A Dangerous Duet

by Karen Odden

  I set the lid of the second crate back in place and turned toward the makeshift table that had held the soup pot. Now it was stacked with pans, silverware, newspapers, and rags. Some of the pots still had food inside them. A rat showed its face above the rim of one of the shallow ones. I hissed at it, but it didn’t jump out of the pot, merely bent its head to keep feasting on whatever scabs of food it had found at the bottom. A cold draft coming from somewhere made me shiver, but I kept on with my search. Above the table hung a set of shelves with more tin bowls, some lamps, and spoons. I ran my hand along the top of the shelves, and my fingers met something. A book. My heart leaped and I pulled it down, but it wasn’t the ledger. A yellowback novel. I flipped through it for any notations, but there were none. I put it back and headed toward a wooden cabinet. I swung open the tall doors—

  “You just can’t stay away,” said a cool voice behind me.

  I spun around.

  “What are you doing?” Stephen asked, walking toward me. His cheeks were red, as if from the cold, and he blew on his bare hands. The nighttime air seemed to follow him in, and I realized that the draft I’d felt earlier must have come from another entrance.

  My heart began to race. But I knew that whatever I did, I couldn’t let him know I was afraid. He’d relish any sort of weakness. And if I could keep him talking, sooner or later Mr. Bertault would come looking for me.

  I lifted my chin. “Looking for something.”

  He removed his coat and hung it on a hook in the wall, without taking his eyes from me. “What the hell were you doing, trying to make a fool of me with Drummond and Tierney? You know they didn’t believe you.”

  I snorted. “Oh, Stephen. I didn’t care whether they believed me. I was just trying to save my own skin. And if you hadn’t thrown me in the room with them, I wouldn’t have had to.”

  “How did you get out of his office?”

  “I’m clever.”

  He stepped closer. “Indeed, you are. What are you looking for?”

  “A red ledger,” I said candidly. “Drummond sent me to fetch it.”

  “What?” Surprise flickered in his eyes. He rapidly blinked it away, but I could see I’d thrown him off-balance.

  I turned my back to him and made a show of shifting items on the cabinet shelves. “He told me it was in the top drawer of his desk, but if it wasn’t there, I should look in here.”

  He grabbed my arm and turned me toward him, his eyes narrowed and his expression full of disbelief. “Why would he send you to get his ledger?”

  “He said he needed it, and—and if I did that for him, he would tell me where Jack was.”

  He let go of my arm. “He has no idea where Jack is.”

  “How do you know?”

  He raised an eyebrow, and his smile was mocking. “He’s dead, my dear.”

  A beat. If I didn’t know Jack was at Charles’s house, those words would have sent me flying like a wildcat to scratch the eyes out of his amused face. But instead I said merely, “You’re lying. I’m sure Drummond knows better than you where his son is.”

  He gave a graceful, resigned shrug. “Think what you like. You’ll find out soon enough.”

  “Do you know where the ledger is?”

  “Well, yes. I’ve tucked it away someplace safe, for my use. But I’m certainly not giving it to you. I’ve got it, and Drummond wants it. That puts me in a nice position, doesn’t it?”

  “I’ll buy it from you.”

  He laughed softly and came toward me. There was a hard glitter in his eyes that frightened me. “I don’t need money.” There was the faintest emphasis on the last word.

  As I stepped backward, the weight of the gun swung against my hip. How could I have forgotten it? I took another step back and another, and my hand began, surreptitiously, to move toward my pocket. “Well, you’re not getting anything else from me.”

  He must have sensed something, for he lunged suddenly and grabbed both my wrists tightly enough that I let out a cry. He gave me a shake. “You’re the one lying. Drummond didn’t send you for anything. He’d no more trust you than the devil. Where is he? Where did you see him? And how did you know about the ledger?”

  “Let go of me!” I wrenched and pulled, but his hands were like handcuffs. Now I could smell wine thick on his breath, and it came to me that I must have been mad to have voluntarily sat through dinner with him, that he had once been close enough to kiss me—

  Maybe that thought occurred to him, too, for suddenly his mouth was on mine, hard and punishing, and I was pushing with all my strength against him, but he had me fast, and then he yanked at my arm to throw me off-balance, and I landed on my back, with him on top of me, the gun a ridge of metal bruising my thigh. I opened my mouth against his lips to scream—and his left hand came across my nose and mouth. “Shut up, damn it!”

