by Tessa Harris
This was not a salubrious area. Every few yards he had thrown a sly look over his shoulder to make sure he was not being followed. It was not yet dark, but everywhere there were shadows. The stern stock brick terraces faced one another across the narrow lanes, blocking out the fading sun. He’d thought about hiring a moon-curser to ease his path, but he knew that their sort could never be trusted, either. So he’d decided to chance his hand and venture out alone, although he did have an ace up his sleeve. Or rather a pistol in his pocket. He patted his coat lightly, as if to reassure himself. He hoped he would not have to use it, but he would not hesitate to do so.
The inn was tall and thin, and from the open windows, clouds of pipe smoke billowed and mingled with bawdy laughter. Taking a deep breath, he went inside. There was an odd smell in here, too. It was not just the reek of the sweat or the dirt, but a sweet, pungent, spicy smell that was unfamiliar to him. He had felt ill at ease in the coffeehouse, but scanning the motley collection of patrons, he could tell this place was a hundred times worse. As he looked down at the sawdust that covered the floor, he couldn’t help but notice the splats of newly spilled blood, either. It was a sailors’ tavern, one where jack-tars rubbed shoulders with seamen from the four corners of the globe. Women with bulging bosoms that spilled out from their bodices like foaming beer from tankards sat on men’s knees. There was spitting and there was cussing. There were lascars, too. This was the place the Indian seamen favored. And this was the place he would begin his hunt for Patrick Flynn.
Heads turned as he walked to the bar. A one-eyed sailor barked something at him as he elbowed his way toward the landlord. He could not make out what he said, although he gathered, from the scowl, it was not complimentary.
“Rum,” he cried above the din. In his hand he brandished a half crown. It was the only language they understood in taverns like this. He looked nervously about him. He would start with the huddle of lascars who sat on a settle at the far end. It was unlikely that they spoke English, but his money would do the talking. He had just begun to make his way over to them when he felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned and dropped his gaze to see a short young Indian at his side.
“Yes?”
The youth was not dressed in the white uniform of the lascars, but wore a silk turban and a heavier embroidered robe that reached below his knees.
“You seek information, sahib?” the Indian asked with a knowing look in his dark eyes.
“How do . . . ?”
The youth made an odd movement of his head, as if it were held onto his neck by a thin thread. “Men like you, sahib, only come to place like this if they look for someone or something,” he said. “You have money, yes?”
Lupton frowned. He had not expected to find such a helpful accomplice so soon after setting foot in the tavern, but then they both spoke the same language. The Indian was already holding out his palm.
“First we talk,” Lupton told him firmly.
They walked over to a table in the corner, curious eyes following them until they sat down.
“What you want to know, sahib?” The Indian cut to the chase.
Lupton leaned forward. “I am looking for a captain, from the East India Company.”
The youth stuck out his bottom lip and nodded. “You know name?”
“Flynn. Captain Patrick Flynn. Red hair,” he told him, pointing to his own head. “Irishman,” he added, but the Indian returned a blank look. It was clear the term “Irishman” was lost on him. “He may be trying to sell a diamond.”
At the mention of the word, the Indian’s eyes lit up. He suddenly looked very animated. “Diamond, yes. I know sahib with diamond,” he cried.
His sudden outburst caused heads to swivel, and Lupton sprang forward and clamped his hand over the Indian’s mouth. “Do you want to get me killed?” he growled, before relaxing his hold.
“Surely not, sahib,” replied the youth, his head rolling from side to side.
Lupton took a deep breath to steady himself. “Then tell me what you know,” he said, producing a silver crown from his pocket.
The Indian eyed the coin as if it were some sort of charm. “I see this man earlier today. I know where he is.”
Lupton narrowed his eyes. “You do?” He was not expecting the path that led to Flynn to be so smooth. “He is near?”
“Not far,” replied the Indian, his eyes still latched onto the coin.
Lupton suddenly tossed it into the air, caught it on the back of one hand, then slid it across the table with the other. “There’ll be another one of those when I find Flynn.”
