The Golden Flask ps-3

by Jim DeFelice

  Lord Peter raised an eyebrow, but nonetheless ordered the butler into action. The servant did not exactly fly about his business. Nor would "glide" be the appropriate word. He moved with the deliberate speed of a blade of grass growing on a warm spring day as he faded into the bowels of the house.

  "I see, my lord, that you are quenching your thirst with Madeira," said van Clynne after a short pause. "An excellent choice, as the water in this city is notoriously putrid. But if I might point out, as holder of, er, a lordly estate — "

  "I am Marquess of Bulham," said the young lord haughtily, before adding in a sweeter voice to Al, "You may call me Lord Peter."

  Alison, unsure what the soapy tone was meant to signify, nodded.

  "Your rank, my lord, gives you even more reason to forgo the Portuguese rot and drink the ancestral drink," continued the Dutchman. "It is only appropriate."

  "Which ancestral drink would that be?"

  "Ale, my lord. Fine ale. A British drink. Surely your father told you of the great contributions beer has made to your position?"

  "My father was a teetotaler. I'm surprised you didn't know that."

  Van Clynne ignored that bit of inconvenient intelligence, waving dismissively at the wine. "It never ceases to amaze me how a race can go to all the trouble of defeating an enemy and then sip their liquid. Imagine the great laughter as they trod on the grapes."

  "To my knowledge we have not been at war with the Portuguese for some time."

  "Would you call Spain a friend, my lord?"

  "Of course not."

  "And are the Portuguese not close to the Spanish? Twins of the same isthmus? Would you step on Romulus's foot and expect Remus to remain unaffected?"

  "Your friend makes a good argument, though not much sense," Alain told Alison in a confidential tone. "He seems to have learned his logic in Circe's cave, rather than Plato's. Are you familiar with the ways of the Greek philosophers?"

  Alison shook her head. Lord Peter smiled broadly.

  "You would like the ways of the Academy, I believe. I will be departing for the theater with some friends following our refreshments. Would you wish to join us?"

  "Well, my lord, besides extending my respects, I am here with a business proposition," said van Clynne, reminded by the reference to the play that Keen was on his way. "You have heard, no doubt, that the Seneca control a large store of salt in the upper province."

  "I had not heard of that," said the young lord.

  "Oh yes, the finest store of salt in the entire New World. Now, with the proper financial backing, we would be able to exploit — what was that?”

  "What was what?"

  "The noise upstairs. Al — quickly, go and investigate."

  "I heard nothing."

  "Tut, tut, my lord, there are spies everywhere. One has only to mention the word salt and they come rushing from the woodwork, like worms from a rotten ship's hull. A quick profit is a ready goad, as your father used to say."

  "My father said that?"

  "Al, quickly — up the stairs and investigate. I will talk no further of business until we are sure this house is secure."

  "It was probably just the maid."

  "Just the maid! If I had threepence for every business deal scuttled by a maid, I should have retired long ago. Up with you, Al."

  "Perhaps I should go along," said Lord Peter. "I will fetch a few of my cigars while I am upstairs."

  "My lord," said van Clynne, putting his hand on the young man's arm and easing him back to his seat. "There is a certain order to things. Even at your tender age, I am sure you understand that we must attend to our business before smoking. The Indians sometimes skip the order, and it leads them into all sorts of mischief."

  While Alain tried to puzzle out van Clynne's meaning, Alison walked briskly to the stairs. She knew she must not run, yet felt her heart pounding fiercely. It was all she could do to control herself. Until a few days ago, bravery had been a child's game, played out in her mind as she drifted off to sleep, her eyes shut to the consequences of failure. But her father's last gasp came to her now, and Fear in the Gorgon's guise walked at her shoulder. With every step she took, the serious danger she faced stroked its icy ringers of dread across her neck.

  As the servant surrendered into his arms, Jake deepened his kiss, pressing the young woman's ample bosom to his chest with a degree of pressure that might crush a bear, yet mingled with a softness that would tame a screaming baby. He slipped his fingers around the soft back of her neck, then with a flick closed his forefinger and thumb so sharply the woman fainted.

