Now Geoff looked ready to explode, and well he should. This was a small fortune—or to men like Geoff, a large one. “Roight ye are, guv. Oi’ll lecher know when I gots ’em.”
“Payment for them on delivery. Here’s fifty for you on account.” Spencer pulled his wallet out of the inside pocket of his coat, and counted ten five-pound notes out for Geoff, who took them with trembling hands. “I’ll be at my house, not my flat, for the foreseeable future.”
Geoff took the notes to the bookcase, and turned his back to Spencer so that his body hid what he was doing—although Spencer was pretty sure he had a counterfeit book-safe among his volumes and he was putting his money in it. When he turned back, his grin was as broad and innocent as ever. “We’ll be ‘wise as serpents, an’ ’armless as doves, ’guv,” he said, proving he actually knew his Bible. “Watson won’t know we’re there till we ’it ’im. An’ ’e’ll be alone when we does it.”
11
“We may be going about this from literally the wrong end,” Mary Watson said thoughtfully, twirling an errant curl around her finger.
Rather than 221C, they were meeting in the flat above John Watson’s surgery. He’d had patients to see to today, and the summer heat made itself felt strongly, so no one really wanted to make the trek to Baker Street—especially not when the Watson’s flat was situated in such a way that it was catching all of the breeze, such as it was. “Sultry” was a kind way to describe the heat. It made Sarah long for the school, all the green, and the huge oak trees that cast such delicious shade.
The fact that the surgery flat was not lived in much helped too. A minimum of furnishings, none of the clutter of everyday life, meant the place felt light and airy, not hot and stuffy. It even looked cool: the furnishings were all in gray and pale blue, the walls were papered in gray and white stripes, the draperies were pale blue, and the rugs were all in blues. Visually, it was like being in a snow scene, which was where Sarah wished she was.
Sarah felt she needed someplace cool where she could think. They seemed to have come to another impasse, and the heat was not helping her at all. She felt as if her thoughts were trying to swim through treacle. Fanning herself didn’t help much. But at least it sounded as if Mary had an idea.
“What do you mean?” Sarah asked.
“Well, we’ve been asking John’s Elementals about the bodies in the area of the river where they were found—which of course, is a place where they don’t like to go. But we haven’t asked the ones above the most fouled part of the river.” Mary tapped the map of London in the area between the Putney and Hammersmith Bridges. “This is about the last place where they’ll go. Then the water turns too foul for them.”
“That’s a possibility,” John replied, but he sounded doubtful. “But I don’t think we’ll learn anything.” He paused, then added reluctantly, “There’s something else I haven’t tried, and to be honest I have been trying not to do it. But I think I’ll have to summon one. I don’t think I have a choice.”
Mary put her hand to her mouth. “Oh no. Not Jenny Greenteeth—”
“I’m afraid so.” John sighed. “At least I’m not a child.”
Sarah was lost; so, obviously, was Nan. Grey shook her head. But Neville made an unhappy clacking sound and said, “Rrrr bad.”
“Who exactly is Jenny Greenteeth?” Nan wanted to know. She looked behind her at Neville. “You obviously know.”
Neville just repeated, “Bad!”
John ran his hand over his hair. “I suppose the easiest thing to say is that there are good and evil Elementals. Now, that’s oversimplifying things by a very great deal, but the point is that there are Elementals that are willing to work with humans and there are those who are not—and there are those who would be happiest if they could sink their fangs or claws into our throats and devour us. A Jenny Greenteeth is one of those. A Jenny mostly preys on children . . . and the only reason Jennys don’t take many children these days is that they have to take them secretly.”
Sarah nodded. “And these days not even country children are alone much.”
John continued patiently. “The hostile Elementals are often attracted to poisoned or polluted places. A Jenny is generally a creature of stagnant ponds and swamps, but there is, without a doubt, at least one of them living in the nastier parts of the Thames. It’s the sort of place a Jenny would love.”
“They’re dangerous, John,” Mary said, frowning fiercely. “And not just to children. If you lose your control over her, she’ll attack, and she’s more than strong enough to drag you under before any of us could react.”
