No Place for a Lady

by Joan Smith

  “As proof that they have her, I suppose. And to strike fear into our hearts. If they can cut her hair ... they can cut her throat,” he said grimly.

  “Oh, Algernon! We must rescue her! Five thousand pounds! Can you get the money by noon tomorrow?”

  “Papa is arranging it now. Of course I shall try to recover Anne before then, preferably without putting five thousand in Boney’s coffers. Sharkey has not returned?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Then he has run into trouble. He should have been back before me. The gin mill favored by the French is not far from here.”

  We had very little time to talk. Our conversation was all about Anne’s safety and how we could recover her. Algernon told me he and Sharkey had searched the shop and the rooms above it thoroughly. There had been nothing indicating where they might have gone.

  “They did not remove their few furnishings, so there was no hope of anyone noticing where the tranter’s wagon went,” he explained. “Lalonde’s shop was little more than a pied-a-terre. The parcels you saw on the wagon Vivaldi used were not at the shop. They were delivered to one of the other shops, I expect. We think, Papa and I, that the French have a series of them around the city. The Lalondes are small fish, probably reporting to one man in charge of the whole. This affair was planned in advance.”

  “I wonder who this man could be.”

  “We cannot say, but one thing Papa did find out. There was no Professor Vivaldi ever at Oxford. That is the background Vivaldi claimed for himself. He is a cultured gentleman. From the two times I played chess with him, I can tell you he has a formidable brain. I am counted a better-than-average player, but I hadn’t a chance against him. He mentioned belonging to a chess club in London. We think he may have made his contact with the British traitor there. A certain Clarence Makepiece is under surveillance. We have not been able to catch him yet, but he will be questioned more severely now.”

  “Vivaldi was out of his rooms all day,” I said. “No doubt he was visiting his minions, collecting their gleanings and brewing up mischief against our troops.”

  “I feel the same. This is my chance to get him,” he said, with a grim smile.

  The front door flew open, and Sharkey came in. “Not a sign of any of them,” he announced. “Milkins’s gin mill was half empty. Milkins told me none of the Frenchies had been in all day. They’ve been tipped off to make themselves scarce.”

  Algernon muttered a few profanities into his collar and smacked his closed fist against my desk in frustration.

  Sharkey said primly, “Tsk, Algie. There is a lady present.” He honored me with one of his crocodile smiles before turning back to Algernon. “Don’t give up. I’ve put the word out on the nappy lads’ grapevine. Every prigger and bung nipper and ruffler and bawd in the neighborhood will be after the reward. I had to offer a reward,” he said, peering for signs of objection. “I hope you’re good for ten guineas. Anybody seeing anything will get back to me here pronto.”

  “Cheap at the price,” Algernon said.

  “What are priggers and those bung people, Mr. Sharkey?” I asked in contusion.

  “They are various sorts of rogues,” Algernon said vaguely.

  “Your priggers and rufflers are thieves,” Sharkey explained. “Your bung nipper is a file.”

  “A file?”

  “Pickpocket,” Algernon explained.

  I did not have to inquire what a bawd might be. I said faintly, “But why are these—people—coming here, to my house?”

  “I told them to watch their tongues and act proper, knowing you’re a lady,” Sharkey said.

  “Naturally they are welcome if they can help find Anne, but they are not involved with the French—are they?”

  “Certainly not! They’re as patriotic as John Bull, but they know more about what’s going on in London than all the journals and politicians put together,” Sharkey told me. “They spend their days and nights on the streets with their ears and eyes open. They have to be sharp to live. If anybody leaves a house empty, they know about it. An empty house is a place to lay down indoors for a night, as well as maybe pick up a few gewgaws. I wager Lalonde’s shop is picked clean by now of any ribbons or buttons she left behind. There’ll be half a dozen lads camping there until somebody else moves in.”

  “You have already checked Lalonde’s shop,” I said.

  “That was just an example, you might say,” Sharkey said. “Get a bunch of the nappy lads together and they might know not only that the crew left, but where they went. That’s what we’re after.”

  “I see!”

