Cheating Death

by April White

  Through what, exactly? I looked helplessly at Ringo, but he was picking through the stones on the tray.

  He held up a diamond that looked like it was about two carats and asked Mr. Rothschild, “Could this one be sold through yer Antwerp people for sterlin’?”

  The banker nodded. “If you like, although Lord Devereux keeps sterling in his account as well. I can withdraw, say, a thousand pounds?”

  Ringo shook his head. “One ‘undred is more than enough. In smaller bills and coins if possible?”

  “Make it two,” I said to Rothschild. Then to Ringo, “I’d like to make sure Rachel can get to Palestine.”

  Mr. Rothschild looked up from his notepad. “A friend of yours?” I nodded. “Was she able to get her immigration paperwork?”

  I shook my head. “She and her friend are on the waiting list.”

  He handed me his business card. “Have them come to me. I’ll see what I can do to help.”

  I took the card and blinked back even more tears. “Thank you, Mr. Rothschild. That means more to me than you can ever know.”

  He smiled. “It is my pleasure to help. We’ve done what we can for some of the larger groups helping the émigrés, but it’s very difficult to track our successes. Ensuring an individual’s immigration sounds quite satisfying, actually.”

  He plucked two small velvet bags from a pocket in the lid of the gem case and handed one to each of us. “Please help yourselves while I arrange for your cash needs.” He stood and left the room, and I turned to Ringo.

  “This is ridiculous.”

  “This is ‘is Lordship takin’ care of ye.” He picked out a couple of small stones and put them in his bag. “I know a dealer we can take these to, but if we go anywhere else than my London, we’ll be at the mercy of whatever thievin’ gem merchants we can find.”

  I held up a thumbnail-sized cut emerald. “I’ve always heard there’s no such thing as a flawless emerald.” I peered through it closely. “Looks pretty flawless to me.”

  “The French loved emeralds during the third French empire,” said Mr. Rothschild as he returned with a small leather envelope. “The green was considered Napoleon’s color.”

  “When was the third French empire?” I asked.

  “From about 1870 until the start of the first world war. But if one were to try to sell an emerald during the period between 1570 and 1800, the market was depressed due to oversaturation from Colombia.” Mr. Rothschild’s tone was innocent, but he watched me steadily, as if to make sure I understood his meaning.

  Clearly the banker knew something of the Descendants, and again I wondered if there was a connection between the Monger Rothchilds and the banking Rothschilds.

  “Any other tips for, say, 1889?” I asked carefully.

  “Rubies have always done very well in all the markets throughout much of history, the exception being the early part of this century when synthetic rubies were introduced. Anything of a carat or more will equal or surpass the price of a diamond of the same size, especially in 1889,” he said.

  Ringo gathered three rubies in the one-to-two carat size, and I plucked a stunning three-carat ruby off the tray for my own bag.

  “Pearls are good, and easy to sell as well, particularly matched sets.” Rothschild said as he picked a pair of creamy white pearls from the tray. He handed them to Ringo for his bag. “But emeralds of that quality,” he picked up the one I had set down, “are the most valuable of all. A fine emerald will outsell a diamond or ruby because they’re so very rare.” Mr. Rothschild placed it in my palm. “Take it. This stone will be worth more if it’s sold in the nineteenth century than now.”

  My hand closed over the emerald and I looked into the banker’s eyes. “I think you and Archer became very good friends,” I said quietly.

  He smiled. “There are times in one’s life when a friend is more valuable than all the treasures in the world. When your husband and I first met, I was the same age as he appeared to be. He was that friend for me, and as I grew older, I eventually became that friend to him.”

  Ringo closed and latched the lid on Archer’s case of gemstones, and we both shook Mr. Rothschild’s hand. I stepped close to the banker and kissed his cheek lightly. “Thank you for everything, Mr. Rothschild.”

  “It has been my pleasure, Lady Devereux. Send your friend Rachel to me, and I hope to see you again someday.”

  We took our leave of the N.M. Rothschild & Sons bank with pockets full of hope. Archer’s letter to me was tucked inside my jacket, and when I had secured the bag of gemstones in the holster where my daggers lay against my back, I turned to Ringo.

  “We have news and money to deliver, and then I think it’s time to go.”

