Newt's Emerald (20 page)

A strong sea wind was blowing in from the south-west, which threatened the bonnet, at least until they turned into the Steine, where some shelter was to be had from the surrounding buildings, even though it was quite a large open space, indicative of its origins as the green it had once been. Truthful, who had studied her guidebook, noted Steine House, the residence of Mrs Fitzherbert, but she was intent on making her way to the Marine Pavilion some little way off. This appeared smaller to her than she expected, though the large dome of the stables behind it was impressive, and she supposed it would be a grander building when the work that was currently in train was finished. At present there was a kind of iron scaffold going up around the small dome in the centre of the building, and a great many workmen were engaged in making a mess of the ground about the place. All in all, it was quite disappointing.

However, a view of the Pavilion was not Truthful’s main object.

“Where would I find the Black Lion Inn?” she asked Sergeant Ruggins, who was as usual surveying anyone who came within ten feet of her with a suspicious gaze.

“You don’t want to go there, milady,” said Ruggins. He pointed to the mass of closely-set buildings to the south and west of the Pavilion. “In them narrow lanes, anything could happen.”

“I see,” said Truthful. “Very well. We shall go back.”

The return walk took a little longer, as Truthful encountered several people she knew who could not be ignored, unseasonably in Brighton for the Otterbrook’s ball. One was the unfortunate Mister Trellingsworth, who had become emboldened by Truthful’s kindness at Lady Mournbeck’s ball and was fair to becoming a nuisance. Luckily he soon found that the shade of his green coat and green pantaloons clashed with Truthful’s own green ensemble, so he had to regretfully deny himself the privilege of walking with her.

On Truthful’s return she discovered both the Marchioness and the Dowager Countess had retired to recoup their energy before dinner, which was to be served at the compromise time between city and country hours of seven o’clock. Truthful yawned and declared to Parkins that she also would take advantage of a short nap, and there was no need for anyone to attend to her until half an hour before the appointed hour to dine.

But Truthful did not take to her bed. Instead she carefully dressed in her masculine attire, affixed her moustache, loaded her pistols and put them in the pockets of her driving coat. Then, disarraying her hair with clawed fingers, she pulled her hat down on her head and crept through the house to the stables at the rear, narrowly avoiding two of the maids.

As she had expected, one of Harnett’s men was watching the gate, and there were two grooms in the stableyard. Truthful considered them for several seconds, wondering how she could get past. One leaf of the gate was open, but the guard stood smack bang in the middle, and there was no way of crossing the yard without being seen by the grooms.

As she was pondering this problem, her eyes ran across the horse-boxes, and stopped as she saw one very familiar bay mare. But what on earth was Stephen’s horse doing here?

Truthful pursed her lips and wondered if she was going mad. The white patch was very distinctive, but there had to be at least a slim possibility that some other horse might have the same one.

She dismissed this puzzle as looking at the horses had given her an idea. Watching the men carefully, she quickly ducked out from her cover by the door, slid back the bolts fastening the closest horse-box and retreated to the shadows again.

The mare inside, a riding hack of no great nobility, watched as the gate of her horse-box slowly swung open. But she did not take advantage of this freedom, flicking her ears instead in irritation or even fear at this unlooked for motion.

“Oh you silly animal,” whispered Truthful. “Walk on. Walk on!”

Whether the horse heard her whisper, or felt some of Truthful’s magic, she did step out of the box. And stopped again, lowering her head to snatch up some fallen straw.

“Go!” whispered Truthful. “Make a fuss!”

The horse blinked and twitched her ears again. Seeing another swathe of straw, she idled over to it, but this time her hooves rang clear on the cobbled floor —finally catching the attention of the grooms.

“Here, Christie’s out!” called one. He came walking quickly back, his companion at his heels.

“Wolves!” whispered Truthful, investing her words with power. “Bears! Donkeys and wild dogs!”

Christie’s amiability disappeared at once. She reared violently, sending both grooms flying back on their behinds. As they struggled to get up, the mare dashed between them, heading for the open gate. The guard there, no coward, stood his ground until the last second, and snatched at the horse’s halter as she passed. Catching it, he was dragged through the gateway and off, cursing and bellowing for assistance.

