Sawbones (21 page)

The church bell at St Anne’s chimed for nine o’clock. He would give her until twelve, he decided, and then go after her.

All morning Ezra felt as if he were walking on needles. He imagined Loveday thinking she, alone with her sword, could take on the massed Russian cavalry and the combined ranks of the Ottoman Janissary force. Ezra had read about the Janissaries, the Ottoman palace guard, who were, it was said, the fiercest fighting brigade the world over. Or perhaps, Ezra thought, Loveday had gone back to Mr Falcon’s lodgings and was going through his things, looking for something that might count as proof of Ahmat’s guilt. He remembered how they had first met, Loveday running for her life from a gang of resurrection men. Was she fleeing again now? he thought. Or perhaps it was already over; perhaps they had already put a bullet through her, like the master.

Ezra could not settle, whether to sweep the floor in the kitchen or to read one of the master’s books, half of which were still on the shelves, half of which had been packed away in boxes. He took up the post when the postman called and put it on the master’s desk, as if in some small compartment of his brain he imagined Mr McAdam coming in from a morning lecture and wanting his letters, neat and tidy, with Mrs Boscaven in the basement brewing coffee, even Toms sulking in the yard.

It was still only eleven. Mahmoud had written his letters and sealed them with the master’s wax. He had also, in his most imperious voice, instructed Ezra to discover which was the best jeweller’s to which to take the gemstones, and Ezra had promised that as soon as he knew Miss Finch was safe he would see to it. As for the letters, Ezra couldn’t imagine how he would even enter the Ottoman Embassy, let alone discover the ambassador’s office and his personal post. It was impossible. He would tell Loveday, as soon as she set foot in the house, that it couldn’t be done. But then what
could
?

Ezra sighed and piled the post up in date order, the newest at the bottom. He sieved out the ones that were for Dr James McAdam, and the thought of putting them straight onto the fire made him forget Loveday for a moment. The honourable thing would be to re-address them and send them on to Edinburgh, but he reckoned on owing Dr James McAdam barely any honour at all. In fact, if there was to be any accounting of honour, he imagined Dr James’s ledger ran into the red for sure. He held the first letter in his hand, wondering if it might even be a crime to open other people’s mail. Then he remembered the feeling of walking out of Mr Lashley’s lecture, and tore it open.

It was a begging letter from an orphanage concerned with transporting homeless London children to new homes in the north of England, where, it said,
the opportunities for hard work in the new-built cotton mills mean idle hands no longer turn to crime
.

Ezra had heard of children being taken from the streets to work for a pittance a hundred miles away. It did not sound like his idea of charity. He screwed the letter into a ball and threw it into the fireplace for kindling.

He opened another letter, and this one stopped him dead.

It was from Mr Harkaway. He read it twice, three times, then once more. He could scarcely believe it. Mr Harkaway was disputing Dr James’s actions. Dr James McAdam had no right, Mr Harkaway had written, to the estate of his uncle, and he should come into the office, the letter said, to be present at the reading of the will.
Though not an executor, Mr McAdam, you are welcome to attend. However, your actions in trying to sell off the museum collection and the estate may be seen as illegal
.

Ezra gave three inner cheers for the unsmiling Mr Harkaway. He kissed the letter, thanked heaven and all its inhabitants and went through the rest of the pile of Dr James’s mail like a tornado in a wheatfield.

He discovered the will had not even been read, and although it did not say who the executors were, it gave a date and a time for the reading: four weeks after the master’s death. December the first. Only three days away. Ezra whooped with joy and danced round the room. He would not have been forgotten! Dr James was a blackguard and Lashley a fool – as he himself had been – to imagine they had any control over his life. He would swear on his life there would be tools, and perhaps one or two books, that would come to him, and with tools he could do anything. He could set up a small practice – well, perhaps a very small one, above a shop somewhere, in town. It would be a start.

Suddenly he realized Mahmoud was standing in the doorway watching him.

“What,” said the boy, his tone at once curious and accusing, “are you doing?”

“Nothing.” Ezra straightened up, tucked the letters back in a pile. “A bit of good news, Mahmoud, that’s all,” he said, feeling a little guilty at his own happiness when Mahmoud’s situation was still so uncertain. The first of December – he said the date over and over to himself in case he might forget. But Ezra felt suddenly so lit up with joy he might have hovered a good few inches off the floor.

