by George Mann
“Not at all,” said Newbury. “I believe it’s time I offered to play Lady Arkwell at her own game.”
“Stop being so bloody cryptic, would you, and spit it out.”
Newbury laughed. “If she’s as clever as I believe her to be, Charles, she won’t have chosen a mealy-mouthed snitch like Smythe without reason. She has no intention of effecting a burglary in Bloomsbury Square. She’s doing all of this to announce herself to us—to me. She knew full well that Smythe would go running to the Yard. It’s an invitation.”
“An invitation?” asked Bainbridge. He looked utterly perplexed.
“Indeed. An invitation to respond.”
Bainbridge shook his head. “If you’re right—and I am not yet convinced that you are—what will you do?”
“Show myself in Bloomsbury Square. Smythe will do the rest,” replied Newbury, with a grin. “And then we shall see what move she makes next.”
“Good Lord,” said Bainbridge, draining the last of his brandy. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”
“Oh yes,” said Newbury, laughing. “Absolutely.”
VI
Was it possible? Could he have somehow been driven to kill the woman?
Newbury considered the facts. He’d boarded the ground train while trailing the female agent known as Lady Arkwell, the woman who was now dead from a knife wound to the throat. She’d taken a seat at the rear of the carriage, and so, trying to at least make the pretence of conspicuousness, he’d gone to the front on the opposite side, where he’d been able to keep an eye on her reflection in the window glass. The train had started off, rumbling down Oxford Street, and he’d settled back into his seat, content that he had until at least the next stop before he’d have to make a move.
Despite the fuzziness still clouding his thoughts, he was able to recall at least that much.
The next thing he remembered was waking up with a thick head, Clarissa’s hand on his cheek, his jacket covered in blood. Now, additionally, he’d discovered he had a bloodied knife in his pocket. He had no notion of what might have occurred in the intervening time.
He supposed there were two possibilities. Firstly, that he’d been forced to end the woman’s life during the aftermath of the accident, before he received the blow to his head that had rendered him unconscious and affected his recollection. Secondly, that the killer had taken advantage of his dazed state to plant the weapon on him, thereby making an attempt to implicate him in the murder.
Despite the apparent outlandishness of the notion, he decided the latter was the most likely option. He was, after all, dealing with assassins and spies, people who might have recognised him and decided he’d make a viable scapegoat to cover their tracks.
Newbury searched the faces of the other people in the carriage. There were at least twenty of them, still huddled in little groups on the floor. None of them seemed familiar. A dark-haired young man with a beard was slumped to one side by himself. His black suit was torn and he was bleeding from a wound in his left forearm. He was watching Newbury intently. Could it be him? Or perhaps the middle-aged man at the other end of the carriage, squatting close to where Newbury had been sitting. He was whispering now to two young women, but his eyes were tracing every one of Newbury’s movements, his rugged features fixed in a grim expression.
It was useless to speculate. It could have been any one of the other passengers. He’d have to wait to see if they’d give themselves away. There was nothing else for it.
Newbury rubbed his palm over the back of his neck, wishing the fuzziness in his head would clear. He could feel no lump, no tender spot where he had bashed it during the accident. Why, then, did he still feel so sluggish, so groggy? It was almost as if...
A thought struck him. Perhaps he hadn’t banged his head at all. If someone really was attempting to frame him for Lady Arkwell’s murder, he might have been drugged. A quick prick with a needle while he was down, a dose of sedative to keep him under, to keep him slow. That had to be it. It was the only explanation for why he was feeling like this. Perhaps the killer had been carrying it in his pocket, intending to use it to incapacitate Lady Arkwell when she alighted from the train. The crash had provided him with a different opportunity, and he’d discharged the syringe into Newbury instead, while everyone else on board was still distracted in the midst of the initial panic and confusion.
It all seemed to make a terrible kind of sense to Newbury, but even so, it brought him no closer to identifying the killer, and at present, he had no way of proving any of it. All he knew for sure was that someone on the train was out to get him, or at the very least, was using him to protect their secret.
