A Midsummer Night's Sin (18 page)

In fact, unless her father was the guilty one, they could spend the next several years searching for the slavers and find nothing. She had to hope that her father was guilty, which was a terrible thought all on its own.

“Finding the elephants would be easy. We’d just follow the dung carts.”

Regina snapped out of her unhappy reverie to look at Puck. “What did you say?” And then she smiled, shook her head. “You won’t cheer me up, Robin Goodfellow. We’ve set ourselves an impossible task.”

“A journey begins with the first step,” he reminded her, pointing to a large brick warehouse that had appeared as Gaston managed to turn yet another corner, most people giving the hearse a wide berth. “The sign blowing in this fairly fetid breeze. A pair of
H
s, intertwined—see it?”

Regina drew in a deep, rather shuddering breath. “I see it.”

P
UCK ALIGHTED FROM
the plank seat of the hearse, his boot heels lightly striking the cobblestones even as his eyes darted left and right beneath the concealing brim of his hat, picking out the most visible members of his small army, already in position.

There was
La Reina’s
burly employer, pretending an interest in a wagonload of crates marked in Spanish. George Porter had lost five of his finest earners to the slavers, and once Puck had convinced Mr. Queen
to introduce him to the pimp, Mr. Porter had been eagerness itself in offering his assistance and that of his entire crew. Save for Mr. Queen, who was…convalescing.

Puck counted three men besides Mr. Porter, each of them doing his best to appear uninterested in what was going on around them yet each wearing the tight, wary look of those who existed only through their fists and wits. There were also four women, clearly soiled doves, rather unambitiously plying their wares as they moved about the expanse of cobblestones fronting the H and H Company, each of them looking at least as, if not more, deadly than the men.

And over there were the hatters. Not nearly as physically impressive and twice as recognizable, as each had topped off their shabby rigouts with fine-looking hats well above their ability to purchase them. Miranda’s great-grandfather was ninety if he was a day and deaf as a post, living in a narrow but well-appointed house in Piccadilly. Puck had been forced to yell his words into a brass ear trumpet all during his visit, but the man’s mind, when it heard those words, was quick to pick them up and use them.

And, alas, standing just at the entrance to a narrow alleyway between two enormous brick buildings was one Dickie Carstairs, his pudgy frame dressed in the red-and-white striped shirt of a sailor, a ridiculous, flat-brimmed straw hat on his head. Jack had an odd sense of humor.

Jack was there, as well; Puck knew he could count
on that, just as he knew he would never see him unless his brother wished it. But it was comforting to know that Dickie Carstairs wasn’t the one who would truly have Puck’s back if this small adventure went suddenly sideways.

It warmed the cockles of Puck’s heart, it did, and he felt rather prideful of his unconventional troops.

“
Psst!
What are you waiting for?”

Puck looked up at Regina, who dutifully had the handkerchief pressed to her face—
beneath
the thick black veil. “It’s called getting the lay of the land, puss. I hear all the best reconnoiters do it. Now behave yourself.”

“Oh!”
she began but then went silent because she was, bless her, an obedient sort, and because he’d walked away from her, just in case she’d decided to make an exception today.

A few enquiries later, he was knocking on the small door cut into the much larger sliding doors of the brick building, stepping back and tipping his hat slightly when he heard a key turn in a lock and a florid-faced man wearing an aggrieved expression finally pushed the door open.

“Oh, I say,” Puck began nervously, “it would seem I have disturbed you, sir. My most profound apologies, I’m sure. But you are Silas Lamott, yes? My name is Aloysius Claridge. I was told by any number of the men milling about here that it is you and you alone I must speak to on this…delicate matter. May…may we possibly be more private, Mr. Lamott?”

Silas Lamott’s gaze went to Puck’s funereal clothing and then beyond him, to the hearse that stood out in the throng of activity the way only a hearse can do. “You got a body in there, or are you come lookin’ for one?”

Puck chuckled appreciatively at this small bit of wit. “Oh, very good, Mr. Lamott. Very good, indeed. The former, I’m afraid. Although I am looking to, well, to be
shed
of it.” He looked back toward the hearse and raised his hand in a small wave. Regina tentatively returned it. “Not within earshot of my sister, I beg you.”

