by Anna Castle
“Ezekiel Prendergast, at your service.” He bowed deeply with one hand folded across his chest.
“Prendergast?” she echoed in her plummiest accent.
“Too much?” He straightened up and rubbed his nose. “’Ow about Smyvvering? Got a nice ring to it, doncha fink?”
“Hmm.” She pretended to consider it. “Let's keep trying. Names are important. They tell folks what sort of a bloke you are.”
Zeke grinned and turned to shine his lantern around the room, revealing a well-appointed gentleman’s repose with an astonishing arsenal of exotic weaponry displayed above the marble mantelpiece: a set of bow and arrows, various curved knives, a long curved sword with a painted sheath, and a gun with an intricately decorated stock that looked to be as long as Zeke was tall.
“Coo! Look at all them fancy pig-stickers! Must be worth a bleedin’ fortune,” Zeke said. “Do we bag ’em?”
“Best to leave them,” Sandy said. “They’d be tricky to sell. They’re from Afghanistan, very rare and very old. Stolen, I shouldn’t doubt, from looted houses.”
The bitterness in his tone set Angelina’s intuition humming. “You speak as if you know this Colonel Oxwich. Was he a cavalry man as well?”
“He still is. And yes, I knew him.” Sandy smiled grimly at her, his face made devilish by the wavering yellow light of the lanterns. “Everything in this house was stolen, one way or another. Oxwich is a far slicker thief than we are, Mrs. Gould.”
“Oh, call me Lina, I beg you!” Angelina gestured at her tailcoat and trousers. “I think I’ve proved I’m not a lady tonight. We’re a gang, we three. Let’s leave off the formalities.”
“As you wish, Lina. Let’s get to work.” He directed his beam around the bookshelves, across the desk, and into a far corner, where a small safe stood next to a bank of oak file drawers. “I’ll tackle those files. You take the desk. Zeke, start collecting the pawnables.”
“Wish Rolly could’ve come inside wiv us,” Zeke said. “’E’d make quick work of that safe.”
Angelina seated herself at the desk. She set her lantern to cast its light on the drawers and crossed the fingers of both hands for luck. While she opened drawers and scanned papers for traces of Sebastian’s handwriting, she thought about Zeke’s high-flown taste in surnames. Who was she to find fault? She’d been born Buddle, then made her name as Lovington for a decade or so until the Chairman invented the Amazing Archers and rechristened them all on the spot. After that wicked young baron had deserted her in Rome, she’d reinvented herself as Angelica Della Rosa, an Italian contessa from a decayed family, bravely making her own way by singing light opera. That had lasted until she’d met Victor Gould in San Francisco. She’d taken his name for simplicity’s sake, though they’d never actually married. They’d had fun though, for two glorious years until he’d gotten the mining fever again and gone south to Bolivia to meet his doom.
He’d left her enough to move to New York and a name that opened doors, if dropped to the right people at the right moment. She hadn’t given any thought to what she would call herself when this game was over. It would depend on where she ended up. A good name reflected as well as enhanced your circumstances.
“Jiminy!” Zeke cried. “Dis fing weighs a ton!” He was balanced on the hearth screen trying to lift a large obsidian clock with a gold sphinx on the top.
“Leave it, then,” Sandy said. “Try the butler’s pantry for the silver. That’s the best bet anyway for cash value.”
Zeke hopped down and flashed a salute at Sandy on his way out.
Now that she’d seen the clock, Angelina couldn’t stop hearing its heavy click-clack, click-clack, ticking off the minutes until the footman returned. They didn’t have much time, not if they were going to lug sacks of booty out to the garden and wait for Sandy to fetch the cab around.
She pulled the drawers all the way out to shine her lantern into the depths of the desk, hoping to find a packet tacked up underneath somewhere. No such luck. She sighed. “You’d think Teaberry would trust an army colonel with his secrets.”
“I had hoped we’d find them here,” Sandy said. “It might have redeemed the old scoundrel a little, in a roundabout sort of way.” There was that bitter tone again.
