hallway stretched out in front of her with various paintings hanging on the walls that might, at one time or another, have graced the museum downstairs. The whole place smelt of damp furniture, and the mustiness brought bile to her throat as she pressed on.
There were doors leading off left and right, but that wasn’t what Abigale wanted. Right at the end of the hallway was a stained-glass window, and she ran for it, knowing that the security guards were right on her tail. She could hear them panting and grunting as they climbed the stairs at her back.
She ran, keeping Big Daddy out in front. If she was going to do it, there was no way her tiny frame would break the glass. Something solid, like Big Daddy, well that was a different story altogether.
She leapt into the air, just as a guard called out from behind. She seemed to float forever, and everything was so vivid. It wasn’t until the glass was already shattering that she realised it had been a picture of Saint Martin handing half his cloak to a naked beggar. And then it fell all around her, the second priceless artefact she’d destroyed in less than three minutes.
In an instant, she was outside, facing the sun and feeling the breeze as it buffeted her face. It was a lot higher than she’d expected it to be, but not for long. She swiftly descended, holding her breath and readying her feet for what would surely be a bumpy landing. Luckily, she had emerged at the rear of the museum, and no one was there to watch her fall. No one was there to hear the slight whimper, at least she thought it was slight, escape her throat as she dropped from the window.
The impact jarred, but she knew exactly how to land, and she rolled into it, minimising the collision by spreading it across her whole body. She quickly clambered to her feet and ran as fast as she could along the grass, not looking back once. As she tucked Big Daddy back into its holster, Abigale was thankful she’d only had to use it on one person, and he’d deserved it in a way. Still, she hoped he wasn’t dead. He didn’t deserve it that much.
She could hear the guards at the window, cursing and trying to figure out a quick way down. Abigale had found the quickest way, but none of them seemed to want to follow suit.
A wrought-iron fence stood at the edge of the museum, perhaps six-feet high. Once she was over that, she fell into the back of a hansom without having to beckon one.
“Where to, Miss?” the driver said as he closed the carriage door behind her. If he was concerned about the state of his passenger, the pieces of multi-coloured glass in her hair or the fact that she could barely breathe, he didn’t show it.
After a few seconds of frantic gasping, Abigale said, “Head toward Lambeth.” She relaxed back in her seat.
The driver nodded, then climbed up and urged the horses forward.
He took them past the front of the museum, and Abigale pushed herself back, making sure that she wasn’t seen. She could see out, though, and as the cab brought them level with the entrance, she was sure she glimpsed the unmistakeable brown frock coat of Detective Alcorn flapping up the steps.
She smiled. That was one hell of a caper.
10
“You idiots!” Alcorn said, addressing none of them in particular. As far as he was concerned, they were all worthy of the title. “You had her cornered, and you let her get away.” He turned to the concierge—a man by the name of Aldous Rigsby, whom he’d known for ten years or so. “Aldous, how many guards are working right now?”
“Sir?” The concierge didn’t look as if he wanted to be any part of the little tête-à-tête.
“How many, Aldous? Right now?” Alcorn paced back and forth, back and forth, and looking as if he was either extremely annoyed or needed to use the amenities.
“I believe there are twenty security guards on shift,” Aldous said. His jowls rose and fell with each word. “Twenty-one if you include me, but it isn’t my job to get involved with that sort of thing, and I—”
“Thank you, Aldous, you pompous fool,” Alcorn said, turning his back on the concierge and concentrating only on the remains of what had once been a rather expensive Chinese vase. “Can any of you tell me why she was trying to steal this? Inspector Thorneye, you saw it all, did you not?”
Thorneye stepped forward. His wife continued to fan herself with her shovel-hands. “Damn near killed us both,” he said. “Poor Cynthia’s got a dicky heart, too. Haven’t you love?”
Cynthia nodded but didn’t speak.
“Right, and so you say she dropped this only because you made her put her hands up?” Alcorn picked up a fragment of the vase, turning it over and over in his palm. “If she wanted to take it, if it’s so damn valuable, why do you think she would do that?”
Thorneye shrugged. “Accident? Maybe she wasn’t after that at all. Maybe she changed her mind, didn’t like the colour.”
“Hogwash,” Alcorn said. Thorneye was keeping something from him. He could see it in his beady little inspector eyes. “She knew exactly what she was doing. She wasn’t after the vase.” He turned to f
ace the room. Fifteen or so expectant faces looked back at him. None of them wanted to speak. “Come on, then. Inspector Thorneye didn’t see anything, but one of you must have.” Even though he knew his colleague was lying, for reasons unbeknownst to him, Alcorn was willing to work on the other witnesses. It was what any good detective would do.
A tall, gangly man wearing a brown suit took a tentative step forward. His bowler didn’t match the rest of him, but Alcorn wasn’t about to start judging people solely on their inability to colour coordinate.
“Yes?” Alcorn said.
The man removed his hat and scratched nervously at his baldpate. “Well, um, she picked something up from the broken shards,” he said, turning to his fellow witnesses as if hoping at least one of them would corroborate.
Three of them nodded, and one lady went as far as a posh, “Yar.”
“Something that she’d dropped, perhaps?” Alcorn had to cover every possibility. All the time, he kept his eyes firmly fixed upon Inspector Thorneye. The inspector had been shaking his head frantically, since the lanky witness stepped forward, as if he was concerned the new evidence would paint him in a bad light.
“No, I think it was inside the vase,” said the tall man. “I mean, I was standing over by that ghastly elephant painting. I had a better view than most, and I would say that whatever she picked up had been in the vase all along.”
“I beg to differ,” Thorneye said, “but I was standing right in front of her, and I didn’t see her pick anything up from the debris.”
Alcorn had been a detective for many years. Fifteen, all told. One of the things he specialised in was detecting bullshit. If he couldn’t smell it, he could sense it. He had no idea why Thorneye was lying, but if bullshit was visible, the inspector would have been covered from head to toe in it.
“Thank you,” Alcorn told the gangly man. He was about to start in on Thorneye once again when two guards led the banker Abigale had shot in the darted leg through to the foyer.