Lyn Gardner [Lyn Gardner] - Rose Campion and the Christmas Mystery

The little door, set within the imposing wooden gates of Holloway prison, swung open, its hinges wheezing as if in complaint.

Ere you go, Duchess. Freedom. Enjoy it, said a ginger-whiskered prison warder, nodding his head towards the frozen city, still grey with sleep.

The woman stepped over the threshold and paused, huddled on the cobbles just a couple of steps beyond the small door. A ragged shawl covered her head. A few flecks of snow floated in the air. The warder eyed her curiously.

Dont tell me youre reluctant to leave us, Duchess. What with everyone saying the only way youd ever leave Olloway was in a box, Id ave thought youd scarper sharp, before thems who decide realise they made a mistake and banged you up again.

The woman didnt move. The warders eyes narrowed. Maybe its true what they say. The Duchess is a broken woman, her power vanished. Just a shell picked clean by the scavengers. The warder spat towards the huddled figure and slammed the door shut with a smug smile, as if he was locking her out of Eden itself.

The woman waited a moment, and then raised her head and straightened her back. She let the ragged, spittle-covered shawl drop to the frosted ground and stood, ramrod straight, suddenly a tall imposing figure. She lifted her face to the thin rays of sun struggling to pierce a sky bloated with snow. The distant sound of hooves, flinty on cobbles, approached. The woman smiled, her eyes hard. A horse and carriage trotted into view. The carriage stopped and the driver bowed his head as if in respect. The carriage door opened and a man emerged, dapper in a frock coat and shoes that shone like polished sixpences.

Duchess, he said with a low bow.

Youre late, Mr T, snapped the Duchess impatiently.

The man coughed nervously and nodded towards the interior of the carriage. Someone has come to meet you, Duchess. I tried to prevent him, but

His voice quavered and trailed off, as if he feared her reaction. Like the imperious old Queen, Victoria, the Duchess whose nickname reflected her status as criminal royalty, rather than any connections to the aristocracy was not fond of surprises. She raised an eyebrow in question.

Mr T lowered his voice and whispered.

The Cobra.

The Duchesss eyes brightened with interest. The Cobra was the nickname for Ambrose Skelly. Skelly had long been the king of Londons criminal underworld. His nickname came about because those of his enemies who lived to tell the tale frequently said that an encounter with him felt like being mesmerised by a snake. It was a skill he had learned from his father, who, in the days before chloroform, had worked for a surgeon and was charged with calming the patients whose operations were conducted while they were still fully conscious.

The Cobra had been thought untouchable. But, two months previously, his closest associates including his own brother, eager to take over the Cobras criminal empire for himself had betrayed him to the police, providing the evidence that would ensure he was locked up for at least fifty years. The Cobra had evaded the police when they had tried to arrest him, and he had been on the run ever since. Although he was much younger than the Duchess, still only in his mid-thirties, they were old adversaries, with a genuine respect for each other.

The Duchess settled herself into the carriage with only a curt nod to the slender, handsome man with dark hair and delicate features, who sat well back on the opposite seat, clearly eager to avoid being spotted by anyone peering in. The Duchess stamped her foot twice and the carriage lurched forward across the rutted, icy road.

What do you want, Ambrose? asked the Duchess briskly.

I want us to work together, Duchess, said the Cobra, smiling.

The Duchesss eyes glittered, her smile as thin as a snakes. Dont you mean that you need my help, Ambrose? From what I hear you are a dead man walking. Hunted by the police and betrayed by your own flesh and bone. It cant be nice to be the hunted rather than the hunter. I could hand you in myself. I hear there is a handsome reward on your head.

Ambroses eyes were wary but his smile was confident, showing a flash of surprisingly white teeth. But you wont, will you, Duchess, he said leaning over and taking her hand and kissing it. He leaned further in and murmured. For old times sake.

The Duchess removed her hand. Ambrose, you mistake me for a woman with a heart.

Ambrose put his head on one side, his eyes watchful.

I know you are a practical woman, and we can be useful to each other. I need your brains and help to evade capture and to raise enough money to leave the country and start again. You are in need of ready cash to rebuild your empire. It has crumbled while youve been behind bars. You still have a few loyal acolytes like Mr T here, but I hear your intelligence network is destroyed. You are not the power you once were, Duchess.

Well, that makes two of us, Ambrose, she replied tartly.

The Duchess settled back comfortably in the carriage and surveyed the street outside, her eyes greedy for the sights and sounds of London that she had been denied for so long. The city was waking up. Cafes were opening their doors, hoping to attract the sleepy-eyed seamstresses, porters and clerks who hurried past, shivering on their way to work. A muffin man was competing for custom with one of the coffee and bread-and-butter stalls. Hawkers were shouting their wares, offering everything from pots and pans to tiny birds in cages.

After a short silence, the Duchess continued. If I were inclined to help you, what can you offer me?

Information. Useful information. Plenty of it. I still have connections in the higher reaches of society more than one in the very heart of the aristocracy. The Duchess was silent again, patiently waiting for him to offer up a little nugget of information.

The Easingford Emeralds. Edward Easingford will be bringing them to London very soon.

Edward Easingford? said the Duchess thoughtfully. The one with connections to Campions Palace of Variety and Wonders, where my double-dealing son met his end?

Ambrose nodded. Yes. The emeralds are worth a small fortune enough to set us both up in our own ways. Several times over. If we could find a way to get our hands on them.

Ambrose smiled. He could see from the sparkle in her eyes that he had piqued the Duchesss interest.

A small boy, selling newspapers, was shouting over the din as the carriage moved through the narrow streets, into the heart of the city. The carriage rolled past the Alhambra and ground to a halt outside the Empire Theatre of Varieties in Leicester Square. It was immediately surrounded by chestnut sellers and hawkers with trays of sheep trotters and hot green peas. The Duchess batted them away with her hand, as if dismissing tiresome flies.

Outside the Alhambra a man was pasting that coming nights bill on to the wall a list promising marvels and wonders, including George the Talking Pig, the Flying Fongoli Brothers, and Luella, the beautiful girl acrobat and human cannonball. The Duchess suddenly sat up a little straighter. Her gaze was directed towards another poster on the music-hall wall, informing the public of the arrival later that week of Madame Elenora de Valentina. Direct from New York! The famed hypnotist and Wonder of the Age! Her mind rules the world!

The Duchess was silent for so long that Ambrose wondered whether she had fallen asleep, when suddenly she spoke.

Mr T, put your head in the stage door and enquire when Miss de Valentina is expected to be arriving and where. Oh, and find out if she was booked unseen or if anyone from the hall has actually met her. Use a little bribery if you must.

Mr T left the coach. The Duchess appeared to be engrossed in watching the elephants, who were being given their breakfast outside the theatre. More flakes of snow began to fall, dancing like moths around the animals huge ears.