Ghost of the Thames (19 page)

“Miss Burdett-Coutts wants you to be
presented at a party at her house at the end of this week,” Edward
told her. “Once you are known to have been on her guest list, you
will be sought after for every social event in London.”

Sophy looked up hesitantly at him, her
heart in her throat. “Am I to go there alone, knowing no
one?”

“You will be going with Kate and me,”
Dickens responded.

She didn’t look away from Edward.
“Captain? Will you be joining us, too?”

He did not answer. Mrs. Dickens made
some remark about Captain Seymour avoiding social events since
being back ashore. Sophy tried not to look anxious, but she didn’t
want to run a gauntlet of inquisitive strangers without his
protection. Still, she couldn’t bring herself to say so
directly.

“Is that true, Captain?” she managed
to say.

“I need to think about it.”

Sophy felt her throat tighten, and she
had to fight back tears. She hid her face behind the cup of tea,
taking a long sip. She couldn’t understand what she had done wrong.
What was the reason for his change of heart?

“The name?” she finally managed to
ask. “What name shall I use?”

“Howe. Miss Sophia Howe. The daughter
of Samuel Gridley Howe, director of a very impressive school I
visited in Boston.”

CHAPTER 19

“Tell me again,” John Warren snapped.
“But I want it clear this time.”

Standing by the door of this private
room above the Limehouse tavern where John Warren preferred to deal
with this side of the business, Hodgson glanced around at the
half-dozen assembled cutthroats. It had been a difficult week with
the loss of Jack Slade, a reliable collector, and the trouble at
one of the warehouses where they were keeping some boys. But
neither of those amounted to anything compared to this . . .if the
report of the Warren girl’s sighting were true.

“I’ll tell it,” a collector named
Salmon said, cutting off one of the others. “The Gaali docker me
and the boys was put on to says ’e saw ’er, clear as day. Quality,
she was, and come out of a fancy rattler with two ’orses, just
sitting on the West Indies quay, she did. He’s swearing it was ’er
that yer looking for. Spoke to ’im in Gaali and all.”

Warren nodded slowly. “What else did
the man say?”

“That’s all ’e could tell. Said a
gaggle of jack tars dragged ’im off. Said they’d a served him out
good if ’e ’adn’t piked it. Still took a thrashing, though, from
the looks of ’im.”

Another ruffian that Hodgson knew as
Butcher broke in. “If ye want ’im, Guv, I knows where ’e is. Potted
out in a dusty poke up by the Pup and Ringer in Stepney, ’e
is.”

“No,” Warren barked. “He can hang for
all I care. What I want is the girl.”

“No need to growl,” Butcher replied
coolly. “Just saying.”

Hodgson watched as the two men eyed
each other. He could feel the tension in the air. The old man was
not backing off, though, and finally Butcher looked away. Salmon
spoke up again. “What is it ye be wanting, Guv?”

“I want to know where she
is!” Warren bellowed. “Who is she staying with? If she
is
alive, as this man
says, where has she been hiding?”

“We’ll keep our lugs open. As always.”
Salmon straightened his jacket. Hodgson realized the cash carrier
had started dressing more fashionably as he’d been moving up in the
whore-mongering business along the docks.

“But have you asked around already?”
Warren persisted.

“Aye, Guv. Nobody knows nothing of it.
But our other boys never saw your niece ’afore, so they can’t
rightly say if they saw a quality piece by any carriage. Some say
yes. Some say no. Some say she could ’ave been any flash judy out
on a lark.” Salmon shrugged. “Bottom’s up, nobody knows nothing
worth telling.”

Hodgson watched Warren glare at the
men over the tips of his steepled fingers. He knew the old man well
enough to see the venom in the gaze. Warren wanted this situation
resolved, and he wanted it done now. Considering the size of John
Warren’s operations in the city, none of the other problems this
week amounted to much more than a scratch. Catherine Warren,
though, had the potential of being a major spoiler.

“I have three ships due to arrive over
the next few weeks from Calcutta. I want no more trouble between
now and the time these shipments come in.” Warren said coldly.
“You’ll all have plenty to do once those ships dock. Until then,
keep your ears open for the girl and keep your mouths shut about
it. Do you hear me? Now get out.”

One by one, the men paid their
respects and left. When the door shut behind the last one, Warren
looked up at Hodgson.

“This is what I am thinking,” the old
man said. “Learn all you can, as fast as you can, about India and
Bengal.”

“I am already very familiar with our
operations there, sir,” Hodgson replied.

“Learn more,” Warren ordered. “Their
tongue, their ways. Bed some of our nauch girls. Find out what you
don’t read in books.”

Hodgson tried to hide his excitement.
He knew what this meant. Warren needed to pick someone trustworthy
to go to India and take over the business there, now that Arthur
Warren was dead.

“I shall get to that right
away.”

“Also, get somebody to translate for
you and spend some time with that Bengali woman.”

“You mean Priya, sir.”

“See if you can use some of your charm
to win her over.”

“Of course, but . . . .” Hodgson
paused.

“What is it?”

“I doubt the woman can be persuaded to
lie if she is called to testify at coroner’s inquest. I do not
believe she will identify someone else as Miss Warren.”

“I am not worrying about that blasted
Harmon,” Warren said. “I have already taken care of that. He’ll
shortly be removed from this case. And we’ll make sure the new man
is well paid before the next hearing.”

Hodgson was surprised at this new
development, though he knew he shouldn’t be. Considering their
business, Warren had many friends who were happy to lend a hand,
when needed.

“Then your problem should be solved,
sir.”