  Ringo had tucked the cash and gemstones deep into the recesses of his clothes, and his answering nod was instantaneous. “Let’s do it.”

  The Gem Dealer

  Rachel was teaching a class when we stopped by the temple, so we left the envelope and a note with Aviv. He kissed both of us on the cheeks as thanks, and I seriously left there feeling like I’d been kissed by an angel.

  It was a weird feeling.

  We grabbed some sausage rolls and a wax paper-wrapped cheese from a shop around the corner. I wanted fresh vegetables, but the shopkeeper had sold out. I did buy a lemon for each of us, despite the look of disgust on Ringo’s face. It had only been a couple of days since I’d had fresh fruit or vegetables, but I was already imagining scurvy and vitamin deficiency.

  Ringo reminded me that he had sometimes gone weeks without something green to eat.

  “Which is why you’ll never be as tall as me,” I said sharply.

  “And ye’ll never be as fast as me,” he snarked as he took off running.

  He detoured around a big bomb damage site just south of the synagogue, and it took us into a square I suddenly recognized. “Wait. Stop!” I called to him.

  Ringo grinned back at me. “Done already?”

  “No, I know this place. What is it?”

  He shrugged. “Mitre Square. It’s between Bevis Marks and Aldgate.”

  A flash of a pitch black night and a body on the cobblestones in front of me made my heart skip a beat. “This was where the Ripper killed his fourth victim the night I met Archer,” I whispered.

  Ringo looked around the square. “I didn’t know that,” he finally said. “I met ye that night too. I didn’t realize the lads and I were so close to ‘im then.”

  And eerie feeling stole over us both, and we practically backed our way out of the square. Only when we’d made it back out to the main street did we start running again, but a little of the abandon had gone out of it for both of us.

  We ate in silence in Ringo’s flat until the ghosts of the past finally settled back into the shadows of my brain. I cleaned up the little that we had disturbed there, and then slung my satchel across my body. “Are you ready?” I asked.

  Ringo nodded. “Ye’re thinkin’ that if we go back now we’ll find ‘im sleepin’.”

  “I’m not sure how much I trust Tom anymore,” I said with a sigh. “I wish I did, but he keeps surprising me, and he’s too strong to be so unpredictable.”

  “Daytime is a good time to go searchin’ for Vampires, I always say.”

  “And with a straight face, no less.”

  We made our way to the London Bridge, and a few minutes later I’d Clocked us to 1889. The day we’d left was sunny and warm, but we arrived in the rain, and despite a sprint, we were soaked through by the time we made it to the alley behind the accountancy offices. We went into stealth mode, as much for the accountants as for the sleeping Vampire upstairs, and made it up into the flat with none the wiser.

  It had only been a few months since Ringo and Charlie had left this place, and I thought I could still smell the remnants of the herbal soap Charlie used. Ringo’s expression was neutral, but his eyes seemed sad as they scanned the flat.

  The drapes were pulled around the twin bed, and I approached it cautiously. A
peek inside revealed Tom asleep, and even though my hand shook a bit, I stood quietly and studied him.

  Tom’s face was gaunt. The angles were too sharp now to have the kind of exotic good looks he’d had when I first met him, and he looked oddly vulnerable, which might be because he had seemed so tortured when he was awake.

  Ringo came up beside me and assessed Tom’s sleeping form with a glance, then pulled me back from the draped bed.

  “We need to go and sell a stone,” he whispered.

  “I want to be here when he wakes up,” I said quietly, but Ringo was already shaking his head.

  “I’m not leavin’ ye to face a wakin’ Vampire alone, no matter who ‘e is. If we go now, we can be back before ‘e rises.”

  I glared at Ringo, then yanked the swastika knife out of the post where it pinned the note. I didn’t think I was changing anything vital because it had already gotten us here, but despite my momentary bristle at Ringo’s bossiness, he wasn’t wrong. One less weapon left lying around was one less thing to draw blood.

  When we were outside and heading down the alley, I grumbled at him.

  “I may not totally trust Tom, but he wanted me to come. He wouldn’t go to the trouble of leaving a note if his purpose was nefarious.”