  He was using all his weight to hold me down, and his right hand was dragging at my shirt. I felt one of the buttons give, and then another.

  I twisted and writhed as his fingers went to my trousers, fighting as hard as I could, but his weight was too much for me. His palm was at my throat—I was beginning to feel light-headed. Then he drew back to pull down his own trousers—

  In that instant, my right hand was free, and I fumbled for the pocket of my coat . . . found the opening—

  Belatedly, he reached for my hand, but I had the gun out and pointed at his chest.

  Shock froze his features. “You couldn’t,” he said, his voice hard.

  “Get off of me,” I said hoarsely. Instead, he grabbed for my wrist.

  The gun was aimed at his shoulder as I pulled the trigger.

  But it was the empty first chamber.

  A raucous laugh burst out of him, and his hands squeezed mine so tightly that the trigger bit into my finger and I cried out in pain—

  And then came a deafening roar that silenced every other sound.

  He lurched sideways, his right arm out as if to prevent his fall.

  And for a moment, we both stared at the blood spreading across the middle of his white shirt. Then his eyes met mine—and something like bewilderment came over his face, his mouth opening in a cry that I could barely hear. The red stain was spreading in an oval, and his hand came up over it, as if in a pledge. And then he was on the floor, slumped facedown, his fair hair falling over his face.

  A cold horror came over me, and I found myself shuddering and gasping for air as if Stephen’s hand were still at my throat. I shook the gun from my fingers, and it clattered against the floor. My hands on the floor behind me, I kicked crablike one step back, and then another. I couldn’t take my eyes off him.

  Full of disgust—for Stephen, for myself, for the gun and the blood—for all of it—I tried to cry out but couldn’t. I wanted nothing more than to get out of my own skin. Then Mr. Bertault’s bulk filled the hidden door and came through it, faster than I’d have thought possible for someone of his size. “Nell!”

  He took in Stephen at a glance and crossed to me, his hands on my shoulders, pulling me to my feet and then in a fierce embrace. “I heard the shot. Did he hurt you?” I shook my head against his chest, my eyes still on Stephen.

  “Look at me, Nell. Not at him. Look at me.” He drew away and took my face in his hands, his brown eyes intent. “You mustn’t blame yourself for this.”

  And then, outside, we heard noises. They could be costermonger carts. Or they might be the police. The sound jolted me, and he was speaking quickly: “I couldn’t find the ledger. Everything I found is in Nick’s hand, not Jack’s. Where else? Never mind Stephen now. There will be time to think of him later. Think, chérie! They’re coming.”

  I closed my eyes with a feeling of hopelessness, knowing how large this music hall was. Three stories, dozens of nooks and crannies, tables, properties, boxes, rooms—

  My eyes flashed open. “The instrument room upstairs. Stephen leaves his violin there. Maybe in his case?”

  I was halfway through the hidden door
when I remembered. “The papers!”

  “What?”

  Keeping my eyes averted from Stephen, I ran to his coat hanging on the wall. Stephen was right-handed; the papers would be in that pocket. I put my fingers in, drew them out, and looked only long enough to be sure they were the ones from Jack’s book.

  “Jack’s handwriting,” I said as I jammed them into my pocket.

  We hurried through the properties room, and while the sound of pounding at the back door echoed along the corridors, I led the way up the stairs to the second story. The door to the instrument room stood wide open. The Octavian kept a large collection. Cellos, violas, trumpets, flutes, oboes, clarinets—and four violins. I opened two of the cases. Mr. Bertault was opening the others—

  “Voila!” he hissed. In his hand was a red book, perhaps six inches by nine. He flipped it open. Over his shoulder, I could see columns of numbers and lists, in style and order almost exactly like the pages in my pocket.

  “Merde. His initials are on every page. And here’s his name.”

  “At least we found it.”

