Chapter Nine

 

Loretta knew she was walking, because she heard her feet tap-tapping on the tiled entryway of William Frederick Tillinghurst’s mansion. Her body felt so buoyant, however, that she needed the confirmation of those clicks on the floor to reassure herself that she wasn’t floating on air.

She wasn’t sure where the captain was. She’d left him at the door, muttering to himself. That was all right. Let him mutter. She felt simply splendid.

One glance into the parlor assured her that her secretary did not. Marjorie was as pale as a frosty window and her hands were in her lap, gripping her handbag as if she were attempting to strangle it. Worse, she’d begun stuttering.

“B-but, you s-see, I really d-d-dinna know very much a-b-b-bout—”

“Yes,” said Tillinghurst dryly. “I gathered as much.”

Loretta came down to earth, figuratively speaking, with a thud. She hurried to rescue Marjorie. “Oh, dear, I’m sorry I took so long. My headache is much better now, thanks to my walk around your marvelous gardens, Mr. Tillinghurst.” She gave Tillinghurst one of the dazzling smiles she’d learned to produce when she was still under her mother’s influence. Before she’d become enlightened, so to speak.

Tillinghurst rose to his feet. He didn’t look especially dazzled by Loretta’s smile. She wasn’t surprised. He was such a toad.

“I believe your secretary knows about as little as you do about Moorish artifacts, Miss Linden.” His smile could have curdled milk.

Never one to be cowed by men’s sour smiles, and especially not the smile of William Tillinghurst, a man she despised and one, moreover, who looked like the rat he was, Loretta laughed gaily. “Oh, my, is that so?” She turned to Marjorie. “I thought you’d studied something about Moorish art, Marjorie dear. But I seem to recall that was a long time ago. In Scotland, wasn’t it?”

She saw the relief flood through her secretary and decided a brief lesson in acting techniques would not be amiss. “Oh, aye! That’s right. It was in Scotland.” Marjorie turned to face Tillinghurst. “It was a vurra long ago, you see. When I was a wee lass. In Glasgow.”

“I see.” He picked up the knife Loretta had left on the table before she’d gone outdoors to spy. “Here’s your knife, Miss Linden. I’m sure that if you take it to another expert, you’ll learn that my evaluation is correct. It’s a simple Chinese ceremonial knife of little worth. They make ‘em by the thousands in Canton. Even in various American Chinatowns, one of which is where I suspect yours came from.” He held the knife on his palm, its hilt toward her.

She took it and slipped it into her handbag. “Silly me,” she said, tittering. She seldom tittered, but she was willing to act like a ninny for the sake of the stolen artifacts. Reaching for Marjorie, she said, “We’d best be going now, Marjorie, dear. Our chariot awaits, and it’s quite dark outdoors.” Another titter, and Loretta decided enough was enough.

Turning and holding out her hand to Tillinghurst, she said in her usual, no-nonsense voice, “Thank you for your time, Mr. Tillinghurst. I’m sorry we weren’t able to offer you a more scintillating artifact.”

“Think nothing of it, Miss Linden. Ladies aren’t expected to be scholars.”

Before Loretta could begin to lecture him, Marjorie gave her a quick—and unseen by Tillinghurst—smack on the back of her arm, and Loretta understood the wisdom of being silent on this occasion, no matter how provocative she’d found Mr. Tillinghurst’s comment. It galled her, but she held her tongue. Because she couldn’t bear to speak unless it was to set Tillinghurst straight, she merely smiled at him and gave him a nod of her head before turning to leave the room.

Tillinghurst’s butler let the two ladies out. Loretta glanced around, but she didn’t see Captain Quarles anywhere. She allowed herself to experience a moment of disappointment, but that was all. Not for Loretta Linden the forlorn gestures of helpless womanhood. She would not pine for a man, ever.

Deciding it was far too early in her relationship with Malachai even to think about not pining, she glanced at the door and then the parlor window to make sure Tillinghurst wasn’t watching them, and then said excitedly, “I think I found a perfect place for someone to hide a treasure, Marjorie!” She took Marjorie by the arm and started dragging her down Tillinghurst’s drive toward the massive black iron gate where, with any luck and Loretta’s large tip, their cab would still be waiting for them. “I didn’t have a chance to inspect it, because . . .” Her voice trailed off, and she decided to keep Malachai Quarles out of the conversation, at least for now.

“I thought I would die in there,” Marjorie said under her breath, stumbling slightly as she tried to keep up with Loretta. “I’ll be hag-rid for months.”

