The Ruby in the Smoke (7 page)

He turned the handle of her door and opened it no more than eighteen inches. Beyond that, Ellen had told him, it squeaked. A gas lamp in the square outside gave suflicient light through the thin curtains for him to be able to see most of the room, and he stood quite still for two minutes, getting his bearings, being particularly careful about the floor; there was nothing worse than a loose edge of carpet or a hastily dropped article of clothing.

The only sound in the room was Sally's quiet breathing. Occasionally the rattle of a late cab came from the road outside, but nothing else was stirring.

Then he moved. He knew where she kept her papers; Ellen had been very free with her information. Hopkins emptied Sally's bag on the carpet, finding it heavier than he expected. And then he found the pistol.

He gaped for a moment, thinking he'd come to the wrong room. But there was Sally, sleeping only four feet

away. . . . He picked up the weapon and tested its balance.

"You little beauty," he said to himself. "I'm having you.

It went into his pocket, together with every scrap of paper in sight. Then he stood and looked around. Should he check all the drawers? But they might be full of papers, and what would he do then? After all, of all the bloody stupid things to ask a man to steal, a piece of bloody paper took the bloody biscuit. Now the pistol—that was worth having.

But he wasn't going to kill Sally for it. He looked down at her. Pretty girl, he thought; only a kid. Be a shame when Mrs. Holland catches up with her. But she can arrange her own accidents; Fm not playing that game.

He left as silently as he'd come, and not a soul heard him go.

But he didn't go far.

As he rounded a dark corner in the wilderness of streets behind Holborn, an arm encircled his neck, a foot swept his legs from under him, and a very heavy knee plummeted into his midriff. It was too sudden; and the knife that slid into his rib cage was cold, very much too cold, and froze his heart at once; and all he had time to think was. Not the gutter — my new coat — the mud . . .

Hands ripped the new coat open and plunged into the pockets. A watch and chain; a silver flask; a gold sovereign, and some copper; a diamond pin in the cravat; a few scraps of paper; and what was this? A gun? A voice laughed lightly, and footsteps died away.

And presently it rained. Little scraps of anguish still fluttered in Henry Hopkins's brain; but it was not long

before they settled into baffled oblivion as the blood that sustained them leaked away, out of the hole in his breast, and his life mingled with the dirty water in the gutter and then plunged into the sewers and the darkness.

"Ah," said Mrs. Rees at breakfast, "our dear guest has descended. And strangely early, for the toast has not yet come. Usually it is all but cold when you arrive. But there is bacon—will you have bacon.^ And could you contrive to leave it on the plate, unlike the kidneys of yesterday? Though bacon rolls less well than kidneys, I daresay you could force it off the plate if—"

"Aunt Caroline, I have been robbed," said Sally.

Mrs. Rees looked at her with intense and savage surprise.

"I do not understand," she said.

"Someone has come into my bedroom and stolen something. Many things."

"Did you hear that, Ellen?" said Mrs. Rees to the maid, who had just brought in the toast. "Miss Lockhart claims to have been robbed in my house. And does she blame my servants? Do you blame my servants, miss?"

The question was addressed in such a furious tone that Sally nearly quailed.

"I don't know who to blame! But when I woke up I found my bag upset all over the floor, and several things missing. And—"

Mrs. Rees had gone red. Sally had never seen anyone so angry; she thought the woman had gone completely insane, and took a step backward in fright.

"See, Ellen, see! She repays our hospitality by pretending to be the victim of a robbery! Tell me, Ellen: was the

house broken into? Are there shattered windows, and footprints? Are any other rooms disturbed? Tell me, child. I will not wait a moment for an answer. Tell me at

once:

"No, ma'am," said the maid in a pious whisper, looking everywhere but at Sally. "I promise you, Mrs. Rees. Everything's where it should be, ma'am."

"On your promise at least I may rely, Ellen. Then tell me, miss—" Turning back to Sally, her face now twisted like some tribal mask, pale eyes bulging and papery lips drawn in a sneer, "Tell me why these robbers who did not enter the house should select you for their imaginary attentions? What did you have that anyone would want?"

"Some papers," said Sally, who was now shaking from head to foot. She could not understand it: Mrs. Rees seemed possessed.

