The Smoke Hunter

by Jacquelyn Benson

  “Robert has a load of MPs over to dinner. I pleaded headache and slipped off to pack—lucky for you. They’re dreadfully boring,” she whispered.

  Ellie had never quite gotten used to Constance’s habit of referring to her father—Sir Robert Tyrrell, CMG, and deputy chairman of the Department of Inland Revenue—as Robert.

  She held back as Constance scouted down the hall, returning a moment later.

  “They’re in the library at their port,” she said, her tone more relaxed. She grasped Ellie’s hand. “Come on.”

  Constance led her down the hallway, creeping past the door leading to the light, clatter, and voices of the kitchens. They skirted around a fern and up the darkened, narrow servants’ stairwell. The smaller girl motioned Ellie back as she scouted the upstairs hall, then stepped quickly past a row of ornate brass wall sconces with electric lights illuminating ancient oil paintings and tapestries, finally half shoving her through one of the doorways. She closed it behind them and, taking a key from her nightstand, turned the lock.

  The room was a maelstrom of feminine disarray. Several trunks littered the floor, spilling out lacy undergarments and khaki jackets, satin gloves and parasols.

  “Packing,” Constance said by explanation with an idle wave of her hand as Ellie took in the chaos. “You heard about Robert’s promotion?”

  “Promotion? No,” Ellie said, distracted. She sat down on the only uncluttered spot on the bedspread.

  “Financial adviser to the khedive of Egypt,” Constance announced proudly. “Isn’t that marvelously exciting?”

  “He was there before, wasn’t he?” Ellie recalled.

  Constance nodded. “Before he went to India. Now he’ll be running the finances of the entire country and—more important—I get to go with him. Can you believe it?” Constance clasped her hands, practically hopping with excitement. “He was dead against it, of course, especially my missing a season and all, but I managed to convince him. I’ll be there for the year. Then he plans to ship me back to Aunt Cat to see if she can have any luck marrying me off.”

  “You could be married anytime you like,” Ellie pointed out.

  “I imagine I could, if I didn’t mind saddling myself with someone who would bore me for the rest of my days. I swear to you, every eligible man in this city is interminably dull. The whole lot of them. It’s an epidemic.”

  She sighed, tossed aside a stack of hats, and collapsed elegantly onto her dressing table chair.

  “Egypt for a whole year—isn’t that magnificent? But I’m letting myself get entirely distracted. This can’t be simply a social call. I haven’t had one of those from you in months, and they weren’t generally made in the dark over the garden wall.”

  “I know. I’m terribly sorry. I’ve just been so busy….”

  “Sod that. I’m not admonishing you. I’m glad at least one of us can do something worthwhile with her time.”

  “What about your book?” Ellie asked. The ease of chatting with her old schoolmate kept distracting her from her own strange situation.

  “Blocked!” Constance exclaimed, throwing up her hands. “Blocked for months. I’m entirely in a rut. It’s dreadful.”

  Since Ellie had met Constance Tyrrell while at Dame Mary Nottingham’s School for Girls, her friend had one sole and overriding ambition: to write novels. She was determined to oust H. Rider Haggard as the preeminent adventure writer of her age. Of course, Ellie had yet to read anything Constance had written. It seemed very little survived the fireplace, where she wrathfully resigned her inadequate drafts.

  “Enough about that. I demand to know what you’ve gotten yourself into.”

  Wordlessly, Ellie removed the psalter from her pocket and opened it. She placed the black medallion in Constance’s hand.

  “What on earth is it?” the other woman asked wonderingly, examining the strange object.

  “There’s this as well,” Ellie said, and unfolded the map on the floor. Constance knelt down beside it, eyes wide.

  “Is this really…?”

  Ellie nodded. “I checked it out in the library. It’s entirely possible it’s a hoax, but I can’t prove that it isn’t, either.”

  “An honest-to-God treasure map,” Constance finished.

  “I wouldn’t say ‘treasure,’” Ellie protested.

  Constance ignored her. “Where on earth did you get it?”

  Ellie felt a slight wave of guilt. “I stole it,” she admitted.

