“No!” Jessy said more loudly than she intended and softened her tone. “We must not let on in any way that anything untoward has occurred, we must pretend this was a standard transaction and not the least bit unusual. We can’t give anyone reason to think you have anything here more worth guarding than what you already are known to have in this vault.”
“Yes, yes of course, wise thinking Madam, wise indeed. We wouldn’t want to tip our hand would we?” he tried for a smile but it was not too successful.
Birdie strode across the marble floor outside the vault to Martin who sat daydreaming on the bench, whistling quietly to himself.
“Take this satchel for Mrs. Powers Martin, we are ready to return home.”
Martin shouldered the bag easily as behind them the heavy thud of the vault doors and churning of the great lock sounded.
The banker smoothed down his frock coat and ran his hands across his hair, taking a deep breath to steady himself. He had to escort Jessy to his office for one last piece of business he had nearly forgotten. Her mother had also left her a more ordinary legacy which must be transferred to her. Leading her to his office and, once again leaving Birdie and Martin in the foyer, he had her sit down. He fussed with and then presented her with more paperwork. “You will see here Mrs. Powers that there is also a transfer to be made from your mother’s account. I have managed,” and here he took a moment of personal satisfaction, “to make some fortunate investments with the funds your mother left in my care. The capital has grown by 22% in the last ten years. You know have an additional fifty seven thousand pounds we can add to your account with us,” and he beamed at her as he handed her a freshly sharped pen and a small pot of ink. “If you will just sign in these three places I have marked for you, we can take care of the transfer immediately. Even without the-uhm-other situation…you are truly a wealthy young woman.
Congratulations,” he beamed.
It was more than Jessy could have hoped for in her life. She had invested the little money Michael had left as he would have; in his brother’s theater. While the income from the success of the theater provided enough for modest comfort this was a windfall beyond her hopes. Mr. Mackleby had indeed done well by her and her family and deserved her thanks.
She stood when she was done and he took the hand she offered, “Mr. Mackleby, you have my most sincere gratitude not only for the sound investments you have made on my behalf, but for all you have done for me and my family. Thank you sir,” she said with a warm smile, careful to mask the near state of terror that chest in the vault was still causing. “You can be certain you will always have my business.”
“My dear madam you are most welcome and I appreciate your continued faith in our services. Rest assured that I shall handle all your business with the utmost discretion and attention. If it is not importunate of me to ask, will you still continue on to act in this new play I hear Mr. Powers is starting to produce? Being a woman of such independent wealth now I fear we shall be losing our brightest star of the theater. Your performances have provided many happy hours to my wife and myself.”
“Frankly sir, this new play Mr. Power’s has written for me may be my last but, thank you,” she said warmly, “I am always happy to know my performances have pleased and entertained. London has been so very kind to me,” she smiled and shook hands in farewell.
Mr. Mackleby escorted them from the building. Jessy had to give him credit for carrying off their departure with a calm ordinariness. Her parents had chosen wisely. This was not a man who stayed rattled for long and seemed to possess a kind and honorable heart. A lesser man, a man with the keys, might have been more than tempted to investigate her inheritance, considering the air of mystery surrounding it, but he had very obviously kept his word. He had even made her wealthier. She hoped her family would not be repaying this man by bringing him any trouble to his door. With a complete disregard for lady like language she couldn’t help but to think what the bloody hell she was supposed to do with that damned chest. She knew her parents weren’t thieves so the idea it was hers to spend was ridiculous. She had just inherited a major headache.
The sun was fully out, the wisps of morning clouds having evaporated in the fineness of the day, and if Mr. Mackleby thought he saw a shadow slip behind the three as they walked away down the street it was not there when he looked more closely. His nerves must have gotten the best of him he supposed, and who would wonder at it? What a strange day indeed. He was a banker, he didn’t care for a life of excitement, but order and calm. He had a profound feeling that would not be the life Mrs. Power’s would be leading, especially with that chest sitting like a bomb in his vault.
CHAPTER TWENTY THREE
Jessy didn’t feel they could get home quickly enough but forced herself to walk at no greater pace than that with which they have arrived at the bank. Act casual, as if nothing out of the ordinary has happened at all, she reminded herself. It took every ounce of training she possessed to not set off for home at a dead run.
Birdie seemed to be doing well other than to keep a sharper eye out than usual for anyone following or showing undue interest in their progress. Her eyes, mostly hidden under the rim of her bonnet were clearly watching their surroundings closely. Martin knew nothing and so had no issues with acting as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred. He was whistling the same ditty he had entertained himself with at the bank, blissfully unaware of what he carried or what was sitting in the bank vault.
They had reached the last corner before Welbeck Street when she felt the watching. Out of the corner of her eye she caught a raven sitting atop a rain spout looking directly at her. She nudged Birdie to direct her attention to the bird but, the older woman had already seen it and had actually been aware of it following them since the bank. Having lived on Celtica with Clara (Jessamy’s mother) she knew quite well what the appearance of that raven could mean.
She reviewed the contents of the closet she kept for her rat and insect poisons in her mind’s eye and wondered if the bird would be unsuspecting enough for her to poison the hateful thing.
