Devil May Care Part 11/?
Author: Nefret24
Disclaimers and notes see parts 1 - 10.
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"It does not matter what was observed! What matters is the commitment to unbiased observation, carried out in the service of Truth!" Death at Bishop's Keep, Robin Page
"I've always jumped on sentiment- and here I am being more sentimental than anybody. What idiots girls are! I've always thought so. It's dreadful to feel you've been false to your principles." ~ Tuppence Cowley, The Secret Adversary, Agatha Christie
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The Roxton Townhouse
"I don't believe this," Roxton said, shaking his head in disbelief.
"Darling, that's must be the fifth time you've said that- do please stop that horrible pacing and sit down. These things happen- we're just lucky it wasn't a real honest-to-goodness criminal; I hate to admit it, but my faith in Scotland Yard's competency has been severely shaken these last couple days," Lady Beatrice reassured him, watching him from her writing table.
"No, Mother. You don't understand. I locked that safe. No one, and certainly not a child, could have just walked in and opened it."
"John, I'm sure you thought that it was locked-" she began patronizingly before he cut her off.
"Mother. I know it was," Roxton interrupted forcefully.
"Now listen John Roxton, don't you lose your temper with me. I don't care what you think: those jewels are safe now and that's what matters to me. If you talk about this in a civilized manner, without raising your voice to your poor old mother, then you can stay. Otherwise, I have some letters to write," she finished curtly, turning away from him in her chair.
Roxton stopped in his tracks and sighed deeply. He moved to his mother's side and kissed her on the cheek. "I'm sorry if I yelled at you."
"It's all right dear, I'm used to you," she returned with an affectionate smile. "Now you run along- I'm sure you have better things to do than gossip with me about a little girl. Can I tell cook to set you a place for dinner?"
"I have some errands to take care of in the city but I should be back in time," he remarked casually, hooking his fingers in his pockets.
"John, do try and eat something before then," Lady Beatrice ordered, concerned. Her son never did eat at regular hours, much to her anxiety. "I'd offer you some teacake to tide you over but afraid that wretched child ate them all. I hope I may not be accused of malice, but I must say that girl was certainly one of the most unattractive children I've ever seen."
"I hope you gave her a stern talking to at least," he grumbled, heading towards the door.
"Oh no, it wasn't her fault. It was that governess of hers. Stiff as a board and as forbidding as could be. I think it was those eyes- hard and grey and cold. Oh well, darling, have a nice day," she called out to his retreating back.
Roxton, however, upon hearing his mother's words, stopped in the middle of the room. Something didn't add up. It seemed very convenient that the jewels had just turned up on their doorstep, as it were- too convenient. He had locked the safe and was almost entirely certain that no governess, much less a child, had attended the party. Unless
"What was that. Mother?"
"I said, good day, John," she replied in a louder voice.
"No, no, before that. The governess what did she look like?"
"Oh, well, she was a plain sort of woman, though I suppose she could have been quite a pretty thing if she tried. Reminded me of someone- can't think of whom it might be. Dressed in black. Held herself quite oddly. Dark hair- sort of matted, like when the hairdresser uses too much treatment. And those grey eyes. Whatever for?"
"No reason, uh good day, Mother," he said before rushing out of the room.
Lady Beatrice just shook her head and resumed her writing. She'd be damned if she could ever figure out what her son was thinking. And she completely forgot to ask him about that missing letter opener. Oh well, it would turn up eventually, she thought contently, and scribbled consistently until luncheon.
Roxton left the townhouse shortly after quitting his mother's parlor. It was Marguerite, it would have to have been her. No one else could have orchestrated such a thing. To enter his house, under his mother's very nose! He had no doubt that she would have disguised herself in some fashion- he could hardly see her as "plain" - but no one else on earth had eyes like hers, he was sure of it.
He doubled checked the quality of the stones and they had looked fine. It only made him more suspicious. He had checked her hideout and had found nothing. It was possible that she could have concealed her loot in some other location but to steal it, only to bring it back- playacting with Tom (who he was certain, acted out his part as the ravenous female miscreant.) It didn't make sense. He was being toyed with, manipulated, and mocked against his will and he should have known better that her pretty face had hid a snake behind it.
As angry as he was, Roxton felt a pang of guilt. There was one other scenario which could also have been true. From his mother's description it had been obvious that Marguerite was still suffering from those injuries she had sustained the night before. He flattered himself, but for a second he considered that she had done him the favor and not the other way round. He remembered that fragile face, that not so confident voice that had asked him to stay.
He mentally shook himself. Pity is not love, and neither is lust. The woman was dangerous and a criminal and she would know that John Roxton was not a man to make a mockery of, so help him.
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The Ritz Hotel, Dining Hall
Marguerite was taking luncheon when a familiar face spotted her and made his way to her table. She managed to finish swallowing her mouthful of salmon before he made his greeting.