Truthful ran past the grooms, calling out “Hold on!” as gruffly as she could manage. But once past the gate, she turned left, where horse and guard had bolted right, towards the seafront.

Walking briskly with her head down and one hand clapped on her hat to keep it in place, Truthful was soon back at the Steine. Cutting across it, she entered the narrow lanes of the old town, and began to look for the Black Lion.

It was darker here, where the buildings crowded together, and the people were not at all of the quality to be found promenading about the Steine. But Truthful was relieved to notice they were generally respectable citizens. This was an area of some industry, with shops and workshops in abundance, and much business being done. Truthful particularly noticed a tinsmith, a baker that smelled quite wonderful, and a shop full of the most interesting wooden toys.

And at last, there was the Black Lion. Truthful paused to eye the battered hanging sign and was considering whether she should enter or not when a hand suddenly gripped her elbow with considerable force.

“Stephen!” hissed a familiar voice close to her ear. “What are you doing! You mustn’t be seen here dressed like that!”

Chapter Eighteen

A Sighting in Brighton

Truthful turned around, the grip lessening, and came face to face with Major Harnett. Not the ink-stained writer of Paternoster Row, nor the elegant gentleman of White’s. Not even the sodden survivor of his bowsprit experience. This was Harnett as a common labourer, his face dirty, his coat of some cloth a close cousin to a sack, and his trousers truly unmentionable.

“By God!” he said, his grip once again tightening. “No!”

“Unhand me!” croaked Truthful, struggling against his grip.

Surprisingly, Harnett let go. Even more surprisingly, he truckled low and tugged his forelock, at the same time speaking urgently in a whisper.

“Tru . . . damn it, you are in great danger! Follow me, I beg you!”

Truthful hesitated for a moment. Harnett looked up at her, and she saw fear in his eyes. Fear for her, she realised with a pang. Nodding her head, she indicated she would follow. Harnett immediately led her down the narrow lane, around a corner and into the doorway of a modest tea merchant’s shop. The door opened at once, Harnett rushed in, and Truthful followed.

A man in a shopkeeper’s garb slid a pistol back into the front pocket of his green apron and stood aside. Harnett nodded to him, took Truthful by the elbow and led her upstairs. Passing the doorway of a chamber on the second floor, Truthful saw a man looking out between the curtains of the window there into the laneway, down at the front entrance of the Black Lion.

“Anything?” asked Harnett, pausing.

The man shook his head. Harnett nodded and led Truthful up to an empty chamber on the third floor, which also overlooked the lane, the curtains similarly drawn to create a narrow viewing aperture. A chair set by it indicated the position of another watcher, though it was currently not occupied.

As soon as they were in this room, and the door shut, Harnett exploded.

“I will break Ruggins for this! You could have been killed! What were you thinking!”

“I thought I was merely to be in danger of kidnapping,” sniffed Truthful. “In which case I would hope you to rescue me.”

“Not if you are presumed to be Stephen,” said Harnett, his face set. “Plathenden doesn’t need
him
, and she knows he is working with me.”

“Oh,” said Truthful. She hadn’t thought of that. “I just wanted . . . you were taking so long, and I
must
recover the Emerald!”

“Can you not leave well enough alone?” asked Harnett in exasperated tones. “If you had gone into that tavern . . . a knife in your back . . .”

“Well, I did not go in,” said Truthful. “And I have not got a knife in my back. Is Lady Plathenden in there?”

“Not yet,” said Harnett. “But we have proven she owns the place, and she has been seen in Brighton. That is why we are ‘taking so long’! We must watch and wait, here and two other houses where she may turn up. One such watch is by your cousins, in the guise of clay-diggers, which is why I had the terrible shock of seeing Stephen Newington-Lacy attired as a gentleman, expressly against my orders and not only that, simply strolling up to the Black Lion as if he had not a care in the world!”

“I am sorry,” said Truthful. “But if you simply
told
me what was going on I wouldn’t need to investigate for myself!”

“I will have to send for Sergeant Ruggins to escort you to your lodgings, as soon as I may,” said Harnett heavily. “We are devilishly shorthanded. But once home, I trust you will assume your . . . your feminine identity and stay safe!”

