by Joan Smith
It wasn't much better when he got past the parks. The streets were dark as a tomb. Luten kept talking about some gas company that was going to put lamps on every corner. He wished they'd get cracking and do it. Any sort of villain might have been waiting to leap out at him from the shadows. It didn't help that, as he got close to the river, a dank, yellow fog came creeping forward to take him by the throat and burn his eyes. The sky was light enough that he could soon see the twin towers of the Abbey rising above the fog ahead of him.
A quick glance around told him he was the first to arrive. As he drew closer he spotted a dark hump in a corner of one of the doorways that turned out, when he got closer, to be a man curled up in a blanket. He drew out the pistol he always kept in the side pocket of his carriage and had remembered to bring with him. When the old man stood up, clutching a gnarled branch that he used as a crutch, Coffen saw through the open front of the blanket that he had only one leg. He was ancient and skinny as a skeleton beneath the wisps of rags that blew in the wind.
Coffen gave him a guinea and said in a kindly way, "You'd be wise to get clear of here, mister. There's trouble brewing tonight."
The beggar snatched the coin, gave him a snaggle-toothed grin and said, "You're a gentleman and a scholar, sir. And a saint." He hobbled off into the night. Well, that certainly wasn't the Bee.
Coffen sat a moment in the saddle, looking at the church, choosing the best spot to wait. He had very little notion of the ancient history of this premier church of England, where monarchs from the days of William the Conqueror have been crowned, but he felt a sense of awe at the grandeur of the place. The massive gray bulk, the soaring towers, the pointed windows seemed a fitting mansion for God. He knew in a vague way that some monks had started a church here back in the dark ages, or maybe it was the middle ages. Long ago anyhow. Common sense told him it wasn't these ancients who had put up the inspiring gothic towers and fancy stained glass windows.
He rode on towards the west and was amazed to find that this national jewel was surrounded by narrow, mean streets with falling apart buildings. Slums is what they were. No fitting neighbourhood for God. A dashed disgrace. When a large rat scampered across his path and frightened Nellie, he decided not to tarry there. He knew that when the Abbey was used as a meeting place, it was the great western doorway that was meant. That's where the Bee would go, and Coffen had to hide himself close to it, with a clear view of the meeting. The fog would help there. He drew back into the shadow of an ancient oak and waited.
* * * *
Luten also had his logistics to consider. It wouldn't do to drive up in his crested carriage. He kept in his stable a plain black carriage which he used on those occasions when he didn't want to be recognized. Corinne called it his hunting carriage, the inference being that it was women he hunted in it, in the days before their betrothal. He sent his coachman off to exchange his crested carriage for it. At eleven-thirty he led Mrs. Huston out to it.
"We'll be too early," she protested.
"We'll just drive by first to reconnoiter the area."
They drove by twice, seeing nothing but an empty forecourt. At five minutes before midnight, Luten drew the drawstring and his coachman brought the team to a halt. Then they waited. At midnight on the dot, a black hackney drew alongside them, leaving a space of a few yards between them. Luten pulled back into the shadows and stared at the rig. He couldn't believe his eyes. It was Lord Horner's old carriage, with the crest painted out. Like Lady Callwood, he recognized it by the outsized lamps in front. Coffen was right. The driver, or occupant, of this hackney wasn't just any hackney driver. He was either the Bee or in his employ. The rig had been bought for this purpose.
"You'd best lower the window," Luten said to Mrs. Huston. "With luck, he'll come to the carriage. I'll slip out the door on the other side and go after him."
She lowered the window, but all was quiet and silent in the other carriage. The driver drew out a pipe, lit it and sat smoking.
Luten looked at Mrs. Huston in confusion. "What the devil!"
"He's waiting for me inside the carriage," she said. "I'd best go, milord. I want to get this over with. What will you do?"
"Let me make the exchange."
"No! He might drive off if he sees a man approaching. After coming this far, I want an end to it all."
What could he do? If he followed her, the driver would see him and might start shooting, putting not only himself but Mrs. Huston at risk. "We'll follow the carriage when it leaves. My team can outrun that pair of jades. Pattle is lurking about somewhere. Between the two of us, we'll catch him. All right, you go, and do as the man says." He quietly opened his door.