  Ringo shot me a loaded look. “Really? We stopped ‘im from killin’ Walters, and then we sent him through a spiral to God knows where, after ‘e’d just spent most of a war workin’ for the Nazis, Saira – ye can’t tell me ‘e didn’t know what side ‘e was on. I’d say there’s a better than average chance ‘is purpose is nefarious.”

  I didn’t say anything, but I didn’t really have to. Ringo had made his point, and regardless of what I believed otherwise, I couldn’t deny what he’d said. He led us up past St. Paul’s Cathedral, and it was a shock to see the neighborhood around it perfectly intact and full of Victorian and Georgian buildings. The last time I’d seen St. Paul’s was the night of the bombing in 1944. The neighborhood around the cathedral had been practically obliterated – barely more than jagged ruins. The memory of it and everything else about that night nauseated me.

  The farther north we walked, the better I felt. I’d never explored that part of London, with its crowded streets full of vendors, and seeing its Victorian splendor standing proudly against a backdrop of daily commerce was a unique way to experience the city.

  We traveled up Farringdon for a few blocks, but it was a busy avenue, so Ringo took us through smaller neighborhoods. He pointed out Ye Olde Mitre, the second oldest pub in England, and the second time in a day that name had come up. I had a momentary chill at the thought that Jack the Ripper could be around the next corner, much as he’d been in my recurring nightmares. Ringo cut through an alley and finally we arrived at Hatton Gardens.

  It was a bustling jewelry district, crowded with small storefronts and tight alleys. We passed a café where two Jewish men haggled over the price of three small stones on the table, and a storefront where an older woman used a tiny chisel to carve a cameo face on a piece of coral.

  Ringo stopped so suddenly, I almost ran into his back. We stood at a corner, and he studied the people outside the shops that lined the cross-street in front of us.

  “What’s wrong?” I whispered at his shoulder.

  “Somethin’s goin’ down,” he said quietly.

  I tried to see what he’d seen. Older men, mostly Jewish, but some Italian as well, worked behind the counters in the tiny storefronts. A young, dark-haired man leaned against a wall at the corner across from us, two well-dressed men stood outside the window of a shop half-way down the block, and a scruffy blond kid, about ten years old, kicked a can aimlessly toward them down the sidewalk.

  “The guy leaning against the wall?” I whispered.

  He shook his head. “No, the kid. ‘E’s too shabby for this neighbor’ood. And the Jewish kids are all workin’ in the parents’ shops by that age.”

  The kid had just aimed a kick at the can that would have sent it into the feet of the well-dressed men outside the shop. “Oy!” Ringo called out as he started across the street. The kid looked up, startled, then defiant when he saw Ringo.

  “Ye do it and I’ll take ye t’ Lamb meself.” His accent had gotten so strong it was almost unintelligible, but clearly the kid understood Ringo’s words.

  He glared at Ringo and pulled his leg back again to kick the can. Ringo moved faster than I anticipated and had the kid up against the wall before his foot ever connected with the tin.

  “Wot the bleedin’ ‘ell!” The kid was furious, and the language sounded ridiculous coming from such a young voice. He tried to kick Ringo, who shoved a knee between the kid’s legs. The kid howled in rage, and shopkeepers began to emerge from the doorways.

  The older of the two men standing by the window turned and spoke to Ringo in a very posh, upper class accent. “Now, see here, young man—” he began, but the kid’s howls drowned out the man’s voice.

  “Ye want another clip in t’stones? Shut it!” Ringo shook the kid, who glared at him.

  “Let me go!” the kid said furiously.

  The posh gentleman had taken a few steps toward Ringo as if to press his point. I was dressed in my 1940s trouser suit, and I had shoved my hair into one of Ringo’s old caps, so I hung back in hopes that no one would pay particular attention to me.

  “See here. That child hasn’t done anything. You’re hurting him.” The younger posh man stepped forward to back up the older one, and I thought they might be father and son. I scanned for exits if we had to run.

  Ringo spared a quick glance at the two men, then directed his attention back to the kid. “Why don’t ye tell ‘Is Grace what ye were plannin’ for ‘im and the marquess.”

  I wasn’t the only one staring at Ringo. His Grace was a duke’s title, and the duke looked shocked at having been recognized. “Do I know you, sir?” he said in a voice so pompous it should have come with its own hot air pump.

