Moseh's Staff

by A. W. Exley

  “I sleep enough and rarely dream of dragons.” There were too few hours in the dark to erase the weariness, only an eternity of rest could do that. He wondered if he even had a soul, such was the emptiness in his chest.

  The other man grunted. “You don’t need it. You’re smart, but tossing that poison down your gullet is killing your brain. Your thinking will go off track chasing things that don’t exist.” He glared as though seeing the vial in Fraser’s pocket then having said his piece, he stood and left the room.

  Fraser poked amongst the mail, when a small scrap caught his attention.

  11am Tottenham. F.B.

  He inhaled sharply. The small scrap was a sliver of hope in his oft-fruitless pursuit. He glanced at the large clock on his wall. Not yet ten, he had time to drink his tea and perhaps walk to the meeting. The crisp air outside might revive his senses.

  Thirty minutes later, he waited on Tottenham Court Road, the western boundary of the St Giles Rookery. To the east, smoke still rose from the previous day’s riot and the sharp aroma bit the inside of his nostrils. The fire in the derelict building was extinguished, but it smouldered on and people used the embers to cook potatoes. They arrested a hundred rioters and crammed them into numerous Enforcer vehicles before the crowd dispersed and moved away.

  Around him and despite the frigid temperature, people attempted to continue with their lives, although every day more people left the cold of London for the outer suburbs and towns. Beyond the edge of the city, spring pushed through the soil. Lambs frolicked, the sun shone, and the speculation mounted that the capital was cursed. Street vendors struggled to make a few coins from the bundled pedestrians. Those selling hot chocolate and steaming coffee did the best as mugs were clutched between frozen hands.

  He watched lives played out on the cobbles, able to pick a child and trace their future through its various stages without moving from his spot. Young children panhandled or danced among the thin crowd to pick pockets with nimble fingers. Next came the youths and men who mugged the unwary or fenced stolen goods. The more attractive prostitutes, those able to entice customers in full light, strolled with hands on hips. The twilight years were represented by the bobtails hiding in the shadows, the grey men commanding the children, and the elderly begging alongside the young. The crime version of the circle of life.

  A woman stalked toward him, a ragged woolen shawl pulled around lean shoulders to keep out the light dusting of snow. A felted hat wedged low over her ears. Fanny Brandt resembled her father. The same hard set to her mouth and cold glint in her eye; self-interest personified, which meant their missions aligned. She halted a foot from him and waited.

  “You’ll talk?” Fraser asked, not wanting to waste time in the cold for no return.

  “Aye, if it will tie the knot in that bastard’s noose.” She spat a wad of spittle to the pavement. It left a brown track as it slithered along the camber to the roadside drain.

  For the first time in many months, hope sprang up in his chest and gave him something to clutch. “All I need is one witness prepared to say what happened the night your father died.” One would be a start, then he could work on the next until like dominoes, he pushed the whole damn thing over on Lyons.

  She stared down the road and peered at each face as though expecting someone to lunge after her. “He stabbed my da through the heart in cold blood. His men in the pub made sure none of us could raise a hand against him. Then he put that Irish git in charge to finish us off.”

  A thrill shot through his body down to his toes. He had him. Months of patient groundwork lead to this moment. He had his eyewitness. What magistrate could refuse to listen to the heartrending tale of a bereft daughter?

  “Will you say that in court?” Here was the moment of truth. It was one thing to utter her testimony on a street corner, quite another to say it in front of a magistrate and a jury of Lyons’ peers.

  “Will you leave St Giles to me, once you pull him off his throne?” The gleam in her dirty gaze showed her true intent, to claim her father’s empire in her own name. Greed often revealed itself as the base motivation.

  A pang of conscience shot through his torso. He heard of improved conditions in the Rookery and that Lady Lyons even started a school for the children. What would a change of governance back to the old way mean for the residents?

  “There are those who say life is much better in St Giles now,” he said.

  Her face drew in, her lips pinched as though she sucked the proverbial lemon. Her gaze narrowed. “Smoke and mirrors to keep you bastards happy. Do you want my words or not?”