  He stuffed it into his coat. “Hurry.”

  We ran down the stairs and across the back hallway, but our luck had run out. There was a commotion outdoors and banging on the back door, alternating with the low, solid slams of something being wielded against the front door. They would be inside in minutes.

  “We’re too late,” I whispered. “They’ll search us.”

  He whirled toward me, his face determined. “There must be somewhere to hide it.”

  I shook my head. “We can burn it. There’s a stove in Drummond’s office. It’s only natural that he’d burn it himself, if he was worried about it being discovered.”

  Wordlessly, he thrust the book toward me. “I’ll hold them off as long as I can. Make sure there’s nothing left.”

  I was already running toward the back hallway. My brother might consider arresting me himself if he knew what I was doing—

  For the third time that night, I entered Drummond’s office. I went straight for the potbellied stove and thrust the book in, its binding spread flat, the pages fanned open. Then I drew out the pages from my pocket and pushed them in on top. There were still some coals burning, but they couldn’t burn fast enough to suit me. For a moment I thought I’d smothered the flame. I stood up, frantically searching for matches. I remembered seeing a box on the desk, snatched it up, and scraped a match. I was too rough with it, and it broke. But somehow, at last, the pages were burning. I crouched before the stove, watching as the edges blackened and gave way to orange and bright yellow flames.

  The door slammed open behind me. “What are you doing there?” came a man’s angry voice.

  I whirled. The man started toward me. Reddish hair and a star-shaped scar. Barrow, with a gun in his hand.

  By rights, I should have been terrified. But instead, I felt a sort of cool resignation, as if my mind simply refused to take in any more terror tonight. I stood, slowly, as the door began to close behind him and the matches and box fell from my hands onto the floor.

  His eyes darted toward the stove, and he gestured with the gun. “Get it out!”

  I began to back away. The ledger was burning brightly but still salvageable. “It’s no use, it’s gone,” I lied.

  “It’s not gone, damn it.” He strode across the room and dragged me toward the stove, a hand on my forearm as if to force my hand inside, into the flames. I let out a scream that seared my throat. The door slammed open once more, and Matthew came in like a bear, a revolving pistol in his hand, raised.

  “Barrow! Let her go!”

  The death grip on my arm lessened, and I wrenched away and fell to the floor, pain shooting hot from my wrist all the way to my shoulder.

  Barrow straightened. His chin came up. “Well, you want me dead. Now you have an excuse. You can say you did it saving her.” He jerked his head toward me.

  “I want you dead, but I want you to hang in front of everybody.” Matthew’s voice was wooden. “You’ll stand trial for William Crewe’s murder, as well as for this.” His gaze shifted to me, for no longer than it takes to blink.

  I should have anticipated it, of course. In the split second that Matthew had looked at me, Barrow’s gun had come up, time slowed, and with a scream of warning, I turned away, my hands over my ears.

  The shot seemed to explode the entire hall. I heard a body slump to the floor, and sure that it was Matthew’s, certain that I was next, I shut my eyes and held my breath.

  Suddenly, I felt arms around me and heard Matthew’s voice saying my name. He was holding me so tightly that I couldn’t speak and uttering curses that I’d never heard before, not even here at the Octavian.

  At last, he drew back, his blue eyes wet. “What in God’s name are you doing here?”

  I couldn’t answer.

  His gaze darted over my shoulder. “And what’s burning?”

  Mutely I shook my head. But he had already started toward the stove, turning his truncheon so he could use the handle as a rake.

  “Matthew, wait!” I choked out. “Please. You don’t need it. You’ll find plenty of proof about Drummond’s affairs. And there are crates of stolen valuables in a secret room. I can show you where.”

  He turned toward me, his expression astonished.

  “I’m protecting a friend. A good friend. Someone worth saving.” I was begging now, and the tears were coming fast. “Please.”

  He studied me for what felt like a long time, and I don’t know what he saw, but slowly he straightened up, put his truncheon away, and closed the stove door. “All right, then.”

  “Inspector! Mr. Hallam!” came shouts from the corridor.