“Yes and no,” the old man grumbled.
“Yes, if Catherine is truly dead. No, if she suddenly appears and I
cannot take possession of her.”

“Certainly you have covered all
possible eventualities, sir,” he said. “Between the reports of the
coroner’s inquest in the newspapers and the generous reward you
have offered, this woman on the docks cannot be your niece. Who
would see fit to protect her when there is no need for protection
from a loving uncle?”

Warren looked at him intently for a
moment, and then stood up.

“But if she does appear,” he said, “I
am prepared for that eventuality, as well.”

“Sir?” Hodgson asked, opening the door
for him.

“If she appears, I will marry her
off.”

“Marry her off, sir?”

“Do not play the fool,
Hodgson.
You
will
marry her. It will be the making of you. Then, the two of you go
back to Calcutta, where you will take control of the
business.”

“Thank you, Mr. Warren. I—”

“And if something were to happen to
her on the journey back, so be it. Just make sure she causes no
more trouble.”

“Of course, sir.”

As they descended to the street and
made their way toward Warren’s carriage, the old man suddenly
stopped and put a hand on Hodgson's arm.

“That’s why I want you to be friendly
with that witch Priya,” he said in a low voice. “I think that woman
has had more influence on the girl than any of us
imagined.”

CHAPTER 20

What to say, how to address someone,
which wine for which course at table. Elegance and style were in
abundance at Holly Lodge, but Sophy realized she was fortunately no
stranger to it. Her problems lay somewhere else.

Lord Latham sat to her right at the
table and offered enough amusement to distract her occasionally
from thinking and worrying about why Captain Seymour had decided
not to join them for the party. She took all the blame for his
absence on herself. His interest in her had quickly faded, but not
his generosity. The clothes, the accessories, the way she was being
treated by all these people, were all because of the captain’s
kindness. But she still wanted to know what had gone wrong. She
didn’t know how she’d displeased him.

After dinner, Sophy followed the
ladies out of the dining room, while the gentlemen remained to
smoke and drink.

In the drawing room, someone began to
play the piano and that attracted attention. Sophy was drawn to the
shelves farthest from the moment’s entertainment, where a number of
smaller musical instruments were on display.

The variety of shapes and sizes, the
delicate craftsmanship evident in the construction of each piece
fascinated her. She reached up and touched a stringed instrument
with long hollow neck and the resonating round chamber. It looked
familiar to her. In her mind, she heard the pluck of the strings,
the echo of a lush harmonic hum.

Suddenly, a warm symphony of sound
surrounded her. She drifted into another place and time—to a room
where soft breezes and sunlight poured in through open windows. She
could feel the brush of fine silk against her skin.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?”

The voice brought her back to the
present, and Sophy was surprised to find Miss Burdett-Coutts
standing beside her. She struggled for a moment to gather her
thoughts.

“Yes, it is. All of these instruments
are quite beautiful. What would make you collect items like
these?”

“Some have been a part of my family
collections for a generation, at least. Others are gifts. I am
known to be very fond of music, so people quite often bring me
unique pieces when they return from faraway countries.”

Sophy looked at her hostess. “Do you
play any of them?”

Angela blushed slightly. “To be
honest, I have from time to time applied myself to learning to play
this one. It is called a sarod, but I would never play it in
company.”

“The woodwork on it is so
lovely.”

The hostess smiled and touched the
instrument that had captivated Sophy. “This one was a gift from one
of the Indian Rajas to my grandfather, Thomas Coutts. Do you know
the name of the instrument?”

“Yes, it is a tanbur. It is also known
as a sitar,” Sophy found herself saying.

“How delightful! I am so glad to have
found someone who knows something about it.” Angela took the
instrument off the shelf and handed it to Sophy. “Is there anything
else you can tell me about it?”

“There is very little I remember.”
Sophy sat down on a chair and tested the weight of it in her lap.
She gently ran her finger down the neck and faceplate to the
carvings of the chamber. More images and sounds rushed through her
mind. A room where she felt safe. An aged man was standing over
her. He was dressed in a kurta—the long loose shirt rippling in the
breeze—explaining the instrument to her, teaching her how to
play.

The sound of applause brought Sophy
back to the room once again. The woman playing the piano had
finished. Miss Burdett-Coutts was leaning over, waiting for an
answer.

Sophy focused on the sitar
in her lap. “You can see the instrument has two bridges; the large
bridge, the
badaa goraa
, for the playing . . . and these drone strings and the small
bridge, the
chota goraa
, for the sympathetic strings.”

She took a metal pick off the shelf,
wrapped it around her index finger like a thimble, and tested the
sound. Several heads turned in their direction.

“This sitar has six
playable strings. Some have seven. Three of them are called
the
chikaari
;
they simply provide a drone. The rest are used to play the
melody.”

“Can you play it?”

“I don’t know,” she said quietly. “But
this is not the place to find out. I would never want to embarrass
you before your guests.”

“Nonsense,” Angela said
good-naturedly. “I want you to try it.”

Sophy glanced at the room full of
guests. Some of the men had started filtering in to join them. She
knew she could refuse and put the instrument back on the shelf, but
she could already feel a connection between the sitar and her past.
The sounds and images were the clearest glimpse she had so far of
the life she must have led. She could feel real memories bubbling
so close to the surface, ready to break free.

“Is there somewhere else I might go to
play? Another room, perhaps?”

Angela motioned with her head to a set
of closed double doors. “Come with me.”

Sophy followed her out of the drawing
room into a smaller library. A fire had already been lit in the
hearth, and candles glowed in sconces all around the room. A
servant closed the door behind them, shutting out the noise of the
guests.