The Ruby in the Smoke

by Philip Pullman

  He paid for a glass of gin and sipped it as if it were medicine - unpleasant but necessary. No, he decided, he could go no further tonight.

  "I'm looking for a lodging-house," he said to the barmaid. "Any chance of finding one hereabouts?"

  "Two doors along," said the barmaid. "Mrs Holland's place. But--"

  "That'll do," said Bedwell. "Holland. Mrs Holland. I'll remember that."

  He shouldered his kitbag again.

  "Are you all right, dearie?" said the barmaid. "You don't look too good. Treat yerself to another gin, go on."

  He shook his head automatically, and went out.

  Adelaide answered his knock, and led him silently to a room at the back of the house, over the river. The walls were sodden with damp, the bed was filthy, but he knew nothing of that. Adelaide gave him a stump of candle and left him alone; and as soon as the door was shut he fell to his knees and tore open the kitbag. For the next minute or so his shaking hands worked busily - and then he lay on the bed, breathed deeply, and felt everything dissolve and soak away into oblivion. Very soon, he was lost in a profound sleep. Nothing would awaken him for the best part of twenty-four hours. He was safe.

  But he had nearly given up in Limehouse; the Chinaman, the smoke... An opium den, of course. And Bedwell was a slave to the mighty drug.

  He slept, and something of great importance to Sally slept with him.

  Chapter Three

  THE GENTLEMAN OF KENT

  Three nights later, Sally had the Nightmare again.

  And yet it wasn't a nightmare, she felt herself protesting, it was too real...

  The terrible heat.

  She couldn't move - she was bound hand and foot in the darkness...

  Footsteps.

  And the screaming, starting so suddenly, and so close to her! Endless screaming and screaming -

  The light. Flickering towards her. A face behind it - two faces - blank sheets of white with open horrified mouths - nothing more -

  Voices from the dark: "Look! Look at him! My God -"

  And then she woke.

  Or rather, surfaced like a swimmer in mortal fear of drowning. She heard herself sobbing and gasping, and remembered: There's no father. You're alone. You must do without him. You must be strong.

  With an enormous effort she made herself stop crying. She pushed aside the suffocating bedclothes and let the cold night air drench her with chill. Only when she was well and truly shivering, the nightmare heat gone, did she cover herself again; but it was a long time before she slept.

  Next morning, another letter arrived. She evaded Mrs Rees as soon as breakfast was over, and opened the letter in her bedroom. It had been forwarded by the lawyer, like the previous one, but the stamp was British, this time, and the writing educated. She took out the single sheet of cheap paper - and sat up sharply.

  Foreland House

  Swaleness

  Kent

  October 10th, 1872

  Dear Miss Lockhart,

  We have not met - you have never heard my name - and only the fact that, many years ago, I knew your father well, could excuse my writing to you. I read in the newspaper of the unfortunate affair at Cheapside, and I recalled that Mr Temple of Lincoln's Inn used to be your father's lawyer. I trust that this letter will reach you. I understand that your father is no more; please accept my deep condolences.

  But the fact of his death, and certain circumstances in my own recent affairs, make it necessary for me to speak to you as a matter of urgency. I can say no more at the moment than the three facts that firstly, it concerns the Siege of Lucknow; secondly, that an item of incalculable value is involved; and finally, that your personal safety is at present under a deadly threat.

  Please, Miss Lockhart, take care, and heed this warning. For the sake of my friendship with your father - for the sake of your own life - come, as soon as you can, and hear what I have to say. There are reasons why I cannot come to you. Allow me to sign myself as what I have been, without your knowledge, throughout your life: namely,

  Your good friend,

  George Marchbanks.

  Sally read it twice, astonished beyond measure. If her father and Mr Marchbanks had been friends, why had she not heard his name until the letter from the Far East? And what was this danger?

  The Seven Blessings...

  Of course! He must know what her father had discovered. Her father had written to him, knowing that a letter would be safe there.