“I don’t wish to stay safe,” said Truthful. She strode over to the chair and sat down, twitching the curtain aside. “I can watch too!”

Harnett clenched his fists, but did not immediately answer. Truthful snatched one glance at him, then set her face towards the lane below.

“Truthful, I know I have been angry with you, unwarrantably so. We have been at odds and misunderstood each other,” said Harnett, speaking slowly and with obvious effort to stay
calm. “But please hear me. Lady Plathenden is a very dangerous woman, of great resources. She leads a large number of men, and women too, who will stop at nothing to do her bidding. She is a malignant sorcerer, and you are at great risk from her. If she has not yet mastered the Emerald then she will want you to help further her aims. If she has, then she will want you dead in order to have no rival for its powers. So you must go where you will be safe!”

Truthful showed no sign of hearing his words. She was staring intently out the window at a caped figure, a short woman with her hood up and a hatbox on her hip, who had emerged from the doorway of the Black Lion. She couldn’t see her face, but there was something about the way she walked . . .

“It’s her!” she exclaimed, pointing so hard her fingernail scratched against the glass.

“Plathenden!” exclaimed Harnett, leaping forward to see.

“No,” said Truthful. “My maid! Agatha!”

“I must go after her,” said Harnett. “Stay here!”

Truthful waited for two seconds then disobeyed, following him as he went clattering down the stairs in a rush, calling out to his men.

“Keep watch for Plathenden!”

Harnett didn’t even notice Truthful until he was outside and the door shut behind them both. He was craning on tip-toe to see over the heads of the crowd and staggered as Truthful ran into him.

“Can you never do as you are told!” he snapped. “Stay by me!”

With that, he slid between two large meat carriers and slipped past a woman carrying a bag of potatoes almost her own size. Truthful followed as closely as she could at his heels, ducking and weaving, jumping up whenever opportunity allowed to catch sight of Agatha, always some twenty or thirty bobbing heads in front of them.

Finally the lane joined a somewhat broader street that ran up the hill and down to the seafront. Harnett paused by the corner of a house there, his head turning swiftly from left to right. Obviously he had lost their quarry. Truthful was just catching up to him when she saw the air shimmer behind him and to his side, and Agatha appeared out of the whitewashed wall, a stone knife in her hand.

“Charles!” screamed Truthful, in her true voice. At the same time she reached for a pistol, but the lock caught on the edge of the pocket of her coat, and she could not get it free.

Harnett whirled about and caught Agatha’s wrist, turning the knife aside so it scraped across his shoulder rather than plunging in his heart. He twisted harder and Agatha dropped the knife. But she did not surrender, instead raking at Harnett’s face with her left hand, the nails there suddenly grown long and sharp. He grabbed that wrist also, and the two of them struggled violently from side to side, Harnett shocked at finding his strength matched by a lady’s maid, Agatha’s face twisted in fury.

Truthful finally got her pistol free. Cocking the lock, she levelled it at Agatha’s back and after the briefest moment of consideration, pulled the trigger. There was a resounding crack, a great plume of white smoke, and then much to Truthful’s surprise, something whizzed past her own ear with a whistling cry.

The ball had somehow ricocheted off Agatha’s back!

“The bracelet!” shouted Harnett. “Touch her with the bracelet!”

Truthful had forgotten she was wearing the gold and silver wire bracelet, it was so slim. Dropping the empty pistol, she slid back her coat cuff and struck Agatha hard in the middle of her back.

“It’s not touching!” roared Harnett, who was slowly being overborn by the unnatural strength of the ferocious Agatha. “Pull your shirt-sleeves up as well!”

Truthful struggled to push her shirt cuff back and bring the bracelet forward, unfortunately tangling immediately with her cuff-links.

“Hurry!” gasped Harnett. He was down on one knee and Agatha’s talons were almost plucking at his eyes, “Hurry!”

“I am hurrying!” shrieked Truthful. At last she got the bracelet clear and pressed her wrist hard against Agatha’s back. She didn’t know what would happen, but the last thing she expected was for the woman to utter an unearthly scream and collapse at her feet, quite dead.