  Constance clapped her hands together with delight. “Oh, fantastic!”

  The rest of the story spilled out of her, from the theft of the book to her flight up Regent Street. Constance listened with rapt attention.

  “I didn’t know where else to go,” Ellie admitted. “But I know I wasn’t followed. I wouldn’t have come anywhere near here if—”

  “Oh, stop. It’s a good thing you did come here. It sounds like you’re truly up to your neck in this one.”

  “No,” Ellie said, shaking her head. “Not necessarily. I could still give it back.”

  “They’d kill you anyway,” Constance asserted boldly, throwing herself down in her chair.

  “Kill me? Don’t be so dramatic. Killing is far more trouble in real life than it is in novels. Even if those men are some sort of ruthless criminal types, I don’t see that they’d bother if they have what they want.”

  “So that’s it, then.” Constance visibly drooped with disappointment.

  “Hardly,” Ellie replied, her voice clipped. “I said I could give it to them. I didn’t say I would.” She stood and began to pace the floor, picking her way absently through the few spaces not cluttered with fashionable debris. “How would those men have even known the thing existed?”

  “That’s obvious,” Constance asserted. “Your Mr. Henbury was clearly planning to sell it to them.”

  “Henbury? Selling Crown property?” Ellie found the concept difficult to believe. It was not so much that Henbury seemed like the scrupulous type, but more that she couldn’t imagine him being bold enough to even think of such a thing.

  “Ellie, just look at this!” Constance’s gesture took in both the map and the medallion. “Even a dolt can see it’s the sort of thing someone would be willing to pay for. Possibly a rather large sum, if it’s as promising a piece as you say it is.”

  “It would make sense,” Ellie admitted.

  “And when he found that the item was missing, he offered them the next-best thing. You,” Constance finished proudly. “How else would they have known your address? Henbury must have guessed that you took the map and told them exactly where to find you.”

  “The devil…” Ellie cursed, feeling a quick burst of outrage. She knew Charles Henbury had no fondness for her, but the notion that he would turn her over so readily to a set of criminals made her rather indignant.

  “Eleanora…”

  Her friend’s tone had changed, and Ellie forced her mind away from dire musings on what she would do to Henbury if she ever got her hands on him.

  Constance was gingerly lifting the black medallion from where she had set it down on the bedspread. But it was not coming alone. A small collection of hairpins had adhered themselves to its black surface. Constance gave it a small shake, but the pins stayed put.

  “Your stone appears to be magnetic,” she announced, raising an eyebrow.

  Ellie frowned, coming over and taking the medallion from Constance’s hand. She pulled loose one of the pins, then brought it gradually closer to the dark disk. When it got within an inch, the pin leaped from her fingers to join its brethren on the carved surface.

  “You’re right,” she said wonderingly, turning it over in her hands.

  “This is getting more intriguing by the minute,” Constance asserted excitedly. “And these men of yours—who do you suppose they are to want the map so badly? A ring of ruthless antiquities thieves, perhaps?”

  “I doubt it’s anything so dramatic,” Ellie said, forcing back the sense of wonder the disc
overy of the strange properties of the medallion had evoked in her. She plucked off the hairpins and returned the disk to the safety of the hollow psalter. “Even ordinary thieves would see the potential for a tidy profit if they were able to find the right buyer.”

  “So what are you going to do about it?” Constance demanded.

  The question made Ellie sink down into a chair.

  “I don’t know,” she said helplessly.

  Instead of replying, Constance brushed aside a stack of poorly folded blouses and pulled out a thick blue book. She flipped it open and browsed nimbly through the pages before stabbing one triumphantly with an elegant finger.

  “Brilliant. Positively ideal.”

  “What is?”

  “The steamer timetable. You’ll leave tomorrow morning.”

  “Leave for where?”

  “British Honduras, of course. That is where you said this map of yours picks up, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, but—”

  Constance raised an eloquent eyebrow. “Don’t tell me you weren’t considering it.”

