“Some two hours back. A note was delivered here, in a monogrammed carriage belonging to a real roiderbanks, quite uppity, he was. She took the note and left right after.”
“I wish you a pleasant evening.”
Mycroft started to go when the old woman darted out a hand and laid it upon his bicep.
“If you must know,” she whispered as she leaned her scarecrow body out of the door, “I was already hard-pressed to take that sort of girl under my wing.”
“What sort of a girl, madam?”
“Why, an Oriental!” she declared. “Yes indeed, for I was not keen to hear the grumblings of the others. But she had already been refused by three other respectable places, and I only did so out of Christian charity.”
Mycroft swallowed bile and started to walk off. Indeed, he quite knew that he should do naught else. Still, his errant feet planted themselves, and his errant torso twisted back towards the woman and the door.
“Christian charity teaches one to be charitable, madam, a virtue which seems to be quite outside your purview.”
Thus unburdened, he climbed inside the carriage, with instructions for Carlton to head, in all haste, for the Victoria Dock, for that was where two of Deshi Hai Lin’s steamers were berthed.
* * *
The Victoria Dock, a little less than twenty years old, had been constructed on the top of the old Plaistow marshes. It boasted a main dock, and on the west side a basin that allowed access to the Thames. Unfortunately there was no means of guessing where a ship might be docked, for they sat in no conceivable order, and Mycroft had no talent for spotting them by sight, as did Douglas. Naturally, if a ship were being unloaded, logic dictated that it would be as close to a warehouse as possible. But the Victoria had been designed specifically to accommodate large steamers, of the sort that Deshi Hai Lin owned. All around the berths were looming, pythonic structures: warehouses, sheds, storage buildings of various kinds, even granaries. The Victoria was, in every conceivable way, bewildering to one who had never set eyes on it before.
Braving the dark, slick walkways, Mycroft hurried from path to path and from berth to berth, asking the very occasional passerby if he had heard of steamers the Latitude or the Royal Richard. But this was not the sort of a place where strangers were catered to; or perhaps they took him for some sort of a regulator or bureaucrat. Having no success of it, and growing ever more desperate, he quickened his pace… and on a slithery walkway made a misstep, one foot sinking into a deep puddle. In quick succession, his knee hit the ground, as did the palm of his hand. From that sad vantage point, he watched his left shoe float off and then sink into the muddy flow.
Damning his own clumsiness, Mycroft got to his feet once more and pressed his scraped and bleeding palm against his jacket, for he would not use his handkerchief for the job. And though his trousers had cushioned his knee well enough, the fabric had torn so that now it flapped freely as he limped along.
Douglas would laugh to see to what I have been reduced, he thought bitterly, before realizing that Douglas would do no such thing.
“Sir? Sir!” a phlegmy voice said behind him.
He turned and saw an old man sizing him up. He had a peaky, grizzled face, and his trousers, shirt, and coat were all too short, as if he had put on the garments while still a lad and then grown up inside of them. The term ‘old salt’ could have been invented especially for him, for he seemed sculpted of it.
“Rumor is, yer seek the Latitude and the Royal Richard?”
“What do you know about them?” Mycroft asked more brusquely than he intended. But his foot was wet and cold and his knee was beginning to throb and he was feeling in all ways out of sorts.
“I would tell ’ee sir, but me mouth is parched so that I can barely strain to speak…”
The old salt wrapped one gnarled hand about his throat and emitted a pitiful little cough to make his point.
Mycroft dug into his pocket, but the smallest coin he could find was a half sovereign. Reluctantly, he held it aloft, close enough that the old goat could see it. And indeed, as the man drew in his breath and opened his eyes wider than they had probably opened in a good long while, Mycroft added:
“But it will not be yours unless I have particulars worth having.”
“Yes sir, yes guv’n’r, for I ain’t one wot prevaricates!” the salt declared, suddenly able not merely to speak, but to do so with rapidity, if not the utmost clarity.
“I meself ’ad an ’and in tidyin’ ’er up, yer see, for when I am ashore, I tidy up wot ’as been befouled!”