  “Come along,” he said gently, and drew me out of the room, leaving the fire to go to ashes.

  Chapter 32

  In the corridor, we found Mr. Bertault braced against the wall, his forehead and palms against the crumbling plaster. One police constable held him firmly at the collar, while another searched him for a weapon.

  Mr. Bertault caught sight of me, and an expression of profound relief came over his face. “Dieu merci. Tu vas bien.”

  I laid my hand on Matthew’s arm. “Matthew, this is François Bertault. He’s Drummond’s brother-in-law—but he’s not part of the Fleet. He’s only here because he was helping me.” I glanced down the hallway that led to the properties room. “There’s no one else here right now except . . .”

  My voice trailed off as I saw vividly in my mind the figure of Stephen looming over me, his mouth in a horrible rictus. And although I knew that Stephen had been treacherous and selfish and brutal, I felt a stab of grief in the center of my chest. That first night at the Octavian, when he had come out, violin in hand, doing his best to please the audience, I had not only felt a sympathy and affinity for him; I had admired him.

  “Nell.” Matthew had me by the shoulders, not roughly but firmly, and his eyes were staring into mine. “No one here except whom?”

  I swallowed down the tightness in my throat. “Stephen Gagnon.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “One of Drummond’s men. He played violin here. You’ll find him in the secret room under the stage—it’s where the Fleet boys stay during the day.” I took a deep breath. “I . . . I had to shoot him. Or he’d have killed me.”

  Matthew dropped his hands and stared, completely dumbfounded. And then I remembered what else had happened in that room, and I clutched at his arm: “Matthew, Tierney was here last night.”

  He stiffened. “You’re sure?”

  “A large man, dark hair, three ruined fingers.”

  “Yes,” he said, rather hollowly. “That’s Tierney.”

  “He met with Drummond—”

  “What time was this?”

  “Between eight and nine o’clock. They were with a constable for the River Police. There’s a shipment leaving from Greenland Dock this morning. There will be barrels of gin on top, for which they’ll have some sort of pr
oper bill—I can’t remember what they called it—”

  “A bill of lading.”

  “That was it. And the guns are hidden underneath.”

  “He said so?”

  I nodded. “They were going to Calais first and then going to be transferred to a steamer heading for Montenegro.”

  His eyes were glittering as though he’d had three glasses of whiskey. “Greenland Dock? You’re absolutely certain?”

  “That’s what they said. Tierney was going to be there himself.”

  “We heard rumors about a shipment of guns, but we thought it was next week—and we heard it was leaving out of St. Katharine’s,” Matthew said, more to himself than to me. Then he turned and shouted, “McFarr!”

  I heard quick footsteps, and a lanky plainclothesman came around the corner. “No one upstairs.”

  “The shipment left from Greenland Dock early this morning,” Matthew said tersely. “Crates of guns underneath gin barrels. Take three men with you. Keep your eye out for Tierney; he’ll be there somewhere. And hurry. I’ll be right behind you.”

  “Yes, sir.” Without a word, McFarr went back up the passageway. A minute later, he and three uniformed policemen were running out the back door.

  “Inspector!” Another young man in uniform came hurrying along the passage. “We’ve found a man in the cellar. ’E’s been shot.”

  There was something familiar about the man—but I didn’t recall him at first. Then I realized it was Hodges, the young constable who’d brought us news of Kendrick’s being found by the docks. But today Hodges looked as if he filled out his uniform a bit more.

  Matthew nodded. “We’ll take him to the morgue later.” He gave me a quick, hard embrace, which I returned just as fiercely. Then he strode up the ramp and out the back door. Mr. Bertault and I followed at a much slower pace.

  As we left the Octavian, the dawn was dropping its pale, pearly light over the houses. The city noises were still distinguishable as separate sounds; in another hour they would become a steady, grinding hum. Just outside the back yard, two hansom cabs stood in Hawley Mews. One of the drivers, a middle-aged man with a black beard going to silver and a hat that had seen too many London storms, sat on his box, his eyes closed and the reins loose between his fingers. The other, a thin young man with pinkish cheeks, was standing by his horse’s head, adjusting a feed bag.