  If asked, Jake would say that he had learned the complicated technique from an old Iroquois warrior. That was far from the truth; the confederation, after all, rarely sanctions the kissing of its enemies. The fainting grip was practiced as a parlor trick among certain London swains — but there is no time now to dredge up details of our hero's past.

  The spy pulled the unconscious servant with him to the side of the doorway as footsteps approached from the stair. Holding her with one arm, he reached to his belt and drew his pistol, intending to wield it as a hammer on the newcomer's head — not as fancy a technique as the one he had just practiced, to be sure, but just as effective. Jake's hand was already proceeding downward when he realized the dark body in front of him had a familiar shape.

  Alison ducked the blow by throwing herself to the floor.

  "What are you doing here?" Jake said. He let the servant slip to the floor as he helped Alison up.

  "Looking for you," said Alison. "If I knew you were having your way with a tart, I would not have come to rescue you."

  "Watch your mouth, girl."

  "Boy, if you please. I am in disguise. Your Dutch friend has a very peculiar way for a spy. He does not act like one at all."

  "I'm glad to see you're such an expert on the subject. What the hell are you doing here?"

  "We are here to warn you. Dr. Keen is coming."

  "Keen? He drowned in the river above Albany. I watched him die myself."

  "Not according to the Dutchman. He says he's seen him, and he's on his way here right now. You're to get out immediately." Alison shook her head. "That lord fellow is a queer duck."

  "Quickly — go to the window and stand lookout while I finish going through these papers."

  "But — "

  "Do it."

  Jake found a bundle of sketch maps with fresh ink piled at one end of the floor. The large pile was inviting, but he postponed his search through them, instead pulling open the books on the desk. He had just realized one was a thin ledger book showing payments to different informants when Alison tapped him on the arm.

  "A carriage has drawn up."

  "Downstairs," he hissed as he rushed to the front window to see. "Tell Claus — no, wait. Too late. It is Keen, damn him, back from the dead. He's already at the steps." Jake pulled Alison to the door. "Ordinarily I never kill a man twice, but in his case I will have to make an exception.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Wherein, Jake takes further liberties in Liberty’s name.

  “ You’ll have to go out the hall window,” Jake told Alison, grabbing the ledger book. He reached into his sock and pulled out the Segallas. "Take this pocket pistol. Do you know how it works?"

  Alison nodded. "I twist the barrels around for two more shots?"

  "If anyone tries to stop you, pull both triggers and then run as fast as you can. I'm going to drop down this book to you; it's very important. The alley here," he said, leading her to the window, "connects with an old building. Run through it, then meet me at the infirmary. Hurry."

  "But your friend is still downstairs."

  "I will see to him," said Jake. "Come on."

  Even hanging from the window ledge, it would be a long jump for the girl. She looked down and hesitated.

  "But, Jake, if he really is in danger?"

  "I'm glad to see that you have changed your opinion about him," Jake told her. "I will hold you out and
drop you. Roll on your feet like a cat when you hit the ground."

  "I know how to jump," she said indignantly.

  "Out, then. And don't wait for me."

  "But — "

  "General Washington is waiting." Jake took her and dangled her out, then watched with some satisfaction as she fell with an "oooff!" and immediately righted herself. He tossed the book down, then yelled "Go!" as she started to run toward the old creamery.

  Jake's shout did not go unnoticed downstairs, though by now it was only one of a panoply of noises whose origin and meaning were a great puzzle to Alain. Van Clynne, of course, realized that his friend must have taken the warning to heart and was even now making good his escape.

  Which meant that, despite the perfect moistness of the meat and the excellent — nay, superior — stout the butler had produced, it was time for him to exit as well.

  "Well, my lord, I see by the clock that I must go," he said, rising with some reluctance.