“What do you mean by ‘lose control over her’?” Nan demanded, her voice a little sharp with worry.
John shrugged. “An Elemental Master normally doesn’t coerce Elementals, because we only work with the ones that are ‘good,’ although that is a crude way to put it. But sometimes we’ve got no choice but to interrogate or force something out of the others, the neutral or hostile ones. So . . . we cast coercive magic over them to force them to do what we want. And if that spell is broken, or the creature fights free of it—”
“But you won’t be there by yourself,” Nan pointed out. “You’ll have me and Sarah. If you can do this by daylight, you’ll have the birds. And by night, even possibly Caro can help, if these things are half in the spirit plane and half in the material plane the way the sylphs are.”
John opened his mouth to say something, then blinked, and closed it again. He pondered for a moment. “By Jove,” he said, finally. “You’re right, actually.” He turned to his wife. “What do you think?”
Mary wore an expression of intense relief. “That this is the best suggestion I have heard so far. If you’ll take all three of us along, while my Elementals may not actually be able to intimidate or hurt a Jenny, they can certainly distract her. Meanwhile Nan, Sarah and Caro can be right there, with weapons drawn, making it quite clear you’ll tolerate no nonsense from the hag.”
Sarah laughed suddenly, realizing the sheer absurdity of all this from the point of view of someone who knew nothing about magic and wouldn’t believe in it if you told him about it. “Can you imagine poor Lestrade listening to us? He’d be certain we were all lunatics!”
Mary blinked, then began to laugh. “I can just see his face!”
Grey flapped her wings a little to get their attention, then, in a perfect imitation of Lestrade’s voice, said, “Wut—wut—wut—” and spluttered in an imitation of his indignation.
That sent them all into peals of laughter, and if the laughter was a little hysterical, well, they had been at this with no tangible results for quite some time. Hearing about bodies turning up was not helping their spirits any.
Mary recovered first, wiping her eyes. “All right, now the question is, how are we going to do this without attracting attention we don’t want and looking like a lot of lunatics. I don’t want to do this by night.”
Sarah and Nan nodded; they already knew such creatures were strongest in the dark. They’d had plenty of experience at this point. Sarah made her suggestion. “What about hiring a boat? We’d just be a party of people cooling off on the Thames. I think we can all row.”
But John shook his head. “I’ll never get a Jenny out on the open water. They’re creatures of shorelines and stagnant backwaters.” He chewed on his lower lip unhappily. “And we need to be someplace on the shore where we aren’t going to attract attention. I hate to say this to you, my love. We might actually have to do this by night.”
“But where? That could make a big difference to your safety. The docks where the river excursions launch?” Mary asked dubiously. “Even at night, that might be too public.”
But then Nan’s face brightened. “No! Execution Dock! Down at Wapping, where all the pirates and mutineers used to be hung!”
John snapped his fingers. “The very place!” he exclaimed. “No one will be anywhere around the stairs or the passage that leads to the stairs after dark, and I cannot imagine a pla
ce more attractive to a Jenny.” But then his face dropped. “My love—that is no place for someone like you, not at night. Wapping is a rough area even by day. By night—well, rough men become even rougher with a few drinks in them.”
Mary grimaced. “I would like to argue with you, but I cannot. I would only be a liability. My Elementals do not like to fly at night—”
“Neither do the birds, but you would be able to help Sarah and me there. Would you watch them for us?” Nan asked. “What with the dangers Sherlock warned us about, we don’t like leaving them alone at night.”
“I don’t like putting them anywhere near the clutches of a Jenny in the dark,” Watson added. “Not when I know the Jennies have got some equally nasty allies of Air. I’d rather they did not come on this expedition, myself.”
“I’d be very happy to watch them. We can all worry about you together,” Mary replied, then grimaced. “And the sooner we do this, the better, so it might as well be tonight. At least it’s a full moon.”
