"Didn't he get in at Chatham, though? I certainly didn't see him at Swaleness. Mrs Holland must have got a message to him. And then last night he came back for the rest of it."
"He took my gun as well."
"Naturally he would, seeing it there. But you've got a copy of the papers - let's have a look."
She opened her diary and passed it across the scarred deal top of the bench. He bent over it to read.
"... a place of darkness, under a knotted rope. Three red lights shine clearly on the spot when the moon pulls on the water. Take it. It is clearly yours by my gift, and by the laws of England. Antequam haec legis... Good Lord."
"What? Can you read the Latin?"
"Don't you know what it says?"
"No, what is it?"
"It says: 'By the time you read this, I shall be dead. May my memory be...' what's that word, 'may I be as swiftly forgotten.' "
She felt suddenly cold. "He knew what was going to happen," she said.
"Perhaps it wasn't murder," said Frederick. "Perhaps it was suicide."
"The poor man," said Sally. "He was so unhappy." She found tears in her eyes. It was that cold, bare house, and the gentle way he'd spoken to her... "I'm sorry," she said.
He shook his head, and offered a clean handkerchief. When she had dried her tears, he said, "He's talking about a hiding-place, you realize. He's telling you where the Ruby is, and saying that it belongs to you."
"The laws of England - I thought that might mean treasure trove. But that belongs to the Crown. Anyway, I can't work out what it all means."
"Nor can I - yet. And then there's the opium-smoker, Mr Bedwell. In some way he's easier to deal with... Ah, here's Trembler."
"Here you are, Mr Fred," said Trembler, coming in with three large books. "Can I do me plates now?"
"By all means - ah, ha - Crockford's Clerical Directory. Bedwell - Bedwell..."
Frederick flicked through the pages of a fat and solemn-looking volume until he found what he was looking for.
"Bedwell, The Reverend Nicholas Armbruster. Born 1842; educated at Rugby; graduated MA from the University of Oxford, 1864; Curate of St John's, Summertown, Oxford."
"They're twins," said Sally.
"Exactly. I should think that if anyone can get this man out of Holland's Lodgings, it'll be his own brother. We'll go to Oxford tomorrow and see him."
During the rest of that day and evening Sally learned a little about the Garland family. He was twenty-one, she eighteen, and the house and shop belonged to their uncle, Webster Garland, who was, according to Frederick, the greatest photographer of the age. He was at present in Egypt, and Frederick was in charge, with the result that had so enraged Rosa. Trembler told her all this, while she sat in the back room and began to make sense of the accounts. Frederick went out at three o'clock to take some pictures at the British Museum, and Trembler became loquacious.
"He's an artist, miss, that's the trouble," he said. "There's plenty of money in the photography game for them as wants to make it, but Mr Fred ain't interested in yer portraits and yer weddings. I've seen him spend a whole week sitting as still as stone in one spot, waiting for the right light on a patch o' water. He's good, mind you. But he will invent things, and it swallows the money at a rate you wouldn't believe. It's Miss Rosa what keeps this place afloat."
Rosa was an actress, as Frederick had said, at present playing in Dead or Alive at the Queen's Theatre. Only a tiny part, said Trembler, but she was bound to be a star one day. With those looks, and that temperament - well, the world had no chance of resisting her. But so far the rewards were meagre, though her income was the greater part of the revenue of 45, Burton Street.
"But Frederick's made quite a lot of money," said Sally, sorting through a pile of untidy receipts and scribbled bills, and putting income on one side, expenditure on the other. "In fact there's quite a lot of money coming in. But it all seems to go out again."
"If you can see a way of keeping some of that cash in, miss, you'll be doing 'em the greatest favour as could be done. For he'll never manage it."
She worked on through the afternoon, gradually reducing the chaos of unpaid bills and tattered invoices to some sort of order. She enjoyed it immensely. Here at last was something she understood and could deal with, something with a clear and straightforward meaning! Trembler brought her a cup of tea at five, and from time to time left the back room to serve a customer in the shop.
