Lady Abigail and the Morose Magician
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Lady Abigail and the Morose Magician
Copyright K.G. McAbee 2013
Cover image title: Steampunk'd 4; Artist: Crysco Photography
Free to use/modify through Creative Commons
Lady Abigail and the Morose Magician
K.G. McAbee
"But, but, but…Abigail," I whined, I admit it, but rest assured it was in the most manly fashion conceivable. I put my cup down on the breakfast table with determination; it clattered against the saucer as if it too were upset.
Whining or clattering, Lady Abigail Moran was having none of it.
"We have no choice, Simon, my dear chap." She poured tea and sugared it with a liberal hand. "We simply must fill the yawning coffers. New waistcoats do not grow upon trees, you know."
How well I knew indeed. But one must have new ones, after all; it is a fact of life.
"Well, then," I said, resigned to the inevitable. I took a piece of toast and slathered it with butter. "Let the record state that I am against it, will you?"
Allow me to insert a bit of explanation here. The lovely, delightful and in all ways extraordinary Lady Abigail Moran is many things: a member of the minor aristocracy, an excellent linguist, a well educated bluestocking, a noted beauty. She is also a most accomplished thief and has a talent for picking locks and a penchant for disguises. I, Simon Thorne—no, it is not the name given me at birth, but it will do to go on with; my real name is quite another story for quite another day. However, let it suffice to say that I am Abigail's devoted friend, her staunch accomplice, her eager partner in all things illegal and otherwise. I am also quite devotedly in love with her. This I have never had the courage to mention to her, however; somehow the subject has never come up in conversation.
But I live in hope.
Being a pair of thieves, we live in a rather boom and bust fashion. We steal something; we are in funds for a time and buy new waistcoats and such like necessities. The funds run through our fingers, as funds tend to do, and we draw back, look at our finances with a sad mutual shake of our heads, and we at once begin to seek a new source.
The seeking of new sources of funds is generally Abigail's task.
I do not always agree with her choices, and sometimes I manage to find likely objects deserving of our appreciation nearly as well as she. But this time, she had come up with something I did not like, not in the least.
"Just take a butcher's at this gaudy thing," Abigail said, using Cockney rhyming slang because she knows it upsets me, and shaking the morning edition of the Daily Chronicle at me. "Do at least give it a look, Simon. You know you want to."
She desired me to take a look, not at the paper as such; it was simply the 7 October 1885 morning edition, with nothing remarkable about it. Nothing, you must understand, but the image emblazoned across the entire top half of page one, section four. The image was reproduced from a daguerreotype of a plump girl wearing ropes of pearls spread across her not inconsiderable bosom, with an immense man beaming fondly beside her as if she were even dearer than the necklace.
"English Giant of Industry Purchases 'Tears of the Leviathan' from Maharajah of Baroda for Record Price!" the headline screamed out at me in bold and quite unnecessarily large type.
"Oh, all right," I gave into Abigail, as I always give into Abigail. I took the paper.
"That's my dear boy," she said as she rang the bell for more toast.
I spread the paper on the breakfast table with no more than a bit of grumbling, which Abigail ignored as is her wont, and began to read:
"Mr. Ezekiel Wilkerson, whom rumor has it is on the next Birthday Honors list for a baronetcy for his contributions to the country, has purchased a most notable bauble for his only child, Miss Belle Wilkerson," I read out loud. If I were going to suffer through the bloody thing, I might was well spread my agony.
Abigail grinned at me and thanked Rupert, our servant, who had just brought in a fresh rack of toast.
"A new job, m'lady?" Rupert asked, his jovial face turning red with anticipation.
Do not be surprised, I pray you, at the informality. Rupert is as much our partner as our servant. Rupert first began to serve the Moran family as a boy of seven, when he became the boot boy for Abigail's redoubtable grandpapa, Sir Agamemnon. This gentleman—thankfully deceased, though I would never dare say so where Abigail could hear me, for fear of imminent mayhem practiced upon my unresisting form—passed onto Abigail many things: years of accumulated debt, a penchant for the finer things in life, the little flat we now occupied, a rackety old manor down in Kent, and an airship which was even more of a wreck than the manor. Abigail adored her grandpapa and is determined to restore the family fortunes as well as the family airship. A portion of all we acquire goes into the airship fund, never to be touched unless the emergency is dire.
"I think we may well have a likely prospect, Rupert." Abigail neatly decapitated her boiled egg. "Mr. Simon, on the other hand, appears to disagree with me. Do go on, Simon; your voice is delightful."
"Hmph," I snorted, and I meant it to sting, by George! But I was interested now and continued, "'The bauble in question is a pearl necklace, part of a parure once owned by the Maharajah of Baroda. The necklace is composed of two long ropes, each rope consisting of pearls of matched size, and is known at the Tears of the Leviathan.'"
"Why not call them 'secretions from a whale's lachrymal glands' and be done with it?" Abigail asked in between toast crunching. "I do detest giving jewels romantic names: Star of India. Pearl of Allah. The Jubilee Diamond. Makes them all too terribly difficult to fence unless one is willing to have them cut up into smaller jewels. And pearls, sadly, cannot be cut about at all."
Abigail, as you might detect, lacks the romantic soul. She detests poetry, small children and kittens, though in her defense, she is quite fond of dogs.
But I digress.
“‘The remainder of the parure'—and here I interject for those of my readers who may not recognize the word as well as we jewel thieves do; a parure is a collection of matched jewelry generally consisting of a necklace, earrings, several bracelets and possibly a brooch or two—'has also been purchased by Mr. Wilkerson—perchance to grace his lovely offspring upon her arrival at a woman's state in somewhat less than two years' time continued on page three.'" I rustled the newspaper in a meaningful fashion as I turned to the page in question.
Abigail ignored me. Rupert was eating the rest of my toast in a thoughtful fashion as he cleared the table.
I slapped the paper down. "Abigail, these people are obviously not top drawer," I began in my most cajoling tones. "Perhaps it might be better if we sent Rupert down to see about a position as a footman or something?"
There! That would teach him to go bagging a chap's barely nibbled toast!
"Nonsense," Abigail said. "We shall meet Miss Belle Wilkerson in our usual guise of brother and sister of the lower orders. No offense, Rupert."
"None taken, indeed, m'lady," said the toast-stealing blackguard.
"We shall worm our way into her confidences—"
"Abigail, please!" I threw up my hands in horror. "Do not say worm, I pray you, not after last time!"
"Sorry, my dear boy," she said, thought anyone looking less sorry than she, I could not imagine. "The worm was rather unpleasant. But that is past. Now. We shall meet the Wilkersons, we shall become acquainted with the Wilkersons, and we shall examine Miss Wilkerson's necklace, taking measurements in the process, until we have enough information to create a creditable copy. Then…"
Well, naturally, I knew what 'then' meant in this matter. It meant Abigail had no earthly what she, and I, would do next, but somehow or other, we would
acquire the object in question. As we always did.
Or nearly always, to be perfectly honest.
Still, I knew I could depend on Abigail to come up with some blazingly clever idea.
As she always did.