“What happened to you, Sandy?” Angelina asked softly. “I wish you’d tell me. I know you weren’t born a cabman; your accent speaks privilege with every syllable. Eton first, wasn’t it? Then Oxford or Cambridge?”
“Oxford,” he answered and then fell silent. When he began to speak again, he kept his eyes on the files, now and then pulling out the odd sheet to give it a closer look. “My father is William Sandy, Sixth Viscount Draycott.”
“My stars! Your family must be frantic about you!”
“Not even a little ruffled.” He gave a hollow laugh. “I have two older brothers to sustain the family name. I only spent two years at university before getting sent down for a stupid prank: a sunrise cab race around the quad in which a boy was badly injured. I’d pulled such stunts before, so my father made good on his threats and bought me an office. Second lieutenant in the cavalry. Things started out well enough. I liked the army, both the discipline and the camaraderie. Travel broadened my view of life. It’s not too much to say it made a man of me. I rose to captain fairly quickly. The men liked me and I liked them. It was a good life, for a while.”
“What changed?”
He shrugged and shot her a quick glance. “My luck, I guess. I’d had my run. A large sum of money went missing from the company accounts during my turn as Officer of the Mess. The sergeant testified against me and his lies were supported by my superior officer, our friend Samuel Oxwich, a mere major at the time. They’d been doing the embezzling, the greedy bastards, getting bolder by the month. They picked me as their scapegoat because Oxwich’s daughter had shown a liking for me and he didn’t fancy me as a son-in-law. And because they knew I was a trusting sort of simpleminded fool.”
“Oh, Sandy! I’m so sorry.”
Another shrug. He was willing to talk — he’d wanted to talk — but wasn’t accepting any sympathy.
“I was cashiered and sent home with my reputation in ruins. My family disowned me by overseas post. I took my time sailing home, kicking around Africa a little, southern France, doing this and that. When I finally got back to London, I spent a few chilly weeks feeling sorry for myself and then followed my nose to the nearest hackney stable. One year of hard work later and I had my own cab and pair. And no regrets, I might add. I like this life. I’m freer than I ever was and twice as useful.”
But all alone. What kind of family would turn their backs on such a man? The thought made Angelina’s blood boil. She let a small silence grow to honor the end of his sad story and then offered what she had. “We’re not exactly honorable, we Archers. We were brought up to think the rules are there to make the pigeons easier to pluck. But we’re loyal to each other when push comes to shove. For what little we’re worth, you’re welcome to us.”
Sandy stopped still, his hands suspended over the drawer. He looked at her with the sweetest expression of astonishment and gratitude, breaking her heart for him again. “That’s the kindest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”
Angelina made herself a solemn vow to see that kinder things were said and done as soon as she could arrange them. She’d find this man just the right sort of wife as soon as she sorted out the twins’ present crisis.
Zeke barged through the door with a sack in his arms. “D’ye fink I can toss this lot out the winder? There’s the most magnificent hellyphant, sitting on his fat arse, waving ’is four harms, all gold and shining bits. It’d fetch a mint, Guv’nor. Or we could keep it, couldn’t we? Fig up our digs a bit?”
“An elephant?” Angelina frowned at Sandy, who chuckled. “A statue of one of the Hindu gods from India, I imagine.” To Zeke he said, “Too rare, old Cock. Hard to sell.”
“Besides,” Angelina said, “we’re not here to collect souvenirs.” She eyed
the half-empty sack. “Is that all the plate they have in the house?”
“One silver tea set, one silver platter. The rest is the gray kind. Not so pretty. Wot’s it called? Puker?”
“Pewter,” Sandy said. “Probably not worth the effort.” He and Angelina traded doubtful glances. “What’s the old crook doing with his money, I wonder? I’m not seeing papers from an estate or other houses.”
“Whatever he’s got is doubtless in that safe we can’t open.” Angelina turned back to Zeke. “Why don’t you trot that sack down to the garden and come back for some books. We should take the most recent ones for Viola to study at home.”
“Books!” Zeke shone his lantern across the shelves lining two walls of the library, loaded up to the ceiling with leather-bound volumes. “We can’t carry all them books! Fink of poor Reckless!” Reckless must have been the name of Sandy’s horse.
