The woman’s eyes gleamed at Tasha, and then she shuffled the cards. On her finger, a facet of her crimson pearl crescent-moon ring caught the light and flared. “Men are always easy,” she replied in a whispered chuckle.
The pretty blonde and Sebastian exchanged furtive glances.
The woman added, dealing cards round the table while gazing at Tasha, “I do enjoy a contest when there is one.”
“As do I. But I am usually disappointed,” replied Mother with a slight bow of her head. Tasha examined her hand, said that she felt lucky and pushed over a third of her chips. The enthralled crowd buzzed, for these were heavy stakes. The third player, a fat gentleman with huge and unfashionable side-burns, gloomily scrutinized his hand and bet his remaining chips.
With a hint of humour, the woman in the deep-green gown asked for discards, but everyone played the cards she had dealt. The crowd around the table grew as people drifted over from other amusements. The dealer called; my Mother and the fat gentleman displayed their cards. The woman sympathetically cooed, “Poor little lambs.” She placed her winning hand on the table.
The blonde and Sebastian shared satisfied smirk, but Bernard, Mr. Heath, and Ramsgate were worried. Ramsgate grew even more concerned when Mr. Heath whispered to him, “She’s your guest. You’re responsible for her losses, old boy.”
Ramsgate nervously cleared his throat.
The game continued. Tasha pleasantly reviewed her cards, her face betraying nothing. The fat man put his cards on the table, admitting he was done. He wished the ladies good night and ponderously retreated.
“Anyone else?” asked the dealer as she settled back in her chair; her shining eyes taunting all around her. The crowd murmured, but no one moved to the empty seat. “That leaves us.”
“It does indeed,” replied Tasha venom-for-venom, and slid over a third more of her chips. The brunette matched the bet and they played. Soon Tasha, with a cocky nod, showed her hand and the mysterious woman did the same. Tasha’s confidence faded. Once more, she had lost.
“Is this game too fast for the cleverest woman in Europe?” asked her opponent.
“I’m simply not used to playing for pennies.” Tasha snapped her fingers and, as she had arranged, a tray with an immense pile of chips was brought to her. She slid the entire amount across. “Five thousand pounds are stakes that pique my interest.”
“Oh, God!” Ramsgate gasped to himself, fighting down the panic. He had a savage vision of a suddenly threadbare retirement. This was, after all, an era when the average per annum salary of a professional man was 700 pounds.
“Are you good for it?” Mother asked casually.
There was absolute silence. The dealer, stung by the insult, almost imperceptibly—and only for an instant—clenched her fists. The blonde and Sebastian again exchanged clandestine eye contact.
Tasha continued conversationally. “After all, you’re not a member. Some assurance would be required.” Of course Mother wasn’t a member either—no woman was—but she knew when to keep her mouth shut.
The dealer, now livid and not attempting to hide it, snapped her fingers and the cashier came over. “Will my previous winnings cover this?”
He gave a cursory consideration of her chips and, with the skill that had made him a local legend, replied, “No, ma’am. You would require an additional hundred pounds.”
Tasha gestured sympathetically, giving a “what can one do?” shrug.
The dealer, now on the defensive, sat back, silently appraising the collected Lady Dorrington. She coolly removed her crescent-moon ring and placed it on the chips. “I’m good for it.”
Sebastian stiffened slightly, but behind Tasha, the blonde’s eyes widened in amazement.
“How nice,” Mother replied.
The woman in green started to shuffle, but Tasha reached across the table and stopped her. “If you don’t mind.” There was a gasp as Tasha slipped the pack from the dealer’s hand and began to shuffle. “I always like to deal on the third hand. A silly superstition I inherited from my uncle, the Earl of Higgans.”
The woman’s protest died on the word “Higgans.” The game was up and both of them knew it. Her aware eyes focused on Tasha’s hands, spotting the cards being dealt from the top and bottom. Mother’s defeated opponent didn’t even bother to pick up her hand, but smiled in understanding. Like two duelists, Tasha returned the smile. Across the table, the former dealer’s spine stiffened. She snapped her fingers and in a bold voice ordered, “Champagne for Lady Dorrington.”