  “And there’s the prancer priggers,” Sharkey added, slipping into cant again.

  “Horse thieves,” Algernon explained.

  “They know every piece of horseflesh to be seen on the streets of London, along with every cab-driver. Jocko is our lad for prancers. The Lalondes didn’t have a rig, so they must have used a hansom cab to move Mrs. Clarke. And there’s Vivaldi to think of as well. He didn’t vanish into thin air. Ten to one he took a cab to wherever he’s hiding. I put out an emergency call for Jocko.”

  “Well done,” Algernon said.

  It was not long before the door knocker sounded. Sharkey peered through the curtains and said, “It’s a Drury Lane vestal. Spotty Meg, I believe.”

  The female was a common bawd. The sobriquet Spotty Meg might have been an unkind reference to her complexion, which bore the ravages of smallpox, or it might have referred to her gown, which wore a few months dirt on its silken surface. She was stout and jolly. Her age was uncertain; whether she was an aged thirty or a young forty I could not tell. The only gray on her coppery hair was dust.

  “Sharkey, luv,” she said, sidling up to him while peering uncertainly at me from the corner of a flashing black eye, “I hear there’s something in it for any mort who’s seen that fellow calls hisself Professor Vivaldi.”

  “For anybody that can put a finger on him,” Sharkey said. “He’s disappeared.”

  “Tip me a dace and I might be able to tell you something,” Meg said, with a leer.

  Sharkey gave her tuppence, which she stored in her bodice. She looked longingly at the wine. I poured her a glass and offered her a chair. “Thankee ever so, dear.” She smiled, then proceeded with her tale.

  “He was a strange cove, the professor,” she said. “I knew he was up to something, the way he nipped and capered about. What he’d do, he’d walk out of this house each morning quite early, down Keane Street to Aldwych. A solicitor, I figured, going to the Inns of Court. I got to wondering why a decent businessman lived here, so I followed him one day, thinking there might be something in it for me. Hiding from a wife or debtors, I figured.” She took a swig of the wine and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

  “Well, sir, he hops into a carriage and darts off in t’other direction, west along the Strand. It made me curious, like, why he’d walk one way, then drive t’other, so I followed him a couple of more times. Took the same crinkum-crankum route every day, he did. That cove’s up to something, I says to myself.”

  “Did he meet anyone?” Algernon asked.

  “Not a soul. He kept hisself to hisself. He wasn’t one to give a girl a tumble. I used to see him coming back at night, too. I walked along to the same spot where he got into his rig in the morning—and didn’t he get out of it at six o’clock and walk home by the same crooked route. What do you make of that, eh?”

  “Could you describe the carriage?” Sharkey asked.

  “A good rattler, but not flashy. Plain black. A groom but no footman. A team of bays.”

  Sharkey said, “Send Jocko in if you see him. Put out the word.”

  “Jocko’s your man for prads,” Meg said, and finished her wine.

  Algernon handed her a coin that put a broad smile on her face. “Why, thank you ever so,” she said. She put the coin in her gown to keep her tuppence company and left. “Back to the streets,” she said, patting her bosom contentedly.

  �
��What do you make of that?” Algernon said when she had gone.

  “Jocko might know something about the rattlers and prads,” Sharkey said.

  I said, without thinking, “Does she work day and night? I had thought her ... profession ... would work at night, but she seems to be on the streets all day as well.”

  “Spotty Meg’ll turn her hand to anything,” Sharkey explained. “She’s not a specialist. A bit of a pinch artist—picks up small items in shops; she’ll even nab the snow when her regular business is slow. Take linen off clotheslines,” he explained when I looked at him in confusion.

  “She is very ... versatile,” I said, trying not to sound condemnatory.

  “Yes.” Algernon smiled. “I hope you were not too attached to that little china bowl that used to be on your desk.”

  I looked—and saw Miss Thackery’s dish of peppermints had vanished. “She even took the peppermints!”

  “Better count your fingers, Algie,” Sharkey said, and laughed at Meg’s prank. “I told her to behave proper. I’ll get the dish back for you, Miss Irving.”

  “Never mind. She needs it worse than I.”