Understanding that her secretary was not as brisk a walker as she herself was, Loretta slowed down a bit. Her mood was buoyant, and she wanted to run. “I didn’t let on, because I didn’t want anyone who might be watching to know I’d seen it.”

“It was the most horrible experience of my life, Loretta Linden! That crabbity auld man gowking at me with his wee smirk, as if he knew what you were up to. I thought I’d die.”

“I’m going to come back again some night when the moon isn’t too bright and see if I’m right.” Plans started sorting themselves out in her mind. While she and Malachai had been walking, and before their walk had been interrupted by that smashing kiss, she’d seen another building; a strong, brick building, hidden behind a tall hedge. If there was a better place to hide something than in a brick building hidden behind a hedge, Loretta didn’t know where it was.

“He knew I was no Moorish scholar. Nor even a Moorish student.”

“I can hardly wait to explore more fully. Do you know when the new moon will be, Marjorie?”

“Are you listening to me?”

Loretta jumped. She’d never known Marjorie to shout before. Turning toward her with a hurt frown, she said, “You needn’t yell, Marjorie. Of course I’m listening to you.”

But she hadn’t been, and Marjorie knew it. “Nay. You werena,” Marjorie said bitterly. “You ne’er listen to anyone. You only please yourself.”

Her secretary’s words pricked Loretta, who was in the habit of believing herself to be a considerate, large-hearted woman. Yet she supposed she had bullied Marjorie—the least little bit—to perform in a manner antithetical to her closed-in, repressed, neurotic personality today. Not that such practice wasn’t good for the poor woman. “That’s not true, Marjorie,” she said quietly.

“Aye, it is.” Marjorie shuddered visibly, her eyes glistened with unshed tears, and Loretta realized she’d been more upset by her experience than Loretta had guessed.

Feeling a teensy bit guilty, she said, “It’s good for you to stretch yourself every once in a while, Marjorie. I’m sure you’ll benefit from this experience.”

“How?”

How? Loretta had to think about it. “Well, it will teach you that even though you’re frightened of something, you can overcome your fear.” That sounded good.

“But I didna overcome my fear. My fear was with me the whole time, and it vurra nearly killed me!”

“I’m sure it was still good practice for you. You need to learn that senseless fears like that are . . . well . . . senseless.”

“Ye think it’s senseless to be adrad in the presence of a man you believe to be the blackest of villains?”

She’d shouted again, and Loretta began to worry a trifle. “Now, Marjorie, I don’t believe him to be a murderer or anything. Only a thief.” It made sense to Loretta, but it clearly didn’t to Marjorie, who started pulling on her lovely red hair. Loretta had never seen her so agitated.

“I think you’re mad, Loretta Linden, and I ken you’re blathering! I was terrified in there, and all ye can say is that the man’s na’ a murderer?”

Beginning to feel the faintest bit miffy, Loretta said, “Now, now, Marjorie, it wasn’t that bad.”

“It was, too!”

“Fiddlesticks. You’re overreacting, Marjorie MacTavish. And I still believe that with more practice, you can overcome your silly fears.”

Marjorie stopped walking suddenly and whirled to face Loretta. “What if I dinna want to overcome my fears, Loretta Linden? Did you ever think about that? What if my fears are’na neuroses, as you claim, but normal feelings any normal person would feel when ordered to act mad by a gullion? My ain fault is that I’m a glaikit goff, and I fore’er do what ye tell me to, e’en though I know ye to be a haggis-headed nyaff!”

Loretta’s mouth fell open. Any time Marjorie so forgot herself as to spout so many Scottish words in a row, she was really angry. As a rule, the only way a person could tell the woman came from Scotland was from the slight and charming burr when she spoke.

That didn’t deter Marjorie, who shook a finger in her employer’s face. “I’m’na the gudgeon, Loretta! You are!” She turned back as abruptly as before, and resumed stomping down Tillinghurst’s drive.

Stunned into immobility for a moment, Loretta soon recovered and hurried to catch up with her. “Marjorie! Wait!”

Marjorie didn’t wait. She stormed onward, muttering as she did so, “Moorish knives! Millionaire begowkers! Blather! It’s awe blather! What next? Crockin’? Mayhem? Furiositie? Aye, we’re there a’ready. Mayhap white slavery? Bah!”

