End of the Century (2 page)

1897
AD

THE LIGHT OF THE LATE MORNING SUN
streamed through the open shutters of the sitting room, dust motes dancing in the beam, while the bones of the breakfast meal idled on the table. The lilting tones of a flute echoed from the paneled walls, an improvised air on the tune of one of Child's border ballads of Scotland, played by the man who leaned against the mantle, his eyes closed and his expression serene. The woman at the table, intent on the morning's penny papers, tapped her foot in time, unconscious of the action. It was early June, and outside the temperature already climbed, the Marylebone streets bustling with the morning's trade and traffic, but within the walls of Number 31, York Place, it was still relatively calm and cool. For the moment, at any rate.

There were some, even in this enlightened modern age, who might have considered it untoward that a man and a woman should pass the time together unchaperoned, which unmarried couples could not do without inviting comment, and which married couples seldom did at all. But this particular man and this singular woman rarely bothered themselves with what others might say about them, individually or collectively, and hardly gave the matter a moment's consideration.

“Blank?” the woman said, looking up from her papers and interrupting the impromptu recital.

“Yes, Miss Bonaventure?” The man called Sandford Blank lowered the flute from his lips, opening his eyes, and regarded his companion with a slight smile. “Something catch your interest in this morning's scandal sheets?”

“Not scandal,” Roxanne Bonaventure answered, crossing her legs and turning in her chair to face Blank, folding a section of newspaper and laying it across her knee. “Or not precisely, rather. A bit of business that, were it to happen closer to home, I suspect you'd find of some interest.”

Blank motioned with his flute. “Read on, Miss Bonaventure, read on.”

Miss Bonaventure nodded and, smoothing the pulp paper against her knee, began to read aloud.

THE HISTORICAL HYDERABAD DIAMOND STOLEN.

CALCUTTA. It is reported from Hyderabad that the historical “Imperial” sold by Mr. Alexander Jacob, the dealer in jewels, to the Nizam has been stolen from the government Treasury of his Highness and replaced by a paste imitation. This has caused a great sensation. It is further reported that the Nizam intended to present the diamond to the Queen on the occasion of the Jubilee. The diamond in question formed the subject of a prolonged suit in India. Mr. Jacob, the original of the Mr. Isaacs of Mr. Marlon Crawford's novel, was charged in the High Court at Calcutta by the Nizam of Hyderabad with having criminally misappropriated the due of 25 lakhs, which had been deposited at a bank at Calcutta as earnest-money for the purchase of the diamond. The Nizam had in the first instance agreed to buy the stone, a gem of remarkable size and brilliance, for the sum of 46 lakhs of rupees, or nearly, and the sum of 25 lakhs was paid as security, pending the completion of the purchase, to Mr. Jacob, who was acting merely as a broker in the transaction. Eventually, owing to the intervention of the British resident, who objected to such lavish expenditures for an article of pure luxury, the Nizam declined to carry out the bargain, and, on Mr. Jacob making difficulties as to the return of the earnest, commenced a criminal suit, which terminated in the acquittal of the defendant.

“Stop there a moment, Miss Bonaventure, if you wouldn't mind.”

Blank crossed to the shelves lining the far wall, and climbing up on the
rolling ladder, pulled down the most recent
Whitaker's Almanac
. He consulted it for a brief moment, and then slapped the book shut with a satisfied air.

“Just as I suspected.” Blank returned the book to its place on the shelf. “Miss Bonaventure, would you be so good as to wire the authorities in Hyderabad, at your earliest convenience, and ask them to take Mr. Jacob into custody? When they have done, they should check him for distinguishing marks, and when they discover the tattoo of a crown of thorns surrounding the initials ‘J.A.,' they should send word to New Scotland Yard, whom I suspect will be very interested to hear the news.”

Miss Bonaventure moved the paper to the table and crossed her arms over her chest, regarding Blank with a sly smile. “You've solved the case, I take it?”

Blank nodded, absently, busying himself with polishing his flute with a cloth.

“Just from listening to me reading a brief summary of the details in the morning's news?”

Blank gave her a look, quirking a smile, but didn't speak.

“And this man with the tattoo?” Miss Bonaventure went on. “He's the one who has stolen the diamond, then?”

“No,” Blank said with a shake of his head, “but he's the guilty party, all the same.” Returning his flute to its case, he crossed the floor and sat at the table across from Miss Bonaventure. He contemplating finishing his morning tea, but it had gone cold while he'd been playing, and he hadn't the will to continue with it. Glancing up, he took in Miss Bonaventure's perplexed expression, and explained. “It's quite simple, really. As you may not be aware, I have visited the government treasury of Hyderabad and was actually brought in to consult on the implementation of its security by the Nizam himself. And I can assure you that, under normal circumstances, the edifice is virtually impregnable. Knowing that there was the matter of twenty-five lakhs of rupees in the balance, and the Nizam's rupees at that, it is scarcely credible that the Nizam would not have ordered security heightened. The result being that a stronghold merely
virtually
impregnable would thereafter be
completely
impregnable, for all intents and purposes. There are, then, only two alternatives. One, that party or parties unknown succeeded in snatching a near-priceless gem from beneath the nose of the Nizam himself, substituting in its place a worthless paste imitation, or…”

Blank paused, looking to Miss Bonaventure to finish.

