The Bartered Brides (Elemental Masters)

by Mercedes Lackey

  When he woke again, the sun was pouring in through the windows, it was uncomfortably warm, and his clothing was still where he had dropped it.

  At least he felt nearly human again.

  Either Kelly had left him wash water or there still had been some in the pitcher last night; he cleaned himself up, shaved, and donned last night’s clothing.

  Now completely awake, he checked his watch and discovered it was just past noon. Well, he’d missed breakfast, but at least he’d be in time for luncheon.

  As he had hoped, Kelly was in the kitchen, methodically slicing bread and cheese. She looked up as she stood in the kitchen doorframe. “Ploughman’s,” she said tersely. “Tea’s in the pot.”

  “Ta,” he replied. A ploughman’s lunch would suit him very well. He sat down and poured himself a cup of tea, drinking it right down before pouring another. A few minutes later Kelly brought over a platter filled with sliced, buttered bread, cheese, sliced onions, pickles, radishes, and hard-boiled eggs. They both set to without any further conversation.

  Halfway through, Kelly got up to make a second pot of tea, since he’d drunk the first pot dry. She also brought over a bowl of hulled strawberries and sugar to dip them in.

  “Th’ boy’s set fer th’ day,” she said conversationally, between strawberries. He was amused at how she referred to Hughs as “the boy.”

  Then again, the poet had about the same emotional maturity as a youth.

  “Thank you,” he said, simply. “I found myself in a very long conversation with the Professor last night.”

  “Thet good ’r bad?”

  “Good.” He scratched his ear and sipped his tea. He didn’t care particularly for sweets, so Kelly could monopolize the berries all she liked. “He’s like his old self. He wants us to go slow and careful, now John Watson’s out of the way.”

  “Shhhh.” Kelly hissed in relief. “Tha’s better.”

  “You’re damned right it is. All we need to worry about is making sure the boy stays healthy. This gives us breathing space to make sure Alderscroft can’t find us. And if my supplier of girls isn’t up to snuff—”

  “Oi will person’lly find ye another,” Kelly said firmly. “Oi’ll bet that old Chinee wut sells yer opium c’an git ’is ’ands on girls, and won’t care wut ’appens to ’em.”

  Spencer blinked. He had never thought of that. “I would bet you are right. And I am going to find out this afternoon.”

  * * *

  Shen Li did not run an opium den. He supplied those who did with the drug. He was rumored to be able to get his hands on just about anything anyone wanted. He was, very probably, one of the richest men in London.

  He also lived so modestly no one would ever have guessed this. To all intents and purposes, he was just one more ancient Chinaman running a tea-and-herb shop and living in the flat above it.

  He appeared to be utterly harmless. Spencer knew he was utterly ruthless. The London Tongs all lived in fear of him, and he was very probably the only Chinese merchant in all of Chinatown who did not pay “protection” money to anyone.

  Spencer suspected the old man was some sort of magician, although he had never picked up a hint of magic about him. But perhaps he wouldn’t have, if Chinese magic was fundamentally different from that which the Elemental Masters practiced. What he did know for certain was that the man could get you anything you had the money to buy.

  Provided, of course, you approached him with the proper respect, and obeyed the proper protocols.

  So when he entered the shop, he did not in the least scruple to bow to the old man as he stood on the threshold.

  “I have a need I would like to discuss,” he said diffidently. “I have heard that Shen Li is wise in the way of helping one to acquire needful things.”

  “This may be true,” the old man replied, in a flawless Cambridge accent. “Perhaps you would care to take tea.”

  “I would be honored to take tea,” Spencer replied. And the shop assistant ushered him into a small back room he had been in before, one that could have come straight from an inn in the heart of Shanghai. There was a simple table and two spare wooden chairs, with a statue of a dragon carved in some white stone on a pedestal to one side.

  The old man joined him after a few moments of waiting. He had not yet taken a seat, but waited for the shop assistant to seat Shen Li, then took the other.

  Shen Li looked—to his eyes anyway—just like any other shop proprietor. Old, though who knew how old—silver hair braided tightly down his back, a little round blue cap on his head, simple blue tunic and trousers, both trimmed with red. He himself had taken care with his dress, to make certain of not offending the man.