“Very good, sahib,” said the Indian. He bit into the crown with his back teeth. They shone very white in the tavern’s candlelight. “I take you now.”
Lupton drained his glass of rum. He needed the courage. He could not believe his luck. If this Indian did indeed lead him to Flynn, it would be the easiest money he’d made in a while. He only hoped the captain would come quietly. He tapped his pocket. The pistol was still there. He rose and followed the youth, who was already halfway to the door.
By now the moon was obscured by a blanket of cloud and more rain had begun to fall. The Indian dangled a lantern in his hand and lit their way, threading through an alleyway off the main thoroughfare. As they walked at a steady pace, Lupton tried to get his bearings. He sniffed the air. They were heading toward the river; the tang of the Thames began to fill his nostrils. They were making for the Pool of London.
After ten minutes or more, the rain was still pelting down. The narrow dwellings and occasional taverns gave way to warehouses. Avoiding puddles and ruts, they turned into a wider street, lined with a ramshackle collection of buildings. Pulleys and winches protruded from the fascias. The low portals of the city had all but disappeared and given way to doors double the height and width of ordinary ones. These were where the cargoes were stored, full to the brim with hogsheads and crates, bales and barrels. Behind these monstrous doors lay wares from all over the world.
In the shadows, Lupton saw a man ease himself against the wall. Somewhere nearby a man grunted and a woman yelped. A dog chained to the wall, no doubt to ward off intruders, barked ferociously as they passed.
“Not far now, sahib,” assured the Indian in a hoarse whisper.
They turned the corner and stopped under the eaves of another warehouse. The Indian lifted the lantern, and Lupton could see a small door set into a larger one. The youth fumbled with the lock, and the door creaked open.
“You come!” He beckoned as he stepped over the high threshold.
Lupton dipped his head and followed through the narrow aperture and closed the door behind him. He was glad to be out of the rain. The pool of light from the lantern did not reveal much at first, but once his eyes had adjusted to the semidarkness, Lupton looked ’round. To his left was a mountain of barrels, piled high on top of one another. To his right there were bales of what appeared to be cotton, perhaps. Next to them were bulging sacks that exuded exotic aromas. But something was not quite right. Lightly he touched his pocket, reassuring himself that he still had the upper hand.
“Why have you brought me here?” he asked. His voice was tinged with suspicion.
In the lamplight, he could see the Indian look slightly indignant.
“Why, sahib? Because you wished to see Captain Flynn, yes?” He tilted his head in the odd way he had before. Lupton could not be sure he was not being mocked.
“Yes.”
“Then, please.” Once more the Indian held out his arm and beckoned. “Come, sahib. I show you.” He turned and ventured farther into the canyon of barrels and sacks. Lupton followed warily. He watched the Indian a few paces ahead, then dipped his hand in his pocket. Suddenly there was a squeak. He saw something in the darkness scurry across his path, and he let out a muted cry. The Indian turned. “A rat, sahib,” he said with a shrug. “Just a rat.”
Lupton felt his heart pounding in his chest. Now was the time to reach for his pistol; now was the time to sh
ow this Indian he was not to be played for a fool. He had just fumbled in his pocket when his guide turned and stood stock-still in front of him so that Lupton almost barged into him.
“What the . . . ?”
The Indian was beaming. “You say you want to see Captain Flynn?” he said. Holding his lantern aloft, he pivoted ’round.
“Well?” queried Lupton, pulling back his head and blinking away the brightness of the lamp.
“Well . . . here he is,” announced the youth.
Lupton narrowed his eyes, peering into the gloom. “Where?” he snapped.
“Just there,” said the Indian, still smiling and bobbing his head.
Lupton took three cautious steps ahead, where the lantern rays faintly illuminated yet more barrels and crates. He could see very little beyond, but he suddenly became aware of something hanging in his field of vision. He started and his mouth went dry. As he peered into the blackness, he realized what was before him: a pair of feet dangled in the air at eye level. In terror, he cocked back his head to see they were attached to a body.
