The Bloodline Feud (Merchant Princes Omnibus 1) (51 page)

‘Thank you,’ Miriam said as graciously as she could, and tipped the driver a sixpence. She turned back to the door to see a bellhop already lifting her trunk on his handcart.
‘I say! You there.’

The concierge at the front desk didn’t turn his nose up at a single woman traveling alone. The funereal outfit Burgeson had scared up for her seemed to forbid all questions, especially
after she had added a severe black cap and a net veil in place of her previous hat. ‘What does m’lady require?’ he asked politely.

‘I’d like to take one of your first-class suites. For myself. I travel with no servants, so room service will be required. I will be staying for at least a week, and possibly longer
while I seek to buy a house and put the affairs of my late husband in order.’
I hope Erasmus wasn’t stringing me along about getting hold of a new identity,
she thought.

‘Absolutely. I believe room fourteen is available, m’lady. Perhaps you would like to view it? If it is to your satisfaction . . .’

‘I’m sure it will be,’ she said easily. ‘And if it isn’t you’ll see to it, I’m sure, won’t you? How much will it be?’

‘A charge of two pounds and eleven shillings a night applies for room and board, ma’am,’ he said severely.

‘Hmm.’ She sucked on her lower lip. ‘And for a week? Or longer?’

‘I believe we could come down from that a little,’ he admitted. ‘Especially if provision was made in advance.’

‘Two a night.’ Miriam palmed a huge, gorgeously colored ten-pound note onto the front desk and paused. ‘Six shillings on top for the service.’

The concierge nodded at her. ‘Then it will be an initial four nights?’ he asked.

‘I will pay in advance, if I choose to renew it,’ she replied tonelessly.
Bastard,
she thought angrily. Erasmus had primed her with the hotel’s rates. Two pounds flat
was the norm for a luxury suite: This man was trying to soak her. ‘
If
it’s satisfactory,’ she emphasized.

‘I’ll see to it myself.’ He bowed, then stepped out from behind his desk. ‘If I may show you up to your suite myself, m’lady?’

Once she was alone in the hotel suite, Miriam locked the door on the inside, then removed her coat and hung it up to dry in the niche by the door. ‘I’m impressed,’ she said
aloud. ‘It’s huge.’ She peeled off her gloves and slung them over a brass radiator that gurgled beneath the shuttered windows, then unbuttoned her jacket and knelt to unlace her
ankle boots – her feet were beginning to feel as if they were molded to the inside of the damp, cold leather.
Chilblains as an occupational hazard for explorers of other worlds?
She
stepped out of her shoes then carried them to the radiator, stockinged feet feeling almost naked against the thick pile of the woolen carpet.

Dry at last, she walked over to the sideboard and the huge silver samovar, steaming gently atop a gas flame plumbed into the wall. She poured a glass full of hot water and dunked a sachet of
Earl Grey tea into it. Finally she plopped herself down in the overstuffed armchair opposite the bedroom door, pulled out her dictaphone, and began to compose a report to herself. ‘Here I am,
in room fourteen of the Brighton Hotel. The concierge tried to soak me. Getting a handle on the prices is hard – a pound seems to be equivalent to about, uh, two hundred dollars? Something
like that. This is an
expensive
suite, and it shows; it’s got central heating, electric lights – incandescent filaments, lots of them, dim enough you can look right at them
– and silk curtains.’ She glanced through the open bathroom door. ‘The bathroom looks to be all brass and porcelain fittings and has a flushing toilet. Hmm. Must check to see what
their power distribution system’s like. Might be an opportunity to sell them electric showers.

‘Tomorrow Erasmus will fix me up with a meeting with his attorney and start making inquiries about that house. He also said he’d look into a patent clerk and get me into the central
reading library. Looks like their intellectual property framework is a bit primitive. I’ll need to bring over some more fungibles soon. Gold is all very well, but I’m not sure it
isn’t cheaper here than it is back home. I wonder what their kitchens are short of,’ she added.

‘Damn. I wish there was someone to talk to.’ She clicked off the little machine and put it down on the sideboard, frowning. Whether or not Erasmus Burgeson was trustworthy was an
interesting question. Probably he was, up to a point – as long as he could sniff a way to put one over on the cops. But he was most clearly a bachelor, and there was something slightly
strained about him when she was in his presence.
He’s not used to dealing with women, other than customers in his shop,
she decided.
That’s probably it.

In any event, her head ached and she was feeling tired.
Think I’ll leave the dining room for another day,
she decided. The bed seemed to beckon. Tomorrow would be a fresh start .
. .