  “I know yer son,” said Ringo as he held the kid with one hand and began emptying the boy’s trouser pockets with the other. Out of one came a wire cutter, a bit of broken glass, and a wicked-looking knife. The other pocket held a two-foot-long strand of piano wire, a lock-pick, and a little velvet bag that proved to be full of bits of gravel.

  “I’m sure I have no idea who you are,” said the marquess with equal pomposity. His voice was drowned out by the boy’s protests, but when the knife hit the pavement and the duke’s eyes widened even further, the kid wisely shut up.

  The duke seemed to have recovered from his surprise at the kid’s pocket-contents and directed his attention back to Ringo. “My son has said he doesn’t know you,” the duke said archly.

  Ringo finally let the kid down, but held him tightly by the scruff of the neck. “Lord Devereux the younger has spoken of ye, Your Grace. And in answer to the first question, this one ‘ere was about to kick that can between yer feet. Ye’d ‘ave either stumbled or reached for the marquess, and the lad would ‘ave ‘ad the diamonds out of yer waistcoat pocket with none the wiser.”

  Ringo addressed the next part of his astonishing statement to the kid. “Problem is, ‘Atton Gardens is controlled by a fellow called Lamb, and any thief who wants to keep ‘is fingers keeps away from Lamb’s territory. That makes this one either new or full of ‘imself, and both’ll get ‘is body dumped in the River Fleet within a week.”

  “Fleet’s not a river,” the kid grumbled.

  Ringo cuffed him on the back of the head. “What do ye think runs under this whole place? Ye stand at any sewer grate in Clerkenwell and ye can ‘ear the river flowin’ beneath yer feet.”

  The duke seemed to be stuck on the same part of Ringo’s statement as I was. Lord Devereux, the younger son of the duke. This man was my father-in-law.

  “Now see here, young man,” Devereux began, but Ringo cut him off.

  “No, I don’t know where ‘e is, and it’s been a good while since I’ve seen ‘im. But I like and respect ‘Is Lordship and wo
uld see no wrong done by ‘is family.

  Devereux didn’t know quite what to make of Ringo, and he began to bluster. “But how did you know what I carry in my waistcoat pocket, much less that this young man intended to steal it?”

  Ringo ignored the question for a moment as he turned to the kid and shook him. “Listen to me, and listen good. Lamb’s territory is all of Clerkenwell, Tok’s got the bank district, Riven’s workin’ ‘Olborn, and it’s no use tryin’ for anything east of Aldgate because Nim’s got it sewn up tight. The river’s run by Lizzer’s gang, and they’re meaner than snakes unless ye’re river folk. There’s a man by the name of Gosford, owns the Sanda. ‘E’s a good man and a good boss. Tell ‘im Ringo sent ye, and then ye work like a dog for ‘im. The pay’s fair, the toffs leave ye alone, and ye’ll learn a skill ye can use in any port city. Best though, Gosford’ll give ye a fish for yer dinner when there’s ought leftover, and ye’ll keep all yer fingers unless ye’re lazy with a knife.”

  Ringo picked the kid’s knife up off the ground and flipped it over to the young dark-haired man at the corner. “Yours, I believe?”

  The young man caught it and nodded in surprise. “Many thanks,” he said with genuine appreciation. The kid scowled, and Ringo turned his attention back to him.

  “Or ye can keep at yer thievin’ and maybe ye’ll see fifteen with all yer fingers intact, or maybe ye’ll be dead in one of the rivers that run under us, tunneled over and stinkin’ of sewage – unless ye choose a different way. It’s not pretty, but there it is – take it or leave it.”

  The kid’s eyes had grown steadily bigger in his head, until at the end of his speech, Ringo had let go of his collar and pushed him away. The kid didn’t need to be told twice, and he was gone a moment later. Ringo turned back to Archer’s father and brother then, and addressed the duke as if nothing odd had just happened.

  “As to yer questions, ye’ve been pattin’ yer waistcoat every two minutes since I saw ye, and the lumps are not bits of sugar for yer ‘orse. The kid ‘ad a velvet bag full of pebbles to replace the one he planned to nip from ye, and ‘e’d ‘ave used the knife ‘e nicked from the fellow over there if ye’d caught ‘im at it.”