  “I have a very fine Oolong I would be honored if you would try.” Shen Li said, in a mellow, soothing voice.

  “And I am honored that you invite me to partake.” These things could not be rushed. This was not like walking up to the counter and ordering some opium or hashish, or esoteric herb.

  They bowed to each other. A girl in fine brocade tunic and trousers came from the door opposite to the one into the shop, carrying a teapot and two cups. She set the cups down in front of the two men and poured, not wasting a drop. Spencer waited until Shen Li had picked up his cup, then took his own. They sipped at the same moment.

  “Extraordinary,” said Spencer, for indeed, it was. “Absolutely extraordinary.”

  “I am pleased,” Shen Li replied. He leaned over the table a trifle. “I am going to confide something in you, Mister Spencer, so that you will have a reason to trust that I will deliver what I promise. I am not Chinese.”

  Spencer’s brows furrowed. Shen Li tapped the side of his left eye with his finger. “I am Russian. These . . . are merely the legacy of my Tartar ancestry, and the reason why I would never be permitted to prosper in Russian society. I shall not bore you with the tale of how I came here and rose to where I am. But here—I am invisible. And yet, very, very wealthy, because I can obtain anything anyone wants, at a price they are willing to pay. Whereas in Russia, I would still be working in a stable.”

  The two sipped until the cups were empty, and set them down almost simultaneously. “Now, Mister Spencer,” said the old man, “What is it you require?”

  “Something living,” he said, cautiously.

  “Ah. Neither fish nor fowl nor animal?” The old man did not seem in the least surprised.

  “Females,” Spencer ventured.

  “Attractive?”

  “That does not matter. What does matter is that they are . . . disposable. And that they believe I will marry them.” Now he waited.

  Shen Li’s right eyebrow rose elegantly. “And will you?”

  “Oh yes,” Spencer replied.

  To his surprise, Shen Li smiled broadly, and applauded, slowly. “Mister Spencer, you are a bold man. And an ambitious one. I will help you. But such items are expensive.”

  Now Spencer relaxed and nodded. “I see we understand each other. Let us bargain.”

  * * *

  Spencer arrived at the Hotel Splendid in a growler driven by Geoff, accompanied by Tony and Tony’s brothers, Rudolfo and Michael, or Rudi and Mike. He walked in to find old Don presiding behind the counter as usual—and, as usual, with not one other person to be seen in the little lounge.

  Don looked pleased to see him . . . but not so pleased when the three huge bruisers entered the door and stood behind him, hands clasped loosely in front of them.

  “I won’t be doing any more business with you, Don,” he said, evenly. “And I’ll want the rest of my deposit back.”

  Old Don evidently knew better than to argue with a man who had three tough Italian thugs standing behind him. He cursed under his breath, and grumbled, and cursed some more, but eventually produced the required sum from a safe.

  “Take it from him, please, Tony,” Spencer said, quietly. The thug snatched the money out of Don’s hands and brought it to Spencer, counting it as he walked. “It’s all ’ere, guv.”
>
  “Good. I’m glad to hear that,” Spencer replied. “Now to show there’s no hard feelings, let’s have a little drink, shall we, Don?” He nodded to Mike, who pulled a bottle out of his jacket and two glasses from his pockets. He handed the glasses to Spencer, who held them steady while Mike poured out the amber-colored liquid.

  Spencer offered one to Don, who took it suspiciously. “Wut’s all this, then?” the portly man asked.

  Spencer sighed elaborately. “It’s whiskey, Don. We’re about to have a drink to show that while our business dealings are at an end, there are no hard feelings. Look—” he tossed his shot down, and held the empty glass upside down to show he’d drunk. “Surely you’re not going to turn down a free drink?”

  With the evidence that it was safe to drink in front of him, old Don surely was not going to turn down a free drink. He drained his glass, and held out his glass for more.

  Spencer smiled thinly, and nodded to Mike to pour another.