  His conscience tussled with his desire for revenge. The demon whispered Fanny would be a fool to change anything. That displacing Lyons would change figureheads only and not impact the daily lives of the impoverished citizens.

  “So long as violence does not spill out to my territory, I see no reason to venture into yours.” He would give her that reassurance in return for handing him the head of his enemy. For years, the Enforcers had a tacit understanding with the Rookery that they wouldn’t cross its boundary so long as crime didn’t cross into theirs. He could offer Fanny the same deal, and his promise would hold as fast as hers.

  She nodded. “No one can know. Not until he’s gone.” She continued scanning faces. When you dealt in betrayal, there was no one you could trust.

  “If anyone else present that night finds their tongue, do let me know. The more testimony I can present, the stronger our case.”

  She cocked her head, considering. “He stuck my cousin the night of the ice procession.”

  Fraser chocked on a breath. “In front of people?”

  She barked a hard laugh. “Thousands. On the ice as everyone left. Harry just wanted a friendly word on my behalf. To see if he would leave our turf without any fuss. To let him know we gather our numbers.” She tapped a finger to the side of her nose, letting Fraser in on her little secret.

  Fraser forced a smile, he could well imagine the Brandt family’s version of a friendly word. How unfortunate that Lyons proved quicker with a knife. He had no doubt who would prevail if the rivalry was left unchecked, The Rookery displayed an unfathomable loyalty to its noble overlord. Just what was Lyons’ power over it? Were the schools a front to hold its children to ensure the compliance of the adults? Whatever tactic Lyons used, the Brandts needed his assistance to regain their hold.

  “Hundreds around them, and Lyons’ answer was to shove his blade between Harry’s ribs like he was sticking a pig. Then he walked away.” Another spit to the pavement.

  The woman did have remarkable aim. The second wad of tobacco landed smack on top of the stain from the first.

  “Anyone who will testify will help put Lyons where he should be. You tell Harry I am only too happy to help prosecute his assault.” He doffed his bowler as though she were a woman of quality and headed back to the warmth of his office. The sun seemed a little brighter on his walk back to Headquarters or perhaps it was his mood lifting just a fraction at the thought of watching Lyons dance at the end of a rope.

  ndeterred by the lack of nobles in town, the British Museum arranged a grand gala to celebrate new additions to their Egyptian hall. A group of explorers had ransacked the Valley of the Kings and returned with crates of funerary items, and the public wanted the titillation of gazing upon more desecrated corpses. To make up numbers, the museum opened the evening to anyone who could afford the ticket price. The night swelled with nouveau riche and middle class couples eager to hobnob with their betters without the usual rigid social constraints. As a result, an odd assortment of carriages trundled along Great Russell Street to the museum’s grand forecourt. Nate’s expensive mechanical horses waited in line with chugging steam carriages and grubby hansom cabs.

  He jumped down as the steps extended, and held out a hand for Cara. Tonight, she wore cream silk chiffon with an asymmetrical train. Green embroidered and beaded vines wound around the tunic and crossed over her waist to clamour over her should
ers. Her maid wrapped a chain of diamonds and emeralds around her head to match the dress.

  “Why are you so eager?” she asked as she stepped onto the cobbles. “I thought you hated these things?”

  “I always enjoy parading my beautiful wife in front of envious men,” he said, kissing her cheek.

  She leaned in to share his body warmth. The downside of being fashionable was the lack of layers to keep out the frigid cold. She risked turning into an ice maiden before she made the safety of the museum’s bright interior.

  He wrapped his arm around her, in case she slipped on the slick cobbles in her delicate silk shoes. “I’m kicking myself that we didn’t think of coming here before now. Think of it, Cara. Thousands of ancient objects all laid out for convenient viewing. Let’s see if any might be artifacts of power. It would make our job far easier if we only have to steal them from the museum.”