* * *
Nan and Sarah left the birds in Mary’s charge and went home to change. They were not about to attempt this in dresses, even Ladies’ Rational Dress. Instead, they both changed into the clothing they wore when practicing with their instructors—outfits based on traditional Gurkha men’s clothing. Baggy cotton trousers and a knee-length cotton tunic held in at the waist with a wrapped sash, all in a dark charcoal color, the better to fade into the shadows. The trousers were at least as full as the ones worn under a bloomer suit—in dim light, if they moved carefully, these could be taken for unfashionable skirts, which was exactly what they were counting on, because they were going to have to get cabs to and from Execution Dock.
Fortunately they didn’t excite any attention on the street, and managed to get a cab to pick them up. They had the cabby leave them in front of a cottage in Wapping, waited for him to drive off, then carefully made their way to The Prospect of Whitby. This was a public house . . . but not just any public house. Squeezed in a narrow passage between it and the building next door were the Wapping Stairs, that once led to Execution Dock.
Nan had been reading about Execution Dock in regards to the age of piracy not more than a couple of weeks ago, which was why the site was so fresh in her mind. Before The Prospect of Whitby and the warehouse next door had been built, this part of the river had been more open. Pirates had been tried at the Admiralty Court and brought here, to the river’s edge at low tide, to be hung. Then they were left there until the high tide had covered them completely over three times. Why they did this, she had no idea, but then, in those days it was not uncommon to keep a dead man hanging on display for some time while the flesh rotted from his bones. That was no longer done, but the Wapping Stairs and the brick platform the gallows had stood on were still in place.
I wonder how many ghosts we’re likely to run into.
But right now, it wasn’t ghosts that concerned her. While this was by no means the worst part of London, it was the East End, and full of sailors and dockworkers, and they were two young women out alone. Nan really did not want to get into a battle. Not when they had a job to do.
As they neared the Wapping Stairs, a figure stepped out of the shadows and into the light from the pub’s windows. Although he wore the clothing and cap of a dockside worker, Nan immediately recognized John Watson’s features with immense relief.
“You’re in good time,” he said in a low voice. “The tide’s out, we can go right down to the water without anyone in the pub seeing or hearing us.”
The stairs were barely wide enough for two of them; they had to go single file, and Nan was relieved when they stepped out onto an ancient bit of brickwork that led down to the water’s edge that was big enough for all of them. The rear porch of the pub was a good two stories above their heads—that was how high the river got here at high tide. There was just enough light from the pub above them and from the full moon to see by. The mud of the bank glistened and stank. The brickwork was slippery with algae and things Nan didn’t want to think about. Permeating everything was the greeny-fishy odor of the Thames, with an undertone of rot and raw sewage.
Sarah carried an umbrella—an incongruous weapon, unless you knew that it had a solid steel core and the ferrule at the end was sharp enough to pierce heavy leather. Nan had her Gurkha knives. And as both of them readied their weapons, Caro faded into view with her ectoplasmic bow and arrows. Dressed in her now-favored riding breeches, cap, boots, and jacket, Caro hovered above John’s head, Sarah stood at his right and Nan at his left.
Nan really didn’t know what to expect. John had never performed magic in front of them before, at least not in the sense of spells and incantations. As noise from the pub above drifted down toward them and the water lapped at their feet, she heard him muttering under his breath and watched him sketch signs in the air in front of him.
And a part of her was giggling with nervous hysteria at the thought that at any moment, some drunk from the pub above could come staggering out to the porch, whip out his tackle and take a piss over the railing. Or hike down his trousers and deliver a load. Because that was basically what that porch was there for in the first place, since drunken dockworkers and sailors are not thinking about modesty when its dark and they need to relieve themselves.
At least they weren’t standing under the porch, but off to the side.
But no one did, and after many minutes of mumbling and gesturing, John called out softly over the water, “Jenny Greenteeth, by my power as a Master and my rights over all Creatures of Water, I summon ye!”
Nan got very little warning; something in the river at her feet erupted out of the water, splashing them all with a noisome spray.