“What were you unloading?”
“Now I ain’t one to judge, sir, but some of it looked like weapons, all brand-new!”
“Where were they going?”
“Why, they wan’t goin’ nowhere, sir—word was, they was loaded and then unloaded! Like someone changed their mind! So they’d just been done wif unloadin’ the hold, an’—now I ain’t privy as to what transpired yer see—but all the sudden, sir, the deck’ands is all a flutter, they undo her anchor shackles… but ‘in waters so contrary’? say I. Wait fer fair mornin’, say I! But nay, they do not listen to good common sense, neither will they tarry, not for love nor gold!”
“What are you saying, old man?” Mycroft demanded.
“The Latitude, sir! For the pilot leadin’ her out ’as returned, yer see! There he be! And if yer look further out upon the water, there,” the old man pointed, redirecting Mycroft’s eyes to the spot, “that be ’er wake; she be underway, full steam ahead!”
And indeed, Mycroft noticed a lone ship belching out coal smoke as she made for the Thames.
“I must stop her!” Mycroft cried, and the old salt let out a phlegmy cackle and slapped a knee.
“Stop a steamer in ’er tracks? Y’ell never do that, sir. For already she is beyond the horizon. All ye can do from here is to wave goodbye.”
Mycroft looked out helplessly. The old codger was correct: there was nothing he could do, for there was no manner of communicating with a ship once she had set sail. He remembered Ai Lin’s words, that the weight of extra coal would be offset by the absence of passengers, so that stops along the route would be unnecessary.
He had to speak to Deshi Hai Lin. He had to tell the patriarch what he suspected about Bingwen Shi. Perhaps he was still somewhere on Victoria Dock. Mycroft snatched up the old salt by his frayed lapels, all but lifting him off the ground.
“Take me to Deshi Hai Lin. Now!”
“No need to get ’andsy, guv’n’r!” the old salt huffed, prying Mycroft’s hands away. “The Chinaman you seek, ’im what owns the ship? ’e sailed off!”
“He sailed off?” Mycroft repeated. “Was a female aboard?”
“’is daughter, yer mean? The pretty one? They say she is off to be married!” He grinned through blackened teeth. “And I’ve more than earned that ’alf sov!” he declared, stooping to pluck up the coin that had fallen out of Mycroft’s fingers. “I’ll ’ave meself a benjo tonight!”
As the old man gleefully bounded away, Mycroft stared out at the churning black water. He could no longer see the Latitude, nor her wake. An hour five it had taken him to peruse Zaharoff’s files: that was what he had said to Douglas. Sixty-five minutes to doggedly pursue one train of thought while blithely neglecting others, for his mind had already been made up.
Yes, Zaharoff was wealthy enough to purchase his own ships, but he could not do so without arousing tedious international oversight. Better to utilize four steamers that already had predetermined routes, routes that he wanted, and whose ownership was above suspicion. Not to mention that Deshi Hai Lin utilized coal-powered ships for cargo. As Douglas had pointed out, more expensive but much more efficient.
It has always been about the ships.
The ships were Occam’s Razor, the obvious prize.
Blinded once again by the haze of love, and of his own prowess, he had badly underestimated his enemy, and now it was too late.
Or was it?
39
THE MOMENT HE CAME TO HIMSELF, A SMALL FLOOD OF realizations occurred to him. The first was his name. He knew it was his, but the urge to say it aloud was so strong that he had to grit his teeth against the temptation. When that proved too great, he compromised, forming the letters furtively, as a child might sneak a forbidden sweet:
Cyrus Douglas.
Then a phrase, like a penny sparkler in the dark:
Cogito, ergo sum.
The language was not native to him, of that he was certain; yet he understood the meaning. I think, therefore I am. It reminded him that he was not some disembodied spirit but corporeal. And though his ‘cogitation’ was feeble, the small victory of awakening from a dreamless sleep to realize that he could still think, and therefore was… almost made him weep aloud.
