The Traitors' Gate

  “You are not a police inspector,” I said as I advanced. “Tell me who you are and why you’ve come.”

  He did not deign to answer my demand. Instead, he moved down the aisle away from me, toward the altar.

  “You’ve come for the secret, haven’t you?” I said, my rising anger giving me strength.

  He continued to ignore me.

  “Didn’t you?” This time I shouted.

  “Mr. Snugsbe!” was his only return. “Come forward! I must see you!”

  With growing frustration, I yelled, “Who are you?”

  At this he halted and pointed his umbrella right at me. “Boy,” he cried, “you shall keep away from me!” Then, again disdainfully, he turned his back on me.

  I was not to be denied. I darted forward and snatched at the sleeve of his cutaway jacket. “Tell me who you are!” I shouted. “And why you have come!”

  He whirled about, lifted his umbrella, and brought it down hard upon my shoulder. Though it hurt, the blow was not enough to keep me from making a grab for his false beard. As if sensing what I intended, he struck out again, this time smiting me on the chest. I reeled from the sharp blow, but I was now so infuriated that I dove at him, wrapping my arms about his lower legs. He tottered and fell hard upon the stone floor.

  Though we were both thrashing about, he was able to pull one leg free and kick me on the side of the head, hard. Momentarily dazed, I rolled away onto my back. He twisted around so that I was looking up at him. As I did, he staggered onto his knees, lifted his umbrella, and prepared to strike again.

  I lifted my arm to protect myself.

  Suddenly, someone appeared from behind him, grabbing his arm with such surprise and strength that the man dropped his weapon.

  It was Sary.

  There was no time to be astonished. The man was now struggling with the girl, trying to pull free. Small though she was, Sary more than held her own as I leaped up and flung myself onto the man’s back, reached over his shoulder, grabbed his beard, and yanked it away. It came with ease.

  “Sary!” I cried. “Let him go!”

  She backed away. In a fury the man swung around toward me. That was when I saw his face.

  Mr. Nottingham!

  The two of us stared at each other.

  “Insolent boy!” he cried out. “Ham-fisted clod! How dare you assault me?”

  “You lifted your umbrella to strike me!” I cried, panting with the strain of it all. “You told me you were a police inspector. Inspector Copperfield, which you aren’t! You were warning me, scaring me about I know not what!”

  Mr. Nottingham glared at me with utter contempt. Then he took time to regain his dignity by dusting his jacket and straightening his waistcoat and neckcloth. “You are talking complete nonsense,” he said once he’d adjusted himself. “I’ve come here lawfully to receive an accounting of your work that I might report to Lady Huffam. Now, of course, it shall be my very great pleasure to inform her that whereas your father attacked me verbally, you have done so physically.”

  He smiled coldly. “You may be quite certain, young Huffam, that from this point forward Lady Huffam shall have nothing to do with you—nothing in the slightest!”

  “My goodness,” intruded a soft, gargled voice. “What is happening here?”

  It was Mr. Snugsbe, looking quite bewildered as he turned from me, to Mr. Nottingham, to Sary, then back again to Mr. Nottingham.

  “Snugsbe!” the man cried. “I call upon you as a witness. This boy attacked me!”

  “Mr. Snugsbe,” I said, “it was he who attacked me.”

  “I am afraid,” the churchman said softly, “that Mr. Snugsbe saw nothing. But then, being within his coat, he fails to see a great deal. Perhaps it’s a loss. But when Mr. Snugsbe considers the modern world, he doesn’t think so. The more one sees, the more one is forced to do. Mr. Snugsbe doesn’t do. Perhaps someone might explain what has happened.”

  “This man came to purchase my father’s secret,” I said, pointing to Mr. Nottingham.

  “Your father’s secret!” Nottingham exclaimed with scorn. “Your father has absolutely no secrets that I should ever want. I came here to see Mr. Snugsbe that I might have a report about you. Well, no need for him to issue any report now. None. I’m quite prepared to issue my own. Mr. Snugsbe, dismiss this boy forthwith. That is an order. I speak for Lady Huffam.”