“That is good for you,” Mahmoud said, without much interest. “I have finished my writing and Miss Finch has not returned.”

“Ah,” Ezra said, and in a moment his joy was swept away by the reminder of Loveday’s absence. “Miss Finch – I should see if she is outside the embassy, or perhaps at Mr Falcon’s lodgings.”

“It has been hours,” Mahmoud said. “I would not want any harm to come to Miss Finch.”

“Neither would I,” Ezra agreed. “I just hope she hasn’t started waving that damned blade of hers around and got herself arrested.”

It had begun to rain. Ezra took the master’s second-best winter coat, which was still on the hook by the front door, snuck out of Ham Yard and turned towards St Martin’s Lane. The coat still smelt, comfortingly, of the master’s tobacco and snuff. He stuck his hands deep inside the pockets and ran all the way down the slippery mud-spattered streets.

Ezra couldn’t remember the number of Mr Falcon’s boarding house, but he knew it was next to an inn called the Hogget. He turned his collar up – and ran slap-bang into a young girl clad all in black and in possession of a large carpetbag. The girl let loose a torrent of curses and burnt the air bluer than a summer sky.

Ezra would know those curses anywhere. “Loveday!” It was her, although her hair – well, the hair he could see escaping under her hat – was a deep muddy brown, the colour of the swill that raced down the centre of the street. “It
is
you!”

“Shh!” she hissed. “For heaven’s sake, Ezra, I am in disguise. I have a plan. Come on, back to yours, and hurry – I don’t want my hair to run. It took all morning and close to a vat of walnut oil pomade to do this!”

“We were worried. You shouldn’t have left like that!” Ezra protested as he joined her at a jog. “I thought you were about to attack the Ottomans and the Russians single-handed.”

“I am not an idiot, you know,” Loveday said, racing on.

Ezra ran to catch up. “You should have told me your plans. You are in danger. They are looking for you!”

She turned around. The rain was cockling the edges of her hat. “They will be looking for a redhead. This is important, Ezra! We need to help Mahmoud, to deliver his letters. And avenge my father and your master – I can think of no worthier or more noble cause for which to dye my hair.”

“But Loveday, we tried to get into the embassy, remember? They wouldn’t even let us through the door.”

“Ah, that is what you think.” Now she was smiling. “Mr Falcon was due to play the Ottoman Embassy party, but unfortunately he has passed away. However, this morning, after I dyed my hair, I went to see his agent. The good news is, he has replaced one magic act with another: The Amazing Masked Magician Ezekiel – that’s you, by the way – and his Mystic Muse.” She bowed. “Me, of course.”

Ezra looked at her incredulously as the rain fell down his neck. Mr McAdam’s overcoat was too big, and icy raindrops ran down his spine through the gap at the collar, and made him shiver.

“Oh, don’t make such a mopish face!” Loveday exclaimed. “I will teach you everything you need to know, and I have taken all the props I need from Mr Falcon’s.” She held up the bag.

Ezra couldn’t say a word.

“You will be fine, more than fine – I am sure you once told me there was a great deal of showmanship involved in being a good surgeon.” She began walking again before he could protest, leaving Ezra to watch helplessly as she hurried ahead through the crowds back to Soho.

“Loveday Finch,” he said aloud, “what have you done?”

The Ottoman Embassy
St James’s Square
London
November 1792

E
zra had bitten down all of the nails on his right hand. Loveday assured him all would be well – she had drilled them for every waking hour of the past two days, and now Ezra could turn a red handkerchief into a blue one just about passably, and pick the card Mahmoud was thinking of two times out of three, although he suspected Mahmoud was being generous. Whether he could make a young girl vanish into thin air, as he was supposed to do this evening, was quite another matter altogether.

It was just getting dark as he and Loveday neared the embassy building. Mahmoud had been ordered to remain at Great Windmill Street despite his protests, but as the embassy loomed ahead, five storeys high and the width of four regular townhouses at least, Ezra couldn’t help feeling that the prince’s casual imperiousness might have done their party some good. He shifted the heavy carpetbag of props from one hand to another and hoped that this evening he and Loveday might succeed in their endeavour. What were they after all, he told himself, other than rather extravagant couriers simply delivering post? Then he remembered that Mr Finch had been a courier, and he had ended up dead.

