The Serpent's Shadow (25 page)

Maya nodded, smiling a little, and withdrew quietly before either of the two could notice her. There was plenty of work for her to catch up on in the rest of the clinic

The washerwoman's evaluation was confirmed for her an hour later, when the head nurse of the Fleet brought her a much-needed cup of tea after a round of sick and injured children had passed through her hands. “Who is that young man Amelia brought in?” Sarah asked, eyes dancing with suppressed laughter. “He's a bit above us, isn't he?”

Maya sat down on the stool in the examination cubicle and cradled the mug in both hands. “Hmm—not in income, seeing as his employer tried to discharge him with a pack of dogs, then told everyone who would listen that he was mad,” Maya temporized. “Amelia and I thought we'd get him out of harm's way—just in case. There's no way to trace him here, so I don't think you need to worry about him. We—and Doctor Reilly—made certain of that.”

Sarah's expression went from amused to shocked. “Good heavens! But—well, you wouldn't have brought him here, miss, if you thought there was anything bad about him, would you?”

Strange
—
she works here, surrounded by some of the worst criminals and roughest characters in London, and yet she worries about this man?
But Maya understood her concern. Even the worst wretch of the slums feared the mad, and even if Paul Jenner was as sane as Maya (and of course he was), a man who set a pack of dogs on another was ruthless enough to be very, very dangerous.

“It's all right, Sarah,” Maya interrupted gently. “If there were any justice in the world, the shoe would be on the other foot, and Paul would be able to press legal charges against the wretch. He's a poor, good fellow that's been badly wronged by a very rich man, and we wanted to make sure no further harm came to him, that's all.”

Sarah sighed and nodded. “And it's a bad world where a rich man can buy the harm of a poor one. There's no justice but in the hands of God,” she said piously. “Well, Miss Amelia is
that
taken with the lad, I wouldn't want to see her feelings trifled with. Not—” she added hastily, at Maya's raised eyebrow, “—that he doesn't look and act every bit as taken with
her.
But you and I know that there are some men that are better actors than ever played on a stage when it comes to their dealings with women!”

“Not with half a grain of morphine in them,” Maya chuckled, finishing her tea. “The old Romans had a saying that there was truth in wine—there's just as much truth in morphine, I think.”

“Well, that's the case, sure enough,” Sarah agreed, and laughed. “Some of the things I've heard out of people's mouths when the drug's in them! Well, I just wanted to know what we were dealing with, miss, that's all. Now that I know, I won't worry.”

Maya thought about warning Sarah specifically about Simon Parkening, then thought better of it. Sarah knew enough now to be wary of rich men asking questions, and a rich man (or a rich man's servants) prowling about
this
neighborhood would stand out like pampered white spaniels in a dustbin.

And serve them right if they come to grief as well, if they come sniffing about here,
she thought.
I wouldn't mind seeing Simon Parkening bruised and bleeding and robbed of everything but his trousers.

She got to her feet; since Amelia was taking such proprietary care of “the new lad,” someone would have to do the same for the rest of the patients—and that “someone” was definitely Maya.

It would have been overstating the case to say that the disappearance of Paul Jenner from the ward caused an uproar. There were no orderlies searching the hospital, no policemen questioning the staff. When Maya returned the next day to check on Bill Joad, however, it was apparent that
someone
had been very upset about it, and had left signs of his agitation in the wards. The head nurse was sitting behind her desk with an expression of outraged innocence on her face, and stormclouds of temper on her brow that boded no good for anyone who crossed her today. Maya, however, had come armed, since she was expecting a tempest, and had brought some oil for the troubled waters in the form of a neat white pasteboard bakery box.

“Nurse Haredy,” she said cheerfully, as the head nurse looked up, hearing her footstep. “You've been such a help with that old reprobate Bill Joad that I thought you were overdue for a treat for your tea by way of thanks.” She dropped the box on the desk with a smile, knowing that the aroma of fresh-baked sugar-biscuits was unmistakable.

The sweet scent banished the stormclouds, and Nurse Haredy's expression softened. “Oh, Miss, there was no need of that,” she replied, even as her hand cupped protectively around a corner of the box. “Bill Joad hasn't been any bother. Not like
some,”
she added darkly. “But, then—well, never mind. No matter what that limb of Satan thinks he can do around here, he's no doctor, and it's his uncle that runs this hospital.”

“Or thinks he does, when we all know it's
you,
Nurse,” Maya retorted with amusement, pretending to have no interest at all in “limbs of Satan.” As Nurse Haredy chuckled reluctantly, she turned and made her way down the ward to Bill Joad's bed. As she had expected, there was already another man in the one that Paul Jenner had so lately occupied. The newcomer was blissfully snoring away. He had a splinted and bandaged leg, and looked like an Irish day laborer, and Maya suspected that his presence in that bed had a great deal to do with the actions of Doctor O‘Reilly.

Bill was fairly bursting with impatience when she settled on the chair next to him, and if the nurse's expression had been stormy, his was of barely contained hilarity. “Bloody
‘ell
'as broke out ‘ere, Miss!” he chortled under his breath. “By God, you shoulda bin 'ere! First th' bleedin' bastard comes lookin' fer that Jenner feller, an' ‘e finds Shamus there instead—goes to find out if Jenner's died or sumpin'—an' no papers! Storms up an' down the place, lookin‘. No Jenner, no papers, no sign! Tries t' cut up th' old bat there, an' damn if
she
doesn't cut 'im up right an' proper, brings in O‘Reilly t' back 'er up, an' ‘e brings in th' Big Man! Jesus, Mary, an' Joseph, you shoulda seen that! Th' Big Man don' like bein' dragged outa 'is cushy orfice for no puppy, an' I wisht y'd bin ‘ere to 'ear ‘im! 'Twoulda done yer sweet ‘eart good! An 'Aredy lookin' like a righteous plaster saint, an' O‘Reilly like th' cat in th' cream!”