There was also Mick’s oversize, killer tomcat Murphy. Birdie would pit that cat against any bird of any size. One way or another this bird was going to meet an untimely death. Birdie was no fool. Between that chest back at the bank, the crown she knew was now in Lord Carvell’s safe and the attack at the theater, it was plain they had come to the attention of the Gooar. Too many dots were connecting between too many people in Jessamy’s life; Captain Powers and his death, that crown, Jessy’s parents and this legacy, Redsayle’s return…She was afraid the time had come at last and she didn’t know if her girl was ready. If the Baron and Baroness had not died so early then maybe Jessy would be better prepared. Birdie began to regret having kept so much to herself. No one had thought she would be the only one left and she wished she knew more than she did.
Birdie was still worrying over all these dots converging too rapidly when they reached their own front door and things went mad. Jessamy had reached the door and Mick was opening it when Birdie felt herself thrown to the pavement. Her knees and elbows were rapped painfully and she narrowly missing hitting her head on the steps. She then heard an awful cry that rang loud, horrific and echoing down the street.
She saw Jessamy whip around and it was like the world slowed down.
She saw her girl’s face go pale with horror as she looked past Birdie. Martin had been just behind Birdie and she knew the cry had to be his. She jumped to her feet parasol in hand, ready to do battle, while Jessy did the same. She was roughly shoved aside as Mick charged, literally leaping from the steps. Jessy reeled against the railing, her bonnet skewing sideways, only to regain her footing and fling herself after Mick.
What met Birdie’s eyes shocked her. Martin, arms wrapped about the satchel, was in the grip of something she had hoped to never see again in her lifetime, something she still had nightmares of on occasion. A man with a face as white as death, lips a grotesque blue, eyes with a
crazy white sheen. He was wielding a long dagger, literally carving away at Martin like a bloody butcher to part him with the satchel. Martin was a big young man and struggled valiantly, his arms wrapped tightly about the satchel, but this man had a strength that was not natural.
Then Mick was there pulling his own big army knife and with a great roar went for the black clad attacker. It was too late to help Martin. Seeing the furious Irishman arrive, the thing Birdie knew for a Gooar Odin, slashed his blade across Martin’s throat grinning into their horror struck faces. The blue lips and scarred face stretched into the most grotesque approximation of a smile Birdie had ever seen. Her stomach heaved as the spray of Martin’s blood rained out across them all.
That poor boy with one last, dying effort threw the heavy satchel with all his might to up the stairs to the door. Martin’s body dropped to the pavement and quick as a whip Mick went for the priest. Birdie flung herself beside Martin on the ground as the horrible gash across his throat bubbled and gushed his life’s blood down his neck and ran onto the stones. She wanted to try and stop the blood, but she knew there was no stopping the fatal bleeding. Then Birdie’s heart contracted further for Jessamy was next to Mick wielding her parasol as the two attempted to extract some damage and prevent the murderer’s escape. Mick, she knew, would kill the bastard if he could.
Birdie was aware those blades the brothers used were poisoned and if either took so much as a nick it would mean an agonized death. Then, the most unexpected savior of all sailed out the door of the house; Murphy coming to the aid of his master. The big tom launched himself at the priest and sank his impressive fangs into the man’s neck. Another unearthly cry rent the air, a combination of howling cat and screaming priest. The moment of pain and surprise was enough to allow Jessy, who held the parasol double handed, to ram, with all her strength, the sharp end into the priest’s eye socket. At the same moment with three quick punch like strikes, Mick had stabbed the evil creature in the chest. Murphy was still clinging to the dead white skin of the priest’s neck, black blood dribbling past the cat’s fangs.
Birdie wasn’t sure which blow finished the priest, the parasol point through the eye that Jessy had aimed vicious and true or the knife work of Mick, but the creature went down and stayed down completely lifeless. She had raised that girl and found even herself surprised by the steel and fury she had seen in her face. Her baby had just helped kill a man and rather than shock or horror, she felt pride. Her girl had the guts. She was most certainly her parent’s child. Murphy had leaped away as the priest fell and now circled the dead priest hissing and making an eerie whining howl with every hair on his body standing straight up. The cat’s tail looked like a bottle brush.
Martin eyes were frightened and she held his hand tightly, knowing nothing could be done as he bled to his death. The cut had been deep enough, thank goodness, to spare him the agony of the poison. It wasn’t long before the light faded from his eyes and the life from his young body. A silent circle of the house’s staff had come out drawn by the commotion and they all came to kneel around young Martin in silence, uncaring they knelt in a pool of his blood. The shock of the sudden loss held everyone frozen, minds numbed and unable to process the violence that had just occurred.
Murphy had left the humans. This street level threat had been eradicated but another remained. His preternatural sight had picked out the raven on the roof that had, with head cocked as if witnessing nothing more than a play, watched the mayhem below. In the silence and stealth particular to great hunting cats he padded his way back through the open door and to the attic window he knew was always open on dry days. Moving noiselessly along the edge of the roof he crept, tail, head and body low and stalking, eyes intent on his prey. With a lightening leap and slash of razor sharp claws he had the raven down and stared for a split second into its eyes before, with a ruthless bite and twist, broke the black feathered neck.