  “Leave him the bottle, Mike, and we’ll be on our way,” Spencer said smoothly as old Don downed the second drink as fast as the first. Mike set the bottle down on the counter next to old Don, and the four of them walked out.

  Spencer smiled the entire trip home, and took the steps two at a time to report to the Professor.

  “That’s very good news about the girls,” Moriarty told him. “And knowing you . . . there was some ulterior motive in providing the cheat with a bottle of drink. I am eager to hear it.”

  “Of course there was, Professor,” Spencer replied, still smiling. “There wasn’t just whisky in that bottle. There was a potion I made up especially for him. It opens up the ability to see into the spirit plane.”

  Moriarty thought for a moment, and then began to laugh. “Of course! And how many spirits are haunting that hotel of his?”

  “I didn’t count . . . but a number of them are surely Don’s victims.” Spencer replied, with no little glee. “That last Chinese girl for one. And when they realize he can finally see them. . . .”

  “Well played, my boy,” the Professor said. “Well played.”

  15

  Sarah and Nan were sharing breakfast with the birds when Mrs. Horace tapped on their door, then opened it.

  She squinted a little against the sunlight filling the room. “There’s a man to see you, ladies,” said Mrs. Horace, her stiff back, careful pronunciation, and the fact that she did not use the word “gentleman” showing her disapproval of the early arrival. “He claims he is from Scotland Yard. An Inspector Lestrade, if you please. Shall I tell him to come back at a more convenient hour?”

  Nan, who was merely wearing a wrapper over her nightgown, fled to her room. Sarah answered their landlady for both of them. “No, you can send him up, Mrs. Horace. It may have something to do with Doctor Watson.”

  At the mention of Watson’s name, Mrs. Horace softened somewhat. “Oh. Well, that’s all right, then,” she said, and closed the door. Sarah got up and waited for Lestrade’s knock and opened it again immediately.

  The poor, harried man looked as if he had not slept in days. His suit was more rumpled than usual and there were dark circles under his eyes. “Beggin’ yer pardon, Miss Lyon-White, but, I was hopin’ you and your friend could help me.”

  Sarah held the door open for him, and left it open a crack for propriety’s—and Mrs. Horace’s—sake. “I know we will try, Inspector. Nan will be out in—”

  “Nan is out this minute,” replied Nan, emerging from her room, properly clad, but still pinning her hair in place. “The only thing I can think of that would have brought you here, Inspector, is that you’ve found another headless body and you’d like us to have a look at it.”

  Lestrade had removed his bowler and was turning it in his hands, nervously. “That would be the long and the short of it, Miss. I don’t like to bother poor Doctor Watson at such a time—”

  “We’ll do what we can for you, Inspector,” Sarah assured him. “But it may not be much.”

  “Anythin’ is better than what I got now,” Lestrade replied dispiritedly, as he followed them out of the flat and down to where he had a Scotland Yard conveyance waiting.

  * * *

  “No shoes or stockings,” Sarah noted as soon as the poor thing on the table had been unveiled. This time she and Nan had taken the precaution of bringing camphor balls with them, but the smell was still bad enough to make a maggot gag. “That’s inconsistent. And . . . forgive me, but the skin color seems . . . off.”

  In answer, Lestrade rolled the body over and pulled open the back of the dress, which had been unbuttoned and left undone, then pulled down the chemise. There was a Chinese character tattooed at the base of the girl’s neck. “That’s a slave-mark,” Lestrade said with authority.

  “She was a Chinese slave?” Sarah asked in surprise. “And yet she is dressed in the same sort of garments as the last girl we saw.”

  Lestrade blushed a deep crimson. “And the last girl hadn’t been . . . interfered with. This one was.”

  “Hmm.” Nan leaned over the body and examined the tattoo carefully, although what she thought she could learn from it, Sarah had no idea. “This is fairly fresh, although not brand new. She hadn’t been a slave for long.” Nan stood up and faced Lestrade. “Her feet are used to shoes, but they’re not bound, so she’s peasant class, I would hazard. I believe even peasants in China are accustomed to wearing shoes. Is there a problem in London of Chinese girls being brought in as slaves for . . .” she coughed “. . . immoral purposes?”

