“My reserve—”
“MacDonald? I met him in the street. Sent him ahead. The papers, man, the papers! If you think I want to be caught flat-footed in front of a bloody pack of reporters, you may think again.” The man never even looked toward Leda or the woman in the cell, but kept his hand on the open door as Inspector Ruby quickly gathered his hat and coat. “It’s some sort of swindle, I’ll be bound, but this fellow’s advertised his work from Whitehall to the Times and back again, and we’ve got to look as if we’re on top of it. I judge we’ve got a quarter hour before the press is on the scene.” He wiped at his forehead with his handkerchief. “There’s been a robbery at the Alexandra Hotel, from some damned Oriental prince or other, Siamese I think it is, but that’s not our job—what we’ve got is a bloody note from the bloody fellow what pinched it, says this bloody stolen irreplaceable prick of a Siamese jeweled crown—to be presented to the Queen herself, mind you—this thief comes right out and says it can bloody well be recovered from Oxslip’s in Jacob’s Island!”
“Oxslip’s!” Inspector Ruby ejaculated.
“Well you may gape! You’ve only got the half of it. Do you know what the bloody devil this maniac left in place of the crown at the hotel? Some filthy little statuette right out of a nasty house, Ruby! A truly nasty house—and I’m not talking of some Haymarket pub full of dollymops, either. Can you fathom it? Home Office is hysterical; Foreign Office gone mad—monstrous insult to these Orientals’ bloody sensibilities—international incident—trade treaties—diplomats—I’ll tell you, Ruby, I’m not going to be caught looking the fool in front of a parcel of damned diplomats—”
His words were lost as the door closed behind them. Leda stared after them in bewilderment, and then down into the terrified eyes of the girl.
“It’s quite all right,” she said, trying to sound stout. “The midwife’s coming.”
“Something’s happening,” the girl exclaimed, with a wild motion of her head. “I’m all wet—I’m bleeding!”
Leda looked down, and indeed, there was a dark stain creeping up the girl’s skirt. It seemed a massive amount of fluid, spreading out over the floor. “No—it isn’t blood, dear,” she said. “It’s quite transparent. Your water.” Leda had heard of that—that a woman’s waters broke, whatever that meant. She was very much afraid it indicated that birth was imminent. “Just be calm. The midwife is on her way.”
The girl cried out, her body straining. Her fingernails dug into Leda’s palm.
Leda stroked her forehead. Her skin was soft and moist, with a healthy color unlike the pallor of poverty that had begun to seem familiar to Leda. She must have had decent food and lodging, at least. Her body seemed sturdy and well-formed, not delicate, but that was little comfort while Leda had to listen to the terrible sounds of effort and pain the girl was making.
“It’s a-comin’,” she panted. “Oh, no—it’s going to come!”
“That’s all right,” Leda said, wanting only to soothe the panic in the girl. “Everything is all right. What is your name, dear?”
“Pammy—Hodgkins. Oh, ma’am—is you “the midwife?”
“No. But I will stay right here with you.”
“Is the midwife a-comin’?”
“Yes. Sergeant MacDonald went for help.”
“But he said—t’ other man said—he sent ’im off somewheres else.”
“The midwife is coming,” Leda said firmly, refusing to believe anything else. “Only think of how nice it will be to hold your baby in your arms.”
Pammy’s throat arched. She lifted her knees and rolled from side to side. “It hurts, it hurts so!” She took a deep breath and exploded it through her lips. “Oh, I’d kill that Jamie could I lay hands on ’im. I want to die!”
The wicker door clanged open. Leda looked up and murmured, “Thank heaven.”
Two women descended upon them. “I am Mrs. Layton, the maternity nurse. This is Mrs. Fullerton-Smith of the Ladies’ Sanitary Association. How frequent are the pains?”
This question was addressed with piercing abruptness at Leda. She opened her mouth, closed it, and then said helplessly, “I really don’t know. A considerable amount of water has come.”
“See to the kettle,” the nurse said to Leda. “Mrs. Fullerton-Smith, would you be so kind as to spread the hygienic sheet here on the floor for me?”
