Celeste Bradley - [The Liar's Club 01]

by The Pretender

  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.”

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  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.”

  James’s head snapped up. “But you said—”

  “Are you coming or not?”

  James grabbed up his coat and raced Simon through the door.

  * * *

  The fog was clearing as the mass of men marched down the East India Dock, but still Simon imagined they formed an impressive sight stalking en masse through the trailing mist.

  Hopefully they would be intimidating enough to inspire some of the permanent denizens of the wharf into cooperation. At this point, Simon didn’t much care if the cooperation was prodded by a desire to help or the point of Kurt’s knife.

  They were at a standstill in the search. Dawn was imminent, which would make the hunt easier, but they’d lost the trail here in the tightly knit underworld of the Docklands. There were hundreds of ships in this section of the Thames alone, and not a helpful sailor among them.

  “S-sir? You be lookin’ for your lady?” The small voice came out of the darkness to his left.

  Simon froze, holding up a hand to halt his fearsome troop. He turned and peered into the shadows. “Who is there?”

  A figure stepped out, and for a moment Simon was sure it was an apparition, for even in the full light of James’s lantern the creature was as dark as the night. Then a frightened pair of blue eyes blinked slowly at him from a soot-blackened face.

  The double pang of familiarity struck deep into Simon. “You’re the sweep from the market, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, me lord.” The child’s voice trembled, and Simon realized what a frightening crew of bandits the lot of them must look to him. Kurt alone would set most children to flight.

  Simon shook his head and knelt to look the boy in the eye. “I’m no lord, boy. I myself was born within the sound of Bow bells, just as you were,” he said gently.

  The child blinked, sizing up Simon’s clothes and manner. “You, sir? Out of Cheapside?”

  “Indeed. So you’ve nothing to fear from one of your own, do you?”

  The child shook his head slowly.

  One of the men made an impatient noise, but Simon only waved him to silence without turning his attention away from the boy. “Now tell me, what do you know of my lady?”

  “I seen her, drivin’ through the Garden. She were ridin’ in a hack, and lookin’ out the window. She looked so sad, I started followin’ along, watchin’. I don’t know why. I just wanted to ’elp ’er, if I could.”

  The boy looked to Simon as if for explanation. Simon only nodded. “Yes, I know precisely what you mean.”

  “Then I seen it.” The grimy face screwed into a scowl. “Someone hit her and knocked her down!”

  Several of the Liars growled at that, and the boy nodded fiercely, growing bolder in his indignation. “That’s right. She didn’t come back up, not that I saw. I knew somethin’ were wrong then for sure.”

  “Did you follow the hack?” The boy nodded. “All the way from Covent Garden?”

  The child nodded again. It was an astonishing journey for such a little lad, who likely had never left his own square mile.

  Simon was impressed. “What’s your name, lad?”

  “Robbie, sir.”

  “You’re a good man, Robbie.”

  “’M only ten, sir.”

  If that were so, then he was a poorly grown ten years. Like plants lacking light and soil, children rarely thrived in the grime and stone of Cheapside.

  “Wait a bit. Are you sayin’ the wee tyke walked it?” Kurt pushed forward and hunkered down before the lad.

  The child’s eyes widened in alarm, and he glanced to Simon for reassurance. Simon smiled. “Don’t fear him, lad. He looks bad, but he makes the best trifle on three continents.”

  “Trifle?” Remembered pleasure erased the fear on Robbie’s face. “I tasted that oncet.”

  “Once?” boomed Kurt. “A brave man like yourself deserves trifle every Sunday!”

  From the awed confusion on the pinched little face, such ecstasy was obviously beyond imagining, but the child now eyed Kurt with near worship. Simon gently reminded him of the subject at hand.

  “So you followed them here?” he prompted.

  “Yes, milor—yes, sir. I rode partway on the hind of a cart or two, when they was movin’ too fast for me. When they got here, they took somethin’ out of the hack all wrapped up. I think it was your lady.” His eyes blinked rapidly. “She weren’t movin’, sir. Not a bit of it.”

  Simon pounded down his rising dread with sheer will. “Do you know where they took her?”

