The Mark of the Golden Dragon (35 page)

As we went over the stuff, I filled him in on the social situation: the Cockpit, the Duke of Clarence, and all, and how the disposition of his treasure is going. He pronounced himself most satisfied.

***

Sidrah, though she sits silently with her hand in mine, as befits a Burmese maid in the presence of her father, is clearly entranced with the new city she finds herself in, giving out only an occasional
oh!
and
ah!
London may not have golden temples and such, but we do have our charms.

"I find this oh-so-delicious, you know," says Chopstick Charlie. "When I was here as a lad, I was treated rather abominably by many of the sons of the ruling class—like not being allowed to attend certain functions or to go in the front door of various clubs. They thought it was not quite right, you see, my being a mere Chinaman. Oh, but things are different now, much different!"

"Very true, Honored Sir of Yellow Hue. And there," I say, pointing to a large building, "is the British Museum, where your collection of antiquities will rest for the edification of all good Britons. The House of Chen will be well remembered for its generosity."

"Well, good," says Charlie. "My ancestors will be pleased, as will I."

We pull up to the front door of the Cockpit and pile out of the palanquin. The Gurkhas line up on either side as we approach the door. Can't say we don't make a splendid entrance.

A hush falls over the place as we grandly enter. Although Sidrah and I are dressed Oriental, Charlie is not. No, we had spent a good part of the morning at my tailor's and he is dressed top-to-toe in the latest fashion. Whether it will carry him through, I don't know, but it turns out I underestimated him.

Going down the aisle, chin up and little goatee pointing forward, Charlie looks about and suddenly grabs a very surprised man by the shoulders and exclaims, "Stinky! Stinky Beans!"

Wot?

The so-named Stinky Beans gapes in horror at the apparition in front of him.

"Stinky! Stanley Bernard! Don't you remember? It's Chinese Charlie, from back at good old King's College. Ha! The Old School Tie, eh, what? And is this your fine mistress, Stinky? Oh, so very fine! Ho-ho-ho! A lot better than your constant consort at our dear old school. You remember, Mrs. Palmer and Her Five Beautiful Daughters!" Charlie lifts his right palm and wiggles his fingers suggestively.

"Oh, and who do we have here? Why, it's none other than Reginald Rothenbottom. Yes! Oh, good old golden school days! Reading and writing and roasting fags! Yes, I do recall how you did roast me. Oh, yes, I do! Tell me, Reggie, how's your bank balance? Oh, well, come talk to me and we'll see what we can do about that!

"And who's this?"
Gasp!
"Why, it's..."

I, myself, sidle away from all this Old School nonsense and drag Sidrah over to a table where I spy Richard and the Duke of Clarence sitting. I shove Sidrah into the booth next to Richard and I hear him say, "My, my, look at this ... Where did you come from, now, dear?"

I immediately think better of my proposed seating arrangements and yank Sidrah back out and plunk myself into her place on the bench and pull her in after me.

Yes, I know ... Although I am totally dedicated to getting my Jaimy Fletcher back into my arms where he belongs, I have appreciated Lord Allen's company, having sailed into many a fine establishment when on his arm, and I do feel a certain proprietary interest in this gallant cavalry officer. Unwarranted, I know, but still...

Introductions are made, and then Charlie, himself, joins us and pulls off the greatest feat of all...

"Willie, old top!" he says, standing in front of the astounded Duke of Clarence.

Oh, God, it's all over,
I'm thinkin' in despair.
We are ruined...

"Oh, the halcyon days at Kew! Were they not glorious, Willie? Ah, the simple joys of youth!"

I am amazed to see the Duke of Clarence, the youngest son of George III, by the Grace of God, King of England, rise to his feet and say...

"Good Lord, Chinese Charlie...? Yes, yes, it is, indeed, you. Do sit down, sit down..."

Later, when all hubbub has died away, I whisper in Charlie's ear, "So how did you pull this off, Chops?"