Tasha gave a curt nod in appreciation. “Thank you, it was enjoyable.”
Mother’s adversary leaned in closer and regally removed the crescent-ring from the table. Her unblinking eyes remained fixed on Tasha as she defiantly replaced the lunar circlet on her finger. “We’ll play again, soon, Lady Dorrington. I promise you a closer game.”
The intensity of her gaze remained as this imposing figure backed away and stood. Her large eyes slid from Tasha to Sebastian, who only stared dully. But as if receiving an unspoken order, the tall commander stepped forward and offered his arm. The woman-in-green placed her delicate hand on his sleeve, but there was nothing subservient in the action. Although Sebastian towered over her, it was she who moved first and he who appeared to follow. Her proud bearing demanded respect and inspired fascination. The silent crowd parted as the couple made their way through the immense room without glancing back. As the last flash of her green gown vanished past the statue of Hermes, the tone of the room changed from stillness to riotous accolades as the crowd engulfed Tasha. Ramsgate fought his way to her. “You nearly gave me a heart attack.”
“Who was she?”
Ramsgate shrugged. “I know nothing about her.”
“Save for the fact that she manipulates and cheats at cards, has an iron-nerve, supple and artistic hands with indentations on the fingers suggesting she plays the harp, and a small stain on her index finger indicating knowledge of chemistry, neither do I.”
At the door, the pretty blonde was also leaving, but first she turned back to glare at Tasha. Mother, occupied with the mob of well-wishers, didn’t notice this unremarkable figure as she left.
The blonde descended the steps to enter an expensive Brougham carriage pulled by a pair of matching white horses. Inside, the woman humiliated by Tasha was still fuming.
“Are you good for it? She really deserves my best, this one.”
The blonde sat next to the woman, taking her hand to gently stroke it. Sebastian gazed uneasily at the two of them and inadvertently compressed his fists.
“We’ve more important work. The Dreadnought sails in less than a week. If you involve this Lady Dorring—”
The brunette’s imperious eyes flared, locking on him. He sat silently back in the seat. The blonde broke the silence. “Deirdre?”
The woman, Deirdre—I still shudder when I recall her name—replied without looking at the other women. “We are not in public, Coira. Address me properly.”
“Priestess,” corrected the chastised young woman. “Forget her.”
Deirdre assessed Coira coolly and, with disinterest, withdrew her hand. In doing so, Deirdre’s crescent-moon ring slid from her finger and fell to the carriage floor. Coira pouted and spun away as Sebastian retrieved the signet and extended it to Deirdre. She reached out, stopped, and then stared into the exquisite blood-coloured crescent-moon pearl, which shimmered in the light of a gas street lamp.
“Let’s permit our brilliant Lady Dorrington to discover us,” whispered Deirdre as she took the ring from Sebastian. “But not understand until too late. She couldn’t survive such a failure.”
Sebastian, worried, started to speak, but Deirdre closed those piercing eyes and leaned her head against the velvet cushions of the seat. “She does have a predilection for high stakes, doesn’t she? We must prepare quickly. Do not speak for fifteen minutes.”
As his Priestess lost herself in thought, Sebastian gave up any attempt at communication. He rappe
d on the carriage roof and they started off. The carriage pulled away from Hermes, vanishing into the thickening fog.
Chapter Six
Lady Natasha Dorrington’s Residence, Grosvenor Square
In the distance, the chimes of the Tower Clock could faintly be heard tolling 1:30 in the morning. Tasha, in a Hansom cab with Ramsgate, noted that her house was—as to be expected at this hour—darkened, save for a light burning in the sitting room—the room she used as an office. She peeked over at Ramsgate, fast asleep beside her, and nudged him. “Wake up. Open those eyes,” she teased. He groggily responded. “I’m inviting you in,” said Mother with a glimmer in her eye.
Ramsgate snapped wide awake.
“There is a client in the study.”
His enthusiasm faltered and he exited the Hansom with a resigned sigh. “Of course. I might have known.”
Tasha struck a match and surveyed the footprints leading to her front door. “Aha! Medium height, heavy build … and if he’s planted in my study at this hour of the morning, exceedingly desperate to see me.”
