The Ruby in the Smoke

  "I dunno, miss. I got some processing to do."

  "Well, it won't take long. I just want to tell you how to make some money."

  "Well, for that," said Rosa, "you can have all the time you like. How do we do it?"

  "It's something I thought about in Oxford the other day. I started to tell Frederick on the train."

  "Mmm," he said. "Stereoscopes."

  "Not the stereoscopes themselves, but the pictures for them. People are always wanting them. I looked at the rest of the house this morning, and I suddenly realized the kind of thing we could do. There's a room that's full of strange things - spears and drums and idols and I don't know what -"

  "Uncle Webster's Cabinet," said Rose. "He's been collecting it for years."

  "So that's one part of it," Sally went on. "The other is Rosa. Wouldn't it be possible to tell a story in pictures? With people - actors - in dramatic situations, like a play - with scenery and things?"

  There was a little silence.

  "D'you think they'd sell?" said Rosa.

  "They'd sell like bleedin' hot cakes," said Trembler. "Give me a thousand, and I'll sell 'em before dinner. Course they'd sell."

  "Advertising," said Sally. "We'd take a column in all the papers. Think of a clever name for them. I'd see to all that - that's easy. But what about making them?"

  "Nothing to it," said Rosa. "It's a marvellous idea! You could take scenes from popular plays--"

  "And sell them at the theatre!"

  "Songs," said Trembler. "Pictures to illustrate all the new songs at the Music Halls."

  "With advertisements on the back," said Sally, "so we get paid extra for each one sold."

  "Sally, it's a brilliant idea!" said Rosa. "And with all those props--"

  "And there's space outside to set up a real studio. Like an artist's. With room for scenery and sets and all kinds of things."

  They all looked at Frederick, who had not spoken. His expression was resigned. He spread his hands wide.

  "What can I do?" he said. "Art, farewell!"

  "Oh, don't be silly," said Rosa. "Make an art out of this." He turned and looked at her. Sally thought, they're like panthers, both of them. They're so alive and intense...

  "You're right!" he said suddenly, and banged the table.

  "I don't believe it," said Rosa.

  "Of course she's right, you foolish woman. I saw it at once. And we'll do it. But what about the debts?"

  "Firstly, no one's actually pressing for money. We owe quite a lot, but if we can show that we're making an effort to pay, I think it'll be all right. Secondly, there are the accounts owing to us. I'm going to send off reminders this morning. And third, Rosa said something about lodgers. You've got room to spare, even with me here. That'll bring in a steady income, even if it's only a few shillings a week. And lastly there's the stock. Frederick, I want you to go through it with me this morning and we'll get rid of anything that's the slightest bit out-of-date or unnecessary. Have a sale. That'll raise some cash straight away, to pay for the advertisements. Trembler, could you get started on the yard? We need a good clear space. And Rosa--"

  She became aware that they were all looking at her in some astonishment. Then Frederick smiled, and she felt a blush burning her cheeks. She looked down, confused.

  "I'm sorry! I didn't mean to order you about... I thought - I don't know what I thought. I'm sorry."

  "Nonsense! This is what we want!" said Frederick. "We need a manager. That's what you are."

  "I'll go and get on," said Trembler, leaving the table.

  "And I'll wash the dishes," said Frederick. "Just this once."

  He gathered them up and left.

  Rosa said, "You know, you're two quite different people."

  "Am I?"

  "When you're taking charge you're so strong--"

  "Me?"

  "And when you're not you're so quiet you hardly seem to be there."

  "How awful. Am I very bossy? I don't mean to be."

  "No! I don't mean that at all. It's just that you seem to know just what to do, and neither Fred nor I have any idea... It's marvellous."

  "Rosa, I know so little! I don't even know how to talk to people. And what I do know is so... I don't know how to put it. It's just not the sort of things that girls know. I love doing this, I can't tell you how much I love it, but it's not... I feel guilty somehow. As if I should be normal, and know all about sewing and things."

  Rosa laughed. She was magnificent; the sunlight seemed to break over her hair like surf over a rock, shattering into thousands of glowing fragments.

  "Normal!" she said. "What d'you think I am? An actress - little better than a streetwalker! My parents threw me out because of what I wanted to do. And I've never been so happy - just like you."