  Sarah had thought Lestrade couldn’t get any redder. She had been wrong. He turned from the color of a strawberry to the color of a beet. “Yes,” he managed, although he sounded as if he was strangling.

  “Let’s get out of here,” Sarah suggested. “Even with the camphor ball—”

  “Quite.” Nan led the way out, but Lestrade was right on their heels. When they finally reached the open air, Nan paused and took a deep breath. Sarah did the same. The air in London in the summer was pretty bad, but compared to the stench in the morgue, it was positively ambrosial.

  “Well, let me assume that in most aspects, this corpse is identical to the others,” Sarah said briskly, noting that Lestrade’s color had finally faded. “Clothing, approximate age, and so forth. It is only the race, the social class, and the apparent profession in which this one differs, which actually suggests some things to me.”

  “Me as well,” Nan agreed. “We had no idea until this moment. but it seems to me that what the girls look like means very little in terms of what sort of victim that this madman chooses.”

  Lestrade paused, about to say something, and shut his mouth. His brow wrinkled for a moment, then he spoke. “That’s . . . not usual, in these cases, is it? Most of the time I’ve seen, if a bloke does in more than one girl, ’e usually does ’em all of the same type.”

  Sarah shrugged. “I don’t know. You’d have to ask your colleagues at the Yard.” She almost said “Watson,” but decided this was not the time. “It also suggests to me that purity or lack of it is not a motivating factor in the murders. He’s murdered both those girls that retained their virtue and those that did not. So this isn’t someone obsessed with sin and sinners.”

  Lestrade pulled on his lower lip. “That’s quite logical.”

  “What they all do have in common is that they are impoverished, and possibly desperate,” Sarah went on. “So he was able to lure them somewhere, with promises, I’ll wager, and the clothing they were found in might have something to do with what he promised. But a Chinese slave in the same clothing makes me think that either he is now having a difficult time finding impoverished girls desperate enough to be his victims, or he is concerned that the Yard is aware of his actions by now, and is looking for someone ‘fishing’ for girls. So he has turned to girls no one will miss. Girls he can purchase, like any other commodity.”

  Lestrade sighed heavily at that. “So we may never find him now. The Big Men won’t care if it’s only
a few Chinese that are turning up dead.”

  “You might be surprised,” Nan told him. “This also has Lord Alderscroft looking for answers, and he is going to continue to push for an answer regardless of the race and class of the victims.”

  “I do ’ope so, Miss,” Lestrade said sadly. “It seems Downing Street don’t care much about what ’appens in the East End, as long as it don’t get in the papers and scare the knickers off the up-and-ups.”

  Sarah reached over and patted his shoulder. “You are a good man, Inspector Lestrade, and a fine officer of the law. Holmes thought very highly of your ethics. I know Doctor Watson does, too.”

  Now Lestrade went red again, but from a different sort of embarrassment. He mumbled something Sarah couldn’t hear, but it sounded self-deprecating. “Well you ladies ’ave given me a bit more’n I ’ad, so I’ll take it all back t’the Yard. Mebbe a lot of ’eads can be as good as one ’Olmes.”

  He parted with them; they hailed a cab.

  “Baker Street?” Nan asked, once they were in it.

  Sarah nodded. “But first, home, get the birds, and change. We really do not want anyone to connect us to Watson now.”

  Fortunately, before Holmes encountered Moriarty at the Reichenbach Falls, he had been instructing them in disguise. So while two young ladies entered the front door of their landlady’s house, two young working-class men exited the rear with some empty produce crates. And no one was on the yard-side to notice the two birds leaving by the rear window before that happened.

  The young men piled the crates at the back fence for the grocer’s boy, then left the yard, taking the alley to the street, then strolled in a leisurely manner toward the nearest ’bus stop. Working-class lads would not be taking cabs . . . assuming one would even stop for them.

  “This is so much cooler,” Sarah murmured to Nan, who sauntered along beside her with her hands in her pockets and a slight slouch to her shoulders.

  “I swear if it gets any hotter this summer I am going to become my own brother for the duration,” Nan murmured back, tilting her head up to catch sight of Neville overhead.