Catching up with her, Loretta said, “Marjorie, wait a moment! I didn’t realize how—how—” Oh, dear. She couldn’t think of a diplomatic way to say it. She blurted out, “I didn’t realize what a bundle of nerves you were. I’m sure you need some sort of medication. Or at least a chat with Dr. Hagendorf. It’s unnatural—”

Marjorie harshly scraped in approximately six hundred cubic feet of air, and let it out in a screech, and in English unmarred by her childhood in Glasgow. “It is not unnatural! It’s perfectly natural to be nervous about perpetrating a fraud on a gentleman!” She poked Loretta in the chest with her forefinger. “You’re the unnatural one, Loretta Linden, with your scandalous ideas and crazy notions, and you know it!”

Loretta was horrified to see tears streaming down Marjorie’s cheeks. “Oh, Marjorie!” She still believed her secretary was only a repressed spinster who needed to face and overcome her fears, but that didn’t negate the honest misery Marjorie was experiencing at the moment. Loretta put an arm around her. Marjorie stiffened up like a setter on point, but Loretta remained undeterred.

“I’m so sorry, dear. I didn’t realize how very upsetting you’d find my little ruse.”

Allowing Loretta’s arm to remain, probably because she had no choice unless she wanted to engage in fisticuffs with her employer, Marjorie unclasped her handbag and dug out a handkerchief. She engaged it with vigor, mopping her eyes and cheeks and blowing her nose. “Little ruse, be damned,” she growled. “It was a big, fat lie.”

“There, there,” Loretta murmured.

“And he knew it!” Marjorie said with renewed energy. “Your little ruse didna fool him for a second!”

Regaining her own composure, Loretta withdrew her arm and allowed her secretary to walk unencumbered. Still rather pleased with herself, in spite of Marjorie’s not unexpected but exaggeratedly poor-spirited reaction to the day’s adventure, Loretta said, “Well, it doesn’t matter what he thinks. He couldn’t possibly have guessed the real purpose for our visit.”

The autumn afternoon had fallen into evening, and the walkway was dark except for a row of dim electrical bulbs lining it at intervals. Loretta wasn’t quite sure what she was going to do if the cabbie had given up on them and left, but she’d paid him a lot to wait, so she hoped he’d still be there.

He was. “Oh, good!”

The two women walked up to the gate and stood there, Marjorie gazing up at its solid black iron-ness, Loretta wondering if she was supposed to push a button to get the gatekeeper to open it.

Nothing happened, so Loretta searched for a button. She couldn’t find one, and she searched harder. For only a moment or two, her heart quavered unpleasantly. The tiniest feeling of panic knocked at the door of her composure.

Could Tillinghurst have divined her purpose in coming here today? Could he be planning some dire means of keeping her quiet? Could he—oh, heavens!—could he be planning to kidnap her and Marjorie?

The last thought had just entered her head, causing her stomach to clench and her hands to curl into fists, when the gate groaned once and slowly started to open.

A voice from behind them said, “Sorry, ladies. I wasn’t in the gatehouse when you walked up!” It was a friendly voice, and Loretta’s insides unclenched.

She waved at the unseen gatekeeper. “That’s all right. Thank you!” Grabbing Marjorie, she hurried out to the automobile.

The cabbie, with a big smile on his face, jumped out of his machine to open the door for them. Loretta’s rattling heart began to slow. Then, because she was suffering from left-over fear and despised herself for it, she forced herself to step aside and allow Marjorie to enter the cab first. Only after Marjorie was settled and she’d thanked the cabbie for waiting, did Loretta enter the cab, slowly and with dignity.

They arrived at her Russian Hill home in time for dinner, a meal taken in virtual silence, since Marjorie was still angry with her.

As for Loretta, she spent the meal thinking. Hard.

# # #

She was still thinking when she walked to the soup kitchen the following morning. Although she’d decided that she wasn’t fat, she had also renewed her vow to get more healthful exercise. It wouldn’t do to allow her body to become lax. Strong body, strong mind was a sound concept by which to live. Besides, walking assisted her thinking processes.

Because Marjorie had reacted so violently to yesterday’s agenda, Loretta had left her at home this morning. While she missed her company, she worried about Marjorie’s overall mental health. She intended to talk to Dr. Hagendorf about the poor woman, with or without Marjorie’s blessing.

After reading about it several times over the last few years, Loretta would have liked to undergo analysis herself just to see what the process was like, but she didn’t have the time. Also, if her family learned she was seeing an alienist, they’d assume it was because there was something wrong with her. Worse, they’d believe they’d been right about her, and that Loretta had begun espousing radical causes because she was crazy.