The two women set to work with an alacrity and competence that relieved Leda enormously. The nurse, brisk and zealous, had no patience with Pammy’s whimpers, but began to insist that she “Bear down—and no nonsense, my girl,” while Mrs. Fullerton-Smith thrust a sheaf of pamphlets into Leda’s hand. “Familiarize yourself with those, if you please. She must not return to any employment for four weeks at the earliest. We implore you to encourage her to feed the baby at the breast. You may refer to the tract entitled The Evils of Bottle-Feeding. Also, opiates such as Godfrey’s Cordial, poppy tea, or quieteners are to be eschewed. Cleanliness is paramount—all food should be covered, cow’s milk boiled, hands washed after any visit to the privy, bodily waste removed promptly. Where do you live?”
“I live at Mrs. Dawkins’, ma’am, but Pammy—”
“We will arrange for post-parturation visits. What is her name?”
“Pammy Hodgkins, but—”
“Just allow me to make a note. The Ladies’ Sanitary Association is here to help and educate.”
Pammy screamed, and Mrs. Fullerton-Smith turned, moving into the cell. Leda sat down on the bench outside, the tracts on How to Manage a Baby, Health of Mothers, Measles, and How to Rear Healthy Children clutched in her hands.
It must have taken several hours, but it seemed to be forever that Pammy cried and groaned and made animal noises of effort. The gaslight poured down in a circle over the empty podium, while the cell lay in shadows, the source of echoing pants and firm instructions. Pammy gave a harsh shriek and subsided. For a minute the silence seemed to grow and grow as Leda peered at the huddle of figures, and then suddenly the nurse sat up and said, “Boy,” in a matter-of-fact tone as she lifted a pale shape and dangled it.
A thin sound, like the long-drawn squeal of a rat, reverberated from the cell.
“Direct a light here, if you please,” the nurse demanded.
Leda jumped up and lit the policeman’s coal-oil lantern, opening the door and shining it into the cell. The nurse was mopping at a terrible tiny limp rag of a shape, her white apron covered with blood. Pammy muttered and heaved again. Mrs. Fullerton-Smith said, “That’s done it,” and attended to Pammy, clearing away the soiled sheet and placing clean padding beneath the feeble girl.
The squealing began to rise to a series of infantile wails, bouncing off the walls. Outside, men’s voices echoed in the street, and the wicket door flew open. The inspector held it for his supervisor, who marched in followed by Sergeant MacDonald bearing some teapot-sized object wrapped in a paisley shawl, and then the others poured in after; suddenly the police office was full of men, all talking, all trying to shout questions above the sound of the baby’s screaming. Leda was herded back against the wall until Sergeant MacDonald squeezed next to her and gave her his hand, boosting her up to stand on the bench.
“Gentlemen!” the inspector’s voice roared. “Order, if you please!”
The crowd fell silent, leaving only the howls of the baby. Inspector Ruby ignored the infant, conferring briefly with his superior and then stepping up to his podium.
“We’ll make a statement,” he said, speaking in a loud singsong above the baby’s cries. “At quarter past eight P.M., officers of this division proceeded to the house known as Oxslip’s in Jacob’s Island. We found there what we expected to find, that is, a crown of foreign manufacture, believed to be Siamese and stolen from the premises of the Alexandra Hotel. The crown is secure and undamaged and will be returned to the party what owns it directly. That is all, gentlemen.”
“Any arrests?” someone demanded.
“Mr. Ellis Oxslip and a woman known as F
rying Pan Sally have been taken for questioning.”
“Where to?”
“Headquarters at Scotland Yard, sir.”
A general groaning broke out. “Why there? Why’nt you bring ’em here?”
“As you may have observed, gentlemen, we have a certain amount of disturbance in this office tonight.”
“The note!” someone yelled above the grumbling and wails. “Read us the note, Inspector! What did the note say?”
“I am not authorized to read any note.”
“Did it say Oxslip’s is a house of resort for perverts?”
“I am not authorized to give any information in that regard.”
Another man pushed forward. “Is it true the statue came from Oxslip’s—the statue left in place of the crown at the hotel?”
Inspector Ruby glanced at his superintendent. The other officer nodded slightly. “We believe that to be the case, yes.”
The pads and pencils rustled madly. “So it is a flagellation parlor! Is that right, Inspector Ruby?”
