Diamonds & Dust

by Carol Hedges

  Every now and then, Constable Evans raises his head and peers out of the narrow wooden aperture, but the Square continues to be totally deserted. The only people he’s seen in the past two hours is a couple and their son out for a stroll. Big man, hat pulled down against the cold, young wife, well-shawled and bonneted, clinging to his arm, boy with his face completely muffled in a warm scarf and cap.

  They had bidden him a polite ‘Good evening’ as they passed. A completely ordinary family. Nothing to mark them out as significant. Since then it has been as silent as the grave. Constable Evans shivers in his overcoat, and focuses his attention upon the tricky question of how to spell ‘carriage’.

  While he is puzzling this out, the completely ordinary family have made their way across the Square, until they come to a halt outside one of the houses. They mount the steps and ring the bell. When nobody answers, they have a brief discussion.

  Then the man and the boy descend into the street, and vanish down the area steps. Shortly after this, the man reappears, alone, tucking something into his back pocket. He exchanges a few words with the young woman, before continuing the journey on his own, whereupon the young woman also goes down the area steps. And once more, the Square is totally deserted and silent as the grave.

  ****

  Back at the ball, Mrs Thorpe has retired temporarily to the ladies’ dressing room to deal with a problem. Resplendent in a puce silk hooped dress with puce and yellow fitted bodice and inserts, gold braid and white lace, she is having her ornate wig and hat readjusted as they have slipped sideways. Meanwhile, just emerging from one of the ‘retiring rooms’, (a polite way of saying lavatory), where she has vomited up her supper, is a perfect replica, complete in every detail.

  “Ah, there you are, Bella my love. Come sit by me,” the Resplendent One orders, signalling with a puce-gloved hand.

  Mother and daughter are wearing exactly the same outfit. Naturally, it is Mrs Thorpe’s idea, born out of Isabella’s complete indifference to the upcoming ball, and to the importance of making one’s debut in aristocratic circles.

  Mrs Thorpe, who has had to organise everything, wants the world to see how close she is to her beloved child. Why, they are almost like sisters. Thus, Isabella’s entrée is, by some strange osmotic process, her mother's also. Love my child, love me.

  Except that nobody does love Isabella. She’s been ignored by the upper-class young ladies of her own age, who all seem to recognise each other despite their wigs and masks. They have gathered by the supper table, and are excitedly comparing costumes and accessories.

  Nobody has come across to talk to her. No young gentlemen have asked to be introduced to her, and more worryingly, there is no sign of George Osborne. This may well be because he is at this very moment swilling strong drink at one of his favourite watering-holes nearby, and is rapidly approaching that stage of inebriation when he will completely forget that he has an elsewhere he is supposed to be, and a future fiancée he is supposed to be squiring.

  To add to her woes, Isabella knows that puce does not suit her at all: it makes her look even more wan and sickly. Also, her heavy wig and mask are making her feel claustrophobic. Thus the urgent request to walk upstairs, and the hasty retreat to somewhere private, to be sick.

  Mrs Thorpe, wig now straightened and hat re-attached, takes Isabella by a reluctant arm and conducts her back to the reception room. She peers through her fancy feathered mask, a vulture sighting her prey, then heads straight for a group of elegantly-clad Venetian noblewomen.

  In the quest to do the absolute best for her sulky uncooperative daughter, the words ‘pushy’ and ‘parvenu’ are not in her vocabulary. Besides, she has recognised the Honourable Mrs Osborne amongst the number, equally resplendent in Bordeaux damask and black lace.

  “What a splendid party!” Mrs Thorpe effuses. “And does not my Lady Hartington look wonderful!”

  Behind the ornate carnival masks, certain significant glances are exchanged. Most of the women present are on ‘Caroline’ terms with the hostess. Some have known her since childhood, and address her as ‘Caro’. To hear her referred to as my Lady Hartington is a clear giveaway that this particular guest is a rank outsider.

  Mrs Thorpe blunders on.