She drew out the white handkerchief holding the diamond necklace. "I'll give Edward Harrelson a piece of my mind while I'm about it," she said. "Once I have Phoebe's letter safe in my hands."
She didn't seem the least frightened as she opened the door and clambered out. A mother's wrath, he saw, was something to be reckoned with. He slipped out the other door, ready for he hardly knew what.
He watched as she approached the hackney, expecting the door to open. Nothing happened. The driver smoked on, oblivious. Mrs. Huston looked back over her shoulder then tapped on the hackney door. Still nothing happened. When something did happen, it caught them both by surprise. A mounted rider came flashing out of the darkness, snatched the handkerchief holding the diamonds from her fingers, tossed a piece of paper at her, and rushed off. It was over before Luten had time to collect his wits.
There was no point rushing off after the rider. He couldn't go and leave Mrs. Huston behind in any case. He must just hope that Coffen was somewhere nearby. There! He heard a clatter of hooves but couldn't make out in the darkness if it was Coffen. Surely it was.
Mrs. Huston picked up the piece of paper, peered into the parked hackney, shrugged her shoulders and came back to Luten's carriage. He joined her, looking in confusion at the hackney, his pistol cocked and ready to shoot. But still the driver smoked on, oblivious. Mrs. Huston opened the paper and examined it by the light of the carriage lamp.
"It's Phoebe's letter!" she said, and burst into tears, whether of relief or chagrin at not having a go at Harrelson, Luten couldn't tell.
"Who's in the hackney?" he asked.
"Some fat old man, either asleep or drunk."
"Not Harrelson?"
"Nothing like him. Phoebe wouldn't have looked twice at that old fellow, even seven years ago. He's older than her papa."
Luten, his curiosity mounting higher at every new weirdness, went to the carriage and opened the door, to find exactly what Mrs. Huston had described. A stench of gin wafted from the man sprawled on the carriage seat. He held a bottle in his hand, tilted so that part of it had spilled over his trousers. Luten had never seen the man before. He didn't look like a gentleman, yet not quite a derelict either. He was clean shaven, wore a cleanish white cravat and blue jacket.
"Who's your passenger?" Luten called up to the driver.
The driver removed his pipe, lifted his hat and replied in a civil tone, "It's Mr. Jones, isn't it?"
"What is he doing here?"
"Waiting for his girl to pick him up and take him home."
Luten reached into his pocket and drew out a gold coin. Holding it towards the driver, he said, "I'd like some information."
"At your service, sir," the driver said and hopped down eagerly. As he reached for the coin, Luten held it away.
"First we talk."
"What is it you want to know, mister?" he asked, watching the coin as if hypnotized.
"What's your name?"
"That's no secret. Ned Sullivan."
"Where did you pick up Mr. Jones?"
"At the Two Chairmen, the pub around the corner. I live just above it. You might say it's my headquarters."
"Was Jones sober when you picked him up?"
"He's never sober at this time of night. Blue ruin, that's his drink of choice, and well named. It took me and the waite
r to haul him into my rig. His daughter asked me to collect him and meet her here."
"This daughter, where did you meet her?"
"I didn't. I never knew Jones had a daughter. She sent me a note to the pub, where her da was spending the evening, as per usual. She sent the fare in cash to deliver him here and wait. The daughter, you see, didn't want to go into the pub. She was working late and set on the Abbey as a safe place for a woman to go at night, though from what I just seen, I'm not so sure. Strange goings-on here, on hallowed ground!"
"Why not just take Jones home? He must live nearby."
"Aye, he does. He has a room hereabouts, I'm not sure where. P'raps the girl wants to take him to her place to cure him of the evil drink."
"Do you have the note?"
He fished in his pocket and pulled out a crumpled piece of paper. Luten recognized the round writing, even before he saw the sketch of a bee at the bottom of the page. The note was as the driver had said.
"Where did you get this carriage?" Luten asked in a conversational way. "It's rather unusual."
"Bought it, didn't I?"
"Yes, of course. How long ago?"
