The Pretender (44 page)

"Wait! You don't think they'd just leave her somewhere like that, do you? She's not the tightest against the water, you know. If she ain't bilged regular, she'll hove to for sure."

Kurt grunted. "The Magician will want to know that." Stubbs nodded. Ignoring the tavern keeper, Kurt and Stubbs left the dingy place to hurry for the club.

Stubbs grinned at his giant companion once they were out in the night. "You were a right nightmare come walkin' in there! How'd you fake the blood on the knife?"

Kurt didn't even glance at him. "What makes you think it's fake blood?"

Stubbs stopped in mid-stride, letting Kurt move ahead. When there was safe distance between them, Stubbs followed the big man. "Blimey, 'tis a good thing he's on our side," he muttered. "I think."

Feebles took one look at Button and swore. "Whose bloody side are you on?"

For Button was clad in a shining silk example of what short tyrannical French generals with delusions of grandeur were wearing that year. He waved his plumed hat at Feebles with glee.

"If I'm to provide distraction, I'll need the proper costume. Moreover, it was my favorite role until the revue closed. Ah, those glorious nights…"

"Right. Get on with it, then. They's a crowd before the offices, but it don't look like anyone's inside this late. You get 'em all lookin' your way, and I'll get into the files."

Button gestured grandly. "Lay on, Macduff!" Then he gasped, clapping one hand over his mouth. "Oh, dear! I've quoted the Scottish play! We're doomed for certain!"

"You'll be doomed if you don't get your shiny self down on that street to distract them as is still on the docks!" Feebles gave Button a friendly boost out of the hired hack, leaving the valet to dust fruitlessly at the boot print on the seat of his silk pants.

"Hmph! Philistine!"

Then Button was off. Feebles watched him strut down the way, attracting attention with every step. Of course, the fact that he was loudly conversing with an invisible "Josephine" about the offensive hygiene habits of the English might have had something to do with it.

"God help him, for he's goin' to die," muttered Feebles as he kept to the shadows on his way to the side of the dock registration offices. He'd never been here before, but offices was offices. File clerks were all the same, bless their borin' little hearts.

With a simple twist of his picks on the lock, he was in the rear door. A right joke it was, how everyone always spent their money on the front lock, when no right-minded thief would ever use the main door. The rear-door lock was usually some simple device that a child could open with a hat pin.

Once he was inside, Feebles lit himself a candle with his fancy new matches. He had a precious five left, for he'd earlier used three of them in sheer amazed experimentation.

Only the best for the Liars, but then, the Magician had always insisted on that. He even gave them good wax candles for sneakwork, as they didn't smoke or drip, and gave a lovely bright light.

Feebles had been following that advice for so long that it only took the hot-honey smell of beeswax to put him at full sneak attention.

A rumble of angry protest came from the street outside. He'd better hurry, afore Button got himself flayed by a fisherman's knife for his sorry behavior.

To Feebles's dismay, there was a single great drawer of "M" registries, packed so tightly with slips and forms that he could hardly pick one out without tearing it.

The rumble abruptly became a roar, and Feebles clearly heard cries of, "Hang Napoleon!"

Cursing fervently and with great imagination, Feebles yanked the entire laden drawer from its slot and hefted it to his shoulder. Then he was out into the alley and running for the hack still waiting outside.

The driver was standing and craning his neck to see what the crowd down the way was doing. He didn't so much as glance at Feebles's odd burden.

"Whot's all that down there, do you think?"

"Don't know." Feebles dropped the drawer onto the ratty seat cushion and ducked back out. "I'll find out and tell you."

He dashed to the edge of the angry mob and began elbowing and toe-stomping his way through. In the center, he found a rotten-vegetable-slimed Button bravely holding off the "enemy" with a tattered plume from his hat, which had disappeared.

"Off wi' zeir heads!" Button declared with an accent and an insolent sneer. "I shall have zee lot of you sent to zee guillotine!"

"Bloody hell," muttered Feebles. Then he sprang forward and grabbed Button by the scruff of his elegantly ruffled neck. "I've got 'im, lads! Get some rope and some tar and feathers, and we'll make a real peacock out of 'im!"

This met with a roar of approval, and half the mob scattered to find materials for their amusement. The other half remained to jeer at Button and to continue to decorate his costume with rotted produce.

They didn't seem to notice that Feebles was moving sideways out of the center of the action, for he continued to exhort them all to finer efforts.

"That's no good, lad! Get him in the gut with that one! Osh, you throw like a bloody girl!"

Then they were within yards of the hack. Feebles pointed back down the street and yelled, "Blimey, look what they've got!"

Button followed the direction of his finger and gave a fearful shriek. Unable to resist, the crowd before them turned to see.

The two men made a mad dash for their hack and flung themselves within. Button huddled on the floor while Feebles shouted up to the driver.