"What do you sell most of?" Sally asked.
"Photographic plates and chemicals. He laid in a great store of stereoscopes, Mr Fred, a few months back, when he got some money for an invention. But they ain't selling. People want the pictures to go with 'em, and he's hardly got any of them."
"He ought to take some."
"You tell him then. I've tried, but he won't listen to me."
"What sort do people like best?"
"Views is best. Stereoscopic views is different from ordinary ones. Then there's humorous, sentimental, romantic, devotional and risky. Oh, and temperance. But he won't touch 'em. Says they're vulgar."
By the time Frederick came back, at six o'clock, she had begun to make out a complete statement of their accounts, setting out precisely what they had earned and spent in the six months since Webster Garland had gone to Egypt.
"Formidable!" he said cheerfully, setting down his camera and darkroom-tent before shutting the shop door.
"It'll take another day or so to get it completely straight," she said. "And you'll have to tell me what some of these notes say. Is it your writing?"
" 'Fraid it is. What does the whole thing look like? Good or bad? Am I bankrupt?"
"You must press to have your bills paid on time. There's fifty-six pounds seven shillings owing to you from months ago, and twenty guineas from last month. If you get that in, you can pay most of what you owe. But you must do it properly and keep proper records."
"No time."
"You must make time. It's important."
"Too boring."
"Then pay someone to do it for you. It's got to be done, or you will be bankrupt. You don't need more money - you just need to manage what you've got. And I think I can find some ways of making more, in any case."
"Would you like the job?"
"Me?"
He was looking at her quite seriously. His eyes were green; she hadn't noticed that before.
"Why not?" he said.
"I - I don't know," she said. "I've done this today because... Well, it needed to be done. In exchange for your helping me to sort out... But I mean you need a professional adviser. Someone who could, I don't know, sort of take charge of the business side altogether..."
"Well, do you want to do it?"
She shook her head, and then shrugged, and found herself nodding, and then shrugged again quickly. He laughed, and she blushed.
"Look," he said, "it seems to me that you're just the person for the job. You're going to have to get some sort of situation, after all. You can't live on a tiny income... And do you want to be a governess?"
She shuddered. "No!"
"Or a nursemaid or a cook or something? Of course not. And you can do this, and you seem to be good at it."
"I love doing it."
"Well, why do you hesitate?"
"All right. I will - I'll do it. And thank you."
They shook hands, and agreed terms. She was to be paid at first by being given her board and lodging free; there was no money to pay her a wage until they earned some, as she pointed out. When the firm was making money, she would be paid fifteen shillings a week.
Once that was settled, Sally felt a glow of happiness; and to celebrate their agreement, Frederick sent out for a hot meat-pie from the chop-house around the corner. They cut it into four, saving a piece for Rosa, and sat around the laboratory bench to eat it. Trembler made some coffee, and as she drank it Sally found herself wondering what it was that was so unusual about this household. There was something deeper than not washing dishes, than eating off a laborat
ory bench at odd hours. She puzzled over it as she sat in a sagging old armchair - beside the fire in the kitchen, with Trembler reading the paper at the table while Frederick whistled softly as he did something with some chemicals in a corner. She still hadn't found the answer when, much later, Rosa came in, cold and noisy and triumphantly bearing a large pineapple; and woke Sally up (she having inadvertently fallen asleep) and stormed at the others for not showing her to her room. She was still puzzling when she climbed shivering into the narrow little bed and pulled the blankets up around her; but just before she fell asleep, she saw the answer. Of course, she thought. They don't think of Trembler as a servant. And they don't think of me as a girl. We're all equal. That's what's so odd...
