by Garth Nix
“What?” cried Truthful, jerking forward in her chair.
“Oh, stop interrupting, Chevalier!” cried Lady Badgery. “Twenty-two years ago, Tancred Newington, the Admiral’s oldest brother, was heir to the title and the Emerald. He became engaged to Amelia Corbere, as she then was. However, she was caught in some indiscretion, and Tancred broke the engagement. They argued in public, and Amelia was heard to say that she only wanted to marry him for the Emerald.
“This became only too obvious later, as she then set her cap at George, the middle brother, and then at Edmund, that is, Truthful’s father the Admiral. Neither succumbed to her charms, I’m glad to say.
“Now, as you may know, both Tancred and George died shortly after Edmund married. So there was no legitimate way for Amelia to procure the Emerald — and as it was hidden in a secret location at Newington Hall, little chance of stealing it either. Perhaps Amelia gave up her desire for the Emerald then, only to have that desire rekindled when the opportunity presented itself to put her maid into the household.”
“Excuse me, milady,” said Harnett, slowly. “Are you saying that Lady Plathenden conceived a plan for stealing the Emerald that would take more than seven years to mature? And that she now has the Emerald?”
“Yes and yes!” exclaimed Lady Badgery. “That woman never forgets, and when she wants something, she either gets it or destroys it! Why I even suspect that George and Tancred didn’t die of any common illness . . .”
Shocked silence met her words, and the old woman seemed to subside a little into the bed.
“There was no proof,” she muttered. “Her husband was a malignant sorcerer, and it was long rumoured that she practiced dark arts herself and was even twice investigated by the Argent Pursuivant. But no charges were laid, the proof insufficient, or so it was said. But she hated them both, and she danced with Tancred and George at a ball the night before they fell sick. I should have been there, I might have seen it . . . but I was not. They were hearty men, my nephews, but dead within the week. She would have murdered Truthful’s father too, I’m sure, but Venetia — Truthful’s mother — was wary of her, and she made sure her Edmund was safe from Amelia Plathenden.”
“Begging your pardon,” said Harnett dubiously. “But this is all rather . . . ahem . . . unproven. Possible murders long ago, unsuccessful investigations of malignant sorcery . . . and there is no evidence Lady Plathenden is involved in the theft of the Emerald. Are you quite certain . . .”
“I have never been more sure, sir,” said Lady Badgery, fixing him with an eye that had been known to quell personages up to and including minor royalty. “I may not have scried it, but my every sense tells me it is true.”
“Well we can’t expect the Law to be of any use,” began the Major. “I mean, there’s no clear evidence of devilment, so we can’t expect the Argent Pursuivant to become involved, nor would any magistrate. Even General Leye could not act officially unless—”
“Lady Plathenden will have to be convinced returning the Emerald will be in her best interests,” interrupted Lady Badgery. “Or it must simply be taken back from her.”
“Taken back?” asked Truthful.
“Stolen back, I think you mean,” said Harnett. “Not something . . .”
He paused, looked at Lady Badgery, then across at the white-faced chevalier. “Oh, hang it all! Why not! I’ll do it, Lady Badgery. Sometimes it is best to charge straight up to the guns and over them! Lady Plathenden will find herself facing two very unusual gentlemen callers later today. What do you say, Chevalier?”
Truthful stared at him, her false moustache tickling her upper lip, and saw his barely contained glee. He was actually looking forward to an undoubtedly hostile and socially extremely difficult encounter with the dangerous-sounding Lady Plathenden, a malignant sorceress who might have poisoned her two uncles.
“I can see why you’re not a member of Whites!” she blurted out, then, as puzzlement clouded his face, she said, “I mean . . . is this . . . oh . . . yes, I will be happy to accompany you, sir.”
“That’s settled then,” pronounced Lady Badgery. “Lady Truthful will be most grateful to you both.”
“One would think so,” said Harnett dryly. “However, I fear your niece is not terribly concerned with the fate of something she probably accounts a mere bauble, its value and sorcerous properties notwithstanding.”
“Hmmmm . . .” replied Lady Badgery. “You must remember that she was suffering a severe headache when you met, my dear Major. Normally she is very even tempered.”