  She laughed. “It’s funny, you dress like a noble but then you open your mouth and utter larcenist plans.” Arm in arm, they ascended the stairs between the towering marble pillars holding up the façade. She did concede he had a point, their task would be much simplified if she only had to stroll the hallways and identify those objects that made her spine tingle.

  “There’s another reason I am looking forward to this evening. I happen to know there will be a certain couple in attendance tonight who will probably cause an upset, and they could do with our public support.”

  She shot him a look, her mind leapt ahead as to who it might be. “Really?”

  His poker face dropped into place as they stepped onto the marble floor of the soaring atrium. Light, warmth, and chatter filled the enormous space. Hundreds swirled around them. A string quartet played centre stage, between two eight-foot tall jackal headed statues. Polished silver automaton waiters glided among the guests with perfectly balanced trays of champagne and canapés. Cara picked up her train and hooked the hidden loop over her wrist to stop the delicate fabric from being caught under either shoes or wheels.

  Bored looking middle class merchants congregated together, swilling back the free wine and no doubt wondering why on Earth their wives scrimped for weeks to buy the tickets. Now, a cockfight or a boxing bout would have been worth it, not classical music and tiny morsels of food. They grumbled among themselves, pulled at restrictive cravats, and made crude comments about the naked statues. Their wives stood wide-eyed at the few aristocrats circling the exhibits. When two members of the ton met, there was air kissing of cheeks and exclamations over the genius of their modistes. Fashion echoed the people within the clothing as delicate silks and chiffons butted up against robust taffeta and the occasional best Sunday cotton.

  Cara felt like the exhibit in a freak show as women whispered and elbowed each other when she passed. Although it said volumes about their shallow lives that they had nothing better to talk about than her escapades. She lingered at a wall stolen from a tomb. The entire slab of stone had been carved out and shipped back to England like a giant cheese slice. Hieroglyphics in riotous colours told the story of the poor noble whose sarcophagus now doubled as a drinks stand. Around the room, glass-topped cabinets contained a multitude of smaller items. Jewellery lay alongside practical items of everyday use, utensils and crockery, linen and tools. The objects were meant to accompany the owner to the afterlife but were now laid out on public view. She wondered if the deceased found their furniture yanked from under them in the spirit world as their tombs were robbed and stripped bare. I should ask Helene.

  She rested her hand on the glass over a small, carved doll. It saddened her that somebody’s most intimate possessions were open to scrutiny. Death should afford some privacy.

  Gasps and titters ran through the crowd and she turned to see what new arrivals sparked such a reaction. Clarence, Lord Dennington entered with Brick at his side. Arm in arm, the pair made a very public statement. Which aspect of the relationship would cause the most apoplexy; that it was two men or that one was a lord and the other a former guttersnipe?

  Clarence was a Greek work of art come to life and stepped down off his pedestal, tall and lean with blond good looks and cheekbones chiselled from marble. A stark contrast to Brick’s muscled bulk and darker colouring, but each man was striking in his own way.

  Cara sighed. “They are so handsome.”

  “Your husband is standing right here,” Nate said.

  “Can’t a woman appreciate a fine male form or two?” She smiled up at him.

  “What am I, then, by comparison?” The ghost of a frown marred his brow.

  “Devilish,” she breathed and sent him a caress along their bond.

  The two men before her were reflections of each other in navy and green, one outfit reversed by the other. Whereas Brick wore a navy morning coat with rich green vest, Clarence’s jacket was green and his vest navy.

  Nate shook hands with both men and enquired of Lord Dennington about his venture with the new underground railroad.

  Brick leaned down to kiss Cara’s cheek, and she laid a hand on his shoulder. “You look magnificent tonight, Brick.”

  He shot her a shy smile, but his gaze darted around the room as though expecting to be denounced as a filthy Molly at any moment. Women gossiped and fanned themselves as though they would combust from the sight. Men scowled and muttered darker comments.

  “Relax,” she murmured in Brick’s ear. “Remember you can take anyone here, except maybe Nate—but he fights dirty.”

