Newt's Emerald

Chapter Eight The Treacherous Lady Plathenden

“The door-knocker has been removed,” remarked Harnett, carefully surveying Lady Plathenden’s house from the curtained window of the hackney. “And the drapes are drawn. Either Lady Plathenden is not in residence, or she desires onlookers to gain that impression.”

“It is an odd house for a lady, is it not?” asked Truthful. She smoothed her moustache nervously, concerned the glamour was wearing off. It seemed as if her voice wasn’t as sounding as low as it had before. She peered through a gap in the curtain and shuddered. The house was Elizabethan, built of very dark brick, and resembled a prison more than anything else. No real lady of quality could possibly want to live in such a grim old mausoleum, particularly as it was in a very unfashionable quarter, on the wrong side of the river, and too close to it, with a part of the house even being built out and over the Thames!

“From what little I have garnered about her she is reputed to be more than slightly mad,” replied Harnett. “But I would hazard it is a cunning madness. She must have her reasons for living in a house like that. It is very fortress-like. No windows on the ground floor, the upper windows barred, and a rooftop walkway that would be ideal for a villain with a fowling piece.”

He stared at the house for a moment longer, then drew the hack’s curtains completely closed, and bent down to the floor to pick up a wooden case. Two short-barrelled pistols lay nestled on red velvet inside. Despite their fine scrollwork and the faint oil-sheen of careful maintenance, they were obviously made for hard use and had received it, judging from the faint marks of old powder burns and the wear on their timberwork. The Major took them out one at a time, loaded them with balls of a noticeably silver hue, primed them, and handed one to Truthful.

“Not duelling pistols by any means, but the triggers are somewhat lighter than a service pistol, so be careful, Chevalier. Short barrels, but they’ll throw a ball true for twenty paces.”

Truthful had shot with her cousins several times, but she took the pistol with a heart that sank as much as the hand that took the sudden weight.

“I thought we would be remonstrating with her, not engaging in a shooting match,” she said nervously.

“A precaution,” replied Harnett. He shot his cuffs, momentarily revealing silver spell-breaking bracers on his wrists. “Her husband was a very dangerous man indeed, and if she is a malignant sorceress who has poisoned two men and masterminded a jewel theft then she is not to be trifled with. Never trust a woman, Chevalier. I’ve yet to meet one that preferred a stand-up fight over slyness and deceit!”

With that comment, he opened the door on the far side from the house, and stepped down, looking both ways along the street as Truthful stepped down behind him, holding her own pistol like him, low at her side.

There were few people about, and no one seemed interested in them. It was a very quiet street, and many of the houses seemed shuttered or deserted. A dead street, thought Truthful, the worst part of the city — worse even than the slums, where at least there was life. Or so she imagined, for Truthful had never seen a London slum, and her welfare visits to tenant farmers on a neighbouring estate less well-managed than her father’s had been little more than carefully stage-managed exercises, on both sides.

Satisfied that the road was clear, Harnett spoke a few words to their driver. Truthful, her attention on imagined slums, didn’t hear what he said, but she heard the driver reply, “Yes sir, Colonel sir!”

Turning back, Harnett saw her looking at him, her eyebrow raised. He smiled awkwardly and said, “A courtesy promotion, Chevalier. You will find that drivers would call me general if they thought it would produce a coin.”

“Actually,” said Truthful, “I was wondering how he knew you were a soldier.”

“Probably the bearing,” muttered Harnett, pulling his hat down lower over his eyes. “Let’s get on, shall we? We’ll try the servant’s entrance.”

The servant’s entrance lay at the end of a series of steps and a sunken corridor that ran about halfway along the side of the house. Their boots echoed on the flagstones, and Truthful thought the ground sounded hollow, as if a dark chamber lay beneath this dismal passage — but she dismissed it as a morbid fancy, for she was nervous enough to imagine anything.

Unbidden, pieces of half-remembered stories from Gothic romances sprang to mind. The Mystery of Romola for example, where the heroine found . . . suddenly, a bell rang inside, startling her back to reality. Harnett had pulled the bell-rope indicated by a bronze plate that said “Deliveries” at the back door, but there was no answer. He pulled it again, and then knocked vigorously, but there was no response. The house stayed still and silent.