“I look forward to meeting her again,” said the Major, who clearly meant quite the reverse. “However, I shall recover the Emerald because it pleases you, Lady Badgery.”
“You are most kind,” said Lady Badgery, smiling as he bowed over her hand and turned to go. “It is so nice to have two such charming young men waiting on an old lady. Now go, and fetch me the Emerald.”
As the Major turned to the door, Lady Badgery looked at Truthful behind his back, and winked in a very low and vulgar fashion. After a moment’s thought, and an internal shudder, Truthful winked back, and followed Harnett out the door.
Chapter Eight
The Treacherous Lady Plathenden
“The door-knocker has been removed,” remarked Harnett, carefully surveying Lady Plathenden’s house from the curtained window of the hackney. “And the drapes are drawn. Either Lady Plathenden is not in residence, or she desires onlookers to gain that impression.”
“It is an odd house for a lady, is it not?” asked Truthful. She smoothed her moustache nervously, concerned the glamour was wearing off. It seemed as if her voice wasn’t as sounding as low as it had before. She peered through a gap in the curtain and shuddered. The house was Elizabethan, built of very dark brick, and resembled a prison more than anything else. No real lady of quality could possibly want to live in such a grim old mausoleum, particularly as it was in a very unfashionable quarter, on the wrong side of the river, and too close to it, with a part of the house even being built out and over the Thames!
“From what little I have garnered about her she is reputed to be more than slightly mad,” replied Harnett. “But I would hazard it is a cunning madness. She must have her reasons for living in a house like that. It is very fortress-like. No windows on the ground floor, the upper windows barred, and a rooftop walkway that would be ideal for a villain with a fowling piece.”
He stared at the house for a moment longer, then drew the hack’s curtains completely closed, and bent down to the floor to pick up a wooden case. Two short-barrelled pistols lay nestled on red velvet inside. Despite their fine scrollwork and the faint oil-sheen of careful maintenance, they were obviously made for hard use and had received it, judging from the faint marks of old powder burns and the wear on their timberwork. The Major took them out one at a time, loaded them with balls of a noticeably silver hue, primed them, and handed one to Truthful.
“Not duelling pistols by any means, but the triggers are somewhat lighter than a service pistol, so be careful, Chevalier. Short barrels, but they’ll throw a ball true for twenty paces.”
Truthful had shot with her cousins several times, but she took the pistol with a heart that sank as much as the hand that took the sudden weight.
“I thought we would be remonstrating with her, not engaging in a shooting match,” she said nervously.
“A precaution,” replied Harnett. He shot his cuffs, momentarily revealing silver spell-breaking bracers on his wrists. “Her husband was a very dangerous man indeed, and if she is a malignant sorceress who has poisoned two men and masterminded a jewel theft then she is not to be trifled with. Never trust a woman, Chevalier. I’ve yet to meet one that preferred a stand-up fight over slyness and deceit!”
With that comment, he opened the door on the far side from the house, and stepped down, looking both ways along the street as Truthful stepped down behind him, holding her own pistol like him, low at her side.
There were few pe
ople about, and no one seemed interested in them. It was a very quiet street, and many of the houses seemed shuttered or deserted. A dead street, thought Truthful, the worst part of the city — worse even than the slums, where at least there was life. Or so she imagined, for Truthful had never seen a London slum, and her welfare visits to tenant farmers on a neighbouring estate less well-managed than her father’s had been little more than carefully stage-managed exercises, on both sides.
Satisfied that the road was clear, Harnett spoke a few words to their driver. Truthful, her attention on imagined slums, didn’t hear what he said, but she heard the driver reply, “Yes sir, Colonel sir!”
Turning back, Harnett saw her looking at him, her eyebrow raised. He smiled awkwardly and said, “A courtesy promotion, Chevalier. You will find that drivers would call me general if they thought it would produce a coin.”
“Actually,” said Truthful, “I was wondering how he knew you were a soldier.”
“Probably the bearing,” muttered Harnett, pulling his hat down lower over his eyes. “Let’s get on, shall we? We’ll try the servant’s entrance.”