Chapter Nine
A JOURNEY TO OXFORD
Mrs Holland learned of the death of Henry Hopkins from one of her cronies, a woman who performed some dingy function in the workhouse of St George's, a street or two away. This woman had heard it from a factory girl in her lodgings, whose brother was a crossing-sweeper who worked the same street as a news-vendor whose cousin had spoken to the man who'd found the body; and in that way the news of criminal London spread from one place to another. Mrs Holland was nearly speechless with rage at Hopkins's incompetence. To let himself be killed in that tame fashion! Of course, the police would never trace the killer; but Mrs Holland intended to. The word went out, filtering like smoke through the alleys and courts, the streets and wharves and docksides: Mrs Holland at Hangman's Wharf would give a good deal to know who'd killed Henry Hopkins. She sent out the word, and waited. Something would turn up; and it wouldn't take long.
There was one citizen who was feeling pursued by Mrs Holland already, and that was Samuel Selby.
Her letter took him completely by surprise. He had thought that blackmail was impossible; the tracks had been well covered. And from Wapping, of all places...
But after a day or so spent in quiet panic, he thought again.
There were things in this letter that no one should have known about - true. But there were more incriminating things that weren't even mentioned, and where was the proof? Where were the invoices, the bills of lading, the ships' papers that would sink him? There wasn't a hint of them.
No, he thought, perhaps there's less to this than there seems. But I'd better make sure...
Accordingly, he wrote a letter.
Samuel Selby
Shipping Agent
Cheapside
Tuesday 29th October 1872
Mrs M. Holland
Holland's Lodgings
Hangman's Wharf
Wapping
Dear Mrs Holland,
Thank you for your communication of the 25th inst. I beg to inform you that your client's proposal is not without interest, and would like to invite your client to meet me at my office at 10 o'clock on the morning of Thursday 31st.
I beg to remain,
Your humble servant,
S. Selby.
There, he thought as he posted it, we'll see what that brings. He was inclined to doubt the existence of this client, this mysterious gentleman, altogether; dockside gossip, more like. Nothing more than that.
Wednesday morning was cold, with a mist in the air. Frederick announced to Sally at breakfast (boiled eggs, cooked in the kettle) that he would go to Oxford with her. He could always take some photographs, he said, and besides, she might need someone to keep her awake on the train, in case she fell asleep again. He spoke lightly but she knew he meant she was in danger, and without her gun she felt vulnerable, and was glad of his company.
The journey passed quickly. They were in Oxford by midday, and had lunch at the Railway Hotel. Sally had talked easily on the train - talking to Frederick, and listening to him, seemed the most natural and agreeable thing in the world - but she found herself, once seated facing him across a table set with cutlery and napkins and glasses, absurdly tongue-tied.
"What are you scowling for?" he said at one point.
She had been staring down at her plate, trying to think of something to say. And now she blushed. "I wasn't scowling," she said, sounding petulant and childish - and realizing it. He raised his eyebrows and said nothing more.
The meal was not a success, in short, and they parted immediately afterwards, she to take a cab to St John's Vicarage, and he to photograph some buildings.
"Go carefully," he said as she left, and she wanted to go back and explain her silence at lunch, but it was too late.
The Vicarage of St John's was about two miles from the centre of Oxford, in the village of Summertown. The cab took her up the Banbury Road, past the newly built large brick villas of North Oxford. The Vicarage was next to the church in a quiet little road overhung with elm trees.
The mist of the morning had cleared now, and a watery sun was shining faintly as Sally knocked at the door.
"The Vicar's away, but Mr Bedwell's in, miss," said the maid who opened the door to her. "Through here, if you please, in the study..."
The Reverend Nicholas Bedwell was a stocky, fair-haired man with a humorous expression. His eyes widened as she came in, and she saw with surprise that his look was one of admiration. He offered her a chair and turned his own away from the desk to face her.
"Well, Miss Lockhart?" he said jovially. "What can I do for you? Banns of a marriage?"
"I think I have some news of your brother," she said.
He leapt to his feet, and a sudden excitement flooded his face.
"I knew it!" he cried, smacking his fist into his palm. "He's alive? Matthew's alive?"
She nodded.
"Tell me!" he said, his blue eyes blazing. "Tell me all you know!"
"He's in a lodging-house in Wapping. He's been there about a week or ten days, I suppose, and ... he's smoking opium. I don't think he can get away."
