The Jacq of Spades Read online

  As we crossed the lofty pale bridge from Market Center to the Spadros quadrant, Tony pulled me close. “The moment I first saw you, I thought you were the most beautiful girl I had ever seen.”

  I remembered his wide innocent eyes as he sat in Roy’s carriage that cold, terrible night, and let him kiss me.

  He was a good kisser.

  Tony was more than a bit drunk, so it didn’t surprise me that when we reached home he asked for his husband’s prerogative.

  The common advice to young women about to wed is “lie back and think of England,” a true absurdity during these enlightened days in the New World. But my task was much more pleasant. I thought of Joseph Kerr these many years, remembering those stolen moments in his arms, his too-skillful attentions upon my body. It made me as satisfied with my duty as any husband might wish for.

  This might sound cruel, it might even sound scandalous, but who did it harm? My spouse had his pleasure, and I had mine. We were both content.

  Seeing Joe there … ahhh, he had grown into a fine figure of a man. Too fine. I wanted more than thoughts. I wanted him, in my arms, in my bed.

  If I had listened to Air and stayed home that terrible winter’s night, I would belong to Joe.

  What would our lives have been like?

  The Editorial

  The gun went off. The light left my best friend’s beautiful dark eyes. His little body slumped to the ground three feet away, blood pooling around him.

  I struggled, I tried to scream, but no sound came out.

  David Bryce raised his head. “Help me.”

  I woke, my face in the pillow, heart pounding.

  The bed lay empty in the pale dawn light. I felt a pang of loneliness, my eyes filling with tears.

  A firm knock at the door.

  I took a deep breath, let it out. “Yes?”

  “Your tea and wash-water, mum.”

  “Thank you, just leave it on the table.”

  My day footman Honor came in, set the tray on my tea table, and left, without once glancing my direction.

  I pulled the covers over my head. I didn’t want to think of my dream. Did it mean David was dead?

  Some said the dead sent messages to the living; the idea frightened me. If anyone should send a message, why hadn’t Air sent one on his brother’s behalf?

  Air and I were born the same day. We went everywhere together, as far back as I can remember. Air’s real name was Nick, but he could jump much higher and farther than anyone his size should be able to. Joseph Kerr, one of our gang leaders back then, called him the air boy, and the name stuck.

  Amelia had been in to open the curtains. It looked to be another drear, overcast day. Although weary, I got up to wash my face and hands before the water grew cold. Sitting by the window, I sipped my morning tea.

  My room held white furniture trimmed in pastel blue, with pastel blue rugs over gray tiles. Portraits of strangers and landscapes of places I’d never seen hung in pale frames. I hated pale colors, but no one cared what I thought.

  Snow lay in dirty piles, torn up by the feet of horses and servants milling around in the courtyard. The effect was bleak.

  The tea’s bitter taste reminded me of last night’s discussion with Charles Hart. If Charles Hart dared approach me about our childlessness — why him, and not Molly Spadros? — then it was already being discussed amongst the Families.

  Three years. I thought I had more time.

  I stared into the clear brown liquid in my teacup, one of the things my mother taught me after that horrible night. She tried her best to protect me, to prepare me for what lay ahead.

  I would have children when I wanted to, not whelping on command like some Spadros broodmare.

  Should I have agreed to find David Bryce?

  The idea of Air’s brother gone missing twisted my heart. But what could I do? Even if I took the case, I had no idea where to look for the boy.

  The morgue might seem a reasonable place to begin, but I had no connections there. A woman inquiring after a child’s body might alarm the inspectors, who might contact the police, who would want to speak with her. I couldn’t risk that sort of attention.

  I felt sure the Red Dog stamp on the wall was a clue. Perhaps if I learned about this gang it would help.

  Amelia entered with my provisional tray: “regular” tea and toast, jam and butter, newspaper and mail. “Did you sleep well?”

  I thought of my nightmare. At least I hadn’t screamed and wakened the household, like most nights. “Well enough. We were up later than usual.”

  “Yes, I suppose we all were. My little ones were so excited by the fireworks they did not want to go to sleep!” Amelia and her husband Peter’s three children, two girls and a boy, helped Peter in the stables.

  I smiled, picturing their bright eager faces. “Amelia, how did you and Peter come to Spadros Manor?”

  She turned away and chuckled, but it seemed forced. “Ah, that would be a long story, mum, and I need to prepare your bath, or you won’t be dressed in time for breakfast.”

  What favors must these people give to earn such high positions? I shook my head and turned to the paper.

  NEW YEAR’S DAY, 1899, the Bridges Daily screamed. Flattering and appropriate photos from the night before graced the front. The articles spoke of the color of a dress, the hairstyle, the cut of a suit.

  People hungered for diversion. The Families encouraged this attention to the frivolous. It distracted from real questions, like why they struggled to survive while we feasted.

  The paper mentioned minor incidents in the Clubb quadrant: horse-tackle cut, shops egged, windows broken. With each event, the police found a Red Dog stamp on a wall or card afterward. While most gangs kept their activity to the slums, these incidents in the fair parts of Clubb had been occurring for some time.