The servant’s entrance lay at the end of a series of steps and a sunken corridor that ran about halfway along the side of the house. Their boots echoed on the flagstones, and Truthful thought the ground sounded hollow, as if a dark chamber lay beneath this dismal passage — but she dismissed it as a morbid fancy, for she was nervous enough to imagine anything.
Unbidden, pieces of half-remembered stories from Gothic romances sprang to mind. The Mystery of Romola for example, where the heroine found . . . suddenly, a bell rang inside, startling her back to reality. Harnett had pulled the bell-rope indicated by a bronze plate that said “Deliveries” at the back door, but there was no answer. He pulled it again, and then knocked vigorously, but there was no response. The house stayed still and silent.
A trial of the knob revealed that the door was locked, but this didn’t seem to thwart Major Harnett. He pushed and pulled the door several times, observing the travel, and said, “Not barred. Good. Mmmm . . . you may care to look the other way, Chevalier. I fear that I will have to open this door in a way that may prove disturbing to a gentleman of France and a potential priest.”
“Of course,” replied Truthful stiffly. She was actually rather interested. Surely he wasn’t going to break it down? However, she dutifully turned her back and steeled herself for the sound of smashing wood — but heard only a scraping sound and several clicks. When she turned back, she saw the flash of something metallic being returned to Harnett’s pocket, and the door was ajar.
Harnett pushed it open, and walked in. Truthful, following close behind, saw his right hand tighten on the pistol he held by his side. She felt a brief urge to take his left hand into her own, but repressed this instantly with a quick memory of his scornful comments about women. That memory made her angry, and the anger fuelled her courage.
They advanced cautiously through the kitchen, but it was clearly not in use. Everything was put away, and the cooking range was cold, as was the old-style fire-pit that looked as ancient as the house. Harnett ran his finger along the table and looked at it.
“No dust,” he said. “This has only been vacated in the last few days.”
“Shouldn’t we go back ?” asked Truthful. “If no one is here, I mean.”
“No,” replied Harnett. “We must look for any evidence that may indicate Lady Badgery is correct in assuming that Plathenden is reponsible for the theft of the Emerald. Sorcerous paraphernalia of a malignant kind, for example. Upstairs!”
Truthful sighed, and followed him up the kitchen stairs. But there was no sign of habitation in the upper rooms. All the furniture was under covers, all the cabinets were locked, all the candelabra empty. Harnett looked methodically in every room, then gestured to the main staircase. Truthful sighed again, and followed.
But on the next landing, they did hear something — a muffled laugh or cry that sounded quite familiar to Truthful. It came from behind a door farther along the corridor, to their right
“Truthful’s maid! Agatha!”
Harnett nodded, and slid forward. The laughter continued and someone else spoke in low tones, the words unclear. Harnett hesitated before the door for a moment, then flung it open.
It was Agatha laughing, but the laugh died in her throat, turning into a sick sort of whine as the two men entered the room. But there was another woman there, who was unfazed by the sudden invasion.
Tall, imperious, and still striking-looking despite her age, Lady Amelia Plathenden set down the book she had been reading aloud, turned to face the intruders, and glared. But neither Truthful nor Harnett noticed her glare, because their eyes were caught by the Newington Emerald that shone on a necklace on her bosom, the jewel sparkling in the light from the dozens of candles burning in the silver candelbras on the table and on the mantelpiece of the room’s single fire.
“Who are you, and how dare you enter my house?” demanded Lady Plathenden, her pallid cheeks reddening. “I shall have you thrown out at once. Agatha, the bell!”
“Stop!” cried Harnett, as Agatha moved towards a red plush bell-rope. He raised his pistol and pointed it squarely at Lady Plathenden. “My name is Major Harnett, milady, and my companion is the Chevalier de Vienne, cousin of Lady Truthful Newington. We have been charged with the recovery of the Newington Emerald.”
Lady Plathenden’s eyes narrowed, and she raised her chin disdainfully. “What, pray tell, has that to do with me?”
