The Ruby in the Smoke (11 page)

"How can you be sure it's not a fantasy?" said Frederick. "Do you really mean to say that Sally's been under the influence of opium before, and that this nightmare of hers is a memory of the time when it happened? Isn't it possible that it's no more than a dream?"

"It is possible, Mr. Garland. But it is not what happened. I can see plainly what is invisible to you, just as a doctor can see plainly what is troubling his patient. There are a hundred and one signs by which these things may be read, but if you cannot read them, you will see nothing."

Her still figure spoke out of the gloom like the priestess of some ancient cult, full of authority and wisdom. Sally felt the urge to weep again.

She stood up.

"Thank you for explaining, Madame Chang," she said. "Am I . . . am I in danger from the drug? Now that I've taken it once, will I crave to take it again?"

"You have taken it twice, Miss Lockhart," said the lady. "If you are in danger, it is not from the drug. But you have the smoke in your nature now. It has revealed something you did not know; maybe you will crave the smoke not for its own sake, but for the sake of what it can show you.

She bowed, and Frederick, having paid for the opium, stood up to leave. Sally, who still felt dizzy, took the arm he offered, and after exchanging farewells, they left.

Outside it was nearly dark. The cold air was welcome to Sally, who breathed it in gratefully and soon found the pounding in her head diminish a little. Before long, they were in the Commercial Road, and the bustle of traffic, the gaslights, the glowing shop windows, made the opium den seem like a dream itself. But she still trembled, and her sides and back were wet with perspiration.

"Tell me about it," said Frederick.

He hadn't spoken since they left the place; he seemed to know when she wanted silence. / can trust him, she thought. So she told it all.

"But Frederick, the worst thing was . . ." She faltered.

"It's all right. You're safe now. But what was the worst thing.^"

"The man who sp)oke—I've heard his voice in my dreams so many times. But this time I recognized it. It was Major Marchbanks; and the other man who looked down at me—Frederick, he was my father! What is it all about? What can it mean?"

The Stereographic Repertory Company

When they returned from limehouse, sally went straight to bed and slept dreamlessly for a long time.

She awoke just after dawn. The sky was clear and blue; all the horrors of opium and murder seemed to have vanished with the night, and she felt lighthearted and confident.

Having dressed quickly and lit the kitchen fire, she decided to look over the rest of the house. Rosa herself had suggested this the morning before: they were wasting space, she thought. Perhaps there was room for a lodger.

Sally thought that she was right. The house was much more extensive than it seemed from the street. There were three floors, together with an attic and a cellar, and a long yard behind the house. Two of the rooms were full of photographic apparatus, besides the darkroom and the laboratory. The room beside the shop, on the ground floor, was fitted out as a studio for formal portraits. One of the upstairs rooms was filled with such a miscellaneous collection of things that Sally thought she had stumbled into a museum; but there were two empty attic rooms,

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and three others which would make very comfortable bedrooms, once decently furnished.

The result of this exploring was revealed to the rest of the household at breakfast. She cooked it: porridge, this time, and very good, too, she thought.

"Frederick, are you busy this morning?" she asked.

"Inordinately. But it can wait."

"Rosa, do you have to rehearse?"

"Not till one. Why?"

"And Trembler, can you spare some time?"

"I dunno, miss. I got some processing to do."

"Well, it won't take long. I just want to tell you how to make some money."

"Well, for that," said Rosa, "you can have all the time you like. How do we do it?"

"It's something I thought about in Oxford the other day. I started to tell Frederick on the train."

"Mmm," he said. "Stereoscopes."

"Not the stereoscopes themselves, but the pictures for them. People are always wanting them. I looked at the rest of the house this morning, and I suddenly realized the kind of thing we could do. There's a room that's full of strange things—spears and drums and idols and I don't know what—"

"Uncle Webster's Cabinet," said Rosa. "He's been collecting it for years."

"So that's one part of it," Sally went on. "The other is Rosa. Wouldn't it be possible to tell a story in pictures? With people—actors—in dramatic situations, like a play—with scenery and things?"

There was a little silence.

"D'you think they'd sell?" said Rosa.

"They'd sell like bleedin' hotcakes," said Trembler. "Give me a thousand, and I'll sell 'em before dinner. Course they'd sell."

