She was driving past in a pretty little victoria. The top-hatted coachman stared straight ahead as he held the whip at the correct, arrogant angle. She was leaning back listlessly, but when she saw Jim she sat up at once and made as if to speak, putting out her hand - and then the carriage swept past and she was hidden from sight by the hood.
Jim was on his feet at once and running a step or two after it, helplessly. But then he saw the coachman incline his head and lean back a little, as if to hear something, and the carriage slowed down.
He closed his eyes. It was thirty yards away; he heard the clop of the hooves come to a stop, and a sentence or two in her voice to the coachman, and then the carriage - moved away.
She was waiting for him under the trees. She had on an astrakhan coat, and was carrying a muff of the same material; a hat trimmed with dark green ribbon sat high on the crown of her head. She was perfect. Jim found himself moving towards her without knowing how or why or what was happening. He found his hands reaching out, and saw hers responding, all without thinking; and then in a confusion of recollection and awakening they remembered who they were and stood in an awkward silence.
Jim took off his cap. That's what you did, he thought, to ladies.
"I told the coachman I wanted to walk," she said.
She was as nervous as he was.
"Neat little carriage," he said.
She nodded. "You've hurt your mouth," she said, and then looked away and blushed.
As if they'd agreed on it, they began walking slowly along under the trees.
"D'you always come out alone?" he said.
"You mean without a chaperone? I used to have a governess, but she was dismissed. My father hasn't very much money. Or used not to have. Oh, I don't know what to do. . ."
She sounded like a young child - shy and trusting and wary - and her extraordinary beauty had something unformed about it too. It was as if she didn't know what to do with it; as if she'd just been put into the world.
"How old are you?"
"Seventeen."
"Look," he said gently, "we found out about Mackinnon."
She stopped and closed her eyes. "Does he know?" she whispered.
"Bellmann? Yes. He's hunting him down. He nearly got him the other night - that's where I lost my tooth. You can't have expected to keep it secret, after all. Your father knows, doesn't he?"
She nodded. They walked on slowly.
"What can I do?" she said. "I feel like a prisoner. Like someone sentenced to. . . To death, almost. There's nothing I can do to escape. It's like a nightmare."
"Tell me about Mackinnon," Jim said.
"We met at a charity performance he gave at our house near Netherbrigg. We managed to meet later and. . .Well, I must have fallen in love. It was so sudden. We were going to get married and go to America. A woman called Mrs Budd helped to arrange it and saw to the lawyer and everything. But then when it came to going away, somehow Alistair couldn't decide, and it turned out that I couldn't get at my money either, so we had nothing. . . My father tried to have the marriage declared invalid. But there were no grounds for that because we'd. . . We'd spent the night at the boarding house where he was staying. So the marriage was legal in every way. I suppose it still is. And now. . .
Her voice broke, and she started to cry softly. He couldn't help it; he put his arms around her and pressed her face gently into his shoulder. She was so light - her warm, clean hair was so soft - and it was strange, that moment, like something in a dream. Before he knew what he was doing, he kissed her.
Nothing happened. The moment passed; she leant away slightly, and the two of them were separate again.
"But your father," Jim began haltingly. "If he knows. . ."
"It's money," she said. "Mr Bellmann is going to pay him lots of money when we're married. He doesn't know I know that, but it's obvious. And he's so deeply in debt that he daren't refuse it. He's looking for Alistair too now. If they don't find him before long. . ."
Her voice broke again with sheer misery. He tried to put his arm around her, but she gently evaded him, shaking her head.
"If I marry Mr Bellmann I'll be a criminal," she said. "A bigamist or something. And if I don't, then Papa will go to prison. I can't tell anyone about it. But if they do find Alistair they'll do something terrible, I know they will. . ."
They walked on. Somewhere a bird was singing. The sun on her face, with its clear midwinter light, only showed how perfect the soft bloom of her skin was, how delicate the bones under her cheeks and temples. Jim felt dizzy and weak, like someone recovering from a serious illness, and he knew that this moment couldn't last long; the coachman would soon complete the circuit and come up behind them.