“My God!” he cried as the shock shot through his chest and down his arms. He plunged his hand in his pocket to grab his pistol, but before he could do so, there was a blow to the back of his head. The gun fell out of his hand and he hit the ground. Through blurry eyes he realized the Indian was standing over him with a curved dagger.
“No!” he screamed as the blade fell. He managed to roll away to the side and, grasping one of the sacks, hauled himself up.
The Indian took another swipe at him, his blade swishing through the air. He missed but slashed through a nearby sack, sending its contents spilling onto the floor in a cascade of ground ginger. Lupton ran on, toward the door. Close behind him he could hear the youth’s footsteps and the flailing of the dagger as it sliced through the darkness. His breath was failing him fast, and his legs were turning to lead. Reaching out into the blackness, he grabbed a small cask and, turning, threw it at his attacker. He heard him cry out, then fall with a dull thud against a sack. Only four or five seconds separated Lupton from death. He had to make it to the door. A chink of light slashed through a gap under the doorway, acting as his guide. He headed for it and saw that the handle was within his reach when suddenly he felt the sharp rasp of steel cut his arm. He let out a yelp and staggered, his legs crumpling under him. In the blackness he heard the Indian grunt as he lifted the blade above his head once more and brought it down again. Lupton raised his arm to protect his head, and this time the blade sliced into his shoulder. He could feel warm liquid coursing down his arm as he lunged for the door and careened headlong out of it. Summoning all his strength and clutching his bleeding arm, he staggered down the street, seeking the shelter of the shadows. His strength was deserting him and his vision was blurring.
The Indian stood at the warehouse doorway, his dagger dancing between his fingers. His head switched left, then right; then he looked down onto the cobbles. Blood was mixing with the earlier rainwater that still flowed in rivulets down the gutter. English blood. He returned his dagger to his belt. There was no point in pursuing Lupton any farther. He was already a dead man.
Chapter 37
The carriage carrying a dapperly dressed Thomas pulled up outside Sir Theodisius Pettigrew’s London town house. Gone was his usual black frock coat, and in its stead one of royal blue with silver buttons that was worn only on the most important of occasions. He had even donned a wig. He was not sure that it suited him, although Lydia had told him it gave him more gravitas. “Lydia,” he whispered under his breath, as he tugged at his tightly tied stock. He tapped his pocket. The small box containing the ring was there. Tonight, perhaps? But everything had to be right. No, not merely right. Ordered. Precise. Perfect.
Earlier that day he’d received a message from Sir Percivall Pott. It informed him that, unfortunately, he would be unable to attend Mrs. Hastings’s dinner party that evening due to a bad attack of the gout. Naturally the revered surgeon had informed his hostess, and she had been most insistent that Thomas still attend, but bring a guest of his own choosing. The young doctor had jumped at the chance. Lydia had been his obvious choice to accompany him, and now he found himself dressed up like a turkey at Thanksgiving, calling to collect his beloved.
He lifted the knocker on the front door. This was the first time he had escorted her in public for at least two years. Not since just before the Great Fogg had they attended any social function together. The prospect filled him with a new sense of excitement.
There was a second reason for his eagerness, too. The evening would present another opportunity for him to pry a little further into why Mrs. Motte might have an interest in the whereabouts of Captain Flynn. He assumed she would be present, but he knew he would have to tread warily, so as not to arouse any suspicion in her.
The maid ushered Thomas inside Sir Theodisius’s London residence just as Lydia was descending the stairs. Dressed in a robe of blue silk, with her chestnut hair piled high and studded with pearls, she appeared to Thomas more beautiful than she had ever looked before. A wave of happiness made him want to rush up to her there and then and ask for her hand in marriage, but he checked himself.
“You look enchanting,” he told her, kissing her hand.
Hearing the voices outside, Sir Theodisius appeared in the doorway of his study. At the sight of Lydia, his fat face split into a smile.
“All the diamonds of Golconda could not outshine you tonight, my dear,” he told her as Eliza handed her a shawl. “Eh, Silkstone?”
“Indeed no,” agreed Thomas, wishing he had been the one to pay his beloved such an eloquent compliment.