  "They threw you out? But what about Frederick and your uncle?"

  "Fred had an awful row with them. They wanted him to go to University and all that sort of thing. My father's a Bishop. It was horrid. Uncle Webster's a sort of old reprobate anyway - they don't acknowledge him. But he doesn't care a bit. Fred's been working with him for three years. He's a genius. They both are. Sally, have you ever done wrong?"

  Sally blinked. "I don't think so."

  "Then don't feel guilty. All right?"

  "All right... All right. I won't!"

  "If you're good at something, you must do it."

  "Right!"

  Rosa jumped up. "Let's go and sort out those props. I haven't looked in there for ages..."

  They worked all morning; and Trembler, fired by the general enthusiasm, sold a stereoscope to a customer who had only called in to book a portrait sitting. Finally, at twelve o'clock, the Reverend Bedwell arrived.

  Sally was behind the counter at the time, writing reminders to people who owed them money. She looked up to see the stocky figure of the curate of St John's, and at first didn't recognize him, for he was dressed in a rough old tweed coat and corduroy trousers, without a clerical collar. In fact, he didn't have a collar at all, and he hadn't shaved; so complete was the transformation from mild curate to sullen ruffian that Sally was almost prompted to ask him to act in a stereoscope play.

  "I do beg your pardon," he said. "Hardly the right sort of clothes to pay a call in. My parson's garb is in a portmanteau in the left luggage office at Paddington. I only hope I can find an empty compartment on the way back - I can hardly return to the Vicarage like this..."

  Rosa came in and was introduced, and promptly invited him to stay for lunch. He took one look at her and accepted at once. Soon they were all seated, and while they ate the bread and cheese and soup Rosa had set out, he explained what he intended to do.

  "I shall take a cab to Hangman's Wharf and drag him out by the collar. He won't resist, but Mrs Holland might... Anyway, I'll bring him here, if I may, so that Miss Lockhart can learn what he has to say, and then we'll go back to Oxford."

  "I'll come with you," said Sally.

  "No, you won't," he said. "He's in danger, and so would you be if you went anywhere near that woman."

  "I'll come," said Frederick.

  "Splendid. Have you ever boxed?"

  "No, but I used to fence at school. Are you expecting a fight?"

  "That's why I'm dressed like this. Embarrassing to start swinging your fists if you're a man of the cloth. The fact is, I don't know what to expect."

  "There's a cutlass in the Cabinet," said Rosa. "D'you want to take that? And perhaps I ought to make you up as a pirate, Fred. A patch over one eye, and thick black whiskers - and then we could stereo-ize you both."

  "I'll go as I am," said Frederick. "If I want whiskers, I'll grow them."

  "Is your brother really identical?" said Rosa. "I've met some identical twins, but they were terribly disappointing."

  "Utterly indistinguishable, Miss Garland. Apart from the opium; and who knows? If I'd been tempted in that way, I might have fallen as he did. But what's the time? We must be going. Thank you for the luncheon. We'll be back ...
sometime later!"

  He left with Frederick, and Rosa sat thoughtfully for a minute.

  "Identical twins," she said. "What an opportunity... Good grief! Is that really the time? I'll be late - Mr Toole will be furious..."

  Mr Toole was the actor-manager she was rehearsing with, and apparently a stickler for all kinds of rules. She threw on her cloak and left quickly.

  Trembler went back to the yard, leaving Sally on her own. The house was suddenly quiet and empty. Mr Bedwell had left a newspaper, and she picked it up intending to look at the advertisements. She saw that a firm called The London Stereographic Company were offering for sale newly taken portraits of Mr Stanley, the famous explorer, and the latest portrait of Dr Livingstone. There were several other subjects for sale; but no one had thought of dramatic scenes or stories in pictures. They would have the market to themselves.

  Then her eye was caught by a little advertisement in the personal column.

  DISAPPEARED. Missing, since Tuesday 29th October, a YOUNG LADY, aged 16; slender, with fair hair and brown eyes; wore either a black muslin dress and black cloak, or a dark green holland dress, shoes with brass buckles. Took with her a small leather travelling bag, initials V.L. Any information will be thankfully received by Mr Temple, of Temple and King, Lincoln's Inn.