The curate's face darkened at once, and he sank into his chair. Sally told him briefly of how she'd come to hear about it, and he listened intently, shaking his head as she came to the end.
"Two months ago I had a telegram," he said. "They told me he was dead, that his ship had gone down. The schooner Lavinia - he was the second mate."
"My father was on board," said Sally.
"Oh, my dear young lady!" he exclaimed. "They said there were no survivors."
"He drowned."
"I'm so sorry..."
"But you say you knew your brother was alive?"
"We're twins, Miss Lockhart. All our lives we've each felt the other's emotions, known what the other was doing - and I was sure he wasn't dead. I was as certain of it as I am of this chair!" He banged the arm of the chair he sat in. "No doubt at all! But of course I didn't know where he was. You mentioned opium..."
"That's probably why he can't get away."
"That drug is the invention of the devil. It's ruined more lives, wasted more fortunes, and poisoned more bodies even than alcohol. There are times, you know, when I'd willingly leave this parish and everything I've worked for, and spend my life fighting against it...My brother became a slave to it three years ago, in the East. I - I felt that, too. And unless it's stopped - unless he's stopped - it'll kill him too in the end."
Sally was silent. The curate was staring fiercely into the cold fireplace, as if the ashes that lay there were those of the drug itself. His fists were clenching and unclenching slowly; Sally noticed that they were large, and hard, and thoroughly formidable. There was a certain battered quality about his face, too - his cheek was scarred, and his nose slightly flattened. Apart from the clothes he wore, he was most unclergymanlike.
"But you see," she said after a moment, "your brother knows something about my father's death. He must do. The little girl said he'd got a message for me."
He looked up suddenly. "Of course. I'm sorry - this concerns you, too, doesn't it? Well now - to business. We must get him out of that place as soon as possible. I can't leave the parish today or tomorrow - Evensong this evening, and a funeral tomorrow..." He was leafing through a diary. "Fr
iday's clear. Well, it isn't, but nothing I can't put off. There's a man at Balliol who'll take a service for me. We'll get Matthew out of there on Friday."
"But what about Mrs Holland?"
"What about her?"
"Adelaide said she's keeping him prisoner. And--"
"It's the opium that's keeping him prisoner. This is England! You can't hold people against their will."
His expression was so pugnacious that Sally feared for anyone who tried to stop him.
"There's one thing, though," he went on more calmly. "He'll need some of that filthy drug to keep him going. I'll bring him back here and get him straight again, but without the drug he'll never manage. I'll have to wean him off it bit by bit -"
"How will you get him out?"
"With my fists, if necessary. He'll come. But ... look, could you do something for me? Could you find me some of the drug?"
"I could try. Of course I will. But wouldn't they sell it in Oxford? At a pharmacist's?"
"Only in the form of laudanum. And the smoker needs the gum, or the resin, or whatever the evil stuff is. I hesitate to ask, but ... if you can't, we'll have to do without."
"I can certainly try," she said.
He put his hand in his pocket and drew out three sovereigns.
"Take this. Buy as much as you can. And if Matthew doesn't need it after all, then at least it's out of the hands of some other wretch."
He came to the door with her, and shook hands.
"Thank you for coming," he said. "It's a great relief to know where he is. I'll come to your rooms at Burton Street on Friday, then. Expect me around noon."
Sally walked back into Oxford to save the cab fare. The road was broad and pleasant, and busy with carts and carriages; these quiet houses and leafy gardens seemed to be on a different planet from the darkness and mystery and sudden death she was returning to. She passed one house where three young children, the eldest not much younger than she was, were building a bonfire in a cheerful, untidy garden. Their shouts and laughter made her feel cold and deprived; where had her childhood gone? And yet only an hour or two earlier she had felt on fire with embarrassment because she was a child, and had none of the ease of an adult. She would have given anything to be able to forget London and Mrs Holland and The Seven Blessings, and to live in one of these large, comfortable houses, with children and animals and bonfires and lessons and games... Perhaps even now it wasn't too late to become a governess, or a nurse, or...