GOLD BUGS

The following morning Miriam awakened early. It was still semidark outside. She yawned at her reflection in the bathroom mirror as she brushed her hair. ‘Hmm. They wear
it long here, don’t they?’ It would have to do, she thought, as she dressed in yesterday’s clothes once more. She sorted through her shoulder bag to make sure there was nothing
too obtrusively alien in it, then pulled her boots on.

She paused at the foot of the main staircase, poised above the polished marble floor next to the front desk. ‘Can I help you, ma’am?’ a bellhop offered eagerly.

She smiled wanly. ‘Breakfast. Where is it?’ The realization that she’d missed both lunch and dinner crashed down on her. Abruptly she felt almost weak from hunger.

‘This way, please!’ He guided her toward two huge mahogany-and-glass doors set at one side of the foyer, then ushered her to a seat at a small table, topped in spotless linen.
‘I shall just fetch the waiter.’

Miriam angled her chair around to take in the other diners as discreetly as possible.
It’s like a historical movie!
she thought. One set in a really exclusive Victorian hotel,
except the Victorians hadn’t had a thing for vivid turquoise and purple wallpaper and the costumes were messed up beyond recognition. Men in Nehru suits with cutaway waists, women in long
skirts or trousers and wing-collared shirts. Waiters with white aprons bearing plates of – fish? And bread rolls? The one familiar aspect was the newspaper. ‘Can you fetch me a
paper?’ she asked the bellhop.

‘Surely, ma’am!’ he answered, and was off like a shot. He was back in a second and Miriam fumbled for a tip, before starting methodically on the front page.

The headlines in
The London Intelligencer
were bizarrely familiar, simultaneously tainted with the exotic. ‘Speaker: House May Impeach Crown for Adultery’ – but no,
there was no King Clinton in here, just unfamiliar names and a proposal to amend the Basic Law to add a collection of additional charges for which the Crown could be impeached – Adultery,
Capitative Fraud, and Irreconsilience.
They can impeach the king?
Miriam shook her head, moved on to the next story, ‘Morris and Stokes to Hang’, about a pair of jewel thieves
who had killed a shopkeeper. Farther down the page was more weirdness, a list of captains of merchantmen to whom had been granted letters of marque and reprise against ‘the forces and agents
of the continental enemy’, and a list of etheric resonances assigned for experimentation by the Teloptic Wireless Company of New Britain.

A waiter appeared at her shoulder as she was about to turn the page. ‘May I be of service, ma’am?’

‘Sure. What’s good, today?’

He smiled broadly. ‘The kippers are most piquant, and if I may recommend Mrs. Wilson’s strawberry jam for after? Does ma’am prefer tea or coffee?’

‘Coffee. Strong, with milk.’ She nodded. ‘I’ll take your recommendations, please. That’ll be all.’

He scurried away, leaving her puzzling over the meaning of a story about taxation powers being granted by the King-in-Parliament to the Grand Estates, and enforcement of the powers of printing
rights by the Royal Excise. Even the addition of a powerful dose of coffee and a plate of smoked fish – not her customary start to the day – didn’t make it any clearer.
This
place is so complex! Am I ever going to understand it?
she wondered.

She was almost to the bottom of her coffee when a different bellhop arrived, bearing a silver platter. ‘Message for the Widow Fletcher?’ he asked, using the pseudonym Miriam had
checked in under.

‘That’s me.’ Miriam took the note atop the platter – a piece of card with strips of printed tape gummed to it. MEET ME AT 54 GRT MAURICE ST AT 10 SEE BATES STOP EB ENDS.
‘Ah, good.’ She glanced at the clock above the ornate entrance. ‘Can you arrange a cab for me, please? To Great Maurice Street, in twenty minutes.’

Folding her paper she rose and returned to her room to retrieve her hat and topcoat.
The game’s afoot,
she thought excitedly.

By the time the cab found its way to Great Maurice Street she’d cooled off a little, taking time to collect her thoughts and begin to work out what she needed to do and say. She also made
sure her right glove was pulled down around her wrist, and the sleeve of her blouse was bunched up toward the elbow. Not that it was the ideal way to make an exit – indeed, it would wreck her
plans completely if she had to escape by means of the temporary tattoo of a certain intricate knot – but she needed insurance in case Erasmus had decided to sell her out to the cops.