She smiled, nodding. “Or they didn't.”

“Precisely,” Blank answered casually, folding his hands in his lap. “There never
was
a Hyderabad Diamond. It was paste all along. And this Alexander Jacob, no doubt, had hoped to complete the transaction before the dubious quality of the gem was discovered.”

Miss Bonaventure looked unconvinced. “Surely the Nizam had it appraised before making the offer?”

“Remember,” Blank answered, pointing at finger at the newspaper article, “Jacob here claims to be acting merely as broker. Doubtless he would also have been in a position to secure the services of a suitable appraiser, or to influence the Nizam's choice of such, at the very least.”

Miss Bonaventure arched an eyebrow. “Why did you consult the
Whitaker's
?”

“Oh,” Blank answered, with an absent wave. “To confirm a suspicion. The name ‘Alexander Jacob' is a commonly employed alias of a rouge and scoundrel named Jack Alasdair, with whom I have had some previous dealings. The man committed murder, but last year fled before he was apprehended, and remains at large. There
was
an Alexander Jacob, a dealer in gems, but as the obituary pages of
Whitaker's
confirm, he passed away in Portsmouth the year before. Jack Alasdair was no doubt surprised to see the obituary notice for one of his well-worn noms de guerre, and found it to his advantage to assume the dead man's identity abroad.”

“Well,” Miss Bonaventure said, with a sly smile, “perhaps you'll have another accolade and honor to add to your collection.”

“Ppth,” Blank sputtered, waving his hand dismissively. His feelings about such things were well known. Such piffle was more trouble than it was worth, by half, trinkets to clutter his already full lodgings. Blank's actions in Cyprus the previous year had earned him the recognition of the Sublime Porte and Number 10 Downing Street alike, but while the Turkish Sultan had presented him with the
Atiq Nishan-i-Iftikhar
, or Order of Glory, from Salisbury he'd received only a hearty handshake. The medal had already tarnished, and the green-trimmed red ribbon was grayed with dust, sitting on a high shelf. With Salisbury, Blank had merely to wash his hands, figuratively and literally, to be done with the whole affair.

There came a knock at the door. Blank lingered at the table for a long moment, before remembering that, with his valet Quong Ti temporarily called back to China on pressing family business, Blank was himself left without a manservant.

“Would you like me to answer that?” Miss Bonaventure asked with a faint smile.

Blank sighed. “No, I suppose I better had.” Wearily he rose from the table, and crossed to the door.

From the sitting room, Blank walked into a narrow corridor and from there into the entry. Overhead hung a gilt Venetian lantern, in which burned three blue-flamed gas jets. His hat rested on an occasional table next to a vase of orchids, his silver-topped cane propped up against the wall beside it. To his right, through the high doorway, was the library, and beyond that Blank's own bedroom. How he longed to return to that octagonal chamber and to sleep; but he'd slept fitfully, if at all, these last nights.

Blank mused that it could be a sign, presaging some dirty business in the offing, this insipient insomnia. It had been some little while since he'd been called upon to do Omega's bidding, and it was only a matter of time before he would be again. He had never slept well in the days leading up to a summoning, and seldom did for a long period after.

Unlocking the door, Blank found a uniformed officer of the Metropolitan Police waiting on the threshold. After ascertaining Blank's identity, the constable related that he had instructions to escort Blank to Tower Bridge, but was either unable or unwilling to share any further particulars about the matter.

Blank pulled a silver hunter from his vest pocket, consulted the time, and shrugged. “I have no pressing business until midafternoon,” he said to the constable, casually, and then glanced back over his shoulder, to see Miss Bonaventure lingering in the corridor. “Well, Miss Bonaventure, best get your coat and hat. It seems we are needed.”

“Pooh,” Miss Bonaventure said, with a moue of disappointment. “And I'd hoped to finish reading the papers.”

2000
CE

THE GUY BEHIND THE COUNTER
wouldn't stop giving Alice the stinkeye.

“Name?”

“Alice Fell.” Like it wasn't on her passport, right there in his grubby mitts.

“And how old are you, miss?”

“Eighteen.” Again, like it wasn't there in black and white.

The guy pursed his lips and nodded, looking thoughtful. Alice got the impression he thought she was lying, but really, who would lie about being eighteen? Only a sixteen-year-old. If you were eighteen, and looked it, you'd lie about being twenty-one. At least you would in the States. But then again, the drinking age in England was eighteen, wasn't it? So maybe he had a point.

“And is this your luggage, miss?
All
of it?”