"Advertising," said Sally. "We'd take a column in all the papers. Think of a clever name for them. I'd see to all that—that's easy. But what about making them?"

"Nothing to it," said Rosa. "It's a marvelous idea! You could take scenes from popular plays—"

"And sell them to the theater!" said Sally.

"Songs," said Trembler. "Pictures to illustrate all the new songs at the music halls."

"With advertisements on the back," said Sally, "so we get paid extra for each one sold."

"Sally, it's a brilliant idea!" said Rosa. "And with all those props—"

"And there's space outside to set up a real studio. Like an artist's. With room for scenery and sets and all kinds of things."

They all looked at Frederick, who had not spoken. His expression was resigned. He spread his hands wide.

"What can I do.^" he said. "Art, farewell!"

"Oh, don't be silly," said Rosa. "Make an art out of this."

He turned and looked at her. Sally thought. They're like panthers^ both of them. They're so alive and intense. ...

"You're right!" he said suddenly, and banged the table.

"I don't believe it," said Rosa.

"Of course she's right, you foolish woman. I saw it at once. And we'll do it. But what about the debts.^"

"First, no one's actually pressing for money. We owe quite a lot, but if we can show that we're making an effort

to pay, I think it'll be all right. Second, there are the accounts which are owing to us. I'm going to send off reminders this morning. And third, Rosa said something about lodgers. You've got room to spare, even with me here. That'll bring in a steady income, even if it's only a few shillings a week. And lastly, there's the stock. Frederick, I want you to go through it with me this morning and we'll get rid of anything that's the slightest bit out-of-date or unnecessary. Have a sale. That'll raise some cash straight away, to pay for the advertisements. Trembler, could you get started on the yard.^ We need a good clear space. And Rosa—"

She became aware that they were all looking at her with some astonishment. Then Frederick smiled, and she felt a blush burning her cheeks. She looked down, confused.

'Tm sorry! I didn't mean to order you about. ... I thought—I don't know what I thought. I'm sorry."

"Nonsense! This is what we want!" said Frederick. "We need a manager. That's what you are."

"I'll go and get on," said Trembler, leaving the table.

"And I'll wash the dishes," said Frederick. "Just this once."

He gathered them up and left.

Rosa said, "You know, you're two quite different people."

"Am I?"

"When you're taking charge you're so strong—"

"Me.5"

"And when you're not you're so quiet you hardly seem to be there."

"How awful. Am I very bossy? I don't mean to be."

"No! I don't mean that at all. It's just that you seem to know just what to do, and neither Fred nor I have any idea. . . . It's marvelous."

"Rosa, I know so little! I don't know how to talk to people. And what I do know is so ... I don't know how to put it. It's just not the sort of things that girls know. I love doing this, I can't tell you how much I love it, but it's not normal ... is it?"

Rosa laughed. She was magnificent; the sunlight seemed to break over her hair like surf over a rock, shattering into thousands of glowing fragments.

"Normal!" she said. "What d'you think I am? An actress—little better than a streetwalker! My parents threw me out because of what I wanted to do. And I've never been so happy—just like you."

"They threw you out? But what about Frederick and your uncle?"

"Fred had an awful row with them. They wanted him to go to university and all that sort of thing. My father's a bishop. It was horrid. Uncle Webster's a sort of old reprobate anyway—^they don't acknowledge him. But he doesn't care a bit. Fred's been working with him for three years. He's a genius. They both are. Sally, if you're good at something, you must do it."

"Right!"

Rosa jumped up. "Let's go and sort out those props. I haven't looked in there for ages. ..."

They worked all morning, and Trembler, fired by the general enthusiasm, sold a stereoscope to a customer who had only called to book a portrait sitting. Finally, at twelve o'clock, the Reverend Bedwell arrived.

Sally was behind the counter at the time, writing reminders to people who owed them money. She looked up to see the stocky figure of the curate of St. John's and at first didn't recognize him, for he was dressed in a rough old tweed coat and corduroy trousers, without a clerical collar. In fact, he didn't have a collar at all, and he hadn't shaved; so complete was the transformation from mild curate to sullen ruffian that Sally was almost prompted to ask him to act in a stereographic play.