“I am not authorized—”
“Cut line, Inspector!” A man in the back, just in front of Leda, raised his voice in disgust. “This is your territory, isn’t it? Don’t you know what goes on here?”
“What of the young boys we saw?” someone else yelled. “Did you take ’em in as suspects?”
“The minor inhabitants of the house are not suspected in the robbery. They will be questioned as to what they may know that relates to it.”
“Then what’ll you do with ’em? Give ’em back to Oxslip and Sal?”
The inspector’s jaw worked. He frowned fiercely and did not answer the question.
“What’s the point of it all?” the man in front of Leda demanded. “Is it blackmail, or an attempt to shut down Oxslip’s? Did the police arrange it?”
Inspector Ruby hesitated, and then said, “I cannot speculate on that point.”
“Good job if they did fix it,” the man said, and got a round of approval while the baby howled. “If you can’t catch ’em in the act, root ’em out as you can, I say! Those boys—it’s foul, by God!”
The inspector seemed to recall Leda for the first time. He looked up at her directly, and then raised his hands, brushing away the flood of questions. “That will be all, gentlemen! There are ladies present. Take yourselves to the Yard and ask what you will. We’ve police business to attend to here.”
“Don’t you, though!” a young man cried, cocking a thumb toward the cell where the baby still wailed and sobbed, muffled now as the maternity nurse swaddled it in linen. But the inspector and Sergeant MacDonald began shoving reporters out the door. Some left, followed by more evidently eager to keep up with their rivals, but others lingered, still trying to ask questions.
Mrs. Fullerton-Smith brought the infant out of the cell. As Leda climbed down from her perch on the wooden bench, she found the tiny bundle pushed into her arms. “The cloth is donated by the Ladies’ Committee of Marylebone Park,” Mrs. Fullerton-Smith informed her. “You may keep it, but we ask that you sterilize it and pass it to another needy applicant when it is no longer of use to the infant. The mother is resting quietly, as you see. In an hour or two, when she feels up to it, she may hold him. Mrs. Layton and I must return to the medical officer, as there are several other patients who need attention this evening. If any excessive bleeding occurs, send to us immediately.”
Leda was about to correct Mrs. Fullerton-Smith’s obvious impression that Leda had some personal connection to Pammy, when she overheard the nurse giving particulars to Sergeant MacDonald, who wrote them laboriously in the record book. “Mrs. Dawkins’ in Jacob’s Island,” the nurse said, for Pammy’s place of residence.
“Oh, no—” Leda tried to dodge round Mrs. Fullerton Smith and her monologue of instructions. “Sergeant MacDonald—she doesn’t live there!”
Her protest was lost amid the insistent questions of two reporters, who kept asking Sergeant MacDonald if he would unwrap the crown. Meanwhile, Mrs. Fullerton Smith and the nurse were packing their grip. The nurse pulled her bloody apron over her head and stuffed it away. The baby began to wail again, and Leda looked down into the screwed-up eyes and open mouth.
“Hush, hush,” she murmured ineffectually, patting the back of the bundle. The baby only screwed tighter and wailed more piercingly, making a frightful face, all mottled red and white. Leda caught at the nurse’s arm as she sailed past after Mrs. Fullerton-Smith, but both ladies were gone before she could utter more than an incoherent objection.
Inspector Ruby and his chief walked out, fending off reporters. While Sergeant MacDonald was occupied with a particularly insistent journalist, one of the others sidled up next to Leda, where the wrapped shawl lay on the bench. He tugged at the edge of the paisley, rolling it free. The Eastern crown of gold and enamel overturned onto the bench, a peaked helmet like a small, round temple, thickly studded with diamonds that culminated in one huge ruby set into a white shell.
The reporter began making quick sketches in his notebook, until Sergeant MacDonald gave an indignant shout and shoved him away. “What’re you about, now? Get on with you; out of here, all of you!” He pushed the reporter through the door, dragging another along with him. They went protesting loudly. Leda could hear their voices ringing in the street as they detained Sergeant MacDonald on the steps.
Not knowing what else to do, she went into the cell and knelt beside Pammy. “How are you feeling?” she asked. “Would you like to see him?”
