Beneath London (36 page)

And they bought an Owl, and a useful Cart,

And a pound of Rice, and a Cranberry Tart,

Mr. Klingheimer’s smile did not disconcert her now. She blotted out his face with the spinning sieve, which spun itself faster and faster into a silvery hive, the silvery bees holding on tightly to the hive, just as the Jumblies, not caring a fig, held onto their sieve. And then the bees let go in a wild cloud and swarmed about Mr. Klingheimer’s head. Clara was abruptly aware now that her mother’s mind had joined her own, and that her single-minded anger had enraged the bees. Their wings whirred mechanically, their silver, needle-like stingers plunging into Mr. Klingheimer’s flesh, secreting their poisons. In her mind she saw his mouth open in a silent scream, and his hands went to his head…

…and then she was aware that the needle in her arm had been removed, and she was back in Dr. Peavy’s laboratory, her mind entirely her own once again, the Jumblies and their sieve sailing away in the far distance.

* * *

I
n the moments before Clara awakened, St. Ives had heard Klingheimer make a high, hollow sound in his throat, like a man in a nightmare attempting to scream. His eyes had rolled back and he had clutched his hair on the sides of his head as if in torment, quickly letting go to swat at the air roundabout him. Something had staggered him, and he was making an effort now to regain his composure.

Peavy wiped the small round wound on Clara’s arm with a rag soaked in a yellow liquid, and then awakened her with a vial of smelling salts before turning to Klingheimer.

“Are you ill, sir?” Dr. Peavy asked him.

“No,” Klingheimer said, affecting a smile. “A momentary discomfort, but it has quite passed away.” He was attempting to catch his breath, however, and his face was suffused with blood.

Apoplexy
, St. Ives thought, unfortunately not fatal. But Klingheimer had been up against it; there could be no doubt about that.

“Flinders,” Klingheimer said to a stilt-like man sitting on a high stool in the corner, “transport Clara Wright and Mr. Shadwell to Lazarus Walk in the brougham. Return in exactly two hours, if you please.”

Flinders took a red bowler from a nearby hook, and St. Ives recognized him as the driver of the van outside. Another man who had been sitting in the third row of seats stood up and made his way down to the floor, tipping his hat to St. Ives and winking at him. It was without a doubt the man Shadwell, the taller of the false policemen at Hereafter Farm. He helped Clara to her feet and went out through a broad door held open by the man Flinders. Through it St. Ives saw the dusky night, the dark shrubbery along the alley, the coach and the van dimmed by cloud shadow. He also saw that Jimmy still held the pistol.

“Well, well,” Klingheimer said when the door closed behind them. “You were relieved, I take it, to see that Clara’s infusion of blood was apparently quite safe. You’ll be happy to hear that tomorrow, in order to satisfy the girl’s sense of duty, she and I will undergo a more traditional wedding ceremony, suitably dressed and replete with witnesses, a clergyman, and a Champagne toast. I am happy to say that you will attend, at least to
witness
the happy event. You’ll have to forego the Champagne, unfortunately. Such a ceremony is a popular fantasia, of course, but I mean for Clara to be bound to me under the law.”

“The
law
?” St. Ives asked in a steady voice. “Surely you jest. The laws of man and of common decency require that you release the girl. I’m perfectly willing to offer myself as a hostage – as a replacement. I’ll submit to whatever…”

Klingheimer waved him silent. “Very noble of you, Professor, but surely you misunderstand. You will
indeed
submit to whatever I ask of you, whether it is to your liking or is not, and in turn you’ll become a peer of the realm, as I promised. A dukedom is granted by the King, after all. It cannot be refused.”

TWENTY-SEVEN

“
I
can tell you, Hasbro, that I would be happy to see the end of Miss Cecilia Bracken, except that once my uncle surfaces again it won’t be the end of her at all, but the beginning, if you see what I mean.”

“To my mind it would be better that Mr. Frobisher is healthy and with Miss Bracken on his arm,” Hasbro said, “than that there be no arm for her to hold.”

They had crossed the South Meadow on foot and now labored up a hill through the woodland beyond, the branches of the trees overhead heaving in the wind, which blew without interference at this elevation.

“I take your point,” Tubby said. “But it’s a difficult bolus to swallow unless a man has a cask of whiskey to wash it down with.”

“I’ll admit that the woman is a cipher,” Hasbro said, “but I wonder whether she mightn’t be something of a cipher even to her own mind. ‘Know thyself,’ the Greeks admonish us, and yet often enough there’s something in us that seems to be a stranger. It can take us unawares when we see ourselves in a mirror. Have you considered that Miss Bracken might be mortally confused, her motives mixed?”

“It seems to me that she has the motivation of a serpent,” Tubby said, knocking a dead rodent aside with his walking stick, a short but heavy length of Brazilian ironwood with a knurled top.

“What if her desire for wealth is authentic,” Hasbro asked, “and yet she also admires your uncle, also –
loves
him, even? It’s quite possible that she has never been esteemed by a good man, but has associated only with bad men with base motives. To my mind it’s a wonder that more women don’t murder their husbands in their beds. Your uncle lacks any discernible deviousness, after all. I can think of no one with a more open and cheerful countenance, and no doubt Miss Bracken sees this same thing. On the one hand she might think of turning this to her advantage, as you fear, and yet at the same time she might also see him as her protector, who appeared out of the sea when she was very much in need. Many a rich man has made a good marriage, after all. Wealth isn’t Mr. Frobisher’s sole asset.”