  Our next callers were a pair of ken crackers named Silent Sam and Noisy Ned. They worked as a team to break into houses and rob them. Noisy Ned created a diversion in front of the house by dropping to the ground and pretending to have taken a convulsion. Silent Sam would come along and pose as a doctor, as a ploy to get into the house chosen for pilfering. Sam would send the servants off for wine or other medications, and they would both pick up any small valuables while they were alone. They waited until the master and mistress had left the house before their performance. The servants, it seemed, were more easily gulled.

  One would think, to look at Sam and Ned, that they were respectable gentlemen. They wore decent blue jackets and were clean enough. A closer look revealed the shifty eyes and sly grin of the rogue. They reverted to their true form with Sharkey.

  “Word is out you’re interested in Lalonde’s place,” Ned said. Sam was indeed silent. We scarcely heard a word from him. “Me and Sam paid a call round around two, when the place had been empty an hour or more. Honest Eddie has taken over for the night. He’s set up a friendly card game with a couple of well-inlaid flats from the country.

  “What did you find in there?” Sharkey asked.

  Sam, though silent, found a mode of communicating. He held up his right hand and rubbed his thumb against his fingers, to indicate he wanted payment for his information.

  “Let’s hear what you’ve got to say first,” Sharkey said.

  Ned drew a list from his pocket and read. “ ‘An ell of sprigged muslin, yellow. Half an ell ditto, pink. A hank of green silk—not enough for a gown but for a shawl. Six yards satin ribbon—’“

  Sharkey waved him to silence. “We don’t want an inventory, Ned. Was there anything in the way of a map, a letter, an address ... ?”

  “Clean as a whistle, that way. Account books gone, money box empty. Desk emptied. Done a flit, we figured. No point letting the bailiff nab the goods.”

  “That news ain’t worth listening to,” Sharkey told him. “But here’s something for your trouble. If you see Jocko, send him along. I’m anxious to see Jocko.” He handed Ned some small coins.

  Since Sharkey paid him, I did not hesitate to ask Sam to return the silver-framed picture of my aunt Thalassa’s late husband, which he had lifted from the desk while Ned entertained us. He drew it from his pocket with a sly grin.

  “Now how did that get in there?” he said. They were the only words he spoke during the whole visit.

  I did not notice until later that either he or Spotty Meg had gotten away with the silver-plated ink pot. “How could they steal it? It was full of ink!” I exclaimed.

  Sharkey pointed to a half glass of wine I had left on the desk. It was now full of a deep blue ink wine.

  “Those fellows are wasting their time. They ought to set up as magicians. Unfortunately I cannot bring up a new bottle of wine,” I said, staring at Sharkey. “Mine has mysteriously vanished from the cellar.”

  “There’s rats in that cellar,” Sharkey said.

  “Do they know how to draw a cork?”

  We were interrupted by another visitor, a “cove” whose job description was jarkman. His line of crime was to falsify documents, but he had not done so for Vivaldi or any of the others. He offered to forge documents proving me a French countess for two guineas, or a duchess for three. I declined.

  “An Italian contessa,” he ventured. I shook my head.

  “P’raps it’s just as well. You don’t look like a foreigner. That face is as English as suet pudding. If you ever feel the need to drop a decade from your age, I can print you up a birth certificate quick as winking. It would fool any judge in the country.”

  “But would it fool the gentlemen?” Sharkey asked, and gave a playful laugh. “Just fooling, Miss Irving. You are still as fresh as spring lamb.”

  “Thank you, I shall bear the offer in mind when I turn to mutton.”

  “That won’t be for half a decade yet,” Sharkey assured me.

  I thought the house had escaped depredations from the jarkman until I went into the hallway to answer the next knock and saw the umbrellas were gone. There had been three umbrellas in a large blue-and-white vase when the evening began. I removed the vase, took down the painting from the wall, and decided that if anyone wanted the ragged runner on the floor, he was welcome to it.

  I opened the door, and a person whom I first mistook for a boy hopped in. A closer look showed me he was an extremely small man with a lined face, very few teeth, and no hair whatsoever when he removed his hat. A fringe of dark hair had been attached to the hat’s brim by some means, but it came off with the hat.

