The burn of a knife on flesh.
A young man who burns …
“What the devil are you doing here?” Tommy demanded.
Lady Darley spoke at the same instant. “How did you get in?”
Haruki answered her first. “The front door was not locked.”
“Of course it was locked! We always lock it.” But her pretty hands gathered the neck of the silk she wore, as if in defence.
“Perhaps your servants always lock it for you.”
“Tommy did tonight.”
“Perhaps the lock is broken.”
In the face of Haruki’s calm insistence, one could see doubt creep onto the woman’s face. Still: “It was locked, but never mind. What are you doing here?”
“I wish to speak with you about my father,” she said.
Tommy intervened. “Your father? Why should we know him? I’m going to ring for—”
“My father died with yours.”
“He—” The young earl had been turning towards the bell-pull beside the fireplace, but at her words, he jerked around, his face going from shock to rage as the implication hit. “Your father was that drunken bastard of a wine waiter? Why didn’t you say—Christ! You little bitch, I ought to—” He changed direction, hands clenched as he stalked around the chairs.
“Tommy!” Lady Darley’s sharp voice brought him to a halt, then immediately modulated into cajoling. “Maybe we should let her explain? We can always telephone the police afterwards.”
“Darling, this person’s father was that clumsy idiot who tripped and knocked my Papa …”
His words ran dry, as a son’s loss grappled with the lover’s gain.
“I know, dear, I heard the child. Perhaps she’s here to apologise for the man’s stupidity.”
Haruki betrayed no reaction to the Darley insults. Get the job done. Sato had lived by the motto. He had given his dignity for it, and his public honour. And ultimately, his life. “I am not here to apologise. My father, too, died that night.”
“If he hadn’t, I’d have seen him hanged for it, damn his eyes.”
“And now you are Lord Darley.”
This time he did hit her—one stride forward then an open-handed blow that sent her staggering against the bookshelves. She had not even tried to avoid it, this woman who could throw him across the room—snap his neck if she wished—merely cringed enough that his blow landed, not on her face, but against hard skull.
He cursed and shook his fingers, then seized the nape of her neck and propelled her towards the settee.
The countess’s expression had not changed at this eruption of violence. She sat back in her chair to study the uninvited guest. “Very well. You are not here to apologise. Why are you here?”
“As I said,” Haruki told her. “I wish to speak about my father. And also about a stolen book.”
Sudden electricity crackled through the room: I almost expected to see hair rising.
Lady Darley reacted first, snapping to her feet. “Tommy, where’s the gun?”
“Where it always is.”
Beside his bed: we’d seen it in the search.
She flung herself out of the room while Tommy loomed over the invader, ready to tackle her. Haruki merely studied the crackling fire. Her toes, I noticed, barely touched the floor.
Lady Darley came back, carrying both pistol and Bible. She laid the ornate volume on the low table, and resumed her chair. It was not the first time she’d handled a gun.
Tommy flipped back the cover. He stopped. “It’s still there.”
“No,” Lady Darley said. “That is one of Mr Bourke’s.”
Pages tore as he ripped the book from its nest. He frantically clawed the book out of its slip-case, flipping through it, then taking it to the lamp to look more closely. “Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
He threw it down and stared at Haruki. “Where is it? You bloody bitch, I’m going to—” Again, Holmes’ hand held me back. Tommy pounced on the gun, Lady Darley’s grip tightening for a moment before she let him take it.
“Tommy!” The crack of Charlotte Darley’s voice brought him to a halt. The weapon was three feet away from Haruki: I’d seen her in action on the dojo floor, but that distance made grabbing difficult. “Let me take a look at that sling she’s wearing.”
The knife the countess drew from the writing desk was designed to separate uncut book pages: plenty sharp enough to separate skin. She stepped between Tommy and Haruki, pausing with the blade against the small woman’s neck … then continued on, sliding it between the sling and the arm. She sawed. The sling fell away. She sawed again, and the sleeve parted, revealing the neat wrappings I had put there in Oxford. The third time, her motions against the gauze must have prompted a reaction, inaudible across the room.
“Hurts, does it?” The older woman pressed firmly against the arm, and this time, the gasp was clear.
The pain was unnecessary. The rich brown hair bent down over the arm, so close I thought the woman was about to taste the blood—and, in one of those odd connexions the brain produces under stress, I suddenly knew that the toys in the bed-side table were used not on her, but by her.
However, she drew away without an open display of barbarism, tossing aside the knife before she reached into the body of the sling.
She slid the book from its cover to examine it, then slid it back into its case—and hauled off to hit Haruki across the face with it, snapping her head around. When she sat down again, there was a cruel smile on her lips—a smile that Tommy, standing behind her with the gun, did not see.
“Is that the copy?” he demanded.
“No, see how pretty it is? This is the original.”
The countess fitted the book into the Bible’s hidden compartment, closed the cover, and gave it an approving pat. Then she took the project that Bourke the Younger had laboured over so long, pulled it from its slip-case, and tossed both onto the flames. The pages unfurled, an accordion banner of ink and colour spreading over the logs. The fire paused, then began to lick at its edges. She picked up her near-empty glass, then, and turned back to the intruder. “So. Why did you want the book?”