"Twelve hours, give or take a few. My old one was falling apart. It's the springs and wheels that go first. I was sitting idle outside the pub in my old rig, waiting for a fare, when the driver of this rig comes along and stops a while to chat, 'This is no life for a man,' he says to me. 'I'd give up hacking this minute if I had the fare home.' 'Where's home?' I ast him. 'Brighton,' he says. 'That's not far. Why don't you drive yourself there, mister?' I says. 'These nags would never make it. I'm selling them to the glue factory. You want to buy the rig?' he says. 'Ho, with what money?' says I. 'You can have it for two pence,' he says. So I gave him tuppence, thinking he was joking, but he took the tuppence, shook my hand, unharnessed his nags and walked away."
Luten listened, his muscles tensing in frustration. "This fellow, what did he look like?"
"Like anyone," was the unsatisfactory reply.
"Young, old, dark, fair, tall, short?"
"A youngish lad. Tallish, not bad looking."
"Dark or fair?'
"He never lifted his lid, but what I saw of his hair looked darkish."
"You wouldn't have got his name, I suppose?"
"I did. It was Mr. Hummer."
Luten gave a cynical snort. "From St. John's Wood, no doubt."
"Nay, he mentioned Brighton. Said his da raised bees there."
Luten felt a pronounced urge to curse. The bee was thumbing his nose at them again, outwitting them at every twist. He had arranged this plot to fool them. He must be familiar with the area to know he could 'sell' the rig to Ned Sullivan, and that Jones would be in the Two Chairmen that evening in a suitable state of inebriation.
"You spend a deal of time around that pub, I daresay?"
"I live there, upstairs. When I'm out I drive past it often, hoping to pick up a fare. I've been known to visit it of an evening for a wet before bedtime. A man needs human company," he added apologetically.
"Have you seen Hummer in there?"
"Can't say as I have."
But the Bee had been there, or had watched the place and knew that Jones would be there. He had invented a daughter for Jones, planted this innocent passenger in the hackney as a diversion, then come galloping in and rode off with Mrs. Huston's diamonds, leaving his victim none the wiser.
"Do you know a fellow called Harrelson?" Luten asked, to cover all possible bases.
"I can't say as I do."
"Tall young chap, dark, good looking. A gentleman."
"I don't know many of them." He looked longingly at Luten's hand, that still held the gold coin. Luten handed it over.
"Thank you, sir," he said, and pocketed the coin. "I wonder what's keeping my fare's daughter." He looked all around.
"She won't be coming. Take your fare back to the pub."
"I do believe you're right, sir. Her note said twelve sharp." He jiggled the reins and the team moved forward.
Luten followed at some distance behind to make sure it did go to the pub. When the driver went inside and came out with a waiter to haul the Jones back into the pub, Luten drove Mrs. Huston home.
"Now don't go blaming yourself, milord," she said in a motherly fashion. "I'm sure you did all you could, and it's not your fault if the bounder got away on us. Harrelson is a hardened criminal. It would take a clever man to catch him."
Luten was in the habit of hearing himself called clever, and felt the unintentional slur.
"Truth to tell," she rattled on, I hardly ever wear my diamonds, though I thought I'd have more chance to show them off after Thomas's promotion. The important thing is I got Phoebe’s letter back. I shan't bother to tell Thomas a thing about it, and I hope I may count on your discretion as well."
"Oh, certainly," he agreed.
"Why worry the poor soul? He'll have plenty to worry him once he gets his promotion."
She directed Luten to a small house on Hill Street where she took her leave of him in a flurry of waves and thanks and smiles. Then he drove home to wait to hear from Coffen. Coffen was an excellent fellow. The game might not be lost yet.
* * *
Chapter 15
Coffen waited in the shadow of the oak tree at the side of the Abbey forecourt. A patch of sky had cleared, showing a gibbous moon riding high in the blanket of mist. It shone like a stage light on the forecourt, silvering the cobblestones. It was bright enough to show how unevenly the stones were laid, shadows from the higher ones darkening their neighbours. He stiffened to attention as Luten's carriage clattered over the uneven paving into the forecourt and the horses were brought to a halt.