  Sally felt cold suddenly, and very visible, as if the whole population of London were looking for her. She must get some different clothes! And stay inside as much as possible. Though she couldn't keep out of sight for ever; and surely London was big enough to hide in...

  The trouble was, she just didn't know how far she could trust Mr Temple. He seemed like a good man, and plainly her father had trusted him, except in the matter of the missing ten thousand pounds (and where in the world could that be?); but she just couldn't be sure of him. He must have found out by now that she'd left Mrs Rees's; in his anxiety about her he might go so far as to make her a ward of court - and where would that leave her? With even less freedom than she'd had before.

  No, one day she'd go to Mr Temple and explain; but until then she'd stay with the Garlands, and keep out of sight.

  But how long could she stay here, with no money?

  As long as she wished, if she worked for it.

  She washed the dishes, and sat down to draft a series of advertisements for all the major papers. That cheered her up again; and then a customer came to book a portrait sitting for himself and his fiancee, and Sally took a leaf out of Trembler's book and sold him a stereoscope. They would soon have the finest selection of stereographs in London, she told him. He went away impressed.

  But eventually she found herself turning back to the Nightmare: to the stifling heat, the darkness, the familiar hideous fear... And the new elements: the voices -

  "Where is it?"

  "Not with me! I pray - I beg of you - it is with a friend -"

  "They are coming! Be quick!"

  - voices she could understand, though they weren't speaking in English - a strange sensation, like seeing through a wall. But of course! It was Hindustani! She and her father had used it as a secret language when she was younger. And it - what could it be, that was with a friend? Could it be this Ruby? Impossible to tell. And her father's face, so young, so fierce; and the voice which now, after that bleak day at Swaleness, she knew was that of Major Marchbanks...

  A chill gradually crept over her that no amount of coal on the kitchen fire could dispel. Something had happened in those few minutes, sixteen years ago, which had led after all this time to pursuit and danger and death. Maybe to more deaths than one. And if she wanted to know more, she'd have to enter the Nightmare again...

  She shivered, and sat down to wait for the others to come back.

  That day, Jim Taylor took an unauthorized afternoon off. It was a simple enough dodge: he just walked out of the building with a fake parcel, as if he was going to the Post Office, and left two or three contradictory messages behind about where he was and who'd sent him. He'd used the same trick before, but he didn't want to do it too often.

  A train from London Bridge Station took him out along the same dreary stretch of coastline that Sally had travelled, towards Swaleness. He wanted to have a look around; and besides, he had an idea. It was a Penny Dreadful idea, but a good one. It involved a lot of waiting about, and the exercise of a great deal of persuasion, but in the end he knew he'd been right. As he sat in the train going back (rather more carefully than Sally) he wondered what it might lead to, but he wasn't in any real doubt. After all, here was something straight out of Stirring Tales for British Lads, or The Adventures of Jack Harkaway - the Penny Dreadful once again proving to be a sound and accurate guide to life. And the Penny Dreadful line on anything Eastern was unequivocal: it meant trouble.

  Trouble, in particular, for Sally, to whom Jim had conceived a fierce attachment in the past week or so.

  I'll keep it to myself for the time being, he thought. It'll be safer all round. There'll be plenty of time to tell her later on.

  Meanwhile, Mrs Holland had had some news.

  One of the agents she sometimes employed, a villain called Jonathan Berry, came to see her at about the same time as the Reverend Bedwell called at Burton Street.

  Mr Berry was a huge man, six and a half feet tall and broad in proportion; he filled the narrow hall of Holland's Lodgings, and terrified Adelaide. He picked her up with one hand and held her close to his dirty ear.

  "M - M - Mrs Holland's with the gentleman, sir," she whispered, beginning to sob.

  "Go and get her," growled Mr Berry. "There ain't no gentleman here, you lying little earwig."

  He dropped her. She scrambled away like a mouse, and he laughed - a sinister rumbling sound, like a subterranean fall of rocks.

  Mrs Holland was not pleased to be called away. Bedwell was talking, in his confusion, of a figure called Ah Ling, whose name never appeared without a tremor of fear; a junk came into the story, and a knife, and lights below the water, and all manner of things. She cursed, and told Adelaide to stay and listen carefully. Adelaide waited until the old woman had left, and then lay down beside the sweating, murmuring figure of the sailor and cried in earnest, clinging to his unheeding hand.