  I could see Mr. Snugsbe wanted to retreat into his coat as he looked at me, then at Mr. Nottingham. “Mr. Snugsbe,” he said, “without removing his coat, requests the cause.”

  “I told you,” said the solicitor, “he attacked me.”

  “Mr. Snugsbe merely inquires: Did you give him reason?”

  “Of course not!”

  Mr. Snugsbe looked at me … not, I thought, without some compassion. All the same, he said, “Alas, Master John, I fear your coat has become unbuttoned. You stand quite naked to a hostile world, and for that Mr. Snugsbe offers his deepest sympathy. He can provide no garment of his own. Mr. Snugsbe has but one coat. And that coat does not even have pockets. Only buttons.”

  “Good,” said Mr. Nottingham. “That’s done!” He pointed at me with his retrieved umbrella. “I warn you not to waste a moment of time appealing to Lady Huffam. You may be quite sure she will not see you. Ever!”

  That said, he turned to Mr. Snugsbe, said, “Good evening, sir,” and clutching his umbrella, he marched directly out of the church.

  After a moment Mr. Snugsbe sighed. “It’s only what Mr. Snugsbe was suggesting might happen,” he said. “Sometimes Mr. Snugsbe believes Mr. Snugsbe is not as resolute in his life as he might be. Perhaps it’s because of his coat. People speak of an old shoe’s comfort: It’s nothing to an old coat’s.”

  “But why,” I asked, “did he wear a disguise to come here?”

  “Mr. Snugsbe tried to explain: Mr. Nottingham is one of those men who has been fated to wear a wrong coat. The result? He’s forever seeking to make alterations, an actor who does most of his acting off the stage.”

  He turned to Sary. “Mr. Snugsbe extends his compliments and asks: Who are you?”

  “Name is Sary, Sary the Sneak. I was ’ere lookin’ after ’im,” she said, nodding in my direction.

  “Do you know this … person?” Mr. Snugsbe asked me.

  “Yes, sir,” I said. “She’s my friend.”

  “Indeed…. But insofar,” he said to me, “as your employment here has been terminated, there is very little that Mr. Snugsbe can say or do. As you know, Mr. Snugsbe does very little, ever. At best he can wish you a well-dressed evening—indeed, a well-dressed life. Of course, you are always free to partake in this tranquil and sacred house, a closet, so to speak, for souls and coats. Farewell.”

  He turned and with small, slow steps, descended down the dark stairs toward the crypt.

  I watched him until he was gone and only then turned to Sary. Feeling full of relief, I had to smile. “You were sneaking after me.”

  “A good thing too,” she said, all grins. She pointed to the pews down front. “I was lyin’ low in a pew. Was that yer Inspector Copperfield?”

  I nodded. “He’s connected to my aunt. Nothing to do with wanting the secret. Nothing.”

  “I’m glad for that,” she said.

  “I need to sit for a moment,” I said, taking a place in one of the pews. I was content to regain my breath, thinking all the same that I must go and retrieve the plan before I left.

  Sary slipped into the pew just in front of me and knelt over its back so she could look down at me. “Where’s that strange fella gone—the one bein’ swallowed by ’is coat?”

  “Mr. Snugsbe? He works here. He went back to his crypt. Where he sleeps, I think. He’ll not bother us again.”

  Sary looked at me. “You went off this mornin’ in such a ’uff,” she said, “I didn’t know what to know.”

  “I was upset.”

  “’Bout what?”

  “That man—Mr. Nottingham—came to me early this
morning at the inn. Pretending to be the inspector again. Warning me. I … I thought it was you who told him I was there.”

  She looked at me, her eyes all but laughing. “Why should I do that?”

  Not wanting to say what I had thought of her, I shook my head to dismiss the question. “I see now it was the only place he knew I might be staying. In fact, I now remember: It was I who told him I was there. He was just trying to goad me into doing something ill so he could report it to my great-great-aunt. And he’s succeeded. There shall be no more help from her.”

  “And ’e’s got nothin’ to do with the spyin’?”

  I shook my head.

  She said, “I’ve been sneakin’ after you all day. So I knows you went to that teacher o’ yers. Watched you talkin’ to ’im. But I couldn’t get close enough to ’ear what ’e said to you.”