  "What clock? Herman, what the hell is going on up there? Where is Jennifer? Van Claus, what is your assistant doing, rogering the maid? Herman, go and see what the blasted hell is going on."

  "Undoubtedly, my lord, I have overstayed my welcome." Van Clynne reached back to his plate and pocketed a healthy piece of the quail.

  "You are not going anywhere," said Alain, whose voice had taken on a screeching tone. "Herman! Jennifer!"

  "There is a knock on the door, sir," said the butler, shuffling forward. "Should I see to it?"

  "Yes, see to it. What the hell was that thud? Was that a bird by the window?"

  "I wonder," asked van Clynne, the color suddenly run from his face, "is there a back exit?"

  "What?"

  "Obviously, the Sons of Liberty are launching an attack," said the Dutchman hurriedly. "You secure the upstairs, and I will see to the back."

  "But — "

  "Quickly, sir. Young Al — "

  "Yes, he is unprotected upstairs," said Alain, suddenly snapping up and dashing from the room.

  Jake ran back to the office to grab the maps. He removed the silk ribbon from his ponytail, only to find the black cloth was not nearly long enough to hold all the papers. He tied together what he could and ran back to the window.

  He had just reached it when his lordship began mounting the steps. The patriot spy went out in a headfirst tumble, barely managing to tuck his legs below himself as he hit the ground.

  It was a moment before he could recover sufficiently to pick up the bundle of maps and take the pistol from his belt. Alain had either missed his jump or had gone to attend to the maid; Jake took advantage of this reprieve to sneak to the dining room window. He reached over with his hand and flung it open, and in the next second jumped up, gun ready…

  And came face to beard with van Clynne, wearing one of his more quizzical looks.

  "Thank you, sir," said the Dutchman. "But I already am armed."

  "This way. Keen is on the steps outside, with Bauer and his brother-in-law."

  "The butler will be several years letting them in," said the Dutchman. "Lord Peter has gone upstairs. I assume the young lady is with you?"

  "She's halfway back to the infirmary by now."

  "Excellent. All according to my plan. I will proceed to the rear exit, through the kitchen."

  "Hurry," said Jake, realizing the window was too small to accommodate van Clynne's girth. "Go through the old creamery behind the building."

  "I have already made quite a study of the layout, with your friend Culper's assistance," sniffed van Clynne. "See to your own escape, sir. Mine is as good as done."

  "Give me that case there," Jake told van Clynne, pointing at a portfolio. He placed the maps and pistol inside so he would appear just one more messenger on the street. "Get back in one piece, Claus," said Jake as he snapped the window shut. He noted with some satisfaction that the Dutchman left the dining room with more than his usual alacrity, then crept to the front of the alley.

  The doctor succeeded in pounding his way inside the door just as a fresh coach pulled up beyond Keen's to the very head of the alley. This carried Lady Patricia, who had been detained at the dress shop. Jake crossed to watch her alight as she stepped from the carriage prematurely into the street, directly into the path of an oncoming wagon.

  Dropping his portfolio, the patriot caught Lady Patricia around the waist an instant before she plunged into the horses' path. He swept her around, ignoring the deep splatter of muck that splashed on his back. No gentleman of London or Paris bowed as neatly as he when depositing her safely on her feet at the side of the road.

  "You!” she cried. “What are you doing here? And dressed as a carpenter?"

  "I was about to ask you the same thing," said Jake. "Was that Dr. Harland Keen who just went into the house?"

  "The doctor was just looking for you," said Lady Patricia.

  "Indeed," said Jake. "But I think I will delay our appointment a while longer."

  "Jake — "

  There was a certain note in her voice, a mixture of affection and apprehension. Whether it came because she thought he meant to dally with her, or whether it was intended to imply she wanted him to, was impossible to tell. In any event, her brother and husband were now coming down from the doorstep, and Jake decided he needed some expedient to distract their attention.

  At least that was his official reason for taking Lady Patricia back into his arms and kissing her.