“It belongs to the Emperor of Japan.”
“Prince Hirohito gave it to King George,” she pointed out.
“His Highness did not know what he was giving.”
“A book.”
“A document. But you did not look for that, did you?”
Lady Darley’s gloating look faltered. The Chartreuse splashed across the table as she lunged for the Bible. Its silver corners dug a long scratch in the polished wood, and she made a little cry of frustration as its latch defied her crimson nails.
But at last she had it. Tommy’s attention had lapsed, and now would be the time for Haruki—but she made no move, merely sat swinging her legs, watching Lady Darley pull out the book, yank it from its case, rip open the back edge of its cover …
And confirm that the document was inside.
The face she turned on Haruki made me wonder why I had ever thought the woman beautiful. “It’s still there. Tommy, keep your eye on her, for heaven’s sake. And do sit down. We may be here for a while.”
God, I hoped not. The servants were going to find us here, frozen onto the balcony like a pair of crouching gargoyles. But Tommy reluctantly decided his lover was right, and dropped into a chair with his back to us.
“Tell me why I shouldn’t let Tommy shoot you right now? It wouldn’t be difficult to explain. Tommy and I came home. Found you here. You threatened us. You had a knife—that knife.” She nodded at the abandoned page-cutter on the table.
“My corpse might be awkward to explain. Especially after cutting away my sleeve and bandages.”
“I am very good at explaining.”
“I believe it. On the other hand, I will quietly go away, if you only answer my question.”
“You expect us to—” Tommy bristled, but the countess spoke over him.
“What quest
ion is that?”
“Darling, you don’t—”
“Let her speak, sweetheart,” the countess said, then added, “Please?”
“We can’t let her go!”
“Why not? We have the book. We have the letter. Without those, what can she say? A young woman, consumed by grief over her father’s death, blames the English people she sees as responsible. She’ll either get a prison sentence for breaking in and threatening us, or be deported. Either way, she’s harmless.”
“What if she saw the … other things.”
“You think she got into that safe? Look at her, Tommy. She’s a child.”
We all looked at her. A tiny figure with a bleeding arm and the face of an adolescent: absurd, to picture her as a safe-cracker.
I began to see why Sato had dispatched his daughter to learn the ways of the West: a weapon that disarming could be formidable.
So make your move, I urged silently, before we freeze—or the sun comes up to turn us to stone.
“What is your question?” Lady Darley asked Haruki.
“One question, my Lady. Was it your husband who came up with the rather complex plan that centred around the Emperor’s book? Or was it you?”
The answer to that would explain all the other cases in Tommy’s safe as well—although Haruki was not about to admit that she had seen those.
I thought the countess was not going to reply. So long a silence passed that Tommy shifted in his chair, although the two women merely gazed at each other, motionless.
“Tommy, would you please telephone to that nice friend of your father’s on the Oxford police force? Tell him we have caught an Oriental breaking into our house, and would like him to make a quiet arrest.”
“I’ll ring down to Baker first. Bloody servants, I can’t think why none of them have heard—”
“No, don’t wake them. Just the police. Please, Tommy dear. The number is in my book, in the top drawer, under ‘Gable.’ ”
He located the book, fumbled it open. He actually laid the gun on the desktop to make the call. The person who answered was not the pet policeman, but between Tommy’s name and the aristocracy in his voice, the man clearly agreed to wake the Inspector and send him out immediately.
Tommy took the gun back to his seat.
Lady Darley spoke. “You will be arrested, young lady, and I will see to it that you are deported. You will go home, and you will permit me to conclude my business with your Prince. Our business,” she amended, darting an artificial little smile across the table at her lover. “If you do not, if you attempt to raise a protest concerning the book, it will be your word against ours. The courts will treat you harshly. You will risk an international incident, which would carry its own consequences once you are back in Japan. An international incident that could well spill over onto the honour of your beloved Emperor.”
Well, I thought, the woman had certainly figured out what mattered to a citizen of the Land of the Rising Sun.
“One answer,” Haruki bargained, “then I go.”
“One answer, then the police take you away,” the countess corrected her.
“Charlotte, why say anything?” Tommy protested. “Let me ring for Baker. He and the footman can sit on her until your Inspector Gable arrives.”
But the woman wanted to tell her prisoner the truth, for the same reason she had run the knife blade down the half-healed wound: to cause pain. She wanted Haruki to walk away aching with the knowledge of who was responsible. Knowing there was nothing that could be done about it.
“I first met the gentleman who would become my husband, Lord Darley—Tommy’s father, James—some years ago, through a friend in Paris. James had an agreement with the fellow, that whenever he came across some particularly juicy bit of scandal, he would put Émile onto it, and in turn Émile would drop a few guineas in his hand. The upkeep on a place like this, his social responsibilities, the occasional game of cards or flutter on the ponies—life can be quite expensive, for a gentleman.