“Come along,” Loveday whispered, and Ezra followed her across the square. He wondered what the master would make of this situation – his apprentice about to play a conjuror in front of an audience – then reminded himself that the Ezra McAdam of one month ago would have thought this utterly unbelievable too.

“Are you dreaming?” Loveday said. “Only we have work to do and much of it depends on your wits being as sharp as my blade tonight.”

Ezra took a deep breath and pulled on a pair of Mr Falcon’s white kid gloves. “I am ready, I promise.”

“Now, should anyone ask, you are Ezekiel, and I am Lily.” She smiled. “And we will do justice by the dead, help a prince home and uncover a traitor. In the future they will sing songs about us in old Constantinople, I am certain of it!”

Ezra nodded weakly. He wished he could have her confidence. The look on his face must have betrayed his doubts.

“Think of it as a kind of amputation,” she said, clapping him on the shoulder. “Only if anything goes wrong it’s you and I who are for the chop.”

“That didn’t help,” Ezra retorted as he shifted the heavy bag again and made for the tradesmen’s entrance. At least, he thought, it didn’t matter much to anyone whether he lived or died; given that, he may as well go down doing the very best he could.

They were shown up to the ballroom on the first floor by a porter – not the same porter as last time, thank heavens, although Loveday had insisted that they would not be recognized with her hair dyed brown. The ballroom ran the length of the palatial building and was fitted out with mirrors and gold leaf. Everything sparkled. Ezra had never seen anything like it – there were candles enough to stock all the chandlers in London.

“Shut your mouth, Ez,” Loveday laughed. “You look like a tourist outside St Paul’s.”

Ezra unpacked their bag. He unfolded and hung up the black velvet backdrop, and Loveday assembled the special table and covered it with a floor-length cloth. At the side of the stage was a tall palm in a pot. Ezra moved it closer.

“There are so many servants,” he said, looking around – they were mostly liveried men in cloth-of-gold waistcoats and last season’s periwigs. He wondered how many of them still had their tongues. “How on earth can we find out where the ambassador’s private office is, let alone get in? What if your gilt doesn’t work?”

Loveday patted her pocket. “Mr Falcon swore by it, said it opened every door in the kingdom.”

“I think this embassy counts as an outpost of the sultan’s.”

“You concentrate on your technique,” Loveday snapped. “Remember, big arm movements – you’re wearing a mask so your body has to do the work for you –” she waved her arms – “like this, sweeping and fluid. And say everything loud and slow and important.”

For the first time, Ezra heard a hint of tension in her voice. He nodded.

“We have been over everything many times,” he reassured her, laying a hand gently on her arm. He wished he felt as certain as he sounded.

He stood back and looked at their stage. By the time the guests came in it would be darker, and the flickering candlelight might just be enough to hide any flaws in the trick.

A servant led them away to a small dressing room just as the first guests arrived. Ezra walked quickly, trying to hide the side of his face with the scar in case Mr Ahmat was around, but, as Loveday said, it wasn’t just his scar that marked him out. Ahmat was unlikely to be fool enough not to recognize him.

“I asked about the ambassador,” Loveday told him when they had closed the door on their dressing room. “His office is down the corridor by the front door.”

“Are you sure you want to do this, Loveday?” Ezra said. “I mean, we could just slip the letters under the ambassador’s door and leave it to good luck?”

“Good luck?” She shook her head. “We are here now.We have to try our best, for Mahmoud. And remember, my name is Lily.”

“Lily.” Ezra took his mask and hat and left her to change. He pulled the hat down low and made his way back to the ballroom, where he kept himself in the shadows by the side of the stage. A string quartet was playing as the audience came in, high-society London in dresses and coats that would pay Mrs Boscaven’s wages for a whole year. Ezra had never seen so many of the well-to-do in one place in all his life – no wonder, he thought, they had not been able to gain entry simply by asking. Most of the talk was in diplomat’s French, and Ezra could only understand snatches of it – mostly trivia concerning horses or cards.