  Her reaction differed from the maid's only in that her lips pressed back sharply. In fact, despite the surrounding circumstances, this was quite a pleasant and lasting kiss.

  "What in hell are you doing with my sister!" thundered Clayton Bauer, outrage mixing with surprise as he realized the fellow before him was Bacon's agent and Keen's friend.

  "Thanking her for her assistance this morning," said Jake. "And saving her life."

  Clayton's reaction was absolutely on key, but Lady Patricia's husband had not yet registered a complaint. Perhaps he had missed the kiss.

  So naturally, Jake repeated it. This time there was token resistance, though he could tell from the way her hand pressed at his side that it was for appearance's sake only.

  The dragoons strained from their horses to catch the show. A few gripped the swords in their saddle sheaths, but the bulk wore grins that betrayed admiration for the bold young man who had so overt a manner — and such fine taste in lips.

  "Aren't you going to stop him?" Clayton demanded of his brother-in-law.

  The earl was one of those men so accustomed to hiring others to do their work for them that they cannot take a stand for themselves, even when confronted by the most vigorous insult. He mumbled some words of shock in a soft voice.

  "Stop," said Lady Patricia. It was the mildest rebuke imaginable, but it was enough for her brother, who stepped up and grabbed Jake by the arm.

  "You will leave off, sir," he said. "You will cease and desist!"

  "And who are you to order me about?"

  Jake squared his shoulders as he confronted the man. Clayton was several inches shorter, with a waist that betrayed many second and third helpings at the feasts the British had thrown this past winter. Still, he had the fiery aspect of a self-made man, and the righteousness of his cause propelled his words.

  "Do not think that because you are under His Majesty's protection that you do not have to observe the proprieties," said Clayton. "Why is everyone in Bacon's employ so damned arrogant?"

  "It may be that we are arrogant," returned Jake, "but I understand now why all of your men bear a common idiocy."

  The Tory's face twisted with anger and he turned to his brother. "Here, William, here is my glove. Demand satisfaction for his insult to your wife."

  "I do not think — "

  "No, Clayton. It was nothing." Lady Patricia's trembling voice revealed her great distress. She seemed torn by many conflicting emotions: admiration for her brother, a quiet contempt for her husband, and a definite desire for Jake.

 
"Then I demand satisfaction," said Clayton, slapping Jake's cheek with the fingered end of his glove, "for the family name and my sister's honor."

  Jake stood still in the street for a second, playing the moment for its full drama. The entire world grew silent around him. He saw from Clayton's expression that the Tory was just now realizing the full implications of his challenge.

  "You will lend me your glove, as I do not have my own," said Jake with all the dignity of a Spanish don.

  The ritual proceeded quite properly. Clayton gave the place and the time: two days hence, at dawn, on the shore just north of Perth, a no man's land where the technicalities of the law would not follow.

  Jake had the option of weapons and conditions. He briefly considered swords — surely this would please the Tory mentality — but changed his mind as a sharp rejoinder occurred to him.

  "I choose pistols," said Jake. "I should not like your poor sister to cry over your slashed face in the coffin."

  "You will supply them.

  "It is only a matter of choosing which set," said Jake.

  He smiled wryly, imagining the Tory spending the whole next day practicing for a showdown which would never come. His smile broadened to the widest grin as he swept down in a bow and bid the company — and especially Lady Patricia — a fond adieu. Retrieving the case with the maps and pistol, he began walking back toward the infirmary with the air of a man who had just snuck from under Death's nose without so much as dusting his clothes.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Wherein, Claus van Clynne is discovered to have dawdled more than necessary.

  While Jake had seen Claus van Clynne heading anxiously for the exit, it could not be said with any veracity that the squire made a very quick departure. He did, indeed, head straight for the back door, proceeding through the kitchen into the rear hallway and back rooms with all the haste commonly associated with a windstorm. Alas, upon his arrival at the rear of the building he discovered the passage had been given over to storage — and his escape was blocked by a broad cubbyhole stuffed with all manner of maps.