"Go, man, go! They're all barmy! Stark staring lunatics, escaped from Bedlam this very night! Drive, man!"

The startled hackney driver whipped his horse to a leap of speed, twisting the hack nearly on its side in the speed of his turn.

With a clatter of wheels and hooves, they sped down the cobbles, leaving the mob far behind them.

Feebles clung to the side grip with one hand and wrapped the other arm around the drawer, which threatened to bounce clear off the seat. Button lay gasping on the floor, curled into a ball.

In spite of his irritation, Feebles was a bit worried about the poor little fellow. He gently toed him with his boot.

"You all right, then? Button, you ain't gone and fainted, 'ave you?"

Then he heard it, over the clattering coach and all. The little loony was laughing!

"Oh, dear!" Button chortled as he wiped a tear from his eye. "Oh my! That was ever so much fun. I always did love an enthusiastic audience."

He hopped up to sit in the narrow space left by the drawer and began plucking the fruit peels from his costume. Peering down at the papers crammed within the box, he beamed in admiration. "Did you take
everything,
Mr. Feebles?"

"Well, himself said to get
Mary Klar
or anything like. These are the 'M' slips."

"Smashing job! Very efficient. There'll surely be something useful in this lot to help us find Miss Agatha."

"Bloody well hope so," muttered Feebles. "For I ain't got a good feelin' about the lady, indeed I don't."

The boat heaved slowly to one side, and this time it didn't swing back. Agatha was tumbled sideways onto the steeply slanted deck and awakened from the half-doze she had fallen into as she sawed slowly at her bonds with a shard of brown bottle.

Fear jolted through her. She was sliding down the planks, unable to prevent herself. She squirmed and flailed, trying to turn herself, or catch something, anything!

The mast caught her full in the back, cracking painfully against her bound arms and knocking the breath from her lungs. Still, she had stopped her slow fall into the dark water.

Carefully, she moved. If she could roll to her stomach so that the mast pressed her side, she could continue to work the shard of glass clutched in her right fist against the bonds on her left.

It was astonishing that she had been able to keep hold of it in her panic. Then again, without it, she might as well voluntarily dive into the cold river, for there would be no escape if she could not cut her way free.

She made the move without toppling from her uneasy perch, although now her head hung low, as did her legs. She felt as though she might crack clean in half.

Don't think. Cut.

She had been cutting for hours. The rope was thick and she couldn't see what she was doing. She'd wasted a long time working on a loop that turned out to be nothing but the end piece that was already hanging free.

Experimentally she pulled her sore wrists against each other, trying the rope yet again. Was there some give after all? Could she be close to freedom?

Don't hope. Don't despair. Just bloody cut.

Simon paced the floor of the club, Sarah Cook's neatly printed list in his hand. His Liars had done well.

First, the
Mary Klar
was actually the
Marie Claire.
It had last been seen moored in the East India Dock, which was confirmed by the docking slip recovered from Feebles's files.

This meant that all the searchers could be pulled from the main docks and sent to concentrate on the ones belonging to the East India Company.

As small ancient fishing vessels weren't at all the Company's style, the
Marie Claire
should be relatively easy to spot there… if the East India Company Dock was not full to the brim with hundreds of their own vessels.

The other news was not so good. Not only had the
Marie Claire
been deserted by its crew, it also had a tendency to take on alarming amounts of water.

Simon was almost paralyzed by his fear for Agatha. The thought of her trapped below, alone in a sinking vessel—

The paper in his hand crumpled in his fist.
No.
He would not count her as lost until he held her lifeless body in his arms. Until then, she lived. And he would find her in time.

James entered the room, tossing his wet coat over a chair. "They've had no luck at the Company dock so far. I've set Stubbs up as contact there, everyone knows to where to find him for the latest reports." He eyed the crushed list in Simon's hand. "Anything yet?"

Simon shook his head. "Not since I spoke to you an hour ago."

"What about this Dobb character? He knew where the boat was."

"Weeks ago. He may have no idea where it is now. Still, we're keeping an eye out for him."

"It's almost dawn. She's been in their hands for more than sixteen hours. She could be anywhere by now." James ran both hands through his hair. "We need more men."

"We have her servants, my servants, and every one of the Liars searching the dock. There are simply too many ships out there, James."

"Small, grimy fishing boats named
Marie Claire”

"You'd be surprised," Simon said grimly.

"They were out fairly deep in the inlet where I escaped from them. Maybe we should restrict our search to those anchored outside the docks."

"Ships move. It's the whole point of them, after all."

"I know that," snarled James. "I simply—"

"Be easy. We'll find her."

James took a deep breath and asked, "Where are you going next?"

"To the East India Dock. I'm searching those anchored outside the docks."