The girl squeezed her eyes shut as hard as the baby did. “I don’t want it!” she muttered. “Take it off some-wheres.”
“The nurse said you might hold him in a hour or so.”
“I won’t.”
Leda looked down at the girl’s sullen face. Pammy opened her eyes and lifted her hand, pushing weakly at Leda’s arms.
“I won’t take it,” she said. “I hate it. Go away!”
Leda got up and went back to the bench. The tiny newborn wail just kept on and on. She sat down next to the crown and peered into the infant face. It was ugly, it truly was, all wet mouth and wrinkled skin, and its mother didn’t want it.
Leda gave the unattractive bundle a hug, which only made it cry louder. She stared at the beautiful gold and rubied crown—and began, for no reason at all, to weep.
Six
The Song
Hawaii, 1871
Little Kai loved to swim She squealed at the long breakers that rolled across the reef at Waikiki, and beat her baby lands against Samuel’s shoulders.
“Far! Far go!” she demanded. “Big!”
So he kept his arm around her and plowed into the mild surf, a little farther out than most of the crowd of Hawaiian children. The long skirts of her bathing costume floated and swept against his bare chest with each wave as he bounced her up above the foam. She laughed and shrieked and sometimes he ducked her instead of rising over, so that they both came up with water streaming off their faces and their mouths full of salty bitterness.
“Down go!” she cried. “Down go!”
They took huge breaths, Kai blowing out her cheeks and pursing up her mouth comically. Samuel sank beneath the clear water with her firmly in his arms. The force of a wave rolled over them, carrying them a few feet back toward the shore, and the sand beneath his feet shifted. He squeezed Kai’s chubby body to signal “up,” and she kicked madly. He pushed off the sand, exploding out of the water, carrying Kai high in the air in his arms.
She screeched with pleasure. Another wave went past, catching them in a rush of noise and white foam. Samuel shook water off his hair. As his ears cleared, he heard other shrieks beyond Kai’s. He looked toward the beach and saw figures splashing out of the water.
“He monò!” The cry came to him amid the surge of another wave. “He Manó! He Manó nui loa!”
He saw it, a dark slice of fin breaking out of the surf, a murky shape, fast-moving, as long as one of the great boards that the Hawaiians rode on the surf. The
shark cut between him and Kai and the beach. Samuel was distantly aware of the crowd gathering, of screaming, people running along the sand.
Afterward, he remembered mostly the great calm that descended over him as the shark turned and moved swiftly toward them.
He lifted Kai out of the water onto his shoulders. She gripped his hair painfully, still laughing, beating her feet against his chest. He clamped his hands on her ankles and held them still. She was squealing something, but he wasn’t listening. Above the waves, above the thin wail of panic from the beach and the shouts of the men as they launched the canoe, he heard something more.
He heard his song, the dark song of his brother the shark.
He stood still and listened.
The surf hid the fin for an instant, lifted his feet from the sand and brought him down gently. He watched the huge shape move past a yard away. The high-pitched sound of Kai calling for her mother rang in his ears, remote, like a distant train whistle, but his mind was full of the song.
It held him silent, soundless; a fixed rock of coral, a lifeless piece of driftwood—a passive thing, unafraid. The shark glided past, turned and came again, nightmare huge. He listened to the song. He felt the shark’s slow curiosity—the deep and mindless hunger in it, but he was peaceful and part of the surf, nothing that it wanted.
Kai had stopped calling. She sat still, too, perched on his shoulders, her fingers pinched hard in his hair. Through the air he heard shouts and percussions—the men in the canoe beat the water with their paddles, coming fast and hard.
The shark made a sliding turn, passing within touching distance. Samuel watched it slip by, saw the somber gray hide, the fin, the tail, and then suddenly it veered sharply back out to sea, away from the oncoming outrigger.
The canoe seemed huge, rolling down upon them on the back of a swell. The paddles slapped the water violently. Samuel felt the first shot of fear—not from the shark, but from the threat of the wooden weapons and the savagery of the shouts. The outrigger seemed ready to crash against his side, but with startling skill the Hawaiian in the stern turned the canoe against the waves and it passed behind him. Someone plucked a screaming Kai off his shoulders.