He laughs and says, "You see, little one, I own many of these people, for all their fine airs. I have been keeping an eye on them through my contacts in India, in Ceylon, in Malta, in Italy, and yes, in London, too—their financial dealings, their banking ... their very extensive gambling debts. You see, I own half the stock in the Bank of Norfolk, and a few others, so..."

"I know," I say, laughing and poking him in the ribs. "Money talks, and all else walks..."

"Indeed, little one, indeed."

I turn my attention back to Cavalry Captain Lord Richard Allen, who once again has his hand on that of my very good friend Sidrah.

"Ahem, Lord Allen, need I remind you of our appointment tomorrow?" I give him a look.

"What, Princess?" he asks, distracted.

Grrrrrr...

"We have a date for a picnic, you might recall..."

"Oh, yes..."

"And a bit of church, too," I say, "which, I think, will do both of us a world of good."

"What are you thinking about, Princess?"

I am sitting cross-legged on the blanket we had spread out on the grass of Lincoln's Inn Fields, a lovely open spot of greenery rimmed with daffodils and tulips overlooking the Thames, glittering down below. Lord Richard Allen is lying on his back, his booted ankles crossed, his scarlet jacket opened, his lovely head on my lap. It is an absolutely gorgeous day and the city, in all its glory, lies spread out all around us.

I am dressed modestly, for a change—a simple pink and white frock to mirror the beautiful spring day—and we have been to church, after all, and I had to be somewhat chaste in the way of attire. It is rather too warm for one of my wigs, so I have donned a soft bonnet to hide my somewhat outrageous head. My black mantilla rests on my shoulders as well. Although I generally crave to be the center of attention in most situations, I don't always like to be stared at.

Yes, we went to services at Saint Paul's Cathedral this morning. Although I am not always a faithful churchgoing type, I did wish to go today, and I dragged a very unwilling Richard Allen with me. Ravi, too.

It is the Sin of Pride, I know, but I do like going in the front door of that grand place, a privilege that was denied me when I was a starving and undeniably filthy street urchin. I especially like going in dressed all fine and on the arm of an extremely handsome young cavalry officer. Yes, I know, Pride Goeth Before a Fall, but still...

"Is very grand temple, Memsahib," says Ravi, his dark eyes wide in all the splendor. "Where do we go?"

The smell of incense is sure to be familiar to the lad, but scant else in this place would be. We have made up a nice little white linen suit for him—neat trousers and jacket buttoned up to the neck. His loincloth and turban are banished for this day, as are his golden slippers. Today, he wears black leather pumps on his feet, which I am sure he finds most uncomfortable.

"Just follow us and do what I do. You'll see." Richard leads the way to a pew and we slide in and sit down.

"But where is Ganesha?" whispers Ravi in the hush of the place. "I wish to make small offering."

"Uh, he's out in the hall. Quiet, now, Ravi," I say, suppressing a smile at the thought of the jolly Indian elephant god dancing out in the anteroom of this Anglican fortress. "Kneel down when I do and fold your hands and look pious."

He does as I tell him and so does Richard. The service begins with a procession down the main aisle and when all the robed clerics are in place, the service begins.

We recite the prayers, take the sermon to heart, mostly, and listen to the music ... the glorious music. It's the Mass in C by a new fellow, Beethoven, who I hear is getting a lot of play lately. German, of course. I listen to the
kyries
swirling about the interior of the dome, and decide that I like it.
Sing on, Ludwig van
...

The place was awe inspiring, as always, and brought back many memories, not all of them pleasant. I recalled some terrifying times clutching Rooster Charlie's hand as we made our way through the catacombs beneath this place, a deceased churchman's dried-out, hollow-eyed corpse on every hand.

Eventually, all the prayers are said, the last benediction is bestowed upon our unworthy brows, the last thundering chorus is sung, and it is over.

As we leave, I say to Richard, "Please, Richard, give us a minute. We'll meet you outside."

He nods and bows as I lead Ravi into a side room.

"Ganesha?" asks Ravi, gazing at rows of lit candles in the dimly lit room.