Then there was the state, or more accurately, the location of his body: down upon his knees, back arched, his arms wrenched behind him, wrists shackled to ankles by a chain that emitted a dull clank each time he moved. It was not, judging from the weight, particularly thick; but it would do.
Whoever had bound him had disrobed him, save for his trousers. He was barefoot and bare-chested, but to what end? To better feel the chill? To freeze to death before awakening? If someone had wished him dead, why not simply kill him and be done with it?
Finally, there was the matter of the blindfold wound tightly about his head. He had not only been hog-tied and trussed like a condemned man before a firing squad but had also been rendered incapable of seeing so much as a shadow.
Douglas brushed his fingertips against the floorboard behind him, feeling wood so old that it buckled. His smallest movement made it creak and groan.
He listened for other sounds: footsteps, breath, embers or coal emitting their last crackling gasps in a hearth somewhere. But there was nothing beyond a light pitter-patter of rain. Was anyone likely to sit quietly in the gelid air, waiting for him to awaken? Unlikely.
Wherever I am, he thought, I am alone.
The ceiling was so low that he could smell it, blackened by years of wafting soot and candle fat—though no candle had been lit for him, he could ascertain that much.
A low ceiling, then. And how many windows? He listened for the rattle of raindrops against the glass.
One.
An ancient buckling floor, a low ceiling, one window. He was likely in a garret. Good. An easy leap from casement to rooftop to street, provided he could undo the shackles: a lofty proviso indeed.
Whatever made him figure that, even unbound, leaping about would be so easy? Once freed from this foggy delirium, whatever person he turned out to be, surely modesty was not his greatest virtue!
He attempted to shift positions, to see what his shackled body was capable of. But before he could discern if it was flexible, indeed if it could move at all, the numbness in his limbs gave way to the spider-like prickling of paresthesia, followed by a sensation of fire.
Slow the breath, he commanded himself. Close your mouth. Shallow and steady.
The burning ache told him he’d been tied up for several hours. The unnatural pose—bent back in the crippling cold—was one he could have held without much bother at age twenty. But at forty-three, it was excruciating.
Forty-three, he repeated. Cyrus Douglas, aged forty-three. Born in Trinidad…
He was giddy with progressive revelations until the thought concluded:
…blindfolded, and bound half-naked in a garret.
About the chain or the nakedness—or the garret for that matter—he could, for the moment, do nothing. There was but one unfortunate state of affairs that was his to alter.
Douglas carefully leaned to the side and lowered his face to the ground. Then he began to rub his cheek and temple repeatedly against the moisture-warped floorboard, his head pounding from the motion as if he’d consumed a bottle of whiskey. Yet, he knew he would keep it up until his cramping arms and stiff neck cried out for relief.
At last, the burning in his limbs abated… only to be replaced by a sudden chill that made him catch his breath. Then a shiver began, uncontrollable, from the nape of his neck downward, the chain clanking like a dissonant gong against the floorboards as he quaked and shook in protest to the stinging air.
Shallow breaths. Easy. Easy, I say.
Within moments, his body did as he’d commanded. He seemed a master at circumnavigating pain. If only his mental powers were as keen!
If only I were Mycroft Holmes! he thought. The name ricocheted through him like an errant shot. Mycroft! Yes. A name nearly as familiar as his own.
Steady, Douglas! What year is this?
1873. The Year of the Rooster, came the obedient reply.
He remembered sitting in the mess hall of a ship, talking to a Chinese man with a scar upon his neck. After that, he was walking, drenched to the bone.
But what had led to this present predicament?
It had been afternoon and raining. He had had words with his friend Mycroft Holmes, and he had opted to walk home.
Instead, he had found himself going down Regent Street and up a set of stairs towards a sign—
REGENT TOBACCOS
Importateur de Cigares de la Havane,
de Manille, et du Continent
—when something had struck him upon the head.