A trial of the knob revealed that the door was locked, but this didn’t seem to thwart Major Harnett. He pushed and pulled the door several times, observing the travel, and said, “Not barred. Good. Mmmm . . . you may care to look the other way, Chevalier. I fear that I will have to open this door in a way that may prove disturbing to a gentleman of France and a potential priest.”

“Of course,” replied Truthful stiffly. She was actually rather interested. Surely he wasn’t going to break it down? However, she dutifully turned her back and steeled herself for the sound of smashing wood — but heard only a scraping sound and several clicks. When she turned back, she saw the flash of something metallic being returned to Harnett’s pocket, and the door was ajar.

Harnett pushed it open, and walked in. Truthful, following close behind, saw his right hand tighten on the pistol he held by his side. She felt a brief urge to take his left hand into her own, but repressed this instantly with a quick memory of his scornful comments about women. That memory made her angry, and the anger fuelled her courage.

They advanced cautiously through the kitchen, but it was clearly not in use. Everything was put away, and the cooking range was cold, as was the old-style fire-pit that looked as ancient as the house. Harnett ran his finger along the table and looked at it.

“No dust,” he said. “This has only been vacated in the last few days.”

“Shouldn’t we go back ?” asked Truthful. “If no one is here, I mean.”

“No,” replied Harnett. “We must look for any evidence that may indicate Lady Badgery is correct in assuming that Plathenden is reponsible for the theft of the Emerald. Sorcerous paraphernalia of a malignant kind, for example. Upstairs!”

Truthful sighed, and followed him up the kitchen stairs. But there was no sign of habitation in the upper rooms. All the furniture was under covers, all the cabinets were locked, all the candelabra empty. Harnett looked methodically in every room, then gestured to the main staircase. Truthful sighed again, and followed.

But on the next landing, they did hear something — a muffled laugh or cry that sounded quite familiar to Truthful. It came from behind a door farther along the corridor, to their right

“Truthful’s maid! Agatha!”

Harnett nodded, and slid forward. The laughter continued and someone else spoke in low tones, the words unclear. Harnett hesitated before the door for a moment, then flung it open.

It was Agatha laughing, but the laugh died in her throat, turning into a sick sort of whine as the two men entered the room. But there was another woman there, who was unfazed by the sudden invasion.

Tall, imperious, and still striking-looking despite her age, Lady Amelia Plathenden set down the book she had been reading aloud, turned to face the intruders, and glared. But neither Truthful nor Harnett noticed her glare, because their eyes were caught by the Newington Emerald that shone on a necklace on her bosom, the jewel sparkling in the light from the dozens of candles burning in the silver candelbras on the table and on the mantelpiece of the room’s single fire.

“Who are you, and how dare you enter my house?” demanded Lady Plathenden, her pallid cheeks reddening. “I shall have you thrown out at once. Agatha, the bell!”

“Stop!” cried Harnett, as Agatha moved towards a red plush bell-rope. He raised his pistol and pointed it squarely at Lady Plathenden. “My name is Major Harnett, milady, and my companion is the Chevalier de Vienne, cousin of Lady Truthful Newington. We have been charged with the recovery of the Newington Emerald.”

Lady Plathenden’s eyes narrowed, and she raised her chin disdainfully. “What, pray tell, has that to do with me?”

“You happen to be wearing it,” replied the Major dryly. “Please take it off and give it to the chevalier. We shall then disturb you no longer.”

Lady Plathenden’s chin lowered. She took a step forward, faltered, and leaned against the book-lined wall, as if she was going to faint. Truthful, stepping forward to catch her, suddenly stopped as the old woman snatched a pitted, evil-looking bone wand from a hidden alcove and levelled it at her. The motion was so fast and unexpected, that she had no chance to lift her own pistol.

“Don’t raise your hand, my handsome Chevalier,” hissed Lady Plathenden. “You, Major, place your pistol on the floor!”

Truthful stood completely still, her heart thumping wildly. Though she had little native sorcery, the bone wand emanated malignancy, she could feel the power in it, power that wanted to be released. She could now well believe that this woman had poisoned her uncles.

“You can only curse one of us,” said Harnett calmly. He put his pistol on the table nearby, rather than on the floor. “Then the other will shoot you.”

“Then I shall curse the larger,” snapped Lady Plathenden, moving her aim to Harnett. “The effete Frenchman would never shoot a woman. Would you, little one?”

“I would shoot you with a glad heart,” replied Truthful slowly. “As would our companions outside. They will charge the house if they hear anything untoward.”