“Do you think anyone will notice?” whispered Clarissa from beside him.
He glanced round. She’d done an admirable job. The body might have been a heap of clothes, spilt from a burst case. “Not until we draw their attention to it,” he replied, “or one of them comes looking for their coat.”
Clarissa gave a wry smile. “I’m scared, Sir Maurice. I keep thinking that no one’s going to come and find us and we’ll remain trapped in here, with someone capable of... that.” She put her hand on his chest, and, throwing propriety to the wind, he put his arm around her shoulders and drew her in. They stood there for a moment, holding on to one another as if they were the only still point in the universe.
“It’ll be alright,” he said, with as reassuring a tone as he could muster. But what he really meant to say was: “I’m scared too.”
VII
“Sir Maurice Newbury, I presume?”
The voice was cultured and luxurious, like the purr of a well-mannered cat.
Newbury peeled open his eyes, but for a moment saw nothing but darkness. Then, slowly, shapes began to resolve out of the gloom, as if the shadows themselves were somehow coalescing, taking on physical form.
Around him, figures lay supine on low couches, draped across the daybeds as if they had given themselves up to the deepest of sleeps. Their pale faces might have belonged to spirits or wraiths rather than men; ghostly and lost, these waifs, like Newbury, were adrift on the murky oceans of their own minds.
Gas lamps, turned down low, cast everything in a dim, orange glow.
Newbury turned his head marginally in order to take in the appearance of the man who had spoken. It wasn’t a face he recognised. The man was Chinese, in the later years of his life—judging by his wizened, careworn appearance—and was standing politely to one side, his hands clasped behind his back. He was dressed in a fine silk robe and wore an elaborate moustache that curled immaculately around his thin lips, draping solemnly from his chin. His eyes were narrowed as he regarded Newbury through the haze of opium smoke.
Newbury blinked and tried to stir himself, but the drug continued to exert its influence. He couldn’t even find the motivation to move. “You presume correctly, sir,” he replied, his voice a deep slur. “Of whom do I have the pleasure?”
The other man smiled for the briefest of moments, before swiftly regaining his composure. “My name, sir, is Meng Li.”
“Meng Li?” echoed Newbury, unable to contain his surprise. He’d heard the name a hundred times before, always spoken in whispered tones, even amongst the upper echelons of Scotland Yard.
Meng Li was perhaps the most significant of the Chinese gang lords to exert his influence on the British Empire. His network stretched from Hong Kong to Vancouver, from Burma to London itself, and was considered to take in everything from the opium trade to people trafficking, and most other illicit trades besides.
That he should be there in the capital was barely conceivable, let alone consorting openly with a British agent in such insalubrious surroundings. This was, after all, a filthy opium den in Soho—about as far from the Ritz as one could imagine. Clearly, Newbury decided, whatever reason Meng Li had for being there, it must have been of grave importance. The Chinaman was putting himself at great risk.
He mustn’t have been alone. Newbury craned his neck. He coul
dn’t see any bodyguards, but that didn’t mean they weren’t there. For all he knew, half of the patrons of the house might be in Meng Li’s employ, ready to leap up from their apparent stupors if Newbury tried anything.
Not, he supposed, that there was any risk of that. Meng Li had timed his appearance to perfection, approaching Newbury while he was still incapacitated from the drug, but cognisant enough to hold a meaningful conversation.
The Queen would be furious if she discovered Newbury had been face to face with the crime lord and hadn’t killed him on sight, but he was presently far from capable of that, and besides, he was curious to see what the man wanted, why Meng Li would risk his life in such a manner to speak with one of Victoria’s agents.
“You do me a great honour,” said Newbury, without a hint of irony.
Again, that subtle smile. “I hope that we may—temporarily, at least—speak as friends, Sir Maurice?”
“Friends?” echoed Newbury. Was this to be a proposition? He would have to tread carefully.