  “He said … nothing.”

  “Nothin’?”

  “Nothing to suggest he was not interested. Nothing to say he was. So … I told the police not to come here.”

  “You did?” She laughed. “Ow come?”

  “Because I didn’t think he would come.”

  She gazed at me. “Who do you think will come for that plan?”

  “No one … now.”

  She grinned. “That’s where you’re all wrong, John ’Uffam. ’Cause, you see, I ’ave come.”

  CHAPTER 46

  I Follow the Traitor Through the Gate

  “Of course you did,” I said, sitting back with relief. “I see that. And … Sary, I’m truly thankful you did.”

  “Then I guess you can repay me.”

  “How? I’m afraid—you heard it—I’ve just been dismissed. I wasn’t even paid for my two days’ work.”

  “It ain’t money I wants,” she said.

  I looked at her. “I don’t understand.”

  She grinned. “You can give me that secret plan.”

  “What … what do you mean?”

  “I need it,” she said, looking very serious.

  “You?”

  She nodded.

  “Why … why would … you want it?”

  “’Ow else am I goin’ to get to Australia an to me pa?”

  I stared at her.

  The silence in that church seemed as heavy as lead. For then I knew that all those things I had thought about her—those things I did not want to think—were, in their way, true. I looked at her face and, even in the shadowy gloom, saw the fierce cockiness I first had observed in her. I felt sick—sick at heart.

  “See,” she said, “when I began knowin’ ’ow many folk were after the secret an’ the way Inspector Ratchet was ’avin’ the fits over it, I could sniff pots o’ money to be ’ad. Tremendous pots.”

  “But those others? O’Doul, Farquatt, Muldspoon …?”

  “Oh, sure,” she said, grinning widely. “Them blokes want the plan too. But looky ’ere—just like that Morgiana in yer Ali Baba story with all them thieves, guess I’m the only one who played the game right.”

  “But what would you … do with it?”

  “Just said. Sell it for ’eaps o’ money.”

  “But … that would make you a … traitor!”

  “Traitor to what? You think the Queen’s world is my world? What’s the Queen to me? Not a mite! I’m just a girl sellin’ watercress on the street. Only I guess I got somethin’ better to sell than that, didn’t I?”

  I stared at her. “You can’t possibly get anywhere with it.”

  “Course I can. Didn’t you just tell me you sent the police away? Along with that Nottingham? An’ that coat fella? An’ ain’t there a boat waitin’ for me just down the hill? They’ll take me right off an’ away.”

  I remembered the little launch.

  “Sergeant Muldspoon might come.”

  She shook her head. “I told you, I was close when you went an’ spoke to ’im. Not that you noticed. Yer type don’t notice much. Folk like me, we’re all too low for yer high eyes. I waited till you left an’ then walked right into ’is school—fancy that, first time I ever was in a school—an’ told ’im ’e’d best keep off. Said it in front o’ all them boys, too. Don’t think ’e liked that. Told ’im it were a trap if ’e came.” She grinned again. “A traitors’ gate.”

  “Was he the one who bought up my father’s notes?”

  “’E was,” she went on, tickled with all she knew and had done. “Just usin’ the others to get the plan.”

  “For whom?”

  “The Roosians. Or somethin’ like. Who cares? No more than anybody cares for the likes of me. You takes care of yerself an’ yer family. Well, I better do for mine, too. Don’t ’ave no rich great-aunts.”

  “Who do you intend to sell the secret to?”

  “Don’t know. Don’t care. They talk funny, not like me, that’s all I know, savin’ they promised they’d get me to Australia.”

  I just gazed at her.

  She held out her hand. “So, Master ’Uffam, you best give over the plan. I know you ’ave it. You said you did. I’ll say this for you: You’re ’onest.”

  “They’ll catch you.”

  “If they do, they’ll put me in prison. Do you know what ’appens there? Give me a number. Put a ’ood over me face. Say I can’t talk to anyone. Anyone. Preach at me. Make me work like a slave. Walk a treadmill to nowhere all day. Or turn a crank to shift a ton o’ sand. You know about all that?”

  I shook my head.