“You always were able to take the long view, Hasbro. And you might be quite correct, of course. I made up my mind that Miss Bracken was no good before we ever left Jamaica, and I’ve colored her in that light since. If we find Uncle, I’ll have to make things right with both of them.”

“It would not be a bad thing to make things right in any event,” Hasbro said as they crested the hill, clear of the trees now. “You’ll sleep better for it.”

In the distance lay the ponds and the meadow roundabout them, although the gipsy caravan was nowhere to be seen, which was unfortunate. Speaking with them might have saved time in the search for the opening to the tunnel. There was the telltale copse, however, that Alice had referred to – the only shrubbery near the ruin that might house a secret well. The old manse itself, as Hasbro had referred to it, lay away to the right, the ruins scenic in the windy sunshine. It was an active ruin, however. A number of uniformed men were busy about the place, several on horseback. Several others were exiting the structure and moving away from it in an organized manner.

“What’s this now?” Tubby asked.

“They appear to be Royal Engineers,” Hasbro said. “They’ve set up a perimeter.”

“They’d best not hinder us, by God,” Tubby said, picking up the pace as they moved downhill. The perimeter was a good fifty yards from the ruin, and beyond it, in the direction of Wood Pond, stood two lorries piled high with lumber. A number of idle men stood watching, evidently waiting for something to transpire. One of the men on horseback galloped uphill toward Tubby and Hasbro now, waving his arm as if to warn them off. They continued their downward trek, however, until the horse reined up before them, physically impeding their progress.

“Good day, sir,” Tubby said to the man, but before the last word was out of his mouth, a thunderous explosion rocked the green below, and the roof of the building rose piecemeal into the sky in a great billow of smoke. Splinters of wood, roof slates, shrubbery, and other heavy litter rained down upon the earth, smoke and dust whirling in the air. The stone walls of the building seemed simply to settle, as if they’d grown tired of standing. The structure had been obliterated on the instant, nothing left of it now but several low lengths of ruined wall and a heap of debris. A cheer arose from the workmen and soldiers both.

“Now
that
was very neatly done, gentlemen,” the man on horseback said to them. “Note the small field of debris and the thoroughgoing destruction. No need for another charge here, I can tell you. Major Robert Cantwell, at your service.”

Tubby stood gaping at the field of rubble and at the crew of workmen, who at once set about shuttling posts from the lorries and laying them out at measured intervals. Others began auguring holes into the soil in which to sink the posts. They worked with a will, as if to have a paling fence constructed by nightfall.

Ignoring Major Cantwell’s introduction, Tubby asked, “
What
was very neatly done? Or rather
why
, for God’s sake?”

“God had nothing to do with it, sir. All glory has to be given to Mr. Nobel’s ingenious dynamite sticks and the new electronic blasting caps. And of course to the sappers who set the explosives. There’s an art to that, I can tell you.”

“On whose orders?” Tubby asked.

“Who are you to inquire about orders, sir?” the major asked, giving him a hard look now.

“I’m assistant director of the Bureau of Parks and Open Spaces,” Tubby lied. “My name is James Hall, and this is my companion Mr. Higgins, retired. The Metropolitan Board of Works is shortly to become caretaker of the park, so this is very
much
my business. Why have I heard nothing of it?”

“Our orders came to us early this morning from the Board of Works itself. Two boys were discovered in the old well-shaft last night, their legs and necks broken. The ruin has housed criminal gangs and been the site of murders and outrages, and now these two innocent boys, who found their way in through an unlocked grate and fell to their deaths. We were ordered to act at once, and we did so, as you can see. As for the Bureau of Parks and Open Spaces, Mr. James Hall, you must be aware that there has long been talk of razing the old ruin and building a grand pavilion and tea gardens.”

“Of course I’m aware of it,” Tubby said. “How could I not be? But this is a shocking acceleration of the plans, which are in preliminary stages, after all.”

“Well, sir,” Major Cantwell said with a laugh, “there’s nothing preliminary about
this
piece of work, I can tell you that. The job needed to be done, and it’s done.”

“Might we be given leave to look at the result, major?” Hasbro asked. “I’ve an interest in demolition, and this was indeed capably carried out.”

“No, sir, you may not. The Corps of Royal Engineers is taxed with hauling away the rubble and grading the site in preparation for the construction of the pavilion. Six months from now, barring inclement weather, you’ll be free to stroll upon the memory of the place. Meanwhile, Mr. Hall,” he said to Tubby, “as an employee of the Crown, you might consider visiting your place of employment on occasion in order to get some sense of what your work entails, rather than wandering abroad in order to put idle questions to men who very much
know
their business. Whose duty was it, I wonder, to ascertain that this apparently deadly grate was kept locked so that the void beneath it would not become a pit of dead children?
Yours
perhaps?” With that he spurred his horse around and set off down the hill again.

TWENTY-EIGHT