Sandy said, “We don’t need all of them. Only the ledgers.”
“Ledges? Big flat ones, you mean?”
“That’s right,” Angelina said. “Look for a set of matching ones on a low shelf. A big flat book full of numbers.”
Zeke’s small face took on a crafty look. “Numbers, eh?”
She doubted the boy could read. Another thing to attend to once this crisis was past. She really ought to start making a list.
The boy turned his lantern toward the safe. “I’d rather take a crack at that Chubb.”
“We can’t get into it without the combination,” Angelina said. “But that’s where the letters are, most likely, if they’re here at all. They’re certainly not in this desk.” She rose and shone her lantern along the lowest shelves of books. “I’ll help you with the ledgers, Zeke. Although what the police will say when the colonel reports these missing along with his tea service, I cannot begin to imagine.”
“They’ll fink we’re plottin’ somefing even bigger,” Zeke said. “They’ll make us famous, they will.”
“Heaven forfend! The last thing we need is notoriety.” Angelina opened a few ledgers to check the dates on the first and last pages, setting the ones from the past year in a stack.
Zeke left his lantern near her. “Eyes like a cat, that’s me.” He took his sack of booty downstairs and returned in a few minutes. Then he opened another of the gunny sacks they’d brought and filled it with the ledgers. “Never thought I’d fall so low as to find meself pinchin’ paper,” he grumbled.
“Aha!” Sandy pulled a sheet from the files and waved it at them.
“Sebastian’s letters?” Angelina leapt across the room and snatched the sheet from his hand.
“No, sorry. But the next best thing.” He shone his lantern on the page so she could read it. “It’s the receipt from Chubb & Sons Lock and Safe Company, with the combination printed on the bottom. The blithering idiot! You’re supposed to cut that portion off.”
Angelina took his lantern and held it while he knelt before the safe. Zeke came over to watch. Sandy twirled the dial a few times, then dialed in the three numbers. The lock clicked and he swung open the door. They knelt together to view the contents.
Silence fell as they stared into the nearly empty metal cavern. A stack of engraved documents, a smaller stack of currency notes, and a carved sandalwood box — that was all.
“No letters,” Angelina said mournfully.
Sandy gave her a sympathetic smile. “With such poor pickings, perhaps it’s just as well. The next house is bound to be better.”
“Couldn’t be worse,” Zeke said. He grabbed the stack of notes and counted them. “One ’undred and forty and no change.” He stuffed the money in his pocket. “Won’t go far, especially not wiv your young lady takin’ an extra bite.”
Sandy lifted out the engraved pages. “These look like stock certificates.” He leafed through them. “Most of them seem to be from American silver mines.”
Angelina rolled her eyes. “That explains the lack of silver: he’s gone broke. Most of those mines played out early or were never there in the first place. Might as well leave them.”
“They don’t weigh much,” Sandy said. “We should let Miss Archer have a look at them. Have you ever heard of a place called Comstock?”
Angelina blinked and turned back. “Those are worth a fortune, if they’re real.”
“Wot’s in ’ere?” Zeke dove halfway into the safe to fetch the wooden box. He removed the lid and said, “Pearlies! That’s somefink!”
The box held nothing but a single strand of pearls — a long strand, but with suspiciously regular, evenly colored white pearls strung along it.
“Let me see those.” Angelina took the strand and ran it through her fingers. All round, all glossy white. “Hold that lantern for me, would you, darling?”
Zeke obliged by shining his light directly on the strand. Daylight worked better, but even in the yellow glow of the candle, Angelina could see that the luster was weak and there was no trace of the overglow that made real pearls so fascinating.
She performed the final test, baring her teeth and running the strand over them. She clucked her tongue and tossed them back into their box. “That colonel is truly a scoundrel. Even his wife’s pearls are fake!”
Chapter Ten
On Sunday morning, James Moriarty received the telegram he’d been waiting for all week. Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson would call for him in a carriage at one o’clock that afternoon to drive out to Millwall to visit Mr. Bruffin, the engineer. He looked forward to the excursion like a school treat. He’d never visited an engineer’s workshop before and for all his bluster, Holmes was a highly intelligent man who asked intriguing questions. The afternoon promised to be enlightening on all counts.
