I Never Thought I'd See You Again: A Novelists Inc. Anthology

by Неизвестный

  He went into the kitchen and found some charcoal lighter fluid underneath the sink. He squirted it all over the body and the floor of the living room, and paused at the front door for just a moment before lighting a match and tossing it onto the couch.

  The flames danced over the body.

  “At least you won’t hear him screaming anymore,” Barry said, as he closed the front door behind him and walked down the front steps.

  He got into his car and started it, driving off without a backward glance.

  The Tower by Mary Hart Perry

  Kathryn Johnson lives in the Washington, DC area and also writes as Mary Hart Perry. Her award-winning fiction spans genres while appealing to readers of a variety of ages. Each story includes those elements of which she’s most fond –– a little history, a dash of mystery, a romantic connection and adventure. She teaches fiction writing at the renowned The Writer’s Center in Bethesda, Maryland. And her private mentoring service for writers (www.WriteByYou.com) has steered dozens of new authors toward achieving their dream of publication. Kathryn’s most recent books are The Gentleman Poet: A Novel of Love, Danger, and Shakespeare’s “The Tempest”; and The Wild Princess and Seducing the Princess, the first two Victorian thrillers in her Mary Hart Perry series based on the lives of Queen Victoria’s daughters.

  First challenge: I haven’t written a short story in more than twenty years. Talk about rusty. Yikes! Second challenge: When to find time to squeeze in a short project and polish up my neglected short fiction skills with novel deadlines looming? But as sometimes happens when I’ve thrown myself blindly at a writing task, hoping for inspiration, I happily tumbled into another century. I’d recently visited the infamous Tower of London and was fascinated to learn the dreaded prison had become a popular tourist destination in Charles Dickens’ day and the home of the castle’s caretakers. I wondered if I could use the place, not as the terrifying execution site of those condemned by The Crown to death, but as the cherished home of my protagonist. A place of comfort, not of pain. A place to be protected and fought for when evil reappears from the past to threaten that safe haven.

  London, England 1884

  Maisie turned away before he saw her and propped her wooden tray on one hip. “Pasties ‘n’ tarts!” she sang out, though less lustily than most days. A nervy lump crowded the words in her throat. “Tuppence fer a tart. Sweet mincemeat, apple ‘n’ plum. Tide y’over while ye wait to tour the Bloody Tower.” Maybe he wouldn’t even recognize her? Might be all for the better.

  Not since the old queen’s jubilee had she and Pete Dunn crossed paths. Her whole world had changed since then. Now she had Geoffrey, lovely man, puttin’ a roof over her head and food on a table she could call her own. She’d got herself a good everyday dress, plus a spare, from the stalls on Petticoat Lane. Leather brogues without holes. And a warm tweedy coat too.

  Used to be, Ma greased her with goose fat then sewed her into whatever rags were handy until spring. “Never you mind the itchin’, Maisie girl, it’ll keep out the cold.” No more of that foul smellin’ stuff for her! She could have a bath whenever she bothered to boil a basin of water — winter or not. She’d never go back to the squalor and meanness of Spitalfields. Not while there was breath in her body.

  Maisie forced herself not to turn around. She felt Pete Dunn’s black-as-cinder eyes following her. Her heart hammered in her chest, but she kept moving through the tourists bunched up in the courtyard, waiting their turn to enter the grounds.

  “Six pence for the full tour, ladies and gents!” one of the uniformed guides shouted. “Visit the queen’s armory. Stand where good Queen Mary lost her pretty head. See the Crown Jewels in all their glo-ree-ous splendor.”

  Maisie walked faster, cutting between ladies with their parasols, men in their top hats, a copy of Dickens’ Dictionary of London tucked under one arm to guide them proper round the city’s sites.

  Six pence. Not long ago half of that had been a fortune to her. Enough to feed a family on a bag of crusts for two friggin’ days. Oh, how she’d envied those rich brats in their pretty clothes, brought in fancy carriages to ogle the rooms where royals once lived, and died. Never, as children, had she or any of her mates got a peek inside these high walls protecting the complex of stone keeps, chapels, towers and warehouses called The Tower of London. The riffraff had to be satisfied with the free sights on nearby Tower Hill. Deafened by the ruckus of vendors, fire and sword swallowers, and escapologists. Mixing with the likes of Pete and his gang of mud larks and pickpockets.