  “That’s me point. Sweep us off the street. Yer kind don’t care to know, do you? I’d sooner die than ’ave all that ’appen to me. I’d rather do what Brigit was too feeble to do. So don’t you worry, John ’Uffam—they won’t catch me alive. Anyways, I’m goin’ to find me pa. Australia can’t be ’alf so bad as ’ere. Least we’ll ’ave each other.”

  I looked at her and—eyes full of tears—whispered, “I don’t want you to.”

  “Awful sorry,” she said, “for playin’ with you. John ’Uffam, you’re as good a bloke as I’ve ever liked to meet. You been fair. An’ you tells the best stories. I’ll tell you what: Why don’t you come to Australia with me? Be me best pal? I like you. Fairer to me than I to you, I admits. Only first off you need give me that paper.” She held out a dirty hand.

  “I don’t have it.”

  She started. “Where is it?”

  “I hid it below. In the crypt.”

  There was no grinning now.

  “I could thrash you,” she said, “if I want. I’m small, but I’m strong.”

  “It’s … it’s unwomanly.”

  That brought back her grin. “But I’m not a woman, see. Not yet. Bein’ a girl, I can still do what I wants.”

  I decided she was right. All the same, I thought I should stall for time in hopes it might help in some way. “I’ll show you where the paper is,” I said.

  “You do that. An’ no dodges.” She lifted a fist and held it before my face. “I’m powerful set on gettin’ it. I’m on me way to me pa, so I’ll not likely stop now.”

  “I’m sure. This way,” I said, edging out of the pew and making for the crypt. She came along with me, staying close.

  At the foot of the stone steps a single candle burned. I had to stop and peer about, trying to find the urn in which I’d put the plans. “Over there,” I said, finally seeing it.

  “Fetch it,” she said.

  I went forward. She remained close.

  When I came up to the urn, I put my hand in, to feel both the rattle and the paper. The rattle, I knew, would be useless down here.

  Sary saw me hesitate. “Get it!” she snapped.

  I pulled out the paper. She held out her hand. Hesitating for a moment, I gave it to her. She unfolded the paper and stared. “This it? I can’t read.”

  “It’s what my father wrote and drew.”

  She folded the paper and tucked it in her right sleeve. “’Ope my new friends can read. Now then,” she said, “I’ll be goin.”

  “Sary,” I pleaded, “you mus
tn’t. It’s treason.”

  “John ’Uffam,” she said, “I tol’ you I like you well enough, but if I ’ave to, I’ll go through you.”

  I stood there. I think I even lifted my fists.

  Sary grimaced, balled up her hands, lowered her head, and charged. She struck me hard in the chest, and I, not ready for such an attack, was thrown back. She darted past me, or at least tried to, but I reached out and grabbed hold of one arm of her jacket. She swung round and brought down her fist so hard upon my hand, I was forced to let go. She dashed for the steps.

  I leaped back for the urn and snatched out the police rattle, then ran after her. She was ahead of me, of course, almost at the steps, when I saw Mr. Snugsbe rise up before her. Exactly where he’d come from, I don’t know. Perhaps his place of sleep. What mattered was, he was there.

  “Mr. Snugsbe,” he said, “has no desire—”

  Sary crashed right into him, almost bounced off his greatcoat, and stopped. In the instant I made another grab at her jacket. This time a sleeve tore off in my hands.

  Free of my grasp, she darted past a bewildered Snugsbe and raced up the steps. I threw what I had of her jacket at Mr. Snugsbe and charged after her.

  By the time I reached the nave, she was bolting down the south aisle toward the entry doors. She reached them before I did and was out of the church in moments.

  I kept right after her and saw her race down Tower Hill. She was heading for the river where the fog was thickest. To the little steam launch, I was sure.

  As soon I reached the top of the hill—with no stopping for breath—I began to twirl the rattle furiously. Its clacking shattered the foggy silence—cak-cak-cak….

  As I ran, I saw the shadows of men appear from all sides of the hill and Tower, but the mist was so thick, it was hard to know who they were and where they were heading. I didn’t care: I was certain I knew where Sary was going—the wharf by the Traitors’ Gate. It would allow her to reach that boat.