Lamott shrugged his shoulders and turned, motioning for Puck to step over the low threshold cut into the door and follow him into what was at first glance a cavernous tomb of a building, more than five stories in height and packed everywhere with crates and boxes and wrapped, oddly shaped items. The only windows were nearly at the top of that five stories, lined up just below the roof, leaving the walls free to be used for stacking, as well, and the only door to the world Puck could see was the one he’d just entered through.

A second look showed him that the rectangular building was not completely turned over to storage. There were a few bumped-out areas containing their own doors, such as the office he was being led to at the moment, and to his left, a staircase that ran to at least one hundred steps and a large structure neatly suspended forty feet above the brick floor.

Puck stopped dead and pointed. “My goodness, Mr. Lamott, whatever is that? A
house,
all but floating in
the air? How unusual. Don’t tell me you had to climb down all those stairs to answer my knock. I do apologize!”

What was usual was that Silas Lamott answered Puck. Most people did. He seemed interested in what people had to say, which was always the trick of it. People dearly loved to talk, most especially about themselves and, of course, the trials in their lives.

Even the wart didn’t seem to turn Mr. Lamott away. In fact, he seemed fairly fascinated with it. Puck lifted a finger to touch it, make sure it had not begun to slide, as it was warm in the warehouse and the wart was only wax.

“No, no, my office is just here.” As if to prove it, Lamott used the same key he’d used for the small door on the lock to his office. “And not a house, Mr. Claridge. That up there is for the owners. Like small gods, they are, standing up there from time to time, peerin’ down on us, watchin’ to see if we’re workin’, if we’re stealin’. All the money’s up there, too, the way I hear it. Ain’t never been. Ain’t nobody ever been, come to think of it. Besides, the real work is here.”

Puck looked inside the small, cluttered office before taking a step inside. “Oh my, yes, I can readily see that,” he said appreciatively, watching where Mr. Lamott put the heavy ring of keys after unlocking the door. He’d placed them on his desk, atop a pile of official-looking papers. How convenient. Yet it wouldn’t do to take the entire ring, for that disappearance would be noticed almost immediately. Just
the office key, longer than the others, and distinctively black in color.

Not an easy task, but certainly not overly daunting to a student of the great Gaston. Why, under his valet’s tutelage, Puck had learned how to make things much more substantial than a mere key
disappear;
most notably, the dear
Comtè
Maurice Angoulvant might still be wondering how his private correspondence from his mistress had disappeared from his locked safe, only to turn up in a gaily wrapped gift delivered to his lady wife, who had reason to need forgiveness for her own slight straying from her marriage vows. Clearly a much less potentially problematic solution than the dear lady’s possible tearful confession of her liaision with
le beau bâtard Anglais.
That the
Comtè’s
treasonous correspondence with an Austrian anarchist had been read and then neatly replaced in the safe before the letters were removed had not crossed the harassed man’s mind…at least not until his arrest.

Puck reached toward the keys and then neatly bypassed them, to pick up a small, black, wooden statue of inferior design and execution and turn it about in his hands. “What a truly marvelous piece, Mr. Lamott! African? I pride myself on learning as much as I can, at every opportunity. You’ve been to the Dark Continent? Yes, of course you have. You must have traveled to many exotic ports. How I, a mere banker, forever stuck in the City, envy you your adventures, Mr. Lamott! You must tell me how you managed such a prize.”

Silas Lamott flushed proudly, watching Puck’s hands
as he turned the statute once, then again. “That was a long time ago, Mr. Claridge, when I still commanded one of the ships. We don’t stop at the African ports anymore. Not since the new laws.”

“Ah, yes,” Puck said, returning the statue to its original resting place, drawing back his hands rather clumsily, nearly tipping over an earthenware mug containing the dregs of the man’s morning chocolate. “Whoops! Nearly came to grief there, didn’t I? My apologies, sir.”

The key ring was in his pocket now, the office key soon detached from the ring.

Mr. Lamott righted the mug and the statue, which had fallen onto its side, and then with Puck’s help, straightened the pile of papers that had begun to slide sideways on the desk.

The key ring was back on the desktop, unearthed from beneath one of the sliding piles of papers.