  “I have been looking all around for dear George,” she remarks. “Can you point him out to me? Isabella is wild to see what costume he is wearing are you not, my love?”

  Unbeknown to Mrs Thorpe, her question to Mrs Osborne has touched upon a raw nerve. George’s mother has been mentally asking it of herself for the past two hours, and is beginning to despair of coming up with a satisfactory answer. Her errant offspring has clearly chosen to ignore the parental three-line whip to turn up tonight and be seen in public with his future bride.

  “I am sure he is here somewhere,” she replies stiffly. “Perhaps you should seek him in the supper room?”

  Whereupon the Honourable Mrs Osborne opens her feather fan and turns her back upon the hapless Mrs Thorpe, leaving her to make her way to the supper room, accompanied by a reluctant Isabella.

  But they are unlikely to locate young George there. He is currently lying in the lap of a young woman called Jenny (a young woman for whom the word ‘buxom’ could have been invented), and bawling out the sort of song beloved of drunken young males everywhere, involving a May morning, a fair young maid and the outcome of their encounter.

  George will soon fall asleep in Jenny’s ample lap, waking a short while later to discover his head pillowed upon a hard, wooden bench, and his wallet and fob watch missing.

  He will not be pleased.

  ****

  Meanwhile Josephine and Oi are making their way along a basement corridor accompanied by a dark-lantern that is casting strange distorted shadows upon the walls.

  “Smells rank, dunnit?” Oi remarks, sniffing the air. “It’s like some animal’s been livin’ down here. Or maybe just died.”

  He is right, Josephine thinks. And the kitchen they have just passed through does not look as if it has been used for food preparation for a long time. Mrs Hudson’s kitchen exudes smells of boiling and baking and tasty dinners. There are no dusty pots and pans, and no bowls of rank-looking water in one corner. In Mrs Hudson’s kitchen, the tiled floor is scrubbed clean, and doesn’t crunch when you walk on it.

  However, she is not going to think about this. She is trying to stay in control of her feelings, or at least she is trying to act as if she is. Little tendrils of doubt are curling through her mind as to whether this was a good idea after all. Also, she has noticed that there seem to be slightly more shadows on the wall than there should be, and she is not sure why.

  Carrying the lantern, Oi climbs the creaky wooden stairs to the ground floor. He reaches the hallway and stands still, waiting for her to catch up. Then he heads straight for one of the closed doors and turns the handle.

  “Oh, my eye,” he whispers over his shoulder. “Come and see this, Jo King. You won’t believe wot I just found!”

  She follows him into the room. The curtains are only half-drawn and a shaft of moonlight streams through the gap, illuminating everything with an eerily bright yellow glow. The room is dark-panelled with old-fashioned wooden sconces round the walls, some containing melted candles.

  The prisms on the ceiling chandelier are wreathed in arabesques of cobwebs. Dust is everywhere, as well as the same strange decaying smell.

  Oi suddenly gives a small moan.

  “I don’t like this place, Jo King. Let’s go.”

  She tries to make her voice sound reassuring.

  “We can't leave now. We have to find the diamond, remember. And then we’ll have that big fish supper I promised you. Besides, Mr Candy is nearby, so nothing bad is going to happen.”

  The words are barely spoken when the door is suddenly slammed shut with great force. The sound echoes round the empty room. They freeze, staring at each other, reading the sheer terror upon the other’s face.

  Josephine tiptoes to the door,
and turns the handle. It does not move. She bends down and looks through the keyhole. And feels the breath leave her body. There is an eye on the other side, looking straight back at her. A black, malevolent eye.

  Next minute, two enormous blows are struck on the door, as if by an immensely powerful hand. There is a low gurgling chuckle, followed by peal upon peal of demonic laughter, followed by silence. She waits for a heartbeat. Then reapplies her eye to the keyhole. Nobody. Whoever – whatever – has been there is now gone. She grips the door handle. It still does not turn.

  “I fort you said the place was empty,” Oi whispers.

  “I thought it was.”

  “So, who the ’ell was that?”