Well, she wasn’t crazy. She possessed an enlightened attitude and a keen social conscience, two attributes that would help the world a good deal if more people shared them.

The sound of raised voices ahead made Loretta pick up her pace. Curiosity chased indignation from her mind. There had been so much social unrest and political turmoil in recent years. Workers, tired of the oppression under which they’d been laboring for so long, had begun doing something about it. Unfortunately, many of them were choosing anarchy over dignified and legal agitation for labor unions, and there had been several bombing incidents.

However much Loretta favored unionization as a method of assuring workers their rights as human beings, she didn’t believe that violence was ever the answer to any problem. The vision of Malachai Quarles swam into her mind’s eye, and she allowed there might be one or two exceptions to her anti-violence stand.

But no. She didn’t want to perpetrate violence against the captain. She might be more comfortable if her desires in his regard were to physically hurt him. What she wanted to do with Malachai Quarles had nothing to do with damaging his person. Far from it.

Anyhow, that was neither here nor there. As Loretta approached the source of the noise, she turned a corner onto Powell Street and saw that a large crowd had gathered. The fact that she was shorter than most of the people in the mob didn’t deter her in the slightest. With loud, “Pardon me’s,” and shrill, “Step aside, if you will’s,” she elbowed her way through the assembled masses.

When she got to the inner edge of the circle, her breath caught in her throat when she realized that her very own Moor man, Derrick Peavey, was being beaten by a man who was twice as big as he. Darting forward, she cried, “Mr. Peavey!” With a vicious swing of her handbag, she whacked Peavey’s attacker on the back, yelling as she did so, “Stop that, you brute!”

The brute, too caught up in the moment to recognize the sound of a woman’s voice, clouted Loretta on the side of her head with a vicious backhanded blow. Loretta flew through the air to the edge of the mob, where she smacked against a body or two and fell to the ground, stunned.

Unable to move due to dizziness and a strange feeling that somehow her consciousness had become detached from her body, she sat there, trying to get her scattered brain cells reassembled. Before she could accomplish this feat, she was plucked up from the ground with a whoosh that scattered her thought processes again, and held tightly in a pair of arms that felt like steel bands encircling her.

She recognized the feel of those arms.

Blinking to clear her clouded vision, she attempted to bring Captain Malachai Quarles’ face into focus. “Wh-what’re you doing here?”

“Rescuing you, you damned fool!”

Loretta still felt quite fuddled, but she was sure that wasn’t an appropriate response to her civil question. Drawing her eyebrows down slightly, she said, “Thass nah true.” Then she frowned for real.

Her words hadn’t come out right. A brief survey of her mouth with her tongue explained the problem. The inside of her mouth was torn, it was swelling up like a balloon, and she tasted blood. Her tongue hurt, too. She suspected that she’d bitten it either during her flight or her landing.

Wriggling her fingers free from the captain’s grip, she felt her cheek and winced. “Wha hap’d?”

“What?”

Speaking slowly, Loretta tried again. “What happened?”

“You ran head-first into a fight and got yourself knocked cockeyed for it.”

The captain had a very curt and unkind way of explaining things. She’d take him to task for it later, since she wasn’t up to it at the moment. “Mithter Peavey?” she asked, trying with little success to pronounce her esses.

“See for yourself.”

He didn’t release her, for which Loretta was grateful, since she wasn’t sure she could stand on her own yet. He turned so that she could view the scene of the former melee.

Mr. Peavey sat on the ground, pressing a rag to his head. A couple of men who looked vaguely like sailors to Loretta’s unsophisticated eye were bending over him solicitously. The big man who had been pounding on Mr. Peavey lay unconscious on the ground a few feet off. Loretta blinked, trying to make sense of it all.

“D’I do ‘at?

“What?”

Oh, dear. She wished her tongue and her cheek would behave. Trying again, she enunciated for all she was worth. “Did . . . I . . . do . . . at—that?”

“Do what?”

She realized the captain was carrying her away from the scene of battle. She didn’t object, not being up to it. He sat down on some steps of a building a few yards off, and plunked her on his lap. Her head bounced unpleasantly and she reached up to steady it. That awful man lying on the ground had struck her very hard.

“That.” She pointed for only a second before bringing her hand back so that she could balance her head properly. It felt unpleasantly swimmy and insecure; rather as if it was going to fall off her neck.

“What?” Malachai’s voice rumbled dangerously. “Knock that man out? What the devil makes you think you knocked him out?”