  She had a little money in her purse. Putting on her cloak, she went downstairs quietly, and left the house.

  She sat in the train, feeling as if she were at the beginning of a military campaign. She was sure that her father would have planned it coolly, staking out lines of communication and strongholds, and forging alliances; well, she must do the same.

  Mr Marchbanks claimed to be an ally. And at the very least, he would be able to tell her something, nothing was worse than not knowing the threat that hung over you...

  She watched the grey edge of the city give way to the edge of the grey countryside, and gazed at the sea to her left. There were never less than five or six ships visible, scudding up the Thames estuary before a brisk east wind, or steaming effortfully down into the teeth of it.

  The town of Swaleness was not very large. She decided not to take a cab from the station but to husband her money and walk, having learned from the porter that Foreland House was an easy step away - not more than a mile; along the sea front and then take the river path, he said. She set out at once. The town was cheerless and cold, and the river a muddy creek that wound its way among salt-flats before entering that distant line of grey that was the sea. The tide was out; the scene was desolate, with only one human being to be seen.

  This was a photographer. He had set up his camera, together with the little portable darkroom that all photographers in those days had to use, right in the centre of the narrow path beside the river. He looked an amiable young man, and since she could see no sign of a foreland, far less a house on it, she decided to ask him the way.

  "You're the second person who's passed me already going that way," he said. "The house is over there - a long, low place." He pointed to a grove of stunted trees half a mile further on.

  "Who was the other person?" asked Sally.

  "An old woman who looked like one of the witches from Macbeth," he said. This allusion was lost on Sally; seeing her puzzlement, he went on, "Wrinkled, don't you know, and hideous, and so forth."

  "Oh, I see," she said.

  "My card," said the young man. He produced the white slip of paste-board deftly from nowhere, like a conjuror. It read Frederick Garland, Photographic Artist, and gave an address in London. She looked at him again, liking him; his face was humorous, his straw-coloured hair stiff and tousled, his expression alert and intelligent.

  "Forgive my asking," she said, "but what are you photographing?"

  "The landscape," he said. "Not much of one, is it? I wanted something dismal, d'you see. I'm experimenting with a new combination of chemicals. I've got an idea that it'll be more sensitive in recording this kind of light than the usual stuff."

  "Collodion," she said.

  "That's right. Are you a photographer?"

  "No, but my father used to be interested... Anyway, I must get on. Thank you, Mr Garland."

  He smiled cheerfully, and turned back to his camera.

  The path curved, following the muddy bank of the river, and finally brought her out behind the grove of trees. There, as the photographer had described it, was the house - covered in peeling stucco, and with several tiles missing from the roof; and the garden, too, was overgrown and untidy. A more unhappy-looking place she had never seen. She shivered slightly.

  She stepped into the little porch, and was about to ring the bell, when the door opened and a man came out.

  He put his finger to his lips and shut the door, taking great care not to make a sound.

  "Please," he whispered. "Not a word. This way, quick
ly..."

  Sally followed, amazed, as he led her swiftly around the side of the house and into a little glass-paned verandah. He shut the door behind her, listened hard, and then held out his hand.

  "Miss Lockhart," he said. "I am Major Marchbanks."

  She shook his hand. He was aged, she supposed, about sixty; his complexion was sallow, and his clothes hung loosely on him. His eyes were dark and fine, though sunk in deep hollows. His voice was familiar in some odd way, and there was an intensity in his expression that frightened her, until she realized that he himself was frightened too: much more than she was.

  "Your letter came this morning," she said. "Did my father write and ask you to see me?"

  "No..." He sounded surprised.

  "Then - does the phrase The Seven Blessings mean anything to you?"

  It had no effect at all. Major Marchbanks looked blank.

  "I'm sorry," he said. "Did you come here to ask me that? I'm so sorry. Did he - your father -"

  She told him quickly about her father's last voyage, and about the letter from the East, and the death of Mr Higgs. He put his hand to his brow; he looked utterly crushed and bewildered.