She opened the door and they entered. Tasha took Ramsgate’s overcoat and hat to a clothes tree already occupied by another overcoat dressed with a warm wool collar, a battered tweed hat, and walking stick. She carefully analysed them with both eye and hand.
“Discover any other interesting facts about him?” asked Ramsgate keenly.
“Only that he tends sheep in Scotland and arrived in London at ten at Euston Station.”
“How do you know that? A speck of dust? A suggestive bit of mud?”
“The ticket is in his pocket.”
“You really are insufferable.”
“Let’s not keep him waiting. He has grey hair, is unmarried, at one time had money but has it no longer, and owns a large dog. I suspect a collie.”
In Tasha’s study sat a dour looking, heavy-set man of about fifty. He tallied completely with Mother’s observations. Observations which she took delight in sharing with him—a technique used to impress clients. He bolted from the stiff-backed wooden chair, his pipe nearly falling from his mouth, and in a thick Scot accent, “How did you ken aw’ that about me? You must be a bana-bhuidseach!” He noted Ramsgate’s confusion. “A witch!”
“It’s a petty masculine conceit to attribute a woman’s intelligence to the supernatural,” answered Mother.
Tasha and Ramsgate sat across from the man—he gave his name as McGloury—in plush leather chairs in front of the fireplace. Mother arranged the seating so that she’d be backlit, making her difficult for McGloury to see while illuminating him for her. By McGloury’s feet was a large, inexpensive, canvas travelling bag.
“I cannae think of a natural way you’d know so much about a stranger!” he protested.
Ramsgate couldn’t suppress a grin. “You’ll be sorry you asked.”
Tasha leaned back in her chair with the air of ennui and sighed—as if the explanations weren’t worth the effort. “Your coat contained traces of raw wool, hence sheep. Though you haven’t been at it long, have you?”
McGloury bristled from his chair. “It’s witchcraft!”
“It’s your hands. City hands. Tender hands that have never sheared sheep or wielded an axe. A few seasons out in the elements and those hands will be your farmer’s uniform. One can read so much from hands.”
“Simple, isn’t it?” shrugged Ramsgate.
McGloury, despite being a hard-headed Scot, considered his discomfort, “She cogitates a wee bit over fast for me … But, go on.”
Tasha obliged him. It was all part of her “you’re in good hands” performance. “You wear a very expensive hat, indicating affluence. It is long out of fashion and in dire want of repair. Money, I may safely assume, is presently scarce. The shocking accumulation of dust on the hat decrees the bachelor. No good Scot wife would allow it. Have I omitted anything?”
“The dog?”
“Oh, yes. Teeth marks on your walking stick. Now, Mr. Cedric McGloury, as you fear for your life …”
He grunted, “Aye. That’s true enough. Something is trying to kill me.”
Mother stopped him. “Something? Please be precise. Melodramatic inferences are of little help.”
“D’ye believe in the power of demons?”
“No.”
McGloury nodded, and then gave Tasha a hard grin. “Neither did I until three months ago. I inherited a wee croft. What you Sassenachs call a farm, from my older brother, Rupert. I’ve always wanted to settle down on a croft, raise sheep, so I moved in.”
“Were sheep part of the inheritance?”
“I dinnae make myself clear, lass.”
Mother’s eyebrows arched at being called a lass—but she did not interrupt him.
“Rupert dinnae live on the croft,” McGloury went on. “No one in my clan has for generations. Though we’ve held title for as far back as there were such things as titles.”
“Why has no one lived there?”
“I dinnae ken, but we’ve tenanted the place as long as anyone remembers.”
Tasha closed her eyes, mulling it over, and then asked. “Where is this demon-infested croft?”
“On Millport Island.”
“In the Firth of Clyde, near Glasgow?”
McGloury nodded. Both men were impressed with Mother’s grasp of geography. Tasha raised her hand before they could speak to ask McGloury, “The problem?”
McGloury took a breath, not sure how to put it, then simply stated, “I think I’m the victim of a curse. My sheep break out of the pen, no matter the precautions I take, and dash themselves over the cliff.”