  Robbie shook his head, and Simon’s heart sank. Then the boy said, “But I knows who took them as had her, took them out and back. Dobb, they called ’im. He’s down there,” he said, pointing down a street traveling away from the quay, “Havin’ a pint in that pub there.”

  Scarcely had the boy finished giving the direction before Simon and James were running full stretch toward the tavern. “Take the lad to Stubbs, Kurt!” Simon ordered over his shoulder. Then he focused all of his attention on assuring the cooperation of a certain Johnny Dobb.

  * * *

  The boat surged again and again in the current, and every time Agatha feared she’d not be able to maintain her awkward position draped across the tilted mast. And the only place to fall was into the filthy Thames.

  She was facing down as she dangled over the mast, but she tried not to look at the encroaching black water. She felt a few more strands of the rope part from around her wrists, although her hands were now so numb that she couldn’t be sure. She only hoped she wasn’t doing too much damage to her wrists and palm with the shard of brown bottle glass she used.

  The boat surged again, and she forgot about her wrists as she felt herself slipping. The deck tilted away as the mast finally touched the reaching water and the boat gave up any attempt of staying upright. Agatha jackknifed her body in desperation, but there was no stopping her feet-first slide down the grimy deck.

  She kicked out, hoping to feel her foot catch on something—anything—

  She felt her ankle strike something solid, but the brief contact only turned her slide into a sideways tumble, and she fell even faster.

  Then her left elbow snagged violently on a large iron cleat, pausing her fall with a jerk that felt as though it wrenched her arm from its socket.

  It wasn’t enough to stop her, for the pull ripped the last of her bonds free. Her numbed hands could only flail in the air as she plunged into the icy Thames.

  When the black water closed over her head, the cold was almost enough to jolt a gasp from her lungs. She held on to her last bit of breath with all her might and thrashed her arms to take her back to the surface.

  She’d been a good swimmer all her life, but never fully dressed with her ankles tied. By the time her head broke the surface, she was out of strength and out of air. Clumsily she tugged down her gag and took a desperate gasp.

  The skirt of her gown was twisted tightly around her legs, and she realized dimly that her final roll had likely saved her life. Not only had it torn free her hands, but the yards of muslin had not swept over her head underwater. She’d never have been able to fight free of them in time.

  Now, however, the fabric took on water and became incredibly heavy. Her legs could only kick in unison, for her feet were still bound.

  The water rolled over her head again and
again. It was all she could do to keep thrashing her mouth and nose clear afterward. She cried out for help again and again, but it seemed her voice had been returned to her too late.

  The cold began stealing the feeling from her body, leaving only desperate fear behind. She was going to die. The river would take her down and she would never see Simon again.

  Her head went under again, and this time the surface was simply too far to reach. She could see the silver light of morning gleaming above her through the swirling strands of her hair, but not all the will in the world could force her leaden body to return to the dawn.

  * * *

  The sail of Johnny Dobb’s skiff was useless in the still air of daybreak. The five men Simon had chosen to accompany him out to the Marie Claire each manned an oar, including Dobb himself. Of course, it had taken the presence of James’s pistol and Kurt’s speculative gaze to inspire the man.

  The skiff cut across the current with rather excellent speed, yet Simon could not help the sick dread within him. They should be able to see the mast of the Marie Claire by now, if Dobb had been accurate in his information.

  There was no reason to expect him not to be. Information gained by strangulation was usually to be depended on. Even now, Dobb took a hand from his oar to rub resentfully at his bruised neck.

  Simon had no sympathy at all. If he thought it would make the skiff move faster, he’d dump the sorry sod overboard himself.

  “Where is it?” James stood awkwardly in the skiff to scan the lightening water ahead. “I don’t see—oh, God, no!”

  With a jolt of pure terror, Simon raised his eyes from his desperate rowing to see the stern of a small vessel upended in the water, like the rear of a diving goose.

  “Agatha!” James’s hoarse appeal was echoed by the cries of the seabirds in the otherwise eerily silent scene.

  “Cor,” breathed Johnny Dobb. “Sway weren’t jokin’ about the bilge.”

  Simon spared no breath crying Agatha’s name but stood and began to tear off his coat and his boots as the skiff neared the wreck. When they were within yards of the sinking vessel, he kicked off into a hard dive, as deep as he could go.