  “I hear the Shark is looking for me,” he said, with a toothless grin.

  “Whom shall I say ... ?”

  “Jocko, miss. Just Jocko. He’ll know.”

  “Jocko!” I grabbed him by the lapels and made him welcome. “Come in. We have been waiting for you.”

  He flicked my fingers away with a sharp look and smoothed his tatty lapels. I noticed the fingers were out of his gloves, but they had once been good gloves. York tan, at least two sizes too large for Jocko.

  “If you will just step this way,” I said. His eyes toured the empty hallway, then he fell in behind me.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Sharkey came darting into the hall to meet Jocko. “Good lad! It took you long enough to get here.”

  Jocko replied, “I blush to confess I came on shank’s mare. Me! The best prancer prigger in the country! Can you believe it?” He slid into the saloon.

  “It’s a rare day when Jocko’s feet tread the cobblestones. What happened?”

  “A few of the lads set up a card game with a pair of Johnny Raws from the country. I was to relieve them of their prads while Captain Sharp lightened their pockets. Turned out the coves were fly. They came in a hired cab, brought their own cards and wine, and had guns in their pockets. The game is at Lalonde’s abandoned shop. I was just on my way to tell Spotty Meg. She might want to have a go at them. They didn’t bring their own lightskirts at least.”

  “She’ll hear about it. This is more important.”

  He led Jocko to a comfortable chair. I brought him a glass and what remained of the wine.

  Jocko looked at the decanter with disdain and said, “Would you have a drop of brandy at all?”

  “I am afraid not,” I replied.

  “Bottom shelf of the sideboard, left, behind the cups,” Sharkey informed me. “I used to keep your aunt supplied, Miss Irving,” he explained, when I looked my astonishment.

  I brought the brandy. Before I could pour a glass, Jocko reached out and took the bottle. He poured himself a large glass and smacked his lips.

  “Nectar of the gods!” He smiled his toothless smile and drank. “It is strange a race that eats frogs has such good taste in drink. Now, what can I do for you, Sharkey?�
�

  “A cove called Vivaldi used to leave this house every morning and meet a carriage at the corner of Aldwych and Drury Lane, somewhere around there.”

  “Just so, the long drink of water—a foreigner. A professor, I think he called hisself?”

  “That’s right, Vivaldi.”

  “Plain black rig, a decent team of bays. Not bloods by any means, but a gentleman’s team. The wagon was his own. He hired the prancers from Booter’s stable on Eagle Street, near Gray’s Inn. What do you want to know about him?”

  “He’s disappeared. We want to find him. If you happen to know where he used to go in that rig, it’d be worth something,” Algernon said.

  “I have reason to believe he was a salesman of some sort. He carried a black case, used to make regular stops at certain shops specializing in ladies’ goods and toys.”

  “Could you give us a list of those shops?” Algernon asked, with a gleam in his eyes. This would be Vivaldi’s network of spies.

  “I would have to drive the route. I cannot recall them offhand, but I’d recognize them to see them right enough. I never actually followed the professor. No reason to. His man never left the nags unattended, but I used to see the rig coming and going as I made my usual rounds.”

  “Good! We’ll do the tour tomorrow. For the moment, we are interested to discover where that team of bays is now.”

  “I can tell you that,” Jocko said. “They are back at Booter’s stable. I was there, selling Booter a dandy ladies’ mount I prigged from a private stable when the groom brought the prads in this afternoon. He hired a stronger team of four. Looks like he plans a trip. He would not need four for town.”

  “He’s making a dart for France, since we’ve rumbled his game,” Sharkey said to Algernon.

  “Some havey-cavey business, is there?” Jocko inquired, with mild interest, as he sipped the brandy. “Am I correct in deducing it is the cove you are interested in, not the team?”

  “That’s the idea,” Sharkey said. “If he hires the nags, Booter must have an address for him.”

  “The address he left is Wild Street,” Jocko said, but he said it with an extremely cagey grin. “Which is not where you will find him.”