  There was a small deal table on the verandah, and a wooden chair by the door. He offered her the chair, and then spoke in a low voice.

  "I have an enemy, Miss Lockhart, and that enemy is now yours too. She - it is a woman - is quite, quite evil. She is in this house now, which is why we must hide out here, and why you must leave very soon. Your father--"

  "But why? What have I done to her? Who is she?"

  "Please - I can't explain now. I shall, believe me. I know nothing of what caused your father's death - nothing of The Seven Blessings, nothing of the South China Sea, nothing of the shipping trade. He could not have known about the evil which has fallen on me, and which now... I can't help you. I can do nothing. His trust was misplaced, yet again."

  "Again?"

  She saw a look of desperate unhappiness cross his face. It was the look of a man utterly without hope, and it frightened her.

  She could only think of the letter from the East. "Did you once live in Chatham?" she said.

  "Yes - a long time ago. But please - there's no time. Take this -"

  He opened a drawer in the table, and took out a package wrapped in brown paper. It was about six inches long, and sealed with string and sealing wax.

  "This will tell you everything. Perhaps, since he said nothing to you about it, I shouldn't either... You will have a shock when you read this. Please be ready for it. But your life's in danger whether you know it or not, and at least you'll know why."

  She took the package. Her hands were trembling badly; he saw it, and for one strange moment took them in both his and bent his head over them.

  Then a door opened.

  He sprang away, grey-faced, and a middle-aged woman looked around the door.

  "Major - she's in the grounds, sir," she said. "In the garden."

  She looked as unhappy as he did, and a strong smell of drink drifted from her. Major Marchbanks beckoned to Sally.

  "Through the door," he said. "Thank you, Mrs Thorpe. Quickly, now..."

  The woman stood clumsily aside and tried to smile as Sally squeezed past her. The Major led her swiftly through the house; and she had an impression of empty rooms, bare floors, echoes and dampness and misery. His fear was catching.

  "Please," she said as they reached the front door, "who is this enemy? I don't know anything! You must tell me her name, at least -"

  "She's called Mrs Holland," he whispered, opening the door a crack. He peered through. "Please - I beg you - leave now. You came on foot? You're young, strong, swift - don't wait. Go direct to town. Oh, I'm so sorry... Forgive me. Forgive me."

  Those words were so intensely spoken, with a sob in his voice...

  And she was outside, and he shut the door. Barely ten minutes after she had arrived, she was leaving again. She looked up at the blank, peeling wall of the house and thought: was this enemy watching?

  She set off along the weed-grown drive, past the grove of dark trees, and back on to the track by the river. The tide was coming in; a sluggish flow stirred the edges of the muddy bank. There was no sign of the photographer, unfortunately. The landscape was utterly bare.

  She hurried onwards, very conscious of the package in her bag. Halfway along the river bank, she stopped and looked back. What made her look she did not know, but she saw a small figure rounding the trees - a woman, dressed in black. An old woman. She was too far away to see plainly, but she was hurrying after Sally. Her little black shape was the only purposeful element in all that grey wilderness.

  Sally hastened on until she reached the main road, and looked back again. It was as if the little black figure was coming in with the tide; she was no further behind, and even seemed to be gaining. Where could Sally hide?

  The road to the town curved around slightly, away from the sea, and she thought that if she were to take a side road while she was out of sight, she might -

  Then she saw something better still. The photographer stood on the seafront, beside his little tent, consulting an instrument of some sort. She looked back - the little black figure was hidden by the end of the terrace of seafront houses. She ran up to the photographer, who looked up in surprise, and then grinned with pleasure.

  "It's you," he said.

  "Please," she said, "can you help me?"

  "Of course. Glad to. What can I do?"

  "I'm being followed. That old woman - she's after me. She's dangerous. I don't know what to do."

  His eyes sparkled with pleasure.