As if he found it difficult to accept that she'd just gotten off a transatlantic flight with no luggage but a ratty little nylon backpack with an anarchy symbol drawn on it in ballpoint pen. She nodded, trying not to giggle. She's just realized who his accent made him sound like, and found it
funny to imagine Sporty Spice with a bristly mustache working the immigration and customs counter at Heathrow Airport.

“You've just arrived on Temple Air flight 214 from New York?”

Alice nodded.

“Anything to declare?”

Alice had to actively resist the temptation to say “Nothing but my genius,” like Orson Welles or whoever it was had done. Oscar Wilde, maybe? But then, she wasn't really much of a genius, so maybe she'd have been better off saying “Nothing but my angst” or something equally self-aware and mopey. As it was, she managed to resist the impulse altogether, and just muttered “No” while she shook her head.

“May I look in your bag?” He said it like it was a question, but Alice knew that if she answered anything but “Yes,” she'd be turned right back around and put on a plane back to the States. So she played along, and nodded.

Here was what the guy pulled out of her backpack, which presently represented everything Alice owned in the world:

A deck of playing cards, wrapped in duct tape.

A library bound copy of Lewis Carroll's
Alice's Adventures in Wonderland & Through the Loooking Glass
, stamped property of Grisham Middle School, Austin, TX. (She'd stolen the book from the school library when she was in the eighth grade, but she wasn't sure what the statute of limitation on library theft was, or what sort of extradition policy Austin ISD had with the United Kingdom, anyway, so she kept the fact that the book was stolen property to herself.)

A trade paperback edition of Mark Twain's
Personal Recollections of Joan of Arc
.

A copy of the 2000 edition of
Frommer's London From $85 a Day
(shoplifted from the Waldenbooks at Lakeline Mall which, again, Alice failed to mention).

Two T-shirts, one pair of denim jeans, three pairs of socks, and three pairs of undergarments.

Two packs of Camel Light cigarettes, one opened and one unopened.

An antique silver match holder, or “vesta case,” engraved with the
initials “J.D.” and a stylized dragon's head, containing thirty-two wooden matches.

A wallet containing an American Express credit card, an ATM card, four hundred and fifty-two dollars in American bills, and seventy-two cents in American coins.

Sunglasses.

A Ziploc bag containing various toiletries, including toothbrush, toothpaste, and deodorant.

A half-dozen tampons.

A Diamond Rio 500 Portable mp3 player, with headphones.

Three spiral notebooks, one completely filled, one partially filled, one entirely empty.

Four Uni-ball Vision Micro roller pens, all with purple ink.

A vial containing 125 milligram doses of divalproex sodium, brand name Depakote, an anticonvulsant, prescribed to an Alice Jean Fell of Austin, Texas.

That, along with the clothes she had on—leather jacket, blue jeans, eight-hole Doc Martens, and black Ramones T-shirt—was all that Alice owned in the world. And her nose ring, she supposed, if someone wanted to get technical. And the ink in her three tattoos. And the platinum filling in her left rear molar.

“Reason for your visit to the United Kingdom, miss?”

Alice shifted her gaze away from the mustached Sporty Spice, trying to think of a convincing lie.

“Miss?”

The truth was, she was on a mission from God. Or she was completely batshit crazy. There wasn't much middle ground. But she was pretty sure that neither answer was likely what Sporty Spice wanted to hear, and that either answer would greatly diminish her chance of walking through the door and getting on with it.

Alice looked up from the counter, and with a smile, said, “Pleasure?”

Sporty Spice narrowed his eyes, pursing his lips again, making his bristly mustache stand out at all angles.

Alice was sure that the guy thought she was a drug mule or something
like that. As if any drug mule worth their salt would show up to the airport with a nose ring and dyed-black hair, less luggage than most kids carried to a regular day at high school, stuffed into a backpack with the word “FUCK” scribbled in purple ink next to the carefully wrought anarchy symbol. Wouldn't she be better off wearing a sign around her neck that said, “Please give me the full body cavity search, I'm carrying drugs,” and cut out the middle man?

An eternity later, the guy pulled out a little stamp, carefully laid Alice's passport on the counter, and after stamping it a couple of times handed it back to her.

“Enjoy your visit, miss.”

Alice stuffed all of her junk into the backpack, slung it on her shoulder, and moved on before Sporty Spice had a chance to reconsider.

She breezed by all of the tourists and businessmen wrestling with their heavy luggage, or waiting around the carousels at baggage claim. She fished her sunglasses out, put them on, and stepped outside. It had been one hundred degrees outside and sunny when she left Austin the day before. Here, it was sixty degrees at most, about as cold as it got at night back home, this time of year, but just as sunny.

Alice pulled a cigarette from the half-empty pack and lit it with a match from the silver vesta case her grandmother had given her just months before. Months before, she'd been Alice Fell, the girl from that accident no one liked to talk about, finishing up her junior year at Westwood High School, watching her grandmother die by inches.

Now, she was all by herself in London, and she was on a mission.

That, or she was completely batshit crazy. The jury was still out…