  She smiled to herself. Today, Missus Maisie Harris, wife of the Chief Yeoman Warder, had the run of the grand old castle, didn’t she? Including a cozy little room in the row of guards’ cottages ringing the parade grounds. They might not be rich, her and old Geoff, but they never lacked for beer nor bread. And their place was clean as a cat’s whiskers, on account she scrubbed it twice a week, top to bottom. Pure heaven. All she had to do to earn her keep was sell her pasties and keep a hawk’s eye for them’s that slipped past the gateman, aiming to nick a toff’s purse or madam’s silk hanky.

  If Pete Dunn thought for a minute he could get away with his wicked tricks on her watch, he had another think coming.

  “Well, lookie here.” The sickeningly familiar voice slithered up from behind her. “If’n it ain’t me old mate.”

  So he’d sniffed her out, even with her shiny-clean face and every strand of hair pinned up under a starched white cap, respectable like.

  “What you want?” she grumbled.

  His hands came down hard on her shoulders, spun her around to face him. She glared at him and watched his eyes narrow as if already thinking how to make use of her. “Ain’t I just the lucky one?”

  “You’ll be lucky to get yer arse out of here before my husband catches sight of you!”

  He tilted his head sideways and studied her harder. “Found a nice little nest, my sweet bird?”

  “I mean it.” She looked around. No one was paying them mind. “He’s Chief Warder, my Geoff is. Don’t take guff from no one, least of all scallywags like you.” She wriggled her shoulders just enough to make him wary of being seen messing with her.

  Pete dropped his hands to his sides with a sly grin. “Bet he don’t know what I know ‘bout you, Maisie-Daisy. I’m thinkin’, man like that, all straight and narrow, wouldn’t marry you if’n he did.”

  True enough.

  A little shiver of fear crept up her spine. She’d met Geoff at the house of the church lady who’d plucked her off the street, tidied her up, and taught her how to talk and act proper-like. Geoffrey was the bachelor son of the woman’s neighbor. A veteran of the Egyptian campaigns. He’d probably suspected Maisie was no lady. But, as Miss Sarah had told her girls, “Some things between a man and a woman are best left unsaid.”

  “He’s a big man with a temper,” Maisie warned Pete. “He catches you stalkin’ his customers he’ll have yer hide.”

  The crowd around them suddenly thinned as another guide marched his flock off beneath the granite arch and began his patter. Pete lowered his voice and spoke so close to her she felt his breath on her skin like steam from a locomotive. “No worry, dolly. Ain’t ‘ere to pick pockets.”

  She’d suspected as much — hadn’t she? — when she’d spied him two days ago specking out the place. She’d been careful then not to let him see her.

  But now she widened her eyes as if surprised. “Honest?”

  He flashed his yellowed gnashers at her. “Come to arrange me a private tour, didn’t I?”

  “You ain’t no toff!”

  “That I ain’t. It’s a quiet little night visit I’s after.”

  Her insides twitched. Sweat prickled her armpits. “Whole place locks down tighter than a nunnery after the Ceremony of the Keys. Ain’t no night tours.”

  “Tha’s all right. I’ll take meself around for a toddle if’n you let me in the old Traitor’s Gate down by the river.”

  “No.” She rearranged
the remaining pasties on her tray. “Anyway, guards are on duty all night long.”

  “Never you mind. I have me ways. You just let me in. I’ll do the rest.”

  She laughed. “Like I’d ever help you pinch anything ever again.” She lowered her voice still more. “Anyways, only stuff worth yer trouble is the Crown Jewels. You nick them, it’ll cost my husband his job, and me, my home. I owe you nothing, Pete Dunn. I won’t do it.”

  The veil of friendliness dropped from his eyes. Two black holes flashed pure evil at her from above pocked cheeks. His sooty fingers flicked the air, as if itching to smack her. He leaned in. The foul stench of him came at her strong. “Now listen here, girlie. I ain’t no fool. All’s I want is one piece not a cartload. Saint Edward’s crown.”