“You happen to be wearing it,” replied the Major dryly. “Please take it off and give it to the chevalier. We shall then disturb you no longer.”
Lady Plathenden’s chin lowered. She took a step forward, faltered, and leaned against the book-lined wall, as if she was going to faint. Truthful, stepping forward to catch her, suddenly stopped as the old woman snatched a pitted, evil-looking bone wand from a hidden alcove and levelled it at her. The motion was so fast and unexpected, that she had no chance to lift her own pistol.
“Don’t raise your hand, my handsome Chevalier,” hissed Lady Plathenden. “You, Major, place your pistol on the floor!”
Truthful stood completely still, her heart thumping wildly. Though she had little native sorcery, the bone wand emanated malignancy, she could feel the power in it, power that wanted to be released. She could now well believe that this woman had poisoned her uncles.
“You can only curse one of us,” said Harnett calmly. He put his pistol on the table nearby, rather than on the floor. “Then the other will shoot you.”
“Then I shall curse the larger,” snapped Lady Plathenden, moving her aim to Harnett. “The effete Frenchman would never shoot a woman. Would you, little one?”
“I would shoot you with a glad heart,” replied Truthful slowly. “As would our companions outside. They will charge the house if they hear anything untoward.”
Lady Plathenden smiled, but her cold eyes did not alter, not did the wand move. Truthful had hoped she would look out the window, but the witch did not even look away for a moment.
“Agatha,” she said. “Stop ringing. They will have heard. Look out the window. Carefully, you dolt! See if you can see anyone watching the house. Bow Street Runners or the like.”
Truthful watched the hunched-over Agatha peer through a gap in the drapes, and felt a surge of anger and distress. How had she failed to notice Agatha’s treacherous nature before?
“There’s a hackney and a driver opposite, milady,” Agatha reported. “The curtains are drawn. And there’s a man on horseback at the end of the street.”
“I shall have to be careful, won’t I?” muttered Lady Plathenden, apparently to Truthful, though her eyes never left Harnett. “Perhaps a transformation would serve better than a curse. Equally painful, of course.”
Truthful watched her eyes flickering between the two of them, and felt the weight of the pistol in her hand. If only she could raise it swiftly enough, but that terrible wand was as steady as
if it were held in a vice . . .
The shelves behind Lady Plathenden creaked. One entire bookcase swung open and a damp, musty smell rolled out from the dark passage behind it. Lady Plathenden’s head turned slightly, and both Truthful and Harnett acted.
Truthful tugged the pistol from her pocket, clumsily cocked the lock and opened the pan, priming powder spilling as she rushed to level it at Lady Plathenden. As she did so, Lady Plathenden released the malevolent force of the wand and Harnett snatched up his own pistol and cocked and fired it in one well-practiced motion.
Two shots and the snake-like hiss of the wand sounded at almost the same time, wreathing the room in gunsmoke and eldritch scintillations. Harnett staggered back as Lady Plathenden shrieked and clutched at her arm. Truthful, throwing the spent pistol aside, picked up a candelabra and dashed forward, waving it in the air.
“You’ve killed him!” she screamed at Lady Plathenden, who retreated against a bookcase and stared at this suddenly berserk Frenchman.
“No she hasn’t!” cried Harnett, drawing himself upright, his waistcoat smoldering in several sections, the silver wires of a protective charm sewn within revealed through many tiny, smoking holes. “Look out!”
Lady Plathenden slipped through the secret door as two very large and roughly-dressed men emerged from it and advanced, their fists clenched. Truthful stepped back and raised her candelabra, and Harnett levered himself up next to her. Seeing her worried glance, he grinned and said, “Curse-ward held it. You fight well . . . for a French monk.”
“A monk?” said one of the ruffians, lowering his guard. “I’m not crossing no man of the cloth.”
“I ain’t so particular,” grunted the other, fixing his rather piggy eyes on Truthful. “You take the big cove.”
“Perhaps we could discuss this,” said Harnett, signalling Truthful to retreat. He continued to talk as they backed off towards the door. “No sense in all of us getting knocked about. Why don’t you let the . . . er . . . monk go, and I’ll take on both of you, one at a time.”