Lady Plathenden smiled, but her cold eyes did not alter, not did the wand move. Truthful had hoped she would look out the window, but the witch did not even look away for a moment.

“Agatha,” she said. “Stop ringing. They will have heard. Look out the window. Carefully, you dolt! See if you can see anyone watching the house. Bow Street Runners or the like.”

Truthful watched the hunched-over Agatha peer through a gap in the drapes, and felt a surge of anger and distress. How had she failed to notice Agatha’s treacherous nature before?

“There’s a hackney and a driver opposite, milady,” Agatha reported. “The curtains are drawn. And there’s a man on horseback at the end of the street.”

“I shall have to be careful, won’t I?” muttered Lady Plathenden, apparently to Truthful, though her eyes never left Harnett. “Perhaps a transformation would serve better than a curse. Equally painful, of course.”

Truthful watched her eyes flickering between the two of them, and felt the weight of the pistol in her hand. If only she could raise it swiftly enough, but that terrible wand was as steady as if it were held in a vice . . .

The shelves behind Lady Plathenden creaked. One entire bookcase swung open and a damp, musty smell rolled out from the dark passage behind it. Lady Plathenden’s head turned slightly, and both Truthful and Harnett acted.

Truthful tugged the pistol from her pocket, clumsily cocked the lock and opened the pan, priming powder spilling as she rushed to level it at Lady Plathenden. As she did so, Lady Plathenden released the malevolent force of the wand and Harnett snatched up his own pistol and cocked and fired it in one well-practiced motion.

Two shots and the snake-like hiss of the wand sounded at almost the same time, wreathing the room in gunsmoke and eldritch scintillations. Harnett staggered back as Lady Plathenden shrieked and clutched at her arm. Truthful, throwing the spent pistol aside, picked up a candelabra and dashed forward, waving it in the air.

“You’ve killed him!” she screamed at Lady Plathenden, who retreated against a bookcase and stared at this suddenly berserk Frenchman.

“No she hasn’t!” cried Harnett, drawing himself upright, his waistcoat smoldering in several sections, the silver wires of a protective charm sewn within revealed through many tiny, smoking holes. “Look out!”

Lady Plathenden slipped through the secret door as two very large and roughly-dressed men emerged from it and advanced, their fists clenched. Truthful stepped back and raised her candelabra, and Harnett levered himself up next to her. Seeing her worried glance, he grinned and said, “Curse-ward held it. You fight well . . . for a French monk.”

“A monk?” said one of the ruffians, lowering his guard. “I’m not crossing no man of the cloth.”

“I ain’t so particular,” grunted the other, fixing his rather piggy eyes on Truthful. “You take the big cove.”

“Perhaps we could discuss this,” said Harnett, signalling Truthful to retreat. He continued to talk as they backed off towards the door. “No sense in all of us getting knocked about. Why don’t you let the . . . er . . . monk go, and I’ll take on both of you, one at a time.”

“We ain’t gentlemen,” grunted the piggy ruffian, smacking a meaty fist into an opposite palm. It made a sound rather like a stone dropping in the carp pond back home, thought Truthful, and was probably just as hard.

“And neither is we,” said another voice, this time from behind.

Truthful whirled around. There were two more thugs behind them now, and both of them carried long cudgels.

“Back to back!” cried Harnett. “If you have any sorcery, use it now Chevalier!”

Truthful moved to press her slight back against Harnett’s broad one, and raised her fists. One of the thugs moved forward, laughing, and was confounded by a sudden crackling of sparks from the signet ring on Harnett’s fist, that set the rogue’s hair alight and sent him screaming from the room shouting for water.

But the other three attacked, all at once. There was a hurried exchange of blows, Harnett was borne to the floor by two of the thugs, and Truthful’s guard was demonstrated to be merely decorative. Two seconds later, a scientific jab to the chin sent her reeling to the floor. She tried to get up, was hit again, and everything went black.

When she regained consciousness, Truthful awoke to an aching jaw and complete darkness. A few attempts at movement also conveyed the fact that she was bound hand and foot, and tied around her middle to some large object. When it groaned and shifted, she realised the object was Harnett, and they were tied back-to-back. A few more foot taps then told her they were in a cupboard, albeit a strange cupboard, with curious rounded walls and a very strong stench of some strong spirit . . .