"Why, Miss Krux! Fancy meeting you here- you remember me, don't you? Nigel's friend, St. John"
"Smythe, yes, I remember," she said flatly, watching him warily as he sat down across from her.
Seeing her look, he blushed and turned his head around, scanning the room behind him. "I haven't taken anyone's seat, have I?"
"No, no, not at all," she replied, putting a weak smile on her face for his benefit. The truth was, she was sulking over her recent generosity- inspired by what she considered to be a lunatic episode most likely brought on by lack of sleep and blood. If she were up to her full faculties, there would be no way John Roxton would have gotten those jewels from her, first aid, handsome grin or no.
"Ah, good, then. It's a fortunate thing that we happened to run into one another- Nigel is beginning to become downright potty in dealing with the you-know-what. Half expect him to walk round the house screaming about spots and all like that lady in the thing by whatisname."
Ah. Right. Literature 101 with Professor Nitwit, Marguerite sighed inwardly. "What do you want me to say? It'll all be alright? You took something that didn't belong to you- these are the consequences."
"Yes, but But see here, it's," St. John began with flustered speech, the drool already beginning. "It's Lady Roxton," he said in hushed tones meaningfully.
"And you should have known better. If it's any consolation, she doesn't even know it's missing," Marguerite added matter-of-factly, resuming her meal.
At this point, another young blighter approached the table and Marguerite swore underneath her breath. If it was another suitor and/or a "concerned friend of Nigel's," she'd stab him with her fish knife. It turned out to be some school fellow of St. John's who, having spotted his friend as he was leaving, wanted to remind him of a previous engagement at their club later that evening. Marguerite paid the conversation no mind until she heard his friend's departing words: "See you later, Foggington-Smythe."
She dropped her knife onto her plate with a harsh clang. "I thought your last name was Smith?" A memory stirred- he couldn't be, could he? A relation- a distant relation if accounts were to be believed
"Oh yes, Nigel hates the whole rigmarole, old family ties and all that. Smythe's shorter, quicker."
"Smythe with a 'y' and an 'e'?" He nodded his head in the affirmative. "Foggington-Smythe?" She repeated the question again, amazed at her own stupidity as much as the ease of finding him.
"Yes. Why?" St. John looked completely baffled. "If you've heard stories of the old clan, it's probably just bollocks. Money's mostly gone, old grandfather barely has a pot to piss in. It's the name really that does the thing"
She interrupted him. "Don't you have an aunt, here, in London?"
Mildly shocked, he replied earnestly. "Yes, as a matter of fact, I have. Dear Aunt Jesse. Married to a scientist, don't suppose you've heard of him-"
"George Edward Challenger," Marguerite finished for him, sitting back in her chair and giving a small laugh of wonderment. She couldn't believe her luck: George Challenger's nephew. St. John, under her nose the entire time. Maybe good deeds really do get rewarded.
"Oh, so you know him. Shouldn't be surprised, I guess. It seems everyone knows of Uncle George."
"He has made quite the name for himself." Marguerite recalled seeing his name in the paper connected with finding the journals of Maplewhite- the man who had made the discovery but hadn't lived to tell the tale. If he had Maplewhite's journals, then he most assuredly had a map of how to get where she needed to go
"He's okay, I suppose. Bloo- er, Blooming half-cocked plan to find some 'plateau,' can't get the funding from anyone so Mabel- she's my gal- she can't marry me cuz Aunt Jesse won't let me unless Uncle gets his money," he pouted.
Marguerite's mind whirled. It was almost too easy. Sure, it would be more of her own pocketmoney to finance a whole expedition instead of just herself but still Challenger knows where it is, there'd be sufficient cover- no one would know my real purpose, and I might actually live to return to England since I'd have all those handy expedition members to defend my honor from the cannibals of South America, she thought happily.
"Have you tried to help him, get funding that is?" she asked in a very concerned voice.
"Oh sure I have. Tried to talk to Lord Roxton the other night but didn't have much luck of it. Bein' a member of the same club an' all, I thought well, it doesn't matter, he probably wouldn't of listened to me anyway," he finished gloomily, hanging his head and picking idly at the tablecloth.
Marguerite permitted a small smile. The hopeless boy. "What if I knew of someone who might care to invest in such a scheme?" she said slowly, drawing out the words ever so carefully.
St. John's reaction was marvelous. Knocking over his water glass, he started, squealed and wriggled in his chair all at once. Once he got himself under control, he leaned over the table with wide eyes. "D'ya mean it? Really? Someone would pay for it, the whole thing?"
"The whole thing," she nodded affirmatively.