“I hear Mrs. Hastings’s Indian cooks can conjure up some interesting dishes,” Sir Theodisius remarked, suddenly changing the subject. He rubbed his own large belly. “Although I fear they might not agree with my constitution.”
“We shall tell you all about it, dear Sir Theo,” said Lydia, pressing her gloved hands into his. She saw his eyes glass over, like a proud father who realizes his daughter is fully grown.
“You must not keep the driver waiting,” he told her.
She glanced at Thomas, waiting by the open door, and he offered her his arm. “Nor my handsome companion,” she replied, taking it with a smile. The night was theirs.
Marian Hastings was greeting her guests in a room she called her salon. Present were Major Scott and the sour-faced gentleman who had accompanied her from India, William Markham. Of Mrs. Motte there was no sign. When Thomas and Lydia arrived at the door, all eyes turned toward them. Mrs. Hastings, her gown embroidered with lizard-green emeralds and her neck adorned with diamonds, moved forward to greet them. Yet the look on her face registered surprise and not a little annoyance.
“Dr. Silkstone,” she gushed, fluttering her eyelashes at him and flapping her fan. “Such a shame zat poor Sir Percivall vas indisposed,” she told him pointedly. Then, turning to Lydia, she asked: “And zis is?”
“Lady Lydia Farrell,” replied Thomas, quickly. Lydia dipped a curtsy, and Mrs. Hastings replied with another. When she rose, however, the look on her face was anything but welcoming. “You did say—”
“Lady Lydia Farrell.” She broke off Thomas’s explanation and repeated the name as if it meant something to her. “A pleasure to meet you,” she said, but her smile was clearly feigned.
Just then Bibby Motte appeared at the doorway, looking resplendent in yellow silk, and Marian Hastings ushered her companion over to make introductions. “Ah, Mrs. Motte,” she said with a smile. “Dr. Silkstone you know, and zis is Lady Lydia Farrell.”
At the mention of the latter’s name, Bibby Motte’s eyes darted back to her friend’s, but she quickly recovered to curtsy to Lydia, then offered her gloved hand to Thomas.
“A pleasure,” she said to Lydia, but Thomas was not sure she meant it.
A moment later dinner was announced and all the guests went through into the dining room straightaway. They sat at a large rectangular table
with Mrs. Hastings at its head. As Thomas had anticipated, the governor-general’s wife held sway. She was the queen of her court, and those around the table with her were mere players. At first, the conversation was kept light and frivolous. The weather was discussed, as were the ladies’ initial impressions of London. The meal was served in a lavish manner, even though those dining numbered only six. Servants wearing brightly colored turbans carried great platters of spiced meats and vegetables. There was chicken cooked with rice, pistachios, and sultanas and a dish of yellow lentils served with flour pancakes.
“This is excellent fare,” remarked Thomas. “Your cooks are most skilled,” he added, thinking of Mistress Finesilver’s miserable offerings.
“I am glad it is to your taste, Dr. Silkstone,” replied Mrs. Hastings. She put down her fork and fixed her guest with an inquiring look, as if to signify that she was done with small talk. “So, Dr. Silkstone,” she began, “you are an American.” Her manner was almost accusatory, as if hailing from that land was at worst a crime and at best a misdemeanor. “From vereabouts do you come?”
Thomas slid a look at Lydia. Both had half expected such an inquisition. He dabbed his mouth with his napkin. “I was born and raised in Philadelphia, madam,” he replied politely.
“Philadelphia, eh?” repeated Scott. “I’ve heard ’tis quite civilized there.” He raised a brow and waited for the mistresses Hastings and Motte to respond with titters, which they did most predictably.
Thomas took such behavior in his stride. He refused to rise to the bait. After almost ten years living in London, he was used to such ribald comments at the expense of either his countrymen or himself. “Its inhabitants enjoy many of the luxuries of their British counterparts,” he replied with a measured nod, then added mischievously: “Most of their children even attend schools.”
“So what brought you here?” asked Mrs. Motte. She had not joined in the conversation a great deal and appeared very reserved, but her question seemed to show a genuine interest in Thomas.