  She shakes her head, refusing to allow herself to contemplate the unthinkable.

  “I don’t know. But whoever it was, they’ve just locked us in.”

  ****

  Music plays sweetly, servants hover discreetly, rich foods and wines are displayed abundantly. Lilith Marks is getting up close and personal with the cream of London society. Formerly, she has only encountered it singly, horizontally, naked, and in the male version. It is amusing to notch up mentally how many of the Pantalones, Counts, and Dottor Balanzones she recognises from a former life. And how many of them fail to recognise her.

  It is equally amusing to be politely ignored by their snooty womenfolk, when she could so easily let slip the sort of intimate details that would wipe the smug smiles from under their masks.

  But that is not why she is here, she reminds herself. And so she crosses the floor and stations herself close to Lady Caroline Hartington, magnificent in gold brocade with cream lace sleeves and gold gloves and hat. From here, she can also see Countess Elenore, standing in the conservatory, with her back to the company.

  The Countess has come as Madame Noir. Her dress is black silk velvet with black fringes and beads. Her full-face animal mask is overlaid by a black net veil sewn with hundreds of tiny diamonds. Diamonds glitter coldly in her elaborate black lace head-dress and her wig. Even though she is heavily masked and wigged, Lilith recognised her at once as the same woman from the Lily Lounge. The woman who bought the bracelet from Ikey Solomon. The woman she saw fastening her shawl with Lilith’s own brooch.

  Lilith is struck by the way the Countess seems to inhabit her clothes rather than just wear them for public display. There is something dark and feral about her. It is as if she has been turned inside out for the evening, and what is on show is the real person.

  Even the way she is staring with such intensity out of the French window reminds Lilith of a big black dog that used to roam the East End streets when she was growing up. She almost expects the Countess to go down on all fours and start howling, and pawing the glass to be let out.

  Lilith’s agile brain starts to make connections. Not for nothing was she once part of a twilight world where fact and fantasy intertwine, where surface and substance are not necessarily the same thing, and where gender boundaries blur. She goes back further, recalling a childhood filled with her Grandmother’s tales of the Golem and the vlkodlak. Stories told to keep the dark things of the night at bay, to mask the fear and cloak the truth in fairytale.

  She fixes her gaze upon the dark figure. Meanwhile, unaware that she is being so closely observed, the Countess remains absolutely motionless, her eyes fixed on the glass window. It does not look as if she is about to go anywhere for the time being, so Lilith decides to leave her where she is. She has not eaten a morsel all day, and her stomach is rumbling in a highly unladylike manner. Some food will perk her up.

  Lilith makes her way to the supper room, and allows one of the powdered footmen to fill a plate, which she carries to a solitary spot by the door. From here she can eat and keep an eye on whoever passes along the corridor at the same time.

  But she does not remain alone for long. Freed from her formal, high-necked business dress and starchy apron, Lilith’s full swelling hips, magnificent white shoulders and sloping bust draw males like a magnet.

  Soon she is the centre of attention of a group of masked, costumed men, who ply her with sweet wine, and keep her plate filled with the best delicacies on offer. Lilith sips the sweet wine, and basks in the even sweeter flattery, until she hears the announcement by the master of ceremonies that the dancing is about to begin. This brings her back to reality with a start.

  She has taken her eye off the ball. Literally. She rises, and with a few hasty words of apology, makes her excuses and hurries away. A quick glance round the ballroom reveals no Countess anywhere in sight. She checks the anterooms. Also Countess-free. Growing ever more anxious, Lilith visits every room in the house, asking each servant she encounters whether they have seen Madame Noir. Nobody has.

  Finally, she arrives back in the conservatory once more. She approaches the French door and pushes lightly against it. The door swings open with ominous ease. Heart sinking, Lilith faces the truth. She has failed. While she was letting the wine and attention go to her head, her quarry has escaped. Slipping out of the French door, she sets off in hot pursuit.

