Garth Nix - Newt’s Emerald

“This became only too obvious later, as she then set her cap at George, the middle brother, and then at Edmund, that is, Truthful’s father the Admiral. Neither succumbed to her charms, I’m glad to say.

“Now, as you may know, both Tancred and George died shortly after Edmund married. So there was no legitimate way for Amelia to procure the Emerald — and as it was hidden in a secret location at Newington Hall, little chance of stealing it either. Perhaps Amelia gave up her desire for the Emerald then, only to have that desire rekindled when the opportunity presented itself to put her maid into the household.”

“Excuse me, milady,” said Harnett, slowly. “Are you saying that Lady Plathenden conceived a plan for stealing the Emerald that would take more than seven years to mature? And that she now has the Emerald?”

“Yes and yes!” exclaimed Lady Badgery. “That woman never forgets, and when she wants something, she either gets it or destroys it! Why I even suspect that George and Tancred didn’t die of any common illness . . .”

Shocked silence met her words, and the old woman seemed to subside a little into the bed.

“There was no proof,” she muttered. “Her husband was a malignant sorcerer, and it was long rumoured that she practiced dark arts herself and was even twice investigated by the Argent Pursuivant. But no charges were laid, the proof insufficient, or so it was said. But she hated them both, and she danced with Tancred and George at a ball the night before they fell sick. I should have been there, I might have seen it . . . but I was not. They were hearty men, my nephews, but dead within the week. She would have murdered Truthful’s father too, I’m sure, but Venetia — Truthful’s mother — was wary of her, and she made sure her Edmund was safe from Amelia Plathenden.”

“Begging your pardon,” said Harnett dubiously. “But this is all rather . . . ahem . . . unproven. Possible murders long ago, unsuccessful investigations of malignant sorcery . . . and there is no evidence Lady Plathenden is involved in the theft of the Emerald. Are you quite certain . . .”

“I have never been more sure, sir,” said Lady Badgery, fixing him with an eye that had been known to quell personages up to and including minor royalty. “I may not have scried it, but my every sense tells me it is true.”

“Well we can’t expect the Law to be of any use,” began the Major. “I mean, there’s no clear evidence of devilment, so we can’t expect the Argent Pursuivant to become involved, nor would any magistrate. Even General Leye could not act officially unless—”

“Lady Plathenden will have to be convinced returning the Emerald will be in her best interests,” interrupted Lady Badgery. “Or it must simply be taken back from her.”

“Taken back?” asked Truthful.

“Stolen back, I think you mean,” said Harnett. “Not something . . .”

He paused, looked at Lady Badgery, then across at the white-faced chevalier. “Oh, hang it all! Why not! I’ll do it, Lady Badgery. Sometimes it is best to charge straight up to the guns and over them! Lady Plathenden will find herself facing two very unusual gentlemen callers later today. What do you say, Chevalier?”

Truthful stared at him, her false moustache tickling her upper lip, and saw his barely contained glee. He was actually looking forward to an undoubtedly hostile and socially extremely difficult encounter with the dangerous-sounding Lady Plathenden, a malignant sorceress who might have poisoned her two uncles.

“I can see why you’re not a member of Whites!” she blurted out, then, as puzzlement clouded his face, she said, “I mean . . . is this . . . oh . . . yes, I will be happy to accompany you, sir.”

“That’s settled then,” pronounced Lady Badgery. “Lady Truthful will be most grateful to you both.”

“One would think so,” said Harnett dryly. “However, I fear your niece is not terribly concerned with the fate of something she probably accounts a mere bauble, its value and sorcerous properties notwithstanding.”

“Hmmmm . . .” replied Lady Badgery. “You must remember that she was suffering a severe headache when you met, my dear Major. Normally she is very even tempered.”

“I look forward to meeting her again,” said the Major, who clearly meant quite the reverse. “However, I shall recover the Emerald because it pleases you, Lady Badgery.”

“You are most kind,” said Lady Badgery, smiling as he bowed over her hand and turned to go. “It is so nice to have two such charming young men waiting on an old lady. Now go, and fetch me the Emerald.”

As the Major turned to the door, Lady Badgery looked at Truthful behind his back, and winked in a very low and vulgar fashion. After a moment’s thought, and an internal shudder, Truthful winked back, and followed Harnett out the door.