  He huffed a short laugh and turned to his partner. “Cara, this is Lord Dennington.”

  She experienced the slightest hesitation before taking his hand. Her demons lay close to the surface and protested when she touched someone new. Her mind shouted down the fear, this man had Brick’s affection and by extension must be worthy of hers.

  “Lady Lyons.” He bowed over her hand and kissed the back of her satin glove with a light touch. “I must say, that dress is a glorious touch of spring despite the weather outside. You are a woodland nymph.”

  She smiled, and the small part of her that craved acceptance breathed a sigh of relief. Having him approve of her outfit was the ultimate compliment. She was aware of the numerous eyes watching them. Although Dennington was the ton’s darling, this was the first time he appeared openly with a beau, and a commoner at that. With the matrons out of town, the sheep looked for a lead and Cara was only too happy to shepherd them in the right direction.

  “Lord Dennington, such a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance. I do hope you and Brick will be a regular sight on the social circuit, you two are such a delight for the ladies to look upon and your knowledge of fashion will be invaluable to so many. Besides, I’m sure their husbands will appreciate the distraction.”

  Hushed conversations broke out in the loose groups as every word was dissected and interpreted. Did this mean the Lady Lyons approved of the unconventional couple? And she had a point, another said. Husbands never knew the difference between silk and taffeta, but Lord Dennington was quite the expert and could catapult a favoured lady to stardom.

  Hard stares softened and Cara could practically smell their cogs burning as the assembled women figured out that two fashion-savvy men was far better than one.

  Clarence gave a surprisingly deep laugh for such a light appearance. “You are a flatterer; we will have to have you to dinner, if you can spare my Herculean Patrick.” He winked.

  She tapped him with her rolled up fan. “Don’t take Patrick from me completely, he would be sorely missed.”

  Clarence placed a hand over his heart. “I would hate to see a lady bereft. Perhaps we might come to a mutually beneficial agreement?”

  “Do I get any say in this?” Brick looked from one to the other.

  Cara pretended to consider the idea. “No, you will just have to live with the fact that both Clarence and I need you. Plus, Nate will have a fit if he discovers I have lost another shadow in such a short space of time.”

  The villainous viscount fixed Cara with his
intense gaze. “What do you mean lost another shadow?”

  “See,” she said in a stage whisper. “First Jackson, now you. I’ll be in trouble when we get home.”

  “You’re always in trouble, minx,” Nate growled. “I’ll deal with you later.”

  “Perhaps Lady Lyons does it on purpose, Lord Lyons. I believe many ladies would shiver in anticipation at being dealt to by you.” Clarence arched a perfect eyebrow and gave Nate such a deadpan stare that Cara couldn’t hold in her laughter.

  She laid a hand on Nate’s arm in case he took offense. “Don’t tease him, Dennington. He might call you out, and then you would have to strip to the waist for a bout of boxing and all the ladies will want to watch.”

  “Do you think?” His eyes brightened at the idea and he leaned a little closer, as they shared a confidence.

  “Of course, it would be like watching Gabriel battle Lucifer. Women would stampede for tickets to attend and then have to place a bet on both of you, for they couldn’t possibly choose.” He was angelic with his blond curls, and Nate so dark and brooding. What a match it would make. In fact, the more she dwelt on the picture, the more she liked the idea. Perhaps she should orchestrate it as a charity function to benefit the children’s school in the Rookery.

  “Keep being scandalous, Lady Lyons, and society will not have time to comment on Patrick and I.” Clarence’s smile lit up his face as they bantered back and forth.

  “I think matrons around the country will be sobbing into their wine to hear you are off the market, Lord Dennington.” She hoped he wouldn’t bow to pressure to marry simply to provide an heir and break Brick’s heart. She would battle to have the two men accepted by others.

  “Clarence, please. Anyone with a place in Patrick’s affection has mine also.” He raised his champagne flute to her.

  “Only if you call me Cara.” She laughed. “I do love the fascinating men like you that I am collecting. I just hope the courtesans don’t mind me poaching on their territory.”