Great Maurice Street was a curving cobblestoned boulevard hemmed in on either side by expensive stone town houses. Little stone bridges leapt from sidewalk to broad front doors across a trench
which held two levels of subterranean windows. The street and sidewalks had been swept free of snow, although huge piles stood at regular intervals in the road to await collection. Miriam stepped
down from the cab, paid the driver, and marched along the sidewalk until she identified number 54. ‘Charteris, Bates and Charteris,’ she muttered to herself. ‘Sounds legal.’
She advanced on the door and pulled the bell rope.

A short, irritated-looking clerk opened the door. ‘Who are you?’ he demanded.

Miriam stared down her nose at him. ‘I’m here to see Mr. Bates,’ she said.

‘Who did you say you were?’ He raised a hand to cup his ear and Miriam realized he was half-deaf.

‘Mrs. Fletcher, to see Mr. Bates,’ she replied loudly.

‘
Oh.
Come in, then, I’ll tell someone you’re here.’

Lawyers’ offices didn’t differ much between here and her own world, Miriam realized. There was a big, black, ancient-looking typewriter with a keyboard like a church organ that had
shrunk in the wash, and there was an archaic telephone with a separate speaking horn, but otherwise the only differences were the clothes. Which, for a legal secretary in this place and time
– male, thin, harried-looking – included a powdered wig, knee breeches, and a cutaway coat.

‘Please be seated – ah, no,’ said the secretary, looking bemused as a short, rotund fellow dressed entirely in black opened the door of an inner office and waggled a finger at
Miriam: ‘This is His Honor Mr. Bates,’ the secretary explained. ‘You are . . . ?’

‘I’m Mrs. Fletcher,’ Miriam repeated patiently. ‘I’m supposed to be seeing Mr. Bates. Is that right?’

‘Ah, yes.’ Bates nodded congenially at her. ‘Please come this way?’

The differences from her own world became vanishingly small inside his office, perhaps because so many lawyers back home aimed for a traditional feel to their furnishings. Miriam glanced round.
‘Burgeson isn’t here yet,’ she observed disapprovingly.

‘He’s been detained,’ said Bates. ‘If you’d care to take a seat?’

‘Yes. How much has Erasmus told you?’

Bates picked up a pair of half-moon spectacles and balanced them on the bridge of his nose. His whiskers twitched, walruslike. ‘He has told me enough, I think,’ he intoned in a
plummy voice. ‘A woman fallen upon hard times, husband dead after years abroad, papers lost in an unfortunate pursuit – I believe he referred to the foundering of the
Greenbaum
Lamplight
, a most unpleasant experience for you, I am sure – and therefore in need of the emollient reaffirmation of her identity, is that right? He vouched for you most plaintively. And
he also mentioned something about a fortune overseas, held in trust, to which you have limited access.’

‘Yes, that’s all correct,’ Miriam said fervently. ‘I am indeed in need of new papers – and a few other services best rendered by a man of the law.’

‘Well. I can see
at a glance
that you are no Frenchie,’ he said, nodding at her. ‘And so I can see nothing wrong with your party. It will take but an hour to draw up
the correct deeds and post them with the inns of court, to declare your identity fair and square. Erasmus said you were born at Shreveport on, ah, if I may be so indelicate, the seventh of
September, in the year of our lord nineteen hundred and sixty-nine. Is that correct?’

Miriam nodded.
Near enough,
she thought. ‘Uh, yes.’

‘Very well. If you would examine and sign this – ’ he passed a large and imposing sheet of parchment to her – ‘and this – ’ he passed her another,
‘we will set the wheels of justice in motion.’

Miriam examined the documents rapidly. One of them was a declaration of some sort asserting her name, age, place of birth, and identity, and petitioning for a replacement birth certificate for
the one lost at sea on behalf of the vacant authorities of – ‘Why are the authorities of Shreveport not directly involved?’ she asked.

Bates looked at her oddly. ‘After what happened during the war there isn’t enough left of Shreveport to
have
any authorities,’ he muttered darkly.

‘Oh.’ She read on. The next paper petitioned for a passport in her name, with a peculiar status – competent adult. ‘I see I am considered a competent adult here. Can you
explain precisely what that entails?’

Bates leaned back in his chair, happily:
It’s all billable hours
, Miriam realized. ‘You are an adult, aged over thirty, and a widow; there is no man under whose mantle your
rights and autonomy are exercised, and you are deemed old enough in law to be self-sufficient. So you may enter into contracts at your own peril, as an adult, until such time as you choose to
remarry, and any such contracts as you make will then be binding upon your future husband.’