And standing on the water before them, glowing with sickly yellow power and moonlight, was the ugliest creature Nan had ever seen.
Naked, with sagging breasts hanging down to her waist and long, wet, matted hair hanging down her back and in her face, Jenny Greenteeth not only had green teeth, she was green all over. The aged hag sported a long nose, thin lips, a pointed chin, emaciated limbs and a pot belly. Her hands were more “claw” than “hand,” and there was a suggestion of scales about her skin.
“What d’ye want, Son of Adam?” the creature snarled. “Why d’ye disturb my rest and conjure me?”
Her voice was like the tearing of canvas, and it sent chills running down Nan’s spine. Every word held a world of menace, and Nan had absolutely no doubt whatsoever that if John wasn’t keeping her under tight control, she’d have torn their hearts out. Or tried, at least. Despite her determination, Nan felt sick with fear.
“What do you know about the headless girls, Jenny Greenteeth?” John asked through clenched teeth. “The headless girls sent floating down the Great River?”
“Oh the headless girls! No taste to them, no taste at all. Give Jenny a sad, sad suicide, or a fool afoul of his comrades! Jenny knows them, right enough. What will ye give Jenny to hear what she knows?” Jenny’s words might have been playful under other circumstances, but all Nan could hear was threat.
“I’ll give Jenny her freedom, and naught else,” John replied. Nan gripped the hilts of her knives as Jenny’s eyes literally flashed with rage. “Otherwise I’ll bind you right here, right now, and let the ghost above me fill you full of arrows. You can die, Jenny Greenteeth, and we both know it. Now, where do those girls enter into the river?”
Jenny threw back her head and screamed her rage, and Nan glanced reflexively up at the pub, sure that people were going to come piling out in response to the noise.
But no one did, and after a moment, she realized that the only reason she could hear it was because of Robin Goodfellow’s blessing on her. Jenny’s scream had not been in her ears, but in her head.
Nan braced herself as Jenny leapt out of the river, claws outstretched. She felt afire with anticipation for the fight. But she wasn’t the one that got in the first blow.
Sarah was.
Using the umbrella li
ke a spear, Sarah stabbed Jenny in the throat as Caro struck her with an ethereal arrow from above. Nan fended off the scrabbling claws with an upward slash of her right-hand knife, then cut at Jenny’s belly with the left. Both strikes were solid hits that jarred the hilts in her hands, and she smelled the foul green ichor that served Jenny for blood.
Then John made an abrupt gesture with both his hands, throwing the hag back into the river. She emerged again, but much worse for wear, bleeding from the wounds they’d inflicted. She pulled out the arrow from her shoulder and screamed again as she cast it aside.
She launched herself at them, still not deterred; this time Caro feathered her with three arrows before John cast her back. She pulled out the arrows and dove under the water. But Nan was not taken by surprise when she erupted at Nan’s feet. This time Sarah stabbed her in the back as Nan slashed both knives across her face, and John flung her back for a third time.
She emerged from the water halfway and screeched at them.
“You can scream all you want, Jenny Greenteeth,” John barked. “But I shan’t release you till you tell me what I want to know.”
But sweat stood out on John’s forehead, and Nan could tell that holding Jenny back was costing him.
Jenny’s head dropped back down as her wounds sealed over, and she glared at him from under her dripping hair. “Jenny can’t tell you, Son of Adam. Jenny can only show you.” She grinned, showing two rows of pointed teeth. “Come into the river, Water Master. Jenny will show you.”
Before John could answer, Caro spoke up. “I can follow you, Jenny Greenteeth. Show me. But one sign of betrayal, and my arrows will fly. You can’t harm me, but I can make you hurt.”
Jenny snarled up at Caro, who shot another arrow into the water at her feet as a warning.
“I agree,” John said quickly, before Jenny could object. “When Caro says ‘I release you, Jenny Greenteeth,’ the spell will be broken and you will swim free.” He looked up at Caro. “We’ll meet you at the Passage at the top of the stairs.”
The Bartered Brides (Elemental Masters) Page 18