Meng Li gave a slight bow of his head, as if conceding some unspoken point. “If not as friends, then perhaps at least as men of a common purpose, who share a common enemy?”
Newbury raised an eyebrow. “Go on,” he said, intrigued.
“The operative known as ‘Lady Arkwell’. You seek her, do you not, for your English Queen?” The words were wrapped in amusement, not scorn.
Newbury considered his response. Meng Li was obviously well connected, and dangerous, too. Any denial would be seen for the blatant lie that it was, and he didn’t wish to anger the man, particularly given his present situation. “Indeed I do,” he said, levelly. “I take it, then, that you also have an interest in finding this mysterious woman.”
“In a manner of speaking,” said Meng Li. “She has taken something that belongs to me, and for that, I owe her a response.”
“Ah,” said Newbury, “and so you’re proposing an alliance in order to find her?”
Meng Li shook his head. The gesture was almost imperceptible in the dim light. “I wish only to impart to you some information,” he replied.
Newbury frowned. More games. “I’m listening.”
“It is said that Lady Arkwell is an expert at covering her tracks. She passes like a leaf, blown on the wind, and is soon lost amongst the many others that have fallen from the tree. She never repeats herself, and she never returns to the same place twice.” He folded his hands together inside the sleeves of his cheongsam. “She has, however, one weakness—her fondness for a particular blend of tea. It is a Yunnan leaf, grown in China, and is found in only one establishment in this great city of London. A tearoom on New Bond Street known as the ‘Ladies’ Own Tea Association’.” He withdrew his hands from his sleeves. In one of them he held a small, white card, which he handed to Newbury.
“And you believe she will be found there?” asked Newbury, surprised.
Meng Li inclined his head. “What is more, you may identify her by means of an old injury. Two years ago, a bullet was lodged in her right knee during an incident in Singapore. The bullet was removed, but the knee was damaged. The affliction is barely noticeable, but alters her gait: every third step she takes is uneven.”
“Then why tell me?” asked Newbury. “If you know all of this, why not send a handful of your own men after her?”
“Because it amuses me,” replied Meng Li, although this time, his smile did not reach his eyes. Newbury had heard others call this man inscrutable, but to his mind, that was simple ignorance. Meng Li was not so hard to read, and although he hid it well, Newbury could see the truth in the man’s expression: he was scared. When Meng Li spoke of Lady Arkwell, he had the look about him of a man who knew he was outclassed. He was aiding Newbury because he did not wish to engage the woman in her own games, for fear he might lose. The crime lord, it seemed, was nothing if not a pragmatist.
Newbury nodded. “Tell me—what did she steal from you?”
“An object that has been in my family for many hundreds of years,” replied Meng Li. “The Jade Nightingale.”
Newbury almost baulked. He’d heard talk of this precious stone before: an enormous, flawless emerald mounted in a gold ring, and dating back to the ancient, early dynasties of the Far East. Many had tried to steal it, but none had ever succeeded. How it had come into Meng Li’s possession, Newbury did not know, but now the crime lord had lost it again, to Lady Arkwell.
“And you do not wish to retrieve it?”
“It is merely a bauble. She may keep it.” Meng Li shrugged. “My revenge is simply to assist my good friends of the British Crown to locate her.”
Merely a bauble. The Jade Nightingale was priceless. It would sell for thousands of pounds, even on the black market. Newbury could hardly believe how easily Meng Li had dismissed the matter. It had clearly pained him that the gem had been stolen—enough to reveal himself to an agent of the British government and assist them in locating the thief—but to Newbury it seemed that Meng Li was more concerned with revenge, with the embarrassment of the whole matter, than the actual recovery of the stone.
“It is a matter of honour,” said Meng Li, as if reading his thoughts. “Do you understand honour, Sir Maurice?”
“I believe I do,” replied Newbury, meeting Meng Li’s unwavering gaze.
“Then I believe we have an understanding,” said Meng Li. “You may leave this house unmolested, and you go with my blessings behind you. When we meet again, we will not be friends.”