He had very nearly rubbed the blindfold up past his cheekbone when he heard a different sound, one that shut down all but the strain of listening. The voice of that same young man—Mycroft Holmes—calling his name. Were his ears playing tricks? Or was it the detritus of concussion? Once again, he was forced to command his heart to slow its pace. With one last rub of his cheek against the floorboards, the blindfold finally lifted.
If he had hoped for a revelation, it was a disappointment, for there was no light in the room at all. He waited for his eyes to adjust, until he could see at the very least shadows and shapes. Then, he looked about.
Though he was, as predicted, quite alone, what he did manage to discern was not encouraging. The room itself was indeed low-ceilinged. It was also empty of any furniture, and some of the floorboards were black with rot. There was but one garret window set into the roof that appeared to be no more than one-foot square, much too small to be of any service, other than to let him know that it was night. If he could figure out a way to get undone from his chains, he supposed he could open it and scream for help, though there were no guarantees that whoever appeared would be friend and not foe. When he recalled his earlier plan to leap from it to the rooftop, he nearly laughed aloud.
There was also a door. Among a series of pitiful options, it was his only hope.
He crawled to it much as an earthworm might, one inch and one wiggle at a time, trying to ignore the splinters that pierced his bare skin as he went. Upon reaching it, he felt the wood of the door with the side of his arm: a sturdy wood, probably oak.
Beside the door, on the wall and attached to a swivel, was an enormous iron crossbar latch that swung up and then into a pair of giant bearings on the other side, thus barring the way for any intruder attempting ingress. It was a medieval-looking contraption, as if someone were expecting an attack by battering ram.
Odd that a thing meant to keep one safely inside should be his best hope of getting out.
Utilizing the strength of his shoulder, along with the top of his head—not nearly so strong but conveniently placed—he managed after several failed attempts to heave the large crossbar upward.
It turned on its swivel, went up and—after balancing straight for a moment—fell into its bearings with a mighty clank. After that he waited, anxious that the sound should draw attention. But when he heard no one approaching, he moved into the second phase of his plan.
Unfortunately, that plan called for him to perform a headstand. Not only that, but to balance himself on the very portion of his head which had suffered the concussive blow.
I cannot, he began, and as soon as the thought came, he felt what little strength he had ebbing away. H
e could not allow that to occur, or he really was done for.
The God you say you believe in, he adjured himself firmly, is the God of the long odds.
Douglas slithered an inch at a time towards the crossbar until he was lying right underneath its bearings, where perhaps a foot of crossbar jutted past. With tremendous effort, and using his long, flexible body to his advantage, Douglas sidled up against the wall, balanced his chained body upon his throbbing head into the most awkward headstand he had ever executed, and then tried to ‘catch’ the jutting edge of crossbar with the chain wrapped around his wrists and ankles.
That accomplished, he hung there, suspended like a skinned goat at market, while he waited for his skull to stop throbbing.
He had been hoping that, by tugging in opposition to the chains that held him, he could break them. But the ground was so close that it impeded momentum.
He would have to lift the bar, with himself upon it.
Still hanging upside down, he began pushing his way up the wall with his bound feet. Utilizing the chains, he lifted the bar off of its bearings bit by excruciating bit. When he thought he had climbed far enough, he simply let go.
The heavy bar fell back into its bearings, his body falling with it and missing the floor by inches. It was like being stretched upon a cross. The pain was agonizing. And the chain remained intact.
Even so, he still believed in his plan as his only route of escape. For the bar was solid iron, heavier and stronger than the chains that held him fast. Combined with the pressure his falling body could exert, all twelve stone eight pounds of him, it should snap open the chains, provided his bones did not snap open first.
Inch by inch he climbed the wall again, and once again, having reached the top, he let go.
A second later, he found himself sprawled out upon the floor. The chains had given way. Best of all, the main ring had ceded, releasing not only wrists from ankles, but ankles from each other.
Wobbly and in great pain, Douglas stood upright. He pushed the heavy bar out of its casement, wondering if he could somehow pry it from its swivel—for if he could, he might use it to batter open the door. Barely able to see for the darkness, he felt its three large bolts with his fingertips.
The Empty Birdcage Page 24