"Some papers? Some papers? You wretched girl— papers —let me see the scene of the crime. Let me see it. No, Ellen, I can rise without assistance. I am not so old that all the world may take advantage of my weakness— out of my way, girl, out of my way!"

The last words came in a shriek to Sally, who, confused, hovered between the table and the door. Ellen, solicitous, stood aside smartly, and Mrs. Rees tottered up the stairs. At the door of Sally's room she stopped, wait-mg for it to be opened, and again it was Ellen who was there to do it, Ellen who took her arm as she entered, Ellen who cast—for the first time—a look of sly triumph at Sally, who had followed.

Mrs. Rees looked around. The bedclothes were piled untidily; Sally's nightgown trailed half across the floor and half over the end of the bed; and two of her drawers

were open, with clothes jammed hastily into them. The pathetic little heap of things beside Sally's bag on the floor—a purse, a coin or two, a handkerchief, a pocket diary—were scarcely noticeable. Sally saw that the case was hopeless before Mrs. Rees said a word.

"Well?" was the word. "Well, miss?"

"I must have been mistaken," said Sally. "I beg your pardon, Aunt Caroline."

She spoke almost demurely, because an idea had just come into her head: something quite new. She stooped to pick up the things from the floor and found herself smiling.

"What are you grinning at, miss? Why are you smiling in that insolent fashion? I will not be smiled at."

Sally said nothing, but began to fold her clothes and put them neatly on the bed.

"What are you doing? Answer me! Answer me at once, you impertinent hussy!"

"I'm going to leave," said Sally.

"What? What did you say?"

"I'm going to leave, Mrs. Rees. I can't stay here anymore—I can't and I won't."

A gasp from the lady, another from the maid—and they stood aside as Sally made purposefully for the door.

"I shall send for my things," she said. "You will have the goodness to send them on when I let you know my new address. Good day."

And she left.

And found herself, once on the pavement outside, quite at a loss what to do next.

She had burned her boats—she was sure of that. She

could never go back to Mrs. Rees; but where else could she go? She walked on steadily, out of Peveril Square, and passed a news agent's; which gave her an idea. With almost the last of her money—three pennies—she bought a copy of The Times, and sat down to read it in a nearby churchyard. There was only one page which interested her, and it was not that which bore advertisements for governesses.

Having penciled some notes in the margin of the paper, she walked briskly to Mr. Temple's chambers in Lincoln's Inn. It was a fine morning, after the incessant drizzle of the night before, and the sun lifted her spirits.

Mr. Temple's clerk admitted her. The lawyer was very busy, very busy indeed, but he might be prevailed upon to see her for five minutes. She was shown into the office; Mr. Temple, bald and lean and brisk, got up to shake her hand.

"How much money have I got, Mr. Temple.^" she asked, after they had exchanged greetings.

He reached for a large book and wrote down some figures.

"Four hundred and fifty pounds in two and a half percent Treasury Stock; one hundred and eighty ordinary shares in the Lx)ndon and Southeastern Railway Company; two hundred preference shares in the Royal Mail Steam Navigation Company.... Are you sure that you want to know all this.^"

"Everything, please." She was following in the newspaper as he read.

He continued. It was not a long list.

"And the income," he concluded, "is, in round terms—"

"About forty pounds a year," she said.

"How did you know that?"

"I worked it out as you were reading the Hst."

"Good Lord."

"And I believe I have a measure of control over my money?"

"A great deal. Far too much, in my view. I tried to dissuade your father, but nothing would make him change his mind—so I drew up the will as he told me."

"Then it's a good thing you failed. Mr. Temple, Td like you to arrange to sell three hundred pounds of the Treasury Stock and buy equally among the following companies: the Great Western Railway Company; the Gas, Light, and Coke Company; and C. H. Parsons, Limited."

His jaw fell, but he wrote down her instructions.

"Furthermore," she said, "those preference shares in the Royal Mail Steam Navigation Company—sell those, please, and buy ordinary shares in the P and O. That should bring the income up to a little over fifty. I shall look at it again in a month or so, when . . . when I have time. I take it that there is some money paid on my account now to Mrs. Rees?"