Thousands of miles away the priest Olav wildly cursed as his eyes and ears were cut off by a London bred tomcat. Murphy had stared down into the eyes of the raven, it had seemed, with great deliberateness before delivering the coup de grace. Cats, many say, have one paw in this world and one in the other. Could he see the raven’s master? There could be no answer to that other than that he did give one full bodied hiss and howl as if issuing a threat up on that roof.
Martin had been wrapped in sheets to be carried into the house as was the body of the priest, which they were appalled to see had bled black rather than red. As Mick went to hoist, with Birdie’s help, the body of the priest a large black, feathered present was dropped from the roof nearly at their feet. They both looked up to see Murphy staring down like a gargoyle, perched upon the edge of the roofline his mouth, fangs and fur matted with black blood.
“Now why would he go for that thing after attacking this man?” Mick asked quietly.
“It was a spy for these creatures,” Birdie informed Mick nudging the raven with her toe. “Now that is a great cat ,” Birdie said with satisfaction and made note to have cook serve up cream and the best fish they had in the house to the cat who had helped save them.
“What in the name of God was this Birdie? I’ve never seen anything like it but it sounds like the description of the attacker at the theater,” Mick said with revulsion clear in his voice. “I thought the man had screws loosened talking about white faces and blue lips. This one has some kind of tattoos down the sides of his head too. Since you seem to know what this creature and that bird are I think you better be offering us up some answers as soon as we deal with this body. What do we do with him? If that bird,” and Mick viciously crushed it under his boot, “was a spy, will someone know already we killed this creature? Will they be sending more? What in the name of all that is holy is going on here?!”
If Mick’s head wasn’t already shaved he would have ripped his hair out in worry and frustration. Attacked in broad daylight in a good neighborhood by some crazy priest like creature that seemed barely human. He was damned if someone wasn’t going to give him some answers and bloody soon.
“I guess we better start by getting this bag of blood and bones into the cellar and off the street before someone comes along.”
Between the two of them they grabbed the ends of the sheets and hauled the body roughly around the side of the house and to the cellar. Mick got the door open and they dumped the thing, bleeding blackly through the sheets, onto the cold stone floor. Mick didn’t think he would be able to eat any of the food stored here after being in the same room with that foul body. Turning together they hurried up the steps to the kitchen and into the main house.
Jessy, Birdie saw, sat with eyes glazed with shock on the floor of the hall clutching the satchel unmoving. Birdie knelt down in front of her and laid her hands over the ones clenched like iron around the bloodied leather bag.
“Birdie? It’s my fault. It’s my fault,” with eyes full of anguish and too big for her face she couldn’t seem to stop repeating the words.
“Jessamy Powers,” Birdie said firmly, “It is not your fault. It is the fault of that evil priest and his masters. Now give me that bag child and get off the cold floor. We need to tend to Martin now. He gave his life for what is in this bag, yes he did, and we can’t let him down now. We have things to do so get up and help me. We all need you and sitting here does no one any good,” as much as Birdie wanted to cradle and comfort she knew that time had passed. Everything had changed and her girl needed to start preparing for what was ahead. Birdie knew only too well things were going to get worse.
She also wanted to tell Jessy everything she knew, had always known, but there had been good reasons things had been kept from her, to protect her. It wasn’t her place to tell the story but that of Jessy’s mother and the journals she now clutched. That is if she got the chance to read them. Jessy handed over the bag and slowly stood looking about like she didn’t recognize her own home. Her refuge, the place of security she had built for herself and those she cared for had been vi
olated, violence and death brought to the doorstep and now one sweet and simple young man was dead. She had promised Michael to care for his people and now one was dead. She prayed to Michael to forgive her. “I need Tim,” Birdie turned to Mick, “He needs to take a message to Lord
Carvell as fast as he can. We need his lordship here immediately.”
In a moment Tim, skinny as a whip, hair sticking out like blond straw, stood before her. His pale blue eyes were wide at the unexpected happenings. Freckles that were normally hardly noticeable against his sun browned face stood out stark against the pale of his stunned face.
“Tim you have do something very important for me. I need you to find Lord Carvell. I don’t know where you will find him this time of day, but you have to find him. Do you understand me?”
Tim stood taller and squared his shoulder, “Yes mum! I can find ‘em I can! What do I tell the guv?” Tim, in total hero worship of the great horseman and breeder, never called David anything but the guv or his guvnership.
“Tell him only that he must come to Mrs. Power’s house immediately. I don’t care where he is or what he is doing, he is to drop it and come. Tell him Mrs. Bird said so,” she added as she could see the doubt that a stable boy was expected to talk to a lord that way.
“Now off you go as fast as you can! We are counting on you to find him and bring him here as quickly as possible. Don’t let us down!”
“I won’t! Yer got me promise!” streamed out behind him as he took off at a dead run out the front door. Before being taken in by Mrs. Jess Tim had been one of the countless street urchins winding, picking, and chimney sweeping their way through London. He was fast and no one knew all the side alleys and short cuts the way his kind did.
ROOK AND RAVEN: The Celtic Kingdom Trilogy Book One Page 23
