Free The Ruby in the Smoke by Philip Pullman Page B

train! Do you think he'd just come from . . ."
    "One of the old girl's agents," Fred said. "Probably skulking around at Swaleness. Mrs. Holland must have got a message to him. And then last night he came back for the rest of it."
    "He took my gun as well."
    "Naturally he would, seeing it there. But you've got a copy of the papers—let's have a look."
    She opened her diary and passed it across the top of the scarred pine bench. He bent over it to read.

    " '. . . a place of darkness, under a knotted rope. Three red lights shine on the spot when the moon pulls on the water. Take it. It is clearly yours by my gift, and by the laws of England. Antequam haec legis .. .' Good Lord."
    "What? Can you read the Latin?"
    "Don't you know what it says?"
    "No, what is it?"
    "It says: 'By the time you read this, I shall be dead. May my memory be . . .'—what's the word—'may I be as swiftly forgotten.' "
    She felt suddenly cold. "He knew what was going to happen," she said.
    "Perhaps it wasn't murder," said Frederick. "Perhaps it was suicide."
    "The poor man," said Sally. "He was so unhappy." She found tears in her eyes. It was the cold, bare house, and the gentle way he'd spoken to her. . . . "I'm sorry," she said.
    He shook his head and offered a clean handkerchief. When she had dried her tears, he said, "He's talking about a hiding place, you realize. He's telling you where the ruby is, and saying that it belongs to you."
    "By the laws of England," she said. "Which law could make it belong to me? I can't understand."
    "Nor can I—yet. And then there's the opium smoker, Mr. Bedwell. In some ways he's easier to deal with. . . . Ah, here's Trembler."
    "Here you are, Mr. Fred," said Trembler, coming in with three large books. "Can I do me plates now?"
    "By all means—aha— Crockford's Clerical Directory. Bedwell—Bedwell . . ."
    Frederick flicked through the pages of a fat and sol-

    emn-looking volume until he found what he was looking for.
    " 'Bedwell, the Reverend Nicholas Armbruster. Born 1842; educated at Rugby and Balliol College, Oxford; graduated B.A., 1861, M.A., 1864; Curate of St. John's, Sum-mertown, Oxford.' "
    "They're twins," said Sally.
    "Exactly. I should think that if anyone can get this man out of Holland's Lodgings, it'll be his own brother. We'll go to Oxford tomorrow and see him."
    During the rest of that day and evening Sally learned a little about the Garland family. He was twenty-one, she eighteen, and the house and shop belonged to their uncle, Webster Garland, who was, according to Frederick, the greatest photographer of the age. He was at present in Egypt, and Frederick was in charge, with the result that had so enraged Rosa. Trembler told her all this while she sat in the back room and began to make sense of the accounts. Frederick went out at three o'clock to take some pictures at the British Museum, and Trembler became loquacious.
    "He's an artist, miss, that's the trouble," he said. "There's plenty of money in the photography game for them as wants to make it, but Mr. Fred ain't interested in yer portraits and yer weddings. I've seen him spend a whole week sitting as still as stone in one spot, waiting for the right light on a patch o' water. He's good, mind you. But he will invent things, and it swallows the money at a rate you wouldn't believe. It's Miss Rosa what keeps this place afloat."
    Rosa was an actress, as Frederick had said, at present

    playing in Dead or Alive at the Queen's Theater. Only a tiny part, said Trembler, but she was bound to be a star one day. With those looks, and that temperament—well, the world had no chance of resisting her. But so far the rewards were meager, though her income was the greater part of the revenue of 45 Burton Street.
    "But PVederick's made quite a lot of money," said Sally, sorting through a pile of untidy receipts and scribbled bills and putting income on one side, expenditure on the other. "In fact, there's quite a lot of money coming in. But it all seems