  “Of course I was considering it,” Ellie retorted. “But an expedition to the deep jungle is not to be undertaken lightly. There are preparations that must be made. Equipment, supplies….I was hoping to take a few weeks as a research period to refresh my knowledge of Central American prehistory. My degree focus was primarily on Egypt and the classics, you’ll recall. And there are physical exercises I should undertake to prepare for—”

  “Bollocks.” The word sounded particularly shocking coming from such a pretty mouth. Constance crossed her arms, determination clear in every inch of her frame. “You have a degree in ancient history. That’s as much as any man would have before setting out on an expedition. You can buy your equipment when you arrive in Central America. And it would appear that a traveler’s boutique has exploded in this room. I can supply you with a complete traveling wardrobe. Aunt Cat is still convinced I’m three inches taller, or else expects me to wear impossible heels. There are piles of things she’s given me for Egypt that will fit you perfectly.”

  “What about a guide?”

  “You’re hardly going to find a guide to the unexplored jungle here in London.”

  “Funds,” Ellie offered, scrabbling for an objection Constance couldn’t just brush aside. “I have money in the bank, yes, but I can hardly withdraw it at five in the morning. That steamer will leave with the outgoing tide.”

  “I’ll fund you. I’ve got a stack of circular notes in that desk. You can pay me back when you return, if you like. Or not. You may have a bit of cash squirreled away, but Robert has piles, and you’re hardly going to be a major investment. You’ll simply have to credit me as your sponsor when you find this delicious city of yours.”

  “There’s no guarantee it even exists.”

  “The mystery is half the fun.”

  “It will be dangerous.”

  Constance sighed. “And that’s the other half of the fun. After all, you’re hardly defenseless. It was rather handy for that college chum of your cousin’s to have boarded with the Shaolin monks, and being amenable to sharing a few of those clever maneuvers they taught him with a lady.”

  “Wushu,” Ellie filled in absently. Her cousin Neil’s friend, Trevelyan Perry, was the sort of man women deliberately fainted in front of. He wasn’t exceptionally tall, but what he lacked in height he more than made up in charm. With his dark hair, regular features, and devastating smile, Ellie was sure he made more than a few knees weak every time he stepped into a society ballroom.

  Her own interest in Mr. Perry had nothing to do with his smile. When he had casually mentioned that the martial arts he had learned in China were as easy for a woman to perform as a man, Ellie had immediately perked up. It had never seemed fair to her that a female had to resort to weapons in order to prevent herself from being accosted, should she be so foolish as to wish to exercise her right to walk the city without a man or a gaggle of lady escorts. During his stay at Golden Square, Ellie had taken every opportunity available to pull Perry out into the yard and demand he teach her everything he knew.

  She shook her head. “If Neil had any idea what we were up to…” She glanced over at Constance. “You still remember those moves I showed you?”

  “I make Edwards practice with me every Tuesday,” she replied. Ellie felt a momentary flash of sympathy for the Tyrrell family butler, though being on the receiving end of Constance’s martial arts was probably not the worst of what the long-suffering Edwards was subjected to.

  “You realize I’m dreadfully jealous, don’t you? I thought Egypt sounded like an adventure, but what you’re about to do will make Cairo look like a stroll through Hyde Park.” Constance’s tone grew serious. “You can do this, Ellie,” she said quietly.

  Ellie stopped her pacing, looking down at the map.

  “I really could, couldn’t I?” Ellie replied wonderingly. “What a fantastic notion that is.”

  “Don’t even begin to pretend it was my idea. You knew the minute you saw that map that this was the way it would go. I’m just the angel on your shoulder.”

  “Are you sure you’re the angel?”

  Constance flashed her a wicked grin, then sobered.

  “Be careful, Ellie. But not too careful.” She clapped her hands. “Now, let’s kit you out.”

  Ellie gave in, throwing up her hands. “As you wish, Miss Tyrrell.”

  Constance’s eyes brightened. “This is going to be ever so fun!”