Maya put her hand over her mouth to stifle her laughter. “I'm glad I wasn‘t, Bill. I doubt I could have kept a straight face, and then where would we be? I take it he was sent away with a flea in his ear?”

Bill wheezed with laughter. “More loik a burr up ‘is bum!” he chortled. “An' th' on'y one in trouble is ‘isself. Big Man tol' 'im t' get shut uv the ‘orspital, and never show 'is face ‘ere agin!”

Maya heaved a deep sigh of relief. Paul Jenner was safe, and no one had gotten into trouble over his escape. She gave Bill a perfunctory examination, more for the benefit of the head nurse than for his own well-being, and continued on her rounds.

But as she was halfway through them, another thought occurred to her; what if this Simon Parkening had other ways of tracing his former secretary—ways that didn't involve detectives and spies—

Or rather, one that involves spies that aren't of this world
—

She checked the watch she kept hung around her neck. If she hurried, she could just make the morning mail. She scribbled a hasty note to Peter Scott, sealed it, and dropped it in the tray with the rest of the hospital missives. Feeling that caution was the order of the day, she didn't mention Paul Jenner either by name or by implication.

Something interesting has come up that I'd like to discuss with you,
she had written.
Can we meet at the Reading Room in the British Museum after tea?

Innocuous enough, and the Reading Room was a sufficiently neutral place to meet a casual male acquaintance in. Beneath the eyes of the librarians, with all of the weight of centuries of scholastic propriety behind them, no one would even consider so much as a mild flirtation.
I don't want him to have any
—
ideas,
she told herself. But to be absolutely honest, it was her own feelings that she didn't trust. She would be able to put the firm hands of control on the reins of her emotions in the staid surroundings of the British Museum.

An even briefer note than hers was waiting on her desk at home when she returned from her morning rounds, a short acceptance and an exact time. She tried not to be disappointed that it was so
very
short, and busied herself with afternoon patients.

At the appointed hour, she closed up her office and walked the few blocks to the point where she could catch a ‘bus to the museum—this time, one of the new motorized 'buses, which wheezed and clattered its way through the traffic, bouncing on the uneven cobblestones in a way quite unlike the horse-drawn ‘buses. Maya didn't much like the things, not the way they smelled, nor the noise they made.
It doesn't matter, though,
she thought, gazing at the back of the passenger in front of her.
It's less expensive to keep one of these than to keep horses in the city. They're pushing out the horses; it's only a matter of time.

The ‘bus arrived at the museum and disgorged its passengers, Maya among them. She hurried up the steps with the rest, but passed by the enticing galleries, heading straight for the Reading Room.

She had been here before, but the sight never failed to awe and thrill her; where other children might have dreamed of toys,
she
had dreamed of the Reading Room and the implied treasures of the hundreds of thousands of books in it. Of course, as a child, her imagination had populated the walls with all of the most amazing story books in the world, but the reality, now that she had come to it as an adult, was just as dazzling. What wonders were here! The ceiling rose high above, like a cathedral in its proportions, and on all four walls were the books, the wonderful, wonderful
books,
ranged neatly on their shelves—some shelves open, others closed in with wooden doors. From floor to ceiling those shelves stood, taking the place of paintings or carvings of saints in this cathedral of knowledge. Beneath the books stood the catalogs and the carrels, the desks at which men studied (or pretended to) under the eyes of the librarians. The very air held an incense of
book,
a scent of old paper, parchment, vellum and ink, of leather and dust.

Maya entered and stood, just to one side of the door and out of the flow of traffic, and breathed in that beloved scent, her eyes closed. Here, if nowhere else in London, she felt completely at home....

Then a hand closed on her elbow, and she stifled a yelp as her eyes flew open. A nearby librarian turned to level a glare at her.

“Much as I appreciate this place,” Peter Scott breathed in her ear, “I don't think this is the best spot for a discussion. May I invite you to a late tea?”

Mutely, she nodded, and he let go of her. With a nod of his head, he indicated the way back out, and with a sigh of regret, she followed him back out, past the galleries, and into the clattering streets again.

11

P
ETER Scott did not venture to take her arm again, and Maya wasn't certain if she was pleased or disappointed by this. Such an action would have been improper in anyone but a relative or a suitor—

Young men in spectacles with rumpled suits, older men walking with careful dignity, and a loud American couple with their adolescent children passed them as they exited the building next to the left-hand lion. It was quite six o‘clock, perhaps later; the museum remained open late on some nights, and this was one of them. Amateur scientists of all walks of life haunted the building in every possible hour that it was open, and many of them had livings to make. It was for the convenience of those who had to earn their bread that the museum kept later hours. Shops stayed open until eight or nine in the evening, men often worked that late in their offices, and dinner at six was something no one even considered except in the country. Londoners prided themselves on being cosmopolitan and modern; the gas and electric lights meant that no one was a slave to the sun going down anymore.

Which, for the working poor, only means longer and
harder
hours
—
but no one ever consults
them. If a shop stayed open until eight, the poor little shopgirl didn't see her home until ten. If the museum stayed open until nine, the charwoman couldn't start her work until the last visitor left, which meant she worked all night.
Must it always be that great advances are made at the expense of the poor?
Maya thought bleakly, then shook off her mood. She was doing what she could for others; the best she could do would be to continue doing that, and hope that her example would inspire more to do likewise. She had to be certain of that, or fall into despair.