She said, "It's like our Winter Garden here. As if nothing else exists. I'm with you, but I feel alone. I wish the old pleasure gardens were still there. Like Vauxhall or Cremorne. Then I could go there in disguise and see the lights in the trees, and the fireworks, and watch the dancing. . ."
"You wouldn't have liked Cremorne. It was cheap and shoddy and dirty at the end, before they closed it. Still, it was all right at night when the dirt didn't show. You don't like doing things, do you? Only watching them. Aren't I right?"
She nodded. "Yes," she said. "Quite right. I don't think I've ever done anything that was good." She wasn't pitying herself, just telling him a fact.
"You stopped the carriage, though."
"Yes. I'm glad I did. I don't know what he'll say. He'll probably tell my father - well, he certainly will. I'll say I just wanted to walk." They moved on a little way, and then she said, "You do things. You're a detective - and a photographer."
"Not a photographer, really. I . . . I write plays."
"Do you?"
"All the time. But no one's put one on yet."
"Are you going to make a fortune?"
"Bound to."
"And be famous? Like Shakespeare?"
"Course I am."
"What are your plays about?"
"Murder. Same as Shakespeare." But not real murder, he thought; he'd never written about a real person, really getting killed, and the sickening shock you felt when it happened. It would be too horrible; worse than vampires by a long way.
They drifted on a little further. He'd never known such happiness, or such apprehension.
"You know," he said, "you're . . . lovely. Beautiful. I can't find the words for it, but I've never seen anyone like you. Never, anywhere. You're the most - perfect. . ."
To his surprise her eyes filled with tears.
"I just wish. . ." she said indistinctly, and sniffed. "I just wish there was something else to say. I'd rather be in disguise. Or in a mask. It all comes back to that, to being beautiful."
She made the word sound loathsome.
"You're just the opposite of someone I met the other day," he said. "Well, she's not ugly, but she's got a birthmark right across her face, and she hates anyone to see it. And she's in love with. . ." With your husband, he thought. "With a bloke, and she knows he'll never love her, and that's the only thing in her life."
"Oh, the poor girl," she said. "What's her name?"
"Isabel. But look, we're going to have to stop old Bellmann. You know what he's up to? You know what he's making up there in Barrow? You can't marry a monster like him. Any halfway-decent lawyer would be able to prove they were forcing you into it against your will. You won't get done for bigamy, don't worry about that. The safest thing all round would be to come out with it, make it public. Damn your father's debts; he got himself into the mess, and now he's putting you through this hell to buy himself out of it. But until it's out in the open, no one's safe - especially not Mackinnon."
"I'm not going to give him away," she said.
"What?"
"I shan't tell them where he is. Oh -"
She was looking over his shoulder, and despair suddenly flooded her lovely features, like the shadow of a cloud racing over a sunlit garden. He turned, and saw the victoria returning
. The coachman hadn't seen them yet.
Jim turned back urgently. "D'you mean you know where he is? Mackinnon, I mean?"
"Yes. But -"
"Tell me! Quick, before the carriage gets here! We've got to know - can't you see that?"
She bit her lip, and then nodded quickly. "Hampstead," she said. "Fifteen Kenton Gardens. Under - under the name of Stone - Mr Stone."
Jim brought her hand up to his mouth, and kissed it. It was all ending so fast.
"Can you come here again?" he said.
She shook her head helplessly, eyes on the carriage.
"Write to me, then," he said, scrabbling in a pocket for one of Fred's cards. "Jim Taylor. That address. Promise."
"I promise," she said and, with a last troubled look, took his hand. Their hands clung as their bodies moved apart, and then they were touching no longer, and she stepped out of the trees. Jim stayed where he was as the coachman brought the little carriage to a halt. He saw her look back once, timidly and swiftly, and he didn't see any more, for something strange had happened to his eyes. He wiped them angrily with the back of his hand as the carriage moved away and vanished into the traffic near Hyde Park Corner.
Isabel had sat without a word as Sally told her of Mackinnon's marriage, and she'd merely nodded and followed silently as they went out to the cab. She got in beside Sally, still silent, and covered her face with her veil.