“A barrel,” husked Harnett, as she kept on knocking with her feet. “Once a butt of brandy, judging from the odour. Rather ignominious, I feel.”

“What will happen to us?” asked Truthful quietly. She felt herself leaning back against his wide shoulders, and stiffened. Would her great-aunt’s glamour continue to hold in the current circumstances? She had a vague recollection that being touched for any length of time had a deleterious effect on most illusions . . .

“I’m afraid I don’t know,” replied Harnett. “Fortunately, I did arrange a contingency with the hackney driver and some of my friends, so there will be a rescue in due course. However, the thing with rescues is timing, and we shall just have to hope its comes sooner rather than later. How tight are your bonds?”

Truthful flexed her feet and arms, but found no movement in the rope. Nor could she strain free from Harnett, as there was a rope wound several times around both their waists.

“I can’t get free, Major.”

There was silence for a moment, then Harnett laughed, and Truthful imagined his smile flashing for a moment in the darkness.

“I think you may now safely call me Charles,” he said. “As we have become rather close.”

Truthful smiled for a moment, and almost started to laugh, before she suddenly stopped and scowled instead. How could Harnett laugh, unless he was very confident his friends would come to the rescue? She could see no happy ending, tied up in the dark, in a barrel that absolutely stank of brandy.

“I suppose you had better call me Henri,” said Truthful.

She laughed as she said it. It seemed so ridiculous that they should be learning each other’s first names while tied up inside a barrel. In fact, everything seemed rather ridiculous. Truthful stopped laughing and took in a deep, brandy-laced breath, only to discover to her mortification that her laughter had turned to tears, which she quickly stifled, ending in a series of sniffs.

“Laughter is a strong weapon against fear, Chevalier,” said Harnett. “But I think none the worse of manly tears.”

Truthful almost interrupted to ask how he felt about womanly tears, but managed not to speak. She felt very light-headed and wondered what on earth was wrong with her. Besides being trapped in a barrel, of course.

“I knew a man who wept like a baby before every battle in the Peninsula, but there were none braver,” continued Harnett.

“What happened to him?” asked Truthful.

“He was killed at Waterloo,” replied Harnett. “So many were. But we’re still alive . . . and where there’s life, there’s . . . um . . how does that go? I confess to feeling a little astray, I suppose the fumes—”

He stopped speaking suddenly as they heard footsteps approaching. The footsteps stopped near them, and they heard the cold voice of Lady Plathenden.

“Take this barrel out to the Undine,” she said. “Tell Captain Fontaine that he is to throw it overboard mid-channel, without looking inside.”

“But it isn’t sealed,” protested a male voice. Truthful recognised the sensitive, religious-minded thug. “It’ll sink. I don’t hold with drowning, ma’am, it’s an ugly way to die. Even for kittens, let alone—”

“Silence! See to it at once, and make sure Fontaine understands exactly what he is to do.”

Her footsteps receded, and the barrel suddenly lurched, leaned in balance for a moment, and then crashed on its side. Shaken, Harnett and Truthful braced their legs against the sides, and managed to stay reasonably steady as the barrel rolled, bumping over an uneven floor.

A few minutes later, they heard a heavy door open, the rush of the Thames beyond it, and the creaking of a wharf. More footsteps echoed on the stone, and they felt the barrel being lifted. The carters feet clattered out onto the wharf, there was a thud as the barrel was dropped a few inches, then they felt the tell-tale sway of a ship or boat.

“So,” said a scornful, French-accented man. “Another one of milady’s presents to Neptune? Make it fast on deck — there’s no room in the hold. And secure the pigeon loft, you fool!”

“No room at the inn,” chortled Harnett. For some reason Truthful found this incredibly funny. In an instant, they were both laughing.

“Stop that!” shouted the voice outside, his words accompanied by a strong kicking administered to the barrel.

This seemed funnier still. Truthful couldn’t stop giggling, and Harnett brayed like a donkey, and the sound of their laughter just encouraged more, and more and more until eventually the kicking stopped.

Slowly the laughter ebbed away. Truthful yawned, a huge yawn, and wriggled against the ropes.

“I think I’m ready to be rescued,” she said. “Any time now.”

There was no answer, but Truthful was not alarmed. She felt so tired. Nothing mattered except letting her eyelids continue their slow drift towards complete closure.

She let them close, and fell asleep.