“It’s of no matter, Mr. Claridge. And my fault for the mess. We’ve got six ships to get ready to sail in the next few days, and five more just docked in the last week and needing unloading. We’re at sixes and sevens in the whole shipyard.”

“And here I am, taking up your valuable time with my small request. A thousand apologies, Mr. Lamott. Allow me to keep this short and to the point. I have…a problem, Mr. Lamott. One I believe you and I, if we were but to put our heads together, might be able to solve. You saw the hearse? My sister?”

Lamott narrowed his eyelids. “We don’t carry
corpses, if that’s what you’re thinking. They’re bad luck aboard ship.”

Puck’s smile positively beamed. “They aren’t a whacking great lot of good luck on land, either. Especially this one. Cousin Yorick was a trial alive, and he seems to be determined to be a trial dead, as well. Hanged himself, you understand, after a plaguey run of luck at the cards. Local church won’t bury him among the decent folks. The vicar was most adamant.”

Lamott nodded sagely. “That’s how it should be. Don’t want his sort in with the good folk. Can’t you plant him outside the gates?”

“We could, but my sister would have none of it. She insists on a proper burial. You’ve seen her out there. Doesn’t trust me to do it right. I’ve been at my wit’s end, Mr. Lamott. I’ve spent more on ice these past two days than I care to think about. But I can’t tell you how determined my sister can be. Even to go so far as to come with me down here, where she certainly has no business being.” He sighed the sort of sigh only bankers can manage, most often as they’re denying a loan application. “Women are good for only one thing, I say, Mr. Lamott, and they don’t do it sitting up, if you take my meaning.” He reached into his pocket and withdrew a small silver flask. “Have you any glasses, Silas? It has truly been a trying morning. Your company is not the first I have applied to today. With luck, it will be the last, as I can see you are not only a fine businessman but a reasonable one, as well.”

Lamott’s right hand disappeared beneath the top of
the desk only to reappear along with two short glasses, his thumb and forefinger unhappily stuck inside them, even though they were not precisely pristine in any event. “We’ll drink to a happy conclusion to your problem, Mr. Claridge.”

“Aloysius, please,” Puck said as he poured two inches of fine brandy into each glass. “I’ve got m’damn cousin out there packed up in ice and m’sister not willing to bend an inch. I need a friend, Silas, and I’m willing to pay. Handsomely.”

A small but heavy purse was suddenly sitting between them on the desktop.

Lamott reached for it, but then stopped. “It wouldn’t be worth my life to order a ship to turn into port other than the one assigned to it. I’m sorry, Mr. Claridge.”

“No, no, it’s I that am sorry,” Puck protested, nudging the small purse closer to Silas. “I have convinced my sister that Yorick can be buried in the church grounds of an ancient church on the Isle of Sheppey, that I have all the arrangements already in train, and she has agreed to allow me to have it shipped there. You know of it?”

Lamott nodded, his eyes still on the purse. “Close enough, but I still can’t order it. I’m sorry.”

“Your loyalty is to be commended. My story to my sister, alas, is not so laudable. I have no idea if Yorick could be buried on the Isle of Sheppey, I have not so enquired and in truth don’t care. It is enough that she believes it. All I need from you, Silas, is for her to see the man’s coffin being loaded onto your next ship to
leave port. What you instruct your seamen to do with that coffin once the ship reaches open waters? Well, it is of no concern to me, but I understand that burials at sea are not that uncommon?”

“I…I’d have to have the captain’s cooperation,” Lamott said, still eyeing the purse.

A second, smaller purse appeared beside it.

“Better?” Puck asked.

“Oh yes, much.” Both purses disappeared so swiftly it could be wondered if Lamott had studied under a Gaston of his own. “The
Gemini
sets sail soon as the tide turns. They’ll be casting her off soon, but there’s still time to load the coffin aboard. Got to get the
Gemini
out of the way, you see, ’cause Mr. Hackett’s own
Pride and Prize
will be tied right here, to be loaded up over the next two days. Always special, when the
Pride and Prize
is loaded up, seein’ as how it only sails twice a year. Has his own men and all, even doin’ some of the loadin’ at night.” He leaned across the desk even as Puck leaned forward; clearly he was about to be taken in on some confidence. “We think we know why.”