St. John then sat back in his chair, looking mildly defeated. "But the Zoological Society'd never condone it. He wants their blessing or something, I don't know. And after that last time, I don't think he's gonna want to talk to them again. He's got this colleague- Summerlee's his name, a potantist, I think? They deal with plants right?"
"Botanist."
"Right. Anyway, this cove always puts him right in his place and all the other old blighters listen to him and not Uncle and whish! There goes the approval."
"Maybe when you visit your uncle later today you should tell him to place the challenge the other way round," she said deviously, laying her trap.
"Visit my uncle? Today?" Seeing Marguerite's nod and blushing under her intense gaze, he half-giggled with nervousness. "Of course, yes, visit my uncle! I was planning to stop by right after luncheon to talk to him about what was that you said?"
"Challenging his colleague- Summerlee, didn't you say his name was?" she asked innocently.
"Ah yes, that's it! Exactly what I thought! Challenge Summerlee can't be a duel- fist fight out behind the club"
"An intellectual challenge," she elaborated, inwardly rolling her eyes. "Maybe he should suggest that the skeptic join him in order to support his cynical claims." St. John appeared to be at a loss for her meaning, again, and losing her control for a second, she sighed heavily. "Maybe he should invite Summerlee along, make him prove that such a thing doesn't exist."
"Ah, yes, there's the rub, now I'm thinking. Why do I think that's going to work?"
"It's a matter of pride- it's--" Marguerite stopped mid-sentence and looked at his hopeless face, so confused already. "After you offer the plan to your uncle, I'm sure he'll get the idea."
"Right, spot on, you are- I am. Yes. Brains runs in the family and all that," he sniffed.
"Well, then, shouldn't you be off?" she motioned towards the door.
"What?"
"To your uncle's?"
"Ah, yes. Right. Capital. Well, then, nice seeing you and all that. Drop poor Nigel a line, absolutely hopeless. Must be off, visiting the folks, you know," he pointed over his shoulder, and after backing into a waiter and making his profuse apologies, he finally left the dining hall.
And good riddance too, thought Marguerite. It seems like a celebration is in order. Maybe the stories about "doing the right thing" were true. After a split second's reflection, she grinned wickedly to herself. No. The way of the world rather worked in a wholly different fashion: to the victor go the spoils.
And so, when the waiter came round again, she requested the richest chocolate cake the Ritz offered for dessert.
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Challenger's Apartments, Later the Same Day
St. John sat in his aunt's parlor under her critical eye as they awaited Challenger's appearance from his lab. Aunt Jesse was not pleased with his news.
"You've found a legitimate source of funding for this scheme?" she asked again skeptically.
"Well, yes, as a matter of speaking"
"Who is it?"
"Pardon?"
"Who. Is. It? Who is the altruistic and potty individual to whom we are so indebted for our present happiness?" she spat.
"Um" St. John wracked his brain but he couldn't remember what Marguerite had told him. Oh heavens, he couldn't of forgotten! Not now! With all that was so important riding on this!
"Some wealthy old biddy," he fibbed, wiping his chin nervously.
"Oh, lovely," she replied unenthusiastically. She swung her foot impatiently, glaring every once in a while at the drawing room door. She had called George nearly a half hour ago- what the blazes was he working on now?
She sighed heavily and shifted her glare to her pernicious nephew, who slunk deeper into his chair under her gaze. Oh, George, do leave your bloody instruments alone and save me from the torment that is St. John, she thought inwardly.
As if by magic, the door to the room swung open and Challenger walked in, immaculately dressed with the exception of the telltale smudge of ink on his right hand. He must have a meeting later, Jesse surmised and reciprocated his quick kiss.
Challenger seated himself on a large armchair between his wife and her nephew. Looking at his wife, he could tell she was out of sorts. She was always out of sorts when St. John came to visit and generally not without good reason. Today she seemed especially on edge. Steeling himself for whatever outrage the errant nephew had instigated now, he cleared his throat and spoke. "So, St. John, you wanted to see me and now I'm here. What did you want to talk about?"
St. John sparked to life and sat forward in his chair. "I have found the money!" he said energetically.
Challenger raised a skeptic eyebrow at his nephew, whose eyes shone happily with over-enthusiasm. Shooting a questioning glance at his wife, he replied uncertainly, "I suppose that can be a good thing, if the money was ever lost to begin with."
"For the expedition, George," Jesse interjected helpfully.
"Oh." Then realization dawned on him. She couldn't mean not "My expedition? He's talking about the money for my expedition?" his voice cracked with emotion as he swung his head back and forth between them, gauging their reactions.
"Yes, Uncle. And I know how you can convince the Society to back you as well!"
Challenger's eyes widened as he looked at the boy with shock. "You couldn't possibly have" he began, scoffing at the young idiot. Or at least that was how he always considered him. Truth be told, he had some bright moments but how could he, of all people, have figured out a way to loosen the closed minds of those self-important windbags at the Zoological Society?