  The Clubb merchants demanded “something be done,” and the Mayor promised increased patrols. The article called these incidents pranks, but a brave reporter printed an editorial:

  Year End Violence A Symptom

  An Editorial By Thrace Pike

  Once again the year ends with malicious acts towards the betters of this city. One might point out that merchants are of a lesser class, just as most readers of the news. However, to the majority who shiver in their homes, Yuletide feasts consisting of bread and soup — and a thin soup at that — the fat merchants strolling among them must incite dismay, if not anger.

  And why should the merchants not charge? They have fees to pay, just as do those they sell to. We all have fees to pay, but to those hanging at the bottom rung, these fees are a lead weight threatening to pull them to the utter desolation of the Pot.

  These acts of anger are symptoms of a greater ill. Perhaps it is time to make changes to the current state of affairs before the illness becomes serious.

  Those who couldn’t be bought … fascinating.

  Amelia came in with a package. “Rocket already sniffed it, never fear.”

  Rocket was a black pit bull terrier, the best bomb sniffer dog in Bridges. He could smell when you had fired a gun hours before, and would bark.

  “I found some things in your coat. I’ll put them in your study.”

  “Thank you, Amelia.” People often passed notes, flowers, or trinkets to others at the Ball, and this year was no exception.

  I knew what the package was before I opened it: today’s Golden Bridges, the local tabloid. Its byline read, “Fuck the Fairy Tales, Get the Real Story.”

  One of my contacts sent me a copy when she could get one: they sold thousands of copies within hours of publication.

  Their lead story:

  Mad Jack Rampage At Ball

  The notorious Jack Diamond was at it again: shouting at the Spadros heir in the Grand Ball. Why? Who knows why ‘Black Jack’ does something, or his next target? Our inside reporter caught a glimpse of the scene as he followed the Diamond men dragging the culprit from the Ball: ‘Master Diamond flailed, offering excuses as he
struggled to free himself from the wrath of his father and brothers, who suffered embarrassment at his antic. Unamused, they stuffed him into a carriage forthwith.’ Perhaps Master Jack will refrain from intemperance next time, but we doubt it.

  I laughed aloud.

  “Why do you read such trash?” Amelia said.

  “I must know what people are saying. The Bridges Daily tells me what the Family Patriarchs want people to say.” I passed over a detailed account of the gang wars raging through the slums and came across this:

  Ball Happenings: An Inside Look

  We sit with our inside reporter, who gives us the scoop on the real news.

  GB: What tidbits did you glean from the night’s events?

  IR: Other than Jack Diamond’s outburst? The Grand Ball was another spectacle of indulgence. The jewelry and beading worn by the ladies alone could carpet the room.

  GB: It’s interesting you mention Jack Diamond. Was this his first Grand Ball?

  IR: Indeed. I felt impressed with the restraint of Mr. Anthony Spadros, who had partaken quite a bit of wine prior to Master Diamond’s display. Not to mention Jack had the effrontery to threaten violence.

  GB: Restraint in a Spadros? This is an unexpected development.

  IR: He’s always been an unusual one; we’re noting his progress. I did see a bit of kissing the wife, but you can’t fault a man for that.

  GB: Well, if I was married to Mrs. Spadros, I’d dare the scandal of a public display too.

  Really! Shaking my head, I set the paper aside. “Amelia, do we have any callers scheduled?”

  “On New Year’s Day? I don’t believe so, mum. Oh, wait … when Mr. Anthony took his tray just now, out on the veranda … the poor man, he had the bottle of salicylate with him … he told Michaels you and he were calling on the Kerrs for luncheon.”

  When did he arrange that?

  Tony took Joe’s assistance more seriously than I thought.

  This would be interesting …

  * * *

  Bathe, dress, hair done, then downstairs for morning prayers with the staff. Tony insisted on doing this daily.

  It reminded me of the one unbroken stained glass window in Ma’s cathedral. Beautiful ladies walked in flowing gowns, Card symbols surrounding them.

  We never did prayers in the cathedral. We might be the Dealers’ daughters, but the knowledge they held passed long ago.

  The flat area still remained where the Dealers laid their Cards before the Bad Times. Our elders held a reverence for that place, and never allowed us to play on it.

  After prayers, Tony and I went up to a full sideboard in our breakfast sun-room at the back corner of the house. I looked forward to this time: Monsieur made the most excellent sausage, and I loved the view of the gardens. After breakfast, we then went to the morning meeting, back downstairs in the staff room.

  Spadros Manor was shaped like a U. The parlor and entry lay on the right arm, the breakfast room and dining hall on the left. Our study rooms lay between, our quarters and guest rooms on the second floor.

  To go to the staff room, you left the breakfast sun-room, went through our dining hall, into the preparation room beyond.

  At the far left of this room was a door to a small stockroom, which led to the stables and a stair down to Amelia’s quarters. At the far right, sliding double doors opened on a stair wide enough for men carrying platters to pass each other.

  A hallway just as wide lay at the bottom of the stair, running underneath the entire far end of the courtyard. Copper pipes ran along the ceiling. The first door to the right led to the kitchens.

  To the left, portraits of the staff hung above white cabinets. Vents on the floor and ceiling allowed warm air to pass through. Wide openings above a counter to the right