Moriarty had spent the last week going about his regular routine, half expecting to hear constables pounding at the door of his Bayswater flat or to find a Scotland Yard inspector waiting at the Patent Office. But he’d had no communications of any kind regarding the events at the Exhibition. He could almost believe his role in those events had been forgotten, but he knew neither Holmes nor Nettlefield would let him go so easily. The piper must be paid and today was reckoning day.
The coach arrived punctually. Moriarty climbed in and greeted his fellow travelers. As they clattered across the metropolis, Holmes entertained them with a running account of the precincts through which they passed. His knowledge of London rivaled that of a senior cabman, if one with a morbid fascination for the more unsavory aspects of urban life.
Watson laughed out loud after one anecdote drew a frown on Moriarty’s face. “You must forgive my friend, Professor. His knowledge is profound, but narrowly focused. He can give you the details of every murder committed in a given parish while never mentioning the more salubrious fact that a famous poet once lived there as well.”
Holmes smiled equably. “Poetry will not help me bring a murderer to justice.”
“You are a specialist,” Moriarty said. “It’s only natural to view the world in terms of your domain of expertise.”
“You see, Watson? Some men comprehend my singularity of attention.”
They arrived at length in Millwall, a respectable working-class neighborhood east of the Isle of Dogs. Holmes informed them that the area was favored by artisans and engineers whose skills were in demand in the nearby dockyards. The coachman stopped before a trim house at the end of a side road. They descended and Watson paid the driver. Holmes collected a large box from the boot. “What’s left of the engine,” he said. Moriarty hastened to grab the other handle and they carried it between them up the path.
Watson knocked on the green front door. It was opened after a short wait by a small girl clutching a toy train by one wheel. Her severe expression suggested they had interrupted her in some vital repair. Moriarty observed a wrench in her other hand and smiled. Truly the daughter of an engineer.
Watson introduced himself and told her they had come by invitation to speak with her father.
“I know that,” she answered tartly. Without anot
her word, she led them in single file straight through the house, out the back door, and across the garden to a workshop where smoke rose from a tall chimney. Its wide double doors stood open. The girl gestured toward her father, who stood on the threshold, and returned to the house.
“Welcome, gentlemen! I’m Ross Bruffin. Forgive me for not offering you my hand.” He raised his arms to display his bandages. His wrists and palms were well wrapped, leaving only his fingertips free. He ushered them into the workshop, directing them to set the box on a scarred worktable in the full light of the open doors.
The shop was crowded with tools, spare parts, and engines of various kinds in various stages of construction, but all seemed logically organized. Wrenches hung on one wall in order of size, gears on another with similar precision. Tall cabinets with labeled drawers undoubtedly held an assortment of bolts, screws, and other fittings. Two young assistants sat by the fireplace at the back, cleaning machine parts with greasy rags. Moriarty noticed the bright red hair spilling out from under their caps; Bruffin’s sons, no doubt, learning their father’s trade.
Holmes performed the introductions. Bruffin cocked his head at Moriarty with a quizzical smile. “You’re the gentleman from the Patent Office.”
Holmes chuckled. “Professor Moriarty is assisting me in my inquiries. He has been present at all the critical junctures and knows a fair bit about engines, so I recruited him as an expert consultant.”
All the critical junctures? How many had there been?
Moriarty said, “I’m happy to help in any way I can.” He wanted a conclusive explanation of how that engine could have failed so dramatically. He’d replayed his actions in his mind, attaching the indicator again and again. Each bolt, each valve, each narrow pipe. Could he have tightened the wrong thing or loosened something else? He thought not, but couldn’t bring himself to certainty.
Bruffin grinned nervously, plucking at the bandage on his left hand. “I do hope we can sort this to the company’s satisfaction, Mr. Holmes. This was a big chance for me. Lord Nettlefield and Mr. Teaberry even allowed me to purchase a share in the profits. I had so much confidence in my engine, I’m afraid I rather —” He broke off with a glance toward the lads at the rear of the shop.