“Émile and I had a similar arrangement, although my tips were generally about the women—and frankly, more valuable. When James and I first met, we were both married, but I liked him well enough. Émile died during the War, as did my first husband. James’s wife died a few years later. He and I happened to meet again, three years ago. We found that we still enjoyed the other’s company. The following spring—this was 1923—he proposed. It was, in truth, as much a business arrangement as anything else.” She gave her husband’s son what was intended to seem, and apparently was accepted as, a shy and apologetic smile. I shuddered, although probably it was from the cold. Holmes wrapped his arm around me, as we pressed close for one another’s warmth.
“I did not, as many thought, marry James for his money. Since the War, I had established quite a number of lucrative ventures, all on my own. One of those harmless sources of income was to connect certain wealthy art-lovers with a gentleman who often got his hands on some very high quality art reproductions—even, occasionally, the originals.”
“A ‘fence,’ I believe they are called,” Haruki offered.
“A provider. It was through this gentleman that I heard of the Emperor’s book, and particularly of its hidden document. I was intrigued, and borrowed the document to have it translated. Even then, I was not certain as to the precise meaning, but I suspected that it was important.
“This was happening around the time that James proposed. I accepted, and in the course of merging our houses, we also merged our … ventures. I don’t remember which of us it was who thought to include Japan on our world itinerary, but we agreed, it would be the ideal opportunity to offer the book to its owner. Although as I suspect you are aware, the book did not include the document.”
Time was passing, soon the stars would begin to fade in the sky—and although my body craved the sun’s warmth, it would be a disaster. Holmes was aware of it, too: I could feel his growing uneasiness.
“Thank you,” Haruki said. Then her gaze shifted, to the young man with the gun. “And you, young Lord Darley: are you satisfied with this answer?”
The countess looked suddenly wary. “Tommy, sweetheart, I would like to get to bed before—”
Haruki talked over her, speaking still to Tommy. “Your father died. We all believed he was the blackmailer. Well, we knew he was a blackmailer—a young woman named Wilma Roland gave her life to prove it. But how convenient for you, not only that his papers lived on, but that his widow knew precisely what to do with them. I imagine the papers were kept in his safe, not in hers. Am I right?”
“Servants go into the big one,” he said. “Charlotte’s maid—”
“Tommy,” the coaxing voice began.
Again Haruki cut her off. “But all the papers were kept there, even for projects that belonged to your father’s wife. Am I correct?”
“It’s more convenient, to have them all in one place.”
“For her, certainly. If the Japanese police had arrested your father, and if the English police had come here to investigate, would they have found any evidence at all that he had not acted on his own?”
Tommy ignored his lover’s protests, even without the prisoner’s help. “That means nothing.”
“Doesn’t it? What if the police came to arrest you now? Would they find any evidence at all in the safe—that safe in your room—to tell them that Lady Darley knew anything at all about your crimes?”
“Of course they would!”
“Tommy!”
“I mean, there’ve been times when she … did things.”
“Which of you shot the fence, Bart Collins?”
“I never—”
“The Bourkes may be irreplaceable, far too valuable to shoot, but which of you spread the dismembered rabbit around the Bourke workshop by way of a warning?”
No response.
“Also, a Japanese translator by the name of Rai Hirakawa was taken from the river in London, a few days after Mr Collins was shot.” The name tickled the b
ack of my mind … where? In Sussex: the newspapers. An inquest. “I imagine that Lady Darley took care to be busy in some public place at the time he died. Attending a party, having her hair done.”
“I—”
Haruki continued. “Another guess, since I seem to be having such luck with them. I would guess that your lover found her husband a little too civilised. That he was willing to commit blackmail, but she could not urge him into actual murder. For that she required someone a little more … ‘malleable,’ is, I think, the word. Did she seduce you before you left England? Or was it on the voyage over? Certainly you had cuckolded your father before you boarded the Thomas Carlyle: why else never meet her eyes on the ship? And having seduced your body, she then took her time on the home voyage to seduce your morals. Letting you know how exciting she found it when you were … ruthless. As your father never was.”
After a long and electric moment, Tommy’s head turned to look at the countess. I expect he was unaware that his hand followed his gaze—but she was not. She flicked an uneasy glance at the revolver, then restored her smile. “Tommy, darling, you can see what she’s doing, can’t you? Trying to drive a wedge between us? I love you, Tommy. You know that. I’ve given you … everything.”
“Lady Darley, how did your first husband die?”
The countess kept her pleading eyes on the young man. “I told you, he died in the War.”
“Yes, but in battle? Or was his body found in a Paris alleyway?”
Where the hell did Haruki get her information? She wasn’t inventing it—the words hit the older woman like a body blow, her wide eyes coming off her lover at last. “No! It was … he died on the Front. So many did.”
“Many did, true. But not him. And if Lord Darley—James Darley, that is—had not died a year ago falling from the roof of the Imperial Hotel, when would he have died? Would he have made it all the way home again, or might he have encountered a fatal accident somewhere along the way?” The black eyes returned to Tommy. “Lord Darley, Charlotte Bridgeford married your father not because she wished a partner, but because she required a shield. A ‘scapegoat.’ I suggest that she intends the same for you.”
Dreaming Spies Page 30