"No, dear," I reply, taking a few coins from my purse and handing them to the old woman who sits within. I buy two candles and give one to Ravi. "But, here, lad, take this and you can light it in front of Ganesha when we get back to the ship. Be sure to put in a good word for me. Now, scoot on out to Lord Allen. I want to be alone for a moment."

He scurries out and I take my remaining candle and light it from the wick of one of the lit candles, one that is guttering down and almost extinguished. I know that each of the candles have been placed there by someone with heartfelt prayers for the sick, the needy, or the departed. I add mine to those on the small altar, pull up my mantilla to cover my head, and kneel down on the narrow pad below the rows of flickering lights that is provided for supplicants. I put my hands together and say...

Lord, I don't even know if I should be talking to You because I know I got a lot of things to answer for in this life of mine, and we both realize that I come prayin to You only when I'm in a mess and not when things are goin good for me, but You gotta know Jaimy is in such deep trouble right now and a lot of it's my fault. Maybe I shouldn't even be asking this of You, but I am, I am, Lord, for Jaimy is a good boy and my cockeyed plan to rescue him is so full of "what ifs?" that things might go so awfully wrong when it all comes down, but I pray that they won't. I don't even know if You're listening, but if You are, please watch out for him a little, at least till I can get him back and straighten him out. Oh, I don't even know what I'm sayin' and I'm crying now and I gotta stop, but I think You know what I mean by all this whimpering and whining, I do.... Amen.

I stand, collect myself as best I can, and go back out to Lord Allen and Ravi. They stand waiting on the steps. Richard presents his arm, and I wipe at my eyes and take it.

Well, I don't know if that did any good, but I do know it couldn't hurt.

I had bought a kite for Ravi to use on this fine day, and after he has set out the fine luncheon made up for us by Mr. Lee, he runs off joyously to fly it.

Watching him go, I reply to Richard's question, "Well, for one thing, milord, I'm thinking about my meeting with Mr. Peel yesterday outside the office of Baron Mulgrave, the First Lord of the Admiralty. I think it went rather well..."

At that meeting I had been dressed in as military fashion as I could manage—that is, just short of outright scandal—my navy blue lieutenant's jacket with white turnouts and gold braid, white lace at throat and wrists, white skirt pleated at front with small bustle roll at back. I had worn my Trafalgar medal about my neck
and
my Legion of Honor adorned my left breast. My white-gloved hand had rested upon the arm of Mr. Charles Chen, of the House of Chen. He, too, was dressed to the nines in the best that the tailors on Savile Row could supply. He beamed merrily about, looking every bit like the cat that swallowed the canary ... any number of unfortunate canaries, as a matter of fact. Under the arm that did not bear my hand rested rolled-up pieces of what appeared to be parchment.

"All is going well for your pardon, Miss," Peel informs me as we wait for our summons. "But as for Fletcher, well, it is rumored that he did kill one of our operatives, a Mr. Bliffil, who, I believe, was of your acquaintance. I don't know if Fletcher's pardon will fly, but we are working on the problem. We shall see. Ah, shall we go in?"

A man has appeared at the now open door and we are beckoned inside.

We enter, introductions are made—
Lord Mulgrave, Miss Faber, Mr. Chen, charmed, enchanté, and all
—and we sit down.

Once again, a man sits at a desk going through papers that no doubt concern me.

"Hmmm. Mr. Peel here seems to think a lot of you, Miss Faber," says Baron Mulgrave, First Lord of the Admiralty.

"Indeed, Sir, she has been invaluable in the past ... the matter of the
Santa Magdalena
gold, chief among them," says Mr. Peel. "Over a million pounds sterling into the Treasury, you know..."

Peel has, indeed, been restored to his former position as Chief Adviser on Matters of Naval Intelligence. The unfortunate Mr. Smollett, last holder of that position, is off somewhere in the wilderness of banishment and ill-favor, trying to explain away what has become known as The Affair of the Duke's Watch.

"Hmmm..." muses Baron Mulgrave, mulling over the contents of the papers. "While there are some who extol your virtues, Miss Faber, there are others who wonder why you are not yet hanged."