  "In the tent," he said, lifting the flap. "Don't move, or you'll knock things over. Never mind the smell."

  She did as he said, and he dropped the flap and laced it up. The smell was fierce - something like smelling-salts. It was completely dark.

  "Don't speak," he said quietly. "I'll tell you when she's gone. My word, here she comes now. She's crossing the road. Coming towards us..."

  Sally stood motionless, listening to the crying of the gulls, the clop of horses and trundle of wheels as a carriage went along the road, and then the sharp, swift tread of a pair of nailed boots. It stopped only a yard or so away.

  "Excuse me, sir," said a voice, an old voice that seemed to wheeze and click in some odd way.

  "Mmm? What is it?" Garland's voice was muffled. "Wait a moment. I'm composing a picture. Can't come out from under the cloth till it's ready... There," more clearly. "Well, ma'am?"

  "Have you seen a young gel come this way, sir? A girl dressed in black?"

  "Yes, I have. Devil of a hurry. Remarkably pretty girl - blonde - would that be the one?"

  "Trust a handsome gentleman like you to notice that, sir! Yes, she's the one, bless her. Did you see which way she went?"

  "As a matter of fact, she asked me the way to the Swan. Said she wanted the Ramsgate coach. I told her she had ten minutes to catch it."

  "The Swan, sir? Where might that be?"

  He gave directions, and the old woman thanked him and set off.

  "Don't move," he said in a low voice. "She hasn't turned the corner yet. 'Fraid you'll have to stay among the stinks for a while."

  "Thank you," she said formally. "Though you need not have tried to flatter me."

  "Oh, dear. All right, I take it back. You're almost as ugly as she is. Look, what is going on?"

  "I just don't know. I'm all mixed up in something horrible. I can't tell you what it is--"

  "Sssh!"

  Footsteps approached slowly, passed the tent, and faded away.

  "Fat man with a dog," he said. "Gone now."

  "Is she out of sight?"

  "Yes, she's vanished. To Ramsgate, with any luck."

  "May I come out?"

  He unlaced the flap and held it open.

  "Thank you," she said. "May I pay you for the use of your tent?"

  His eyes opened wide. For a moment she thought he was going to laugh, but he poli
tely declined. She felt herself beginning to blush; she should not have offered money. She turned away swiftly.

  "Don't go," he said. "I don't even know your name. That payment I will exact."

  "Sally Lockhart," she said, staring out to sea. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to insult you. But -"

  "I'm not insulted at all. But you can't expect to pay for everything, you know. What are you going to do now?"

  She felt very like a child. It was not a sensation she liked.

  "I'm going back to London," she said. "I expect I shall manage to avoid her. Goodbye."

  "Would you like a companion? I've nearly finished here in any case, and if that old weasel is dangerous -"

  "No, thank you. I must be going."

  She walked away. She would have loved his company, but she would never have admitted it. She felt somehow that the pretence of helplessness, which worked so well with other men, would not take him in for a moment. That was why she had offered to pay him: she wanted to meet him on equal terms. But that had gone wrong too. She felt as if she knew nothing, and could do nothing correctly; and she felt very alone.

  Chapter Four

  THE MUTINY

  There was no sign of the old woman at the station. The only other passengers were a parson and his wife, three or four soldiers, and a mother with two children. Sally found an empty compartment without difficulty.

  She waited until the train was steaming out of the station before she opened the parcel. The knots were carefully buried in sealing-wax, and she broke a fingernail trying to scrape it away.

  Finally she had it open; and discovered a book.

  It looked like a diary of some sort. It was quite thick, and the pages were covered in close writing. It had been roughly bound in grey cardboard, but the stitching was loose, and one whole section fell out in her hand. She replaced it carefully and began to read.

  The first page bore the inscription, A Narrative of the Events in Lucknow and Agrapur, 1856-7; with an account of the disappearance of the Ruby of Agrapur, and the part played by the child known as Sally Lockhart.