“The door-knocker has been removed,” remarked Harnett, carefully surveying Lady Plathenden’s house from the curtained window of the hackney. “And the drapes are drawn. Either Lady Plathenden is not in residence, or she desires onlookers to gain that impression.”

“It is an odd house for a lady, is it not?” asked Truthful. She smoothed her moustache nervously, concerned the glamour was wearing off. It seemed as if her voice wasn’t as sounding as low as it had before. She peered through a gap in the curtain and shuddered. The house was Elizabethan, built of very dark brick, and resembled a prison more than anything else. No real lady of quality could possibly want to live in such a grim old mausoleum, particularly as it was in a very unfashionable quarter, on the wrong side of the river, and too close to it, with a part of the house even being built out and over the Thames!

“From what little I have garnered about her she is reputed to be more than slightly mad,” replied Harnett. “But I would hazard it is a cunning madness. She must have her reasons for living in a house like that. It is very fortress-like. No windows on the ground floor, the upper windows barred, and a rooftop walkway that would be ideal for a villain with a fowling piece.”

He stared at the house for a moment longer, then drew the hack’s curtains completely closed, and bent down to the floor to pick up a wooden case. Two short-barrelled pistols lay nestled on red velvet inside. Despite their fine scrollwork and the faint oil-sheen of careful maintenance, they were obviously made for hard use and had received it, judging from the faint marks of old powder burns and the wear on their timberwork. The Major took them out one at a time, loaded them with balls of a noticeably silver hue, primed them, and handed one to Truthful.

“Not duelling pistols by any means, but the triggers are somewhat lighter than a service pistol, so be careful, Chevalier. Short barrels, but they’ll throw a ball true for twenty paces.”

Truthful had shot with her cousins several times, but she took the pistol with a heart that sank as much as the hand that took the sudden weight.

“I thought we would be remonstrating with her, not engaging in a shooting match,” she said nervously.

“A precaution,” replied Harnett. He shot his cuffs, momentarily revealing silver spell-breaking bracers on his wrists. “Her husband was a very dangerous man indeed, and if she is a malignant sorceress who has poisoned two men and masterminded a jewel theft then she is not to be trifled with. Never trust a woman, Chevalier. I’ve yet to meet one that preferred a stand-up fight over slyness and deceit!”

With that comment, he opened the door on the far side from the house, and stepped down, looking both ways along the street as Truthful stepped down behind him, holding her own pistol like him, low at her side.

There were few people about, and no one seemed interested in them. It was a very quiet street, and many of the houses seemed shuttered or deserted. A dead street, thought Truthful, the worst part of the city — worse even than the slums, where at least there was life. Or so she imagined, for Truthful had never seen a London slum, and her welfare visits to tenant farmers on a neighbouring estate less well-managed than her father’s had been little more than carefully stage-managed exercises, on both sides.

Satisfied that the road was clear, Harnett spoke a few words to their driver. Truthful, her attention on imagined slums, didn’t hear what he said, but she heard the driver reply, “Yes sir, Colonel sir!”

Turning back, Harnett saw her looking at him, her eyebrow raised. He smiled awkwardly and said, “A courtesy promotion, Chevalier. You will find that drivers would call me general if they thought it would produce a coin.”

“Actually,” said Truthful, “I was wondering how he knew you were a soldier.”

“Probably the bearing,” muttered Harnett, pulling his hat down lower over his eyes. “Let’s get on, shall we? We’ll try the servant’s entrance.”

The servant’s entrance lay at the end of a series of steps and a sunken corridor that ran about halfway along the side of the house. Their boots echoed on the flagstones, and Truthful thought the ground sounded hollow, as if a dark chamber lay beneath this dismal passage — but she dismissed it as a morbid fancy, for she was nervous enough to imagine anything.

Unbidden, pieces of half-remembered stories from Gothic romances sprang to mind. The Mystery of Romola for example, where the heroine found . . . suddenly, a bell rang inside, startling her back to reality. Harnett had pulled the bell-rope indicated by a bronze plate that said “Deliveries” at the back door, but there was no answer. He pulled it again, and then knocked vigorously, but there was no response. The house stayed still and silent.