  “Ha!” she said. “You won’t get away with it.”

  “Don’t be so sure, my bird,” he whispered. “Got me a man who’ll pop out the jewels, cut ‘em down, melt the gold in a jiff. Nothin’ for the coppers to trace. If’n you play dumb, they won’t come after me or suss you.”

  “I won’t help you.” She said it firm, making Ma’s dagger eyes at him.

  “Not even when I says I’ll tell your old man what a wicked little girl you was? What you did for me and half the blokes of Huxton and Spitalfields?”

  “To keep myself from starvin’,” she hissed. “To buy me a four-pence bed for a night out of the cold. You know that!” After Ma died where else was there to be but on the filthy streets? She didn’t even know where her brother and sister had got to. If they were still alive.

  He laughed low and wicked, eyes sparking like iron wheel rims on cobbles. “You think a man like yours cares for reasons? He’ll boot you out the door faster than a dog with ticks, Maisie-Daisy.”

  She looked up at him from beneath lowered eyelashes. “Please don’t make me do this.”

  He laughed. “Now don’t that sound bloody familiar. Just like old times.”

  ##

  They called it Traitor’s Gate because that was the way the Crown’s prisoners had been brought into the castle from the river. She’d learned this from hearing the tour guides’ patter. Floated them right down the reeking old Thames by wherry or barge, in through the raised portcullis. Once in the dreaded Tower, most never left. Unless it was to climb Tower Hill to the gallows, permanently erected there. The fortunate ones, usually royals, were allowed a private execution by beheading, shielded by the high walls from the shame of dying before a jeering mob.

  “Thursday night,” Pete had told her. “That’s when I’ll come.”

  “No,” she said. “Saturday. I’ll be at Traitor’s Gate midnight.” When Pete squinted at her, his face going red with anger, she added, “We’re closed Sundays. The guards who aren’t on duty lark about the city the night before. Geoff plays cards with his mates at the White Horse. He don’t come home ‘til morning. Ever.” And that had satisfied him.

  The moment Maisie had seen Pete that first day, she’d known what was at stake. If he’d come to nick coins, he’d have been in and out, fast as a fox in a chicken coop. Didn’t take a bloody genius to guess what he was after. No one in their right mind would sneak into The Tower’s museums and try to lug off a hundred-pound suit of armor or sack of cheap souvenirs. Few thieves were ballsy enough to try snatching even one diamond out of the Crown’s treasure — but Pete was nothing if not cocky.

  If she didn’t help him, he’d make sure Geoff found out about the times she’d stole for him and, worse yet, about the whoring. Of course, that had been before Miss Sarah swept her starving self out of the gutter. Her savior had been kind about not speaking of such things. As far as Sarah was concerned, her girls’ pasts were their own; it was their futures that concerned her. She taught them their letters and made them read from the Bible every night, whether they wanted to or not. She purified them (that’s what she called it) body and soul, instructed them on manners and decent language. When they were ready, she introduced them as her nieces from the country. Sarah Williams had a very large family, as she told it. She found each of her girls a husband or, if not that, an honest factory job.

  So Geoff didn’t know everything about Maisie. How much he guessed, she’d never ask. Like most men he made the rules in a marriage, in a family. And the rules depended on a man’s character when determining whether a woman was allowed to stay in his house or get booted out. That was why so many women were left to fend for themselves on London’s streets these days.

  As a female, you had nothing but what a man allowed. No right to own property or a business. No right to your own children if your husband claimed you were an unfit mother. A woman just hoped she could keep her father, brother, or husband alive and happy, one way or another. She couldn’t count on Geoff’s understanding how it had been for her in years past. To tell him everything would have been taking a terrible risk.

  Pete Dunn knew this as well as she.

  But it got worse. Even if he succeeded in nicking the crown, even if no one pointed a finger at her, Pete would have a powerful new threat to hold over her. If she refused to do as he asked, he’d start a rumor among the guards or slip a note to one of the reporters at the Star who was always digging for a dramatic story. A plot to steal even a single gem from the Crown Jewels was a tale not to pass up. The public devoured crime stories. She’d find herself in prison, quick as a lick, and there she’d die.