"I do beg your pardon," he said. "Hardly the right sort of clothes to pay a call in. My parson's garb is in a portmanteau in the left luggage office at Paddington. I only hope I can find an empty compartment on the way back—I can hardly return to the vicarage like this. . . ."

Rosa came in and was introduced, and promptly invited him to stay for lunch. He took one look at her and accepted at once. Soon they were all seated, and while they ate the bread and cheese and soup Rosa had set out, he explained what he intended to do.

"I shall take a cab to Hangman's Wharf and drag him out by the collar. He won't resist, but Mrs. Holland might. . . . Anyway, I'll bring him here, if I may, so that Miss Lx>ckhart can learn what he has to say, and then we'll go back to Oxford."

"I'll come with you," said Sally.

"No, you won't," he said. "He's in danger, and so would you be if you went anywhere near that woman."

"I'll come," said Frederick.

"Splendid. Have you ever boxed?"

"No, but I used to fence at school. Are you expecting a fight?"

"That's why I'm dressed like this. Embarrassing to

start swinging your fists if you're a man of the cloth. The fact is, I don't know what to expect."

"There's a cutlass in the Cabinet," said Rosa. "D'you want to take that.^ And perhaps I ought to make you up as a pirate, Fred. A patch over one eye, and thick black whiskers—and then we could stereo-ize you both."

"I'll go as I am," said Frederick. "If I want whiskers, I'll grow them."

"Is your brother really identical?" said Rosa. "I've met some identical twins, but they were terribly disappoint-ing."

"Utterly indistinguishable, Miss Garland. Apart from the opium—and who knows.'' If I'd been tempted in that way, I might have fallen as he did. But what's the time? We must be going. Thank you for the luncheon. We'll be back . . . sometime later!"

He left with Frederick, and Rosa sat thoughtfully for a minute.

"Identical twins," she said. "What an opportunity . . . Good grief! Is that really the time? I'll be late—Mr. Toole will be furious . . ."

Mr. Toole was the actor-manager she was rehearsing with, and apparently a stickler for all kinds of rules. She threw on her cloak and left quickly.

Trembler went back to the yard, leaving Sally on her own. The house was suddenly quiet and empty. Mr. Bed-well had left a newspaper, and she picked it up intending to look at the advertisements. She saw that a firm called the London Stereographic Company was offering for sale newly taken portraits of Mr. Stanley, the famous explorer, and the latest portrait of Dr. Livingstone. There were several other subjects for sale; but no one had thought of dra-

matic scenes or stories in pictures. They would have the market to themselves.

Then her eye was caught by a httle advertisement in the personal column:

DISAPPEARED. Missing, since Tuesday 29 October, a YOUNG LADY, aged 16; slender, with fair hair and brown eyes; wore either a black muslin dress and black cloak, or a dark green hoUand dress, shoes with brass buckles. Took with her a small leather traveling bag, initials V.L. Any information will be thankfully received by Mr. Temple of Temple and King, Lincoln's Inn.

Sally suddenly felt cold, and very visible, as if the whole population of Lx)ndon were looking for her. She must get some different clothes! And stay inside as much as possible. Though she couldn't keep out of sight forever . . . surely London was big enough to hide in . . .

The trouble was, she just didn't know how far she could trust Mr. Temple. He seemed like a good man, and plainly her father had trusted him, except in the matter of the missing ten thousand pounds (and where in the world could that be?); but she just couldn't be sure of him. He must have found out by now that she'd left Mrs. Rees's; in his anxiety about her he might go as far as to make her a ward of the court—and where would that leave her? With even less freedom than she'd had before.

No, one day she'd go to Mr. Temple and explain; but until then she'd stay with the Garlands and keep out of sight.

But how long could she stay here, with no money?

As long as she wished, if she worked for it.

She washed the dishes and sat down to draft a series of

advertisements for all the major papers. That cheered her up again; and then a customer came to book a portrait sitting for himself and his fiancee, and Sally took a leaf out of Trembler's book and sold him a stereoscop>e. They would soon have the finest selection of stereographs in London, she told him. He went away impressed.

But eventually she found herself turning back to the Nightmare: to the stifling heat, the darkness, the familiar hideous fear . . . And the new elements: the voices .. .