  "Mr Berry, I declare," said Mrs Holland to the visitor, having inserted her teeth. "You been out long?"

  She was referring to Dartmoor prison.

  "I been out since August, ma'am." Mr Berry was on his best behaviour; he had even taken off his greasy cap, and was twisting it nervously as he sat in the small armchair that Mrs Holland offered him in the parlour. "I hear as you're interested in who killed Henry Hopkins," he went on.

  "I may be, Mr Berry."

  "Well, I heard as how Solomon Lieber--"

  "The pawnbroker, of Wormwood Street?"

  "That's him. Well, I heard as he pawned a diamond pin yesterday, the very double of the one Hopkins used to wear."

  Mrs Holland was up at once.

  "You busy, Mr Berry? Care for a stroll?"

  "Nothing I'd like better, Mrs Holland."

  "Adelaide!" called the lady from the hall. "I'm going out. Don't you let no one in."

  "A diamond pin, lady?" said the ancient pawnbroker. "Got a lovely one here. Present for your gentleman friend?" he asked, squinting up at Mr Berry.

  Mr Berry's reply was to seize the cotton muffler hanging loosely round the old man's neck and drag him right over the counter, knocking off a shelf full of watches and a tray of rings.

  "We don't want to buy one, we want to see the one you pawned yesterday," he said.

  "Certainly, sir! Wouldn't dream of objecting!" gasped the old man, clutching weakly at Mr Berry's jacket to avoid being strangled. His legs were caught on the counter; Mr Berry dropped him, and he crashed to the floor.

  "Oh, please - please don't hurt me - please, sir - don't knock me about - I beg you, sir! My old wife--"

  He was shaking and stammering and trying to pull himself up by Mr Berry's trousers. Mr Berry knocked him away.

 
"Bring your wife in here, and I'll pull her legs off," he growled. "Find that pin, quick."

  The pawnbroker opened a drawer with trembling hands and held out a pin.

  "That's the one, ma'am?" said Mr Berry, taking it.

  Mrs Holland peered closely. "That's it. Now who brought it in, Mr Lieber? If you can't remember, Mr Berry might be able to help."

  Mr Berry took a step towards him, and the old man nodded vigorously.

  "Course I remember," he said. "Name of Ernie Blackett. Young chap. Croke's Court, Seven Dials."

  "Thank you, Mr Lieber," said Mrs Holland. "I can see you're a sensible man. You got to be careful who you lends your money to. You won't mind if I takes the pin, will you?"

  "It ain't - I mean I've only had it a day - I ain't allowed to sell it yet - it's the law, ma'am," he said desperately.

  "Well, I'm not buying it," she said, "so that's all right, ain't it? Good morning, Mr Lieber."

  She left, and Mr Berry, after absently emptying several other drawers on the floor, breaking half a dozen umbrellas, and kicking Mr Lieber's legs from under him, followed her out of the little shop.

  "Seven Dials," she said. "Let's get the omnibus, Mr Berry. Me legs ain't what they was."

  "Nor's his," said Mr Berry, rumbling with admiration for the quickness of his own wit.

  Croke's Court, Seven Dials, was as crowded and villainous a warren as you could find in the whole of London; but its villainy was different from Wapping's. The closeness of the river lent a certain nautical dash to the crimes that flourished around Hangman's Wharf, whereas Seven Dials was merely sordid and metropolitan. Besides, Mrs Holland was out of her territory there.

  However, the massive presence of Mr Berry made up for that. By the exercise of his charm, they very soon found the room they were looking for - in a tenement inhabited by an Irishman, his wife, their eight children, a blind musician, two flower-girls, a seller of printed ballads and murderers' last confessions, and a Punch-and-Judy man. The room in question was pointed out to them by the Irishman's wife.

  Mr Berry kicked upon the door, and they entered to find a fat youth asleep on a filthy bed. He stirred, but did not wake.

  Mr Berry sniffed the air. "Drunk," he announced. "Disgustin'."

  "Wake him up, Mr Berry," said Mrs Holland.

  Mr Berry lifted the foot of the bed and tipped it, sleeper, blankets and all, in a struggling heap on the floor.