"Mrs. Rees was paid . . ." He turned a page. "One hundred pounds on your father's death. That was a legacy, of course, not a payment for any service that might be rendered. The trustees—of whom I am one—came to an agreement by which the income from the trust should be paid on your behalf to Mrs. Rees while you remained under her roof."

"I see," said Sally. That woman had been receiving all her income, while accusing her of living on charity! "Well," she went on, "I have been discussing things with Mrs. Rees, and it will be best if the income is paid directly

yo The Ruby in the Smoke

to me from now on. Could you arrange for it to be paid into my account at the Strand branch of the London and Midland Bank?"

Mr. Temple looked decidedly troubled. He sighed and wrote it down, but said nothing.

"And finally, Mr. Temple, may I have some money now? You didn't mention a current account, but there must be one."

He turned a page in her ledger.

"It contains twenty-one pounds, six shillings, and nine-pence," he said. "How much would you like to withdraw?"

"Twenty pounds, please."

He opened a cashbox and counted out the money in gold.

"Miss Lockhart, I ask you simply—is this wise?"

"It is what I want to do. And I have the right to do it, so it V ill be done. One day, Mr. Temple, I promise I'll tell you why. Oh—^there is another thing. ..."

He pushed the cashbox away and faced her. "Yes?"

"Did my father ever mention a Major Marchbanks?"

"I have heard the name. I don't think your father had seen him for many years. A friend from his army days, I believe."

"Or a Mrs. Holland?"

He shook his head.

"Or anything at all called the Seven Blessings?"

"What an extraordinary name. No, Miss Lx)ckhart, he didn't."

"Then I won't take up any more of your time, Mr. Temple; but what about my father's share of his own firm? I had expected that to be worth something."

He stroked his jaw and looked ill at ease.

"Miss Lockhart, you and I will have to have a talk. Not now—I'm busy—but it'll keep for a week or so. Your father was a very unusual man, and you're a very unusual young lady, if I may say so. You're conducting yourself in a most businesslike way. I'm impressed. So I'll tell you something now that was going to keep till you were a little older: I'm worried about that firm, and I'm worried about what your father did before he left for the East. You're quite right: there should be more money. But the fact is that he sold his share outright, for ten thousand pounds, to his partner, Mr. Selby."

"And where is that money now?"

"That's what I'm worried about. It's vanished."

The Passions of Art

ThKRE were EEW places, in the ENGLAND OF 1872,

where a young lady could go on her own to sit, and think, and possibly drink some tea. The tea was not so important yet; but sooner or later she would have to eat, and there was only one class of well-dressed young women who moved freely in and out of hotels and restaurants; and Sally had no desire to be mistaken for one of those.

But she was, as Mr. Temple had said, a very unusual young lady. She wasn't afraid of being alone, for one thing. The independence of mind her father's teaching had given her stood her in good stead; problems, she thought, were things you faced, not things you ran away from.

She left Lincoln's Inn and walked slowly along the river until she found a bench under the statue of some bewigged king, and then she sat down to watch the traffic.

The biggest blow was the loss of her pistol. She had copied the three stolen papers—the message from the East, Major Marchbanks's letter, and the single page from the book—into her diary, so they were preserved. But the pistol had been a gift from her father, and besides, it might one day save her life.

72

But what she wanted most was to talk. Jim would have been the ideal person to talk to, but it was a Tuesday, and he would be working. Then there was Major March-banks—but Mrs. Holland might be watching the house, as she had before.

Then she remembered the card tucked into her diary. Thank heaven the thief had not removed that!

FREDERICK GARLAND

PHOTOGRAPHIC ARTIST

45, Burton Street London

She had some money now. She hailed a cab and gave the driver the address.

Burton Street was a shabby little place in the neighborhood of the British Museum. The door of number 45 was open; a painted sign proclaimed that W. and F. Garland, Photographers, conducted their business there. Sally went in and found a dusty, narrow shop, crowded with various photographic bits and pieces—magic lanterns, bottles of chemicals, cameras, and the like—standing on the counter and packed untidily on the shelves. There was no one there, but the innei door was open, and Sally could hear voices raised in a violent quarrel. One of them was the photographer's.