  And so it was clear, at least to her, that urgent measures must be taken.

  After the Ceremony of the Keys at ten o’clock on that Saturday, Geoff changed out of his smart black uniform with the red braid trim. She straightened his collar. He kissed her on the lips. “You’ll be all right alone now?” he said.

  “Of course.”

  He studied her, his round, whiskered face moving up and away so that she saw the lingering concern in his blue eyes. “Maybe I should stay.”

  “No,” she said. “You go off to yer pub,” she said, tears tickling her eyes. “You look tired, my love. A few beers with the boys will liven you up.” And she pushed him out the door.

  As soon as he was gone, Maisie collapsed against the wall and dropped her face into her hands. What was she thinking? Could she really go through with this? Well, it had gone too far already to stop. Less than two hours, Pete would be at the gate.

  Time dragged even though she tried to keep busy — sweeping the floor, shaving off soap chips for Monday’s wash. If Monday ever comes, she thought. When it was nearly time, Maisie wrapped her darkest shawl around her shoulders and up over her head. She gave her cozy one-room home a last fond look and stepped into the night. You got no choice. Has to be done, she told herself as she plodded across the deserted parade ground in the chill night air.

  Outside the White Tower she saw the sentry and knew he could see her. She lifted her hand in greeting. He gave her a nod then stepped back into the shadows. Many a night the guardsmen caught a wink while all was quiet, leaning against a wall, posed as if alert but eyes closed. Maybe that’s what he’d do. She walked on.

  The guard at the armory’s wooden staircase straightened as she passed but, again, didn’t challenge her. When she reached Traitor’s Gate no one was in sight. No reason there should be a permanent sentry when the gate could only be opened, and then with great effort, from the inside. She’d seen it raised just once, as part of a demonstration on a festival day, earlier in the year. If the pulleys and cogs hadn’t been loosened and made to work smooth then, she wouldn’t be able to shift the gate herself tonight. Still, she held her breath as she unlatched the long lever that rotated the heavy wooden gears.

  All she had to do was raise the teeth of the portcullis twelve inches above the water — so Pete could swim in. Maisie put her back into it. One, two, three shoves down on the lever, thrusting her whole body weight down on the heavy wooden arm each time. The gears groaned softly in the night. The gate began to lift with a low creak that sounded like a gull winging up the Thames. She looked around. No one came running. A little s
plash made her look down at the gray water.

  “You there?” she whispered.

  “Shut it!” came the sharp reply, then a muffled sluicing sound as something floated beneath the gate’s waterlogged tongs. Pete emerged, dripping, and pulled himself up onto the stone shelf beside the lever. “All right then. You go first.”

  She planted her feet and stared at him. “No. You said all I had to do was let you in.”

  “Changed me mind, didn’t I? You lead the way straight to the Wakefield Tower.” The Jewel House.

  She bit down on her bottom lip. This wasn’t part of the plan, but there was nothing she could do about it now. She dared not cross him.

  She held her breath as they approached the first guard post. She peered into the dark while Pete hung back. If the guard was still there and awake, he didn’t challenge them as they moved on.

  Two more guards to go. She glanced back and saw Pete pull a leather-covered cudgel from inside his shirt, but the shiv she knew lived in his boot stayed there.

  “No,” she whispered, “give it here. I’ll do it.” A look of puzzlement crossed his face but he handed her the club.

  They came up behind the sentry outside Wakefield Tower. As stealthy as they were, she felt certain he would have heard them, but the man didn’t turn around. She clobbered him at the back of his head beneath the rim of his Tudor bonnet. Spinning as he fell, his eyes flickered toward her before rolling skyward. He dropped to the ground. Maisie shook her head at Pete when she saw the blade appear in his hand.

  “Don’t waste time,” she snapped. “Only one guard left.”

  He seemed to think on this — as if slicing the sentry’s throat and guaranteeing his silence, might be worth an extra three seconds — but then shrugged and followed her inside. She saw him gape greedily at the immense glass case in the center of the torch-lit exhibit room.

  Maisie said, “This man keeps moving all night long. He walks room to room. Takes fifteen minutes to come all the way back ‘round.”