"How's your wound?" Sally said, after the cab had moved out of the square. "Is it very painful?"
"I hardly feel it," Isabel said. "It's nothing."
Sally knew she meant, In comparison with what you've just told me. Isabel was nursing the little tin box as if not even death would part her from it. They'd thrown some clothes into a large carpet-bag and left at once for Burton Street; there would be a lot of rearranging of rooms to do, and Sally was anxious to get Isabel busy as soon as possible in order to take her mind off Mackinnon.
When they arrived, they found confusion in the yard. The glaziers were leaving the studio, and the decorating firm were bringing their materials over to make ready for an early start on Monday. The two groups of men were passing back and forth and getting in each other's way, and Webster's temper was beginning to fray.
Sally showed Isabel to the room she was to have: a neat little place on the top floor, with a dormer window overlooking the street. Isabel sat on the bed, still clutching her box, and said, "Sally?"
Sally sat down beside her. "What is it?" she said.
"I mustn't stay here. No - listen - you must let me go away. I bring bad luck to people -"
Sally laughed, but Isabel shook her head passionately and gripped her hand.
"No! Don't laugh! Look what I've done already - to my landlady, to you - to your dog - it's me, Sally, I swear it! There's no good luck where I am. I was born cursed. You must let me go away and be on my own. I'll find some little place out in the country somewhere - I'll work on the land - but I mustn't be with you and your friends. I'm no good to you. . ."
"I don't believe that for one minute. Look - at the very least, you're a godsend to the shop. They're desperate downstairs for someone who can deal with the clerical work. I know that's not what you're best at, but if you could help us with it for a while you'd be worth your weight in gold. Honestly, Isabel, I'm not just inventing a job out of charity for you - the work needs doing. I know the news about Mr Mackinnon hurt you. But the hurt will go in time, and meanwhile we need you here."
Finally Isabel gave in; she hadn't much strength to argue in any case. She asked to be shown the work she was to do, and then sat down, silent and pale like a prisoner, to do it. Sally was troubled.
But she didn't have time to tell Frederick about it, because no sooner had he come back from Mr Temple's than Jim arrived.
"I've found Mackinnon," he said. "He's in Hampstead. We'll have to fetch him, Fred. You better bring your stick. . ."
Number Fifteen Kenton Gardens was a trim little villa in a tree-lined road. The door was opened by a middle-aged woman, presumably the landlady, who seemed surprised to see them.
"I'm not sure. . ." she said. "Yes, Mr Stone is in, but the other gentlemen said they weren't to be disturbed -"
"Other gentlemen?" said Frederick.
"Two more gentlemen. They arrived about fifteen minutes ago. Perhaps I'd better go up and ask -"
"It's really quite urgent," Frederick told her. "If we could see Mr Stone ourselves, we could explain."
"Well. . ."
She let them in, and directed them to the front room on the first floor. They saw her back downstairs before they stepped quietly up to the door and listened.
They heard a voice - a thick voice, a voice that sounded as if its owner were having trouble breathing. It was saying, "Ah, but you're such a sly bugger that we can't trust you. What we'll have to do, I think, is break one of your fingers. . ."
Frederick leaned closer.
They heard Mackinnon say instantly, "If you do that I'll scream. The police will come. I warn you--"
"Oh, you're warning us?" said the first voice. "That's interesting. I thought we were warning you. I see your point about the scream, though. That's just what you would do. What we'll do is stuff this towel in your gob, then you won't be able to. That's a good plan, isn't it? Go on, then, Sackville. Thrust it firmly home. . ."
Jim and Frederick turned to each other, eyes shining. Over the gagging and struggling sounds behind the door, Frederick said, "Sackville and Harris! Our lucky day, Jim. Got your knuckles?"
Jim nodded gleefully. This was exactly what he wanted.
"In we go," he said.
Frederick turned the handle quietly, and they walked in. Mackinnon was seated on a rush-bottomed chair with his hands tied behind him, his mouth filled with a towel (the rest of it emerging like ectoplasm), his eyes bulging.