  ****

  Meanwhile, still prisoners in the locked room in number 55 Russell Square, Josephine and Oi have worn out their voices shouting and their fists banging upon the door. It seems to be growing darker by the minute, though this might be attributable to the clouds gathering in the sky, and temporarily blocking the moon.

  Finally, it becomes clear that nobody can hear them. Nobody is coming to their aid. Wherever Pennyworth Candy is, he is not currently within earshot. They are on their own.

  Except that they are not.

  After what seems like an age, they hear footsteps in the corridor and see a sliver of light under the door growing brighter as the footsteps approach. At last, a key turns in the keyhole, and the door is flung back.

  “So. What do we have here?” asks a deep female voice with a foreign accent.

  The Countess steps into the room.

  For a moment Josephine is confused. This cannot be a person, this black-clad, animal-faced thing walking upon its hind legs with a strange prancing stride. Then she remembers the Countess has come from a masked ball. What she is wearing must be her costume. What she is looking out of is a mask.

  The Countess’s eyes glitter strangely behind the mask.

  “Ah, Miss Josephine King – I see it is you. Well, well, we meet at last. Though perhaps not under the normal circumstances. I will not ask why you have broken into the house, for I know full well exactly why you are here.”

  Josephine draws herself up to her full height.

  “I have come to get back my diamond. The one that my uncle left me in his Will and that you stole from me.”

  The black mask emits a low hiss.

  “But you see, Miss Josephine King, it is not your diamond. It is my diamond. The Eye of the Khan belongs to my family. It has always belonged to my family, even though it disappeared from our possession many years ago.”

  Josephine draws herself up, backboard-straight.

  “I don’t believe you,” she says defiantly.

  The Countess shrugs.

  “No matter; it is the truth. And were it not for a chance meeting with your uncle, it would still be lost to us. It was a lucky day for me when your uncle and I were introduced to each other shortly after I arrived in London. I quickly realised here was a man with a roving eye, who liked the company of beautiful women.” She laughs. “Soon after, I discovered he also liked nothing better than to brag about his exploits.

  “One night he told me the story of the jewels, and how he had been given them as a gift for his noble deeds. As soon as he mentioned a diamond called the Eye of the Khan, I vowed to get it back. But your uncle was stubborn. He refused to hand it over.”

  “And so you killed him.”

  “You have proof of this?”

  “I have the letter you wrote to him on the day of his death asking him to meet you.”

  “I do not think that is proof enough,” the Countess sneer
s.

  “And I know you asked to see his Will. And I’m sure that my maid – my former maid – would identify you as the lady who called at my house pretending to be Lady Hartington. It was during your visit that the diamond went missing.”

  The Countess unbuttons her long evening gloves. Her eyes are dead coals come alive, hard and bright.

  “Yes, you think you have been very clever, playing detective, Miss Josephine King,” she says softly. “But I am afraid that now your cleverness ends.”

  “Wait – not so fast,” Josephine says, trying to keep her voice from shaking. “For you see, I have brought this with me!” And she reaches into her pocket, and pulls out one of Mrs Hudson's kitchen knives.

  The Countess stares at it incredulously, then she throws back her head and laughs. Her teeth shine ivory-white. The incisors are unusually long and sharp.

  “Is this a dagger I see before me? You think this frightens me? Do you not know, stupid girl, that I cannot be killed by steel?”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “She is quite correct,” says a voice from the doorway.

  They all turn as Lilith Marks steps coolly into the room.

  “A vlkodlak can only be killed by something silver – isn't that true?”

  The Countess bares her teeth in a snarl.

  “You? I recognise you. Who do you think you are?”

  Lilith brings out her hand from behind her back. She is holding a small pearl-handled pistol.

  “I think I’m the one with a gun,” she says, pointing it straight at the Countess's heart. “A gun that is loaded with silver bullets.”

  The Countess spits rage.

  Lilith takes a few steps towards her, keeping the pistol level, then leans forward and tugs hard at the furry mask with her free hand. There is a ripping sound, and the mask drops to the ground, quickly followed by the diamond-studded veil and black wig.