Tasha sank back in her chair, disappointed. Still, there must be more than this. Ramsgate gestured and gave a cursory laugh. “Well, that hardly sounds diabolical.”
“You mentioned demons, Mr. McGloury,” reminded Mother.
“Aye. Near my cottage are ruins, ancient cult ruins over a thousand years old, I’m told. The kind of place where the old ways still fester. Last night, in the middle of them, I saw a banshee.”
Ramsgate smiled, but Tasha raised a warning eyebrow. To his surprise, she was taking this ghost story seriously. Ramsgate wasn’t convinced and asked, “Isn’t a banshee rather misplaced in Scotland?”
Tasha responded before McGloury could reply. “The western Scottish islands and Ireland share a common folklore in many instances. So you know the meaning of the banshee, Mr. McGloury?”
“Aye,” he said seriously. “Death’s herald.”
Ramsgate, the very personification of practical and rational, blurted, “Oh, really! This is the limit, Tasha! The fellow’s got a wizard imagination, but …”
McGloury raised his hand to silence Ramsgate, and then reached into his canvas travelling bag. “Aye, Mr. Ramsgate, but tell me …” He pulled out a large, cloth-covered object. “Did I imagine this?”
He dramatically whipped the cloth cover away, revealing the severed head of a goat. Ramsgate was repulsed, but Mother’s eyes gleamed with excitement. She was delighted.
“That’s wonderful!” She couldn’t restrain herself. As McGloury bristled in protest, she motioned him back to his seat. “I mean, that’s certainly interesting. A ritualistic sacrifice. Note the left to right incision. How often has this happened?”
McGloury regarded Mother in satisfaction, pleased that his problem intrigued her. “The sheep? Three nights at a time for the last two weeks.”
“… but the dead goat and the banshee?”
“Only the night before last.”
Tasha’s mind raced. “When, to the best of your memory, did the last McGloury occupy this croft?”
McGloury scratched his head doubtfully. “That’s a wee bit’ve history, now … must’ve been back to Charles the First … sixteen hundreds …”
Tasha nodded and sat for several seconds, eyes closed, legs extended, fingers and palms together, oblivious to all. McGloury started to speak, but Ramsgate stopped him, pressing his finger to his lip as a warning. They
waited in silence until Mother opened her eyes and walked to the window. Outside, the yellow orb of the streetlamp was just visible through the fog. Tasha stared at it, and mused, “If this danger is beyond nature, it is also beyond me.” She turned back to McGloury. “However, I’ll exhaust all other possibilities before admitting to hobgoblins. I’ll accept your case, Mr. McGloury.”
McGloury grinned, but it quickly faded. “I dinnae inherit much money. As you … deduced, my means are modest.”
“My fee is modest enough for your life,” answered Tasha coolly.
“That’s if you succeed.”
“I never fail, Mr. McGloury,” Mother said with passion. “I’ve gained acceptance in a masculine occupation because I succeed where all others fail. I am the final court of appeal!” She stopped abruptly, surprised at her own outburst. Then she gave McGloury a pale smile. “If I fail, you won’t be alive to pay me.”
McGloury leaned back, not liking the sound of that.
Chapter Seven
Limehouse
McGloury alighted from a Hansom cab. He had left the warm fire of Tasha’s sitting room less than an hour ago, but now, clutching his cloth travelling bag before a dingy, featureless building in the notorious Limehouse district, he was in a different world. As near as he could make out, through the pea soup fog, the entire area was dilapidated, derelict, and dying in squalor. A place of hard beginnings and sad endings, Limehouse was a magnet for immigrants, and had a sizable Chinese community.
McGloury walked to the door of the building and knocked three times, then three times more. A peep-hole slid open and briskly shut. The door opened a crack and McGloury slid through.
The place was long and narrow, with crude wooden berths, suggestive of steerage on an immigrant ship. He walked past the bent, cigar-smoking old woman who manned the door, then entered the smoky opium den. McGloury ignored the dreamers, puffing their pipes, some in strange positions, others mumbling incoherently in monotone, and went, purposely, to a tall, thin man sitting bowed over a small charcoal brazier.
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