Being a connoisseur of things equine, Coffen recognized Luten's team at a glance. He wasn't fooled by the lack of a crest on the carriage door either—Luten's hunting carriage. It wouldn't be long now. Midnight, the Bee said. How would he come? Surely on horseback, but from which direction? Like Luten, he was astonished to see the familiar hackney with the oversized lamps in front draw up in front of the Abbey at midnight. But the team drawing them! Good lord, a donkey cart could overtake those jades.
He watched to see how the exchange would be handled. The Bee must be armed to the teeth to risk coming in that ancient rig. He might well have a couple of armed men hiding in the hackney. He watched as Mrs. Huston opened her carriage door and looked about. Best wait until she had her letter and was clear of gunfire before riding forth. When no one got out of the hackney, he began to wonder if he ought to do something. But what? Before he came to a decision Mrs. Huston began her walk to the hackney. He watched the whole thing as if it were on the stage at Drury Lane.
And a dashed good play it would make too, though he'd put a younger actress in it, with a better figure. Effie Maherne, now there was a handsome woman. Having the live nags on stage would be no problem. Last year Kemble had put an elephant and sixteen horses mounted by Spahis on stage in a production of Bluebeard. A dandy show. Prance declared it an intellectual crime, a deliberate effort to debase the public's taste by mere spectacle. Mind you, it hadn't stopped him from going back a second time.
Coffen jerked his thoughts back to attention. He drew his pistol from his pocket. If there was going to be trouble, this was when it would happen. He mentally conned his options. Should he go pacing forward now and haul the Bee out of the rig? He waited to see what Luten did. They couldn't put Mrs. Huston at risk. That was what was holding Luten back. As soon as she was back in his carriage, they'd both go after the Bee. That hackney wouldn't have a chance of outrunning them.
Dashed odd that a clever fellow like the Bee used such jades for a job like this.
Nossir, he wouldn't! There was something havey-cavey afoot here. Even as the thought occurred to him, the mounted rider flashed forward. He had snatched the diamonds from Mrs. Huston's fingers and pelted off before you could say Jack Robinson. The best description Coffen could give of him was that he had a head and two hands, and sat his
mount well. The mount was a fine bit of blood, dark with a white blaze on its nose, like half the mounts in London. In the same instant, Coffen nudged his Nellie forward and was after him. His grip on the reins was tenuous, since he had his pistol in his right hand.
When the rider headed into that warren of small, mean, rat-infested streets to the west of the Abbey, Coffen felt another lurch of apprehension. It wasn't just the rats either. Any sort of bandit might be hiding there. Still, the Bee was ahead of him to take the first blast of whatever evil lurked–unless the Bee had set up a trap for anyone following him ... He chased the pounding hoofbeats, catching sight of a flying rump and tail at the first corner to show him the way. No rats so far, no shots, no traps. He pelted on through the darkness. It was just a few yards past the next turn that it happened.
Suddenly a stone wall over four feet high reared up in front of them. The Bee's nag cleared the hurdle with six inches to spare–obviously knew it was there. With a good run at it, Nellie could have cleared it, but coming upon it unexpectedly in the dark and not knowing what was on the other side, she bucked. Coffen, holding on with one hand and with only his evening slippers in the stirrups, was hurled from the saddle like a stone from a slingshot. His hat flew off. His bare head struck the wall. A blizzard of red and white and yellow snowflakes whirled before his eyes, soon dissipated by a black curtain, and he lay unconscious.
He knew, when he came to later, that more than a minute or two had passed. He didn't know how he knew. The moon was still high above him, gliding behind a cloud now. It was still the middle of the night, but he knew considerable time had passed. With Nellie laughing at him, he lifted a hand to his head and felt a lump the size of a plum growing right in the middle of his forehead. His head throbbed and his shoulder hurt, but at least the Bee hadn't put a bullet through him, as he very well could have. His own gun lay beside him. He picked it up and put it in his pocket. His hat was leaning against the wall and he reached for it. It wasn't until he tried to stand up that he realized he had twisted his leg in the fall. A hot, searing pain shot up from his left knee when he tried to stand.