"I have a plan," St. John continued rapidly, his excitement unchecked by Jesse's feeling groan at this statement. "All you have to do is invite along Professor Summerlee."
"What! Invite that wizened old buggard along to share by discovery? Never!" Challenger shouted angrily.
"I'm pretty sure it will work," St. John said in a quiet voice, now unsure of himself.
"If you think for one instant that I will allow that fool of a professor to come along and debunk my work, what could be one of the most important discoveries of mankind" Challenger's voice rose but was soon quieted by a murmur from Jesse.
"I think he may actually be right."
"What did you say, my dear? I must not have heard you correctly, I almost thought you said he was right."
"I don't believe it either," Jesse said, the shock evident in her voice as she narrowed her eyes suspiciously at St. John. "But I think it could work."
"Well, I cannot possibly see how it can be so," Challenger said sulkily, sitting back in his chair.
"George, listen to what he's saying. If you are right-"
"How could you doubt me?!"
"If you are right," she repeated loudly, "then what is the harm in it? Summerlee cannot possibly deny the place's existence if he has seen it himself."
"Of course! And what a recommendation it would be! To have one of their chief skeptics forced into a believer!" Challenger slapped his thigh triumphantly and whapped his nephew heartily on the shoulder, causing St. John almost to double over. "What a plan, my boy!"
"Then of course," Jesse added in the same quiet voice, "if you are wrong, Summerlee will be witness to your failure, which will become quite public come your return."
"Nonsense! There is no doubt in my mind that the place is real. And the timing is perfect, for I will finally be able to pick up my photographic prints that I had made for the Society."
"Providence works in mysterious ways," Jesse murmured, still eyeing her nephew.
"No such thing, dear. Only the wonders of happenstance! Oh, St. John, this really is the most wonderful of news. You may even tell your financial backer that they shall not be needed."
"What?" both Jesse and St. John exclaimed.
"Oh come now, you two. With such a challenge as this in my pocket, there is no way the Society can refuse me funding now. They thrive on bets such as these. You just tell your man to invest wisely in something else- we no longer need him," he patted St. John's knee patronizingly.
Challenger rose from the couch with a beatific smile. "I think I will go pick up those plates early and call on Arthur now to set up the next meeting. A couple of days should suffice, I think." Absentmindedly bidding his guest and his wife goodbye, he left the room.
"Well, I hope you're happy," Jesse said after a long, uncomfortable silence.
"Aunt?" St. John replied, perplexed.
"And why shouldn't you be? You can marry your bloody tea girl, now can't you?"
"Really, Aunt Jesse?" St. John perked up.
"And I lose my husband to yet another wild scheme, another expedition, another discovery. It's all that matters to him anymore," she said angrily, her voice quavering. She got up and strode across the room to look out the window, watching her husband depart out into the street, striding energetically and whistling to himself. "Sometimes I wonder if I ever mattered at all," she said quietly then whirled on her nephew. "If you don't treat her right and see that she is happy til the end of her days, I swear on everything I hold dear, that I shall make you sorry you were born." And with that, she threw open the door and slammed it behind her, its noise echoing in the perfect silence of the house.
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The East End, Early that Evening
Marguerite had just departed her hideaway quite put out. She had replenished her equipment and clothes, having purchased more supplies for the closet and even some temporary provisions. She had hoped to find Tom there; he had earlier seemed intent on making the flat his home and much to her own dismay, had found that she didn't mind. Not only that she didn't mind, but that she was glad of it. In an act even more outside of her nature, she had asked the waiter for an extra slice of chocolate cake at lunch and brought it back for him.
When she discovered, however, that he wasn't there, she scolded herself smartly. Going soft over a dirty faced scamp, returning stolen jewelry? Yet, as much as she felt she had betrayed herself, she felt good, remarkably better than she had been in many, many months. She supposed her need to help Tom sprung from their mutual lack of family. He didn't need her- technically she didn't need him either.
No one needed her. That was part of the problem, always had been, hadn't it?
So she had left, double checking the lock on the door, satisfied that if Tom should come back, he could bloody well spend the time to practice his lockpicking.
She was almost out of the East End when a familiar face appeared in the crowd and fell into step with her. She didn't need to look to know he had a pistol aimed at her side.
"Schroeder, you've come prepared this time," she muttered.
"Baroness, please, do not make a scene. You must come with me."
"I've finished my job- you tell Karl that. I won't have anything-"
"They have the boy."
That's all he needed to say to quiet Marguerite's rising voice. Her throat went dry and she stumbled over a perfectly flat cobblestone.
"Please," Schroeder insisted quietly, and took her arm as a precaution to escort her back to Karl's warehouse.
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TBC
Part Twelve coming soon!!