Over him stood Sackville, a frown of puzzlement on his gristly face. Harris, whose face looked as if a horse had kicked it, gaped and swallowed and took a step backwards.
Frederick shut the door.
"Ooh, you are greedy," he said. "You don't know when to stop, do you? Look at your poor nose. I thought you'd have learnt by now. As for you, Mackinnon," he went on, "you stay there. I want a word with you about my watch."
Suddenly Harris took a step forward and lashed at Frederick with a rubber cosh he was holding. Frederick stepped aside and cracked him over the wrist with his stick, and then Jim was on him like a terrier, in an explosion of knuckles, knees, head, feet, and elbows.
Sackville flung Mackinnon's chair aside. The pinioned wizard crashed into the wash-stand with a muffled howl, and then slid down sideways to face the wall, still gagged and bound to the broken chair, while Sackville seized another chair and swung it at Frederick. Before it could connect, Frederick jabbed his stick forward and into Sackville's ribs, throwing him off balance - and then they were fighting in earnest, hand to hand, face to face.
Sackville was a big man, but Frederick was fast and fit, and he had the advantage of not having learnt to box. He had no inhibitions about not using his feet, or not hitting below the belt. As far as Jim was concerned, anything you did in a fight was fair, because if you didn't do it, the other bugger would, so you might as well do it first. And since the obvious target was Harris's nose, Jim went for it at once, and cracked his forehead smartly on to the bridge of it before Harris swept his legs away from under him and kicked him in the ribs.
The room wasn't large: bed, dressing-table, wash-stand, chest of drawers, a couple of chairs and a wardrobe comprised the whole of the contents, and left little room to move about in. Harris and Sackville were made desperate by fear; Jim by frustration and anger; Frederick by the memory of Nellie Budd's battered face, silent on a pillow in the hospital ward. None of them was in any mood to mind the furniture. Before long most of it was lying in splinters on the floor, or crashing against the walls, or breaking over shoulders, arms, heads, backs.
Mackinnon had managed to get the towel out of his mou
th, and was squealing and wriggling in fear, still tied to his chair. As Sackville fell over him, kicking him on the leg, he yelled; but the breath was knocked out of him as Jim crashed down under a blow from Harris and struggled out of the way before Harris could follow it up.
Frederick had gone down under a blow from Sackville, and come up dazed, and found the leg of a chair to hand; he'd just swung it against Sackville's head, and seen the man fall, when he felt a stillness in the room.
He shook his head and looked.
Jim was standing, balanced, wary, holding a hand to his cheek. Blood was trickling thickly through his fingers. Facing him was Harris - and he was holding a knife.
"Watch him, Fred," Jim said quietly.
Harris pushed aside the wreckage of the wardrobe with his foot, giving himself room, and then lunged forward, stabbing upwards, aiming for the stomach. Frederick tried to leap across the gap, but found his leg caught in Sackville's grip, and lashed out with his other foot, losing sight of Jim as he fell. He swung his fist at Sackville, and twisted round desperately, to see Mackinnon, of all things, free of the rope, reaching up to grab Harris's knife hand.
Harris snarled, snatching his hand away, and Mackinnon cried out - but it gave Jim his chance. As Harris looked back, Jim swung his fist full into the centre of his face. It was the hardest punch he ever landed in his life. Harris went down like a log.
"Well done, mate," Jim said to Mackinnon, and winced as the blood fell more freely from his cheek. Harris had dashed at his eyes, and missed by half an inch.
"Tie 'em up before they come round," said Frederick. "Mackinnon - got some money? Give your landlady a tenner for the furniture, and help us downstairs with these apes. Oh - tell the cabbie he's got some passengers coming."
While Mackinnon scuttled off to see to the terrified landlady, Jim and Frederick removed braces, belts and bootlaces from the other two and secured them as tight as parcels. It wasn't easy; though Harris and Sackville were too far gone to struggle, Frederick was dizzy from blows to the head and Jim's fists were swollen.
They finally got them downstairs and into the cab, and Frederick borrowed a length of rope from the cabbie and tied it round them as an extra precaution. The cabbie watched with interest.