  While the rest of the city contemplated another half hour in bed, the West India Docks shrieked, shouted, and whistled. The tide had turned at five, and the outgoing ships did not want to miss their chance to let the current carry them to sea. Ellie’s hackney had to fight its way through streets already bustling with vendors crying their wares to men and women hurrying to shifts at the docks, factories, and warehouses that crowded the Isle of Dogs.

  She sat against the cushioned seat, her heart pounding in her chest. She hadn’t slept, spending the remainder of the night with Constance getting outfitted for the journey. Part of that outfitting had involved an impressive sum in circular notes, which meant that Ellie would now be traveling as Miss Constance Tyrrell.

  “Which is just as well, anyway,” Constance had mused as Ellie practiced her signature. “If they’re checking ships’ registries, it’s best they don’t see your name.”

  “You think they’ll check?”

  “Certainly,” Constance asserted. “But not for a while. You are still a woman. They will underestimate you. You have that on them, as well as your lead.”

  There had been only one more stop to make before heading to the docks—the Central Telegraph Office. It had been Constance’s idea.

  “Bournemouth. We’ll tell David and Florence you’ve gone for a bit of a holiday. I’ve got a cousin there. I’ll have her send the telegram, so it will look right if anyone is checking. That should buy you a few more days.”

  It would also save her aunt and uncle quite a bit of worry, Ellie thought. The concern she knew they would feel if they discovered where she’d truly gone was the only thing impeding her growing excitement as the wild notion she had formed in those last moments at the British Library became more and more firmly a reality.

  Ellie watched as her trunk—Constance’s trunk—was hoisted up the gangplank, headed for the berth Constance had just secured for her, happily paying full price. There was time only for the pair to share a brief embrace before Ellie had to board.

  “Have a magnificent adventure,” Constance said.

  “Thank you,” Ellie said sincerely, grasping her hand. Then she turned and hurried up the gangplank. A moment later it was pulled in, and the dock lines were loosed. The great boat whistled its way from the pier. Ellie watched a small blond figure waving to her from the dock. Constance blew her a kiss, then stepped back into the waiting hackney.

  She remained by the rail long after Constance had departed, watching as London receded b
ehind her in the rosy light of dawn. The stink of the Thames began to lighten into the salty freshness of the shore, and Ellie felt something stretch and open inside of her. It grew greater as the river gave way to the wide blue sea that would take her to her destination—one step closer to the life of her dreams.

  3

  The Imperial Hotel, Belize City, May 2, 1898

  ADAM BATES WAS EXHAUSTED, mosquito-bitten, and covered in what he hoped was mostly mud. He had spent the morning shouldering a mule out of a fetid sinkhole. It was hardly his ideal way of passing the time, but the long dry season had left water levels low, and the ground under his usual path through the marshes had given way. It was get in and push, or leave the animal for the vultures. Last time Adam had gone into the bush, he’d lost three mules. If he came back short this time, he was fairly certain Frederico would refuse to rent to him again.

  He knew he looked like hell. He felt like hell, so in all honesty it was only fair. As he watched a very respectable-looking family flee the serene, palm-lined oasis of the Imperial Hotel’s lobby at the sight of him, his slight twinge of regret was quickly overwhelmed by the desire to get to his room and stop moving for a while. And then there was the Imperial’s bath: gorgeously tiled in cool white with the big, enameled tub full of piped-in hot water. At the moment, soaking his trail-sore bones in that tub sounded like paradise.

  The hotel’s owner, Augustus Smith, emerged from his office and stopped short at the sight of Adam standing in his lobby.

  “For the love of Pete…” Smith’s accent was thick Northumberland, though his tan made it clear he was far from new to the tropics.

  “Sinkhole,” Adam explained. “I was only three miles out. Nearly lost a mule.”

  “Frederico would never have leased you another. Not after—”

  “I remember,” Adam interrupted.

  Smith regarded him resignedly.

  “Couldn’t you have rinsed off in the harbor or something before you came up? Or at least put that broadsword of yours into your pack?” Smith glanced unhappily at the machete Adam wore in a sheath at his belt. Since it was covered in muck like the rest of him, Adam thought it was rather less conspicuous than usual, but he didn’t bother to argue.