Newbury nodded, slowly.
Meng Li bowed gracefully, and then seemed to melt away into the darkness, leaving Newbury alone on the divan. His head was still swimming with the after-effects of the Chinese poppy, and for a moment he wondered if he might not have dreamed the entire encounter. But then he remembered the card Meng Li had handed him, and turned it over in his palm, casting his bleary gaze over the legend printed there in neat, black ink: LADIES’ OWN TEA ASSOCIATION, 90 NEW BOND STREET.
Newbury smiled. Tomorrow, he would finally close the net on the elusive Lady Arkwell.
VIII
“Something’s wrong. I don’t think anyone is coming.” Clarissa was perched on an upended seat across the gangway from Newbury, a frown on her pretty face. Her foot was drumming nervously on the floor, and she was clenching and unclenching her hands on her lap. She kept glancing at the other passengers, and then at the heap of clothes she’d piled over the corpse in the corner. Newbury wondered if perhaps she was showing the early signs of claustrophobia, or whether it was simply the proximity of the corpse, and what it represented, that was troubling her. It was certainly troubling him.
He was slouched against the crumpled ceiling of the overturned carriage, fighting a wave of lethargy and nausea. Whatever was in his system—for he was now convinced that he had been drugged—was threatening to send him spiralling back into unconsciousness. He couldn’t allow that to happen. Too much was at stake.
When he saw Clarissa was watching him, a pleading look in her eyes, he took a deep breath, forcing himself to stay alert. “You know what London traffic is like these days,” he said. “The roads are awash with people, carriages, carts and trains. The fire engines are probably stuck somewhere, trying to get through to us.”
Clarissa shook her head. “No. They should be here by now. It’s been too long.” She dropped down from her perch, crossing the makeshift gangway to stand over him. She offered him her hands, as if to haul him up. “Come on. I think we’re going to have to find our own way out of this mess.”
Newbury shook his head. “No. I can’t. I’m so tired.”
Clarissa folded her arms and glared down at him in a matronly fashion. “You need to keep moving. You know I can’t let you fall asleep. Not after a blow to the head.” She dropped into a crouch, bringing her face close to his. She smelled of roses. “I’m not sure how much longer I can stand being stuck in this tin can, to be honest,” she said, in a whisper. Her lips were close to his ear and he could feel her warm breath
playing on his cheek. “I’ve never been comfortable in confined spaces, and the thought that one of those men is a heartless killer is too much to bear. Please, Sir Maurice. Help me to get free.”
She pulled back, her eyes searching his face. He could feel himself relenting. “Very well,” he said. “What are you planning?”
She grinned, taking his hands in hers. “If we can bash a panel of this crushed roof away from where a window frame has buckled, perhaps we can make enough of a space to crawl free.”
Newbury frowned. “It’s perfectly mangled. We’d need cutters to even begin making a hole.”
“At least help me give it a try,” she said, standing and hauling him to his feet, reluctant though he was. His head spun wildly for a moment, and then seemed to settle. “What have we got to lose?”
Our lives, thought Newbury, if we turn our backs on the wrong person for too long, but he couldn’t muster the will to fight—not least because she had a point.
“Over here,” she said, leading him a little further away from the others, towards the body at the rear of the carriage. “This looks like the weakest point.” She indicated a spot where the space between the top of the window frame and the side of the car had been reduced to around two inches.
“The frame is completely buckled,” said Newbury. He placed both of his palms against the metal panel and pushed with all of his remaining strength. It didn’t budge. “We’re going to need something heavy to hit it with.”
“Like this?” asked Clarissa, and he turned to see her grappling with a wooden seat that had broken free from the floor during the crash. She swung it back like a golf club, gritting her teeth.
“Clarissa...” said Newbury, ducking out the way just in time to watch her slam the seat into the roof panel with all of her might. There was a terrific reverberation throughout the carriage, followed by the clatter of broken wood as the now demolished seat tumbled in a heap to the floor. The window frame hadn’t shifted.