Pooh. She was going to have to talk again. She shut her eyes, took a deep breath, tested her tongue against her teeth, tasted blood once more, and wished the captain hadn’t asked his question. Nevertheless, unwilling to be perceived as weak by him, she struggled to speak coherently. “I hih—hit—” her Ts hurt. “—him wiff my purth. Purse.” So did her esses. She checked, and discovered her handbag still hung from her wrist. Good. It was a new one, and Loretta didn’t want to lose it. She hoped her spectacles, which were in their case inside the bag, remained undamaged. She’d look later.

“Don’t be a fool,” Malachai said in his deep, growly voice. “You couldn’t swat a fly with that damned thing, much less deck a big fellow like that with it.”

“Oh.” How disappointing. She’d wanted so much to be of service to Mr. Peavey. “Why’d he hih—hit Mithter Peavey?”

“I don’t know. I’ll ask Peavey in a minute.”

He was holding her quite tightly. While Loretta might have objected had she been in complete possession of her senses and in full health, at the moment his strong arms felt good. With his arms around her, she got the—silly, no doubt, but there anyway—feeling that nothing could hurt her. She realized he was breathing hard, as if he’d been running or doing something else of a strenuously physical nature.

“Were you running?”

“What?”

Why did he persist in misunderstanding her? She was speaking perfectly clearly, if a trifle slowly. She repeated her question. “Were you running? You’re patting.”

“I’m what?”

Drat. She formed the word carefully. “Panting.”

His roar hurt her ear. “Well, of course, I’m panting! When I saw you whaling away at that man with your stupid purse, I damned near fell over! I decked the man and grabbed you up! That’s why I’m panting, damn it!”

“Oh.” Loretta was rather pleased with his explanation, even if she didn’t approve of his profanity. Surreptitiously pressing her palm against his chest, she realized his heart was racing, as well. However, this situation couldn’t last. It was inappropriate at the very least, and Mr. Peavey probably needed medical attention. “Puh me dow, pease.”

“What?”

Loretta rolled her eyes and discovered that the gesture hurt. She spoke again and with care, “Pwease put me down.”

“Are you able to stand?” He sounded worried.

Loretta thought that was sweet. She was not, however, totally sure she knew the answer to his question. “I thick so.”

“We’ll try it carefully, then.”

And he rose from the steps, taking Loretta with him. The view from his arms was interesting. People seemed to be staring at them. She noticed that one of the sailors who had been tending to Mr. Peavey was now in the process of tying up the fallen villain with a rope. “Who is he?” she asked.

“Who is who?”

Loretta didn’t understand why the two of them failed to communicate whenever they met. “Tha’ man. Th’one who hih Mithter Peavey and me.”

“Damned if I know.” The captain called to his men. “Johnson! How’s Peavey doing?”

“Better, sir,” a tall young man with bushy brown hair said. “He’s a little shaken up.”

“Peavey’s always shaken up,” muttered Malachai.

“Thath noh nithe,” said Loretta.

“Huh.”

With more delicacy than Loretta had expected of him, Malachai set her on her feet. She wobbled for only a second, clinging like a barnacle to the captain’s hand, before her head stopped swimming and she was able to steady herself on her own.

“Where’s your friend’s clinic?” Malachai asked gruffly.

“Wha’ frien?”

“Dr. Abernathy. Who the devil do you think I mean? Where’s his office, for God’s sake?”

“Oh. Jathon. Ith on Thacramen’o and Gran’. I can drive uth . . . us.”

“In what?”

Pooh. Loretta had forgotten she wasn’t driving today. For health reasons. If her face didn’t hurt so badly, she’d have smiled in irony.

“I’ll hail a cab.”

And leaving Loretta suddenly to her own devices, Malachai strode off to do just that. Finding herself alone and momentarily bereft of cogent thought, Loretta glanced around, wondering what to do.

She didn’t wonder long. Being careful, since it would be totally humiliating to faint, Loretta walked slowly over to where Mr. Peavey sat on some nearby steps. He appeared confused, although Loretta couldn’t recall ever seeing the man when he didn’t look that way, so she didn’t put too much meaning on his appearance. She sat down next to him, using the stair railing as a balance since she felt a trifle unsteady.

“Are you all righ’, Mr. Peavey?” she asked gently.

He turned his head and gazed at her with blank, unfocused eyes. “It was the Moors done it,” he said.

Oh, dear. Loretta took his hand tenderly in hers and patted it with her other one. “Yeth, Mr. Peavey, it wath the Moors.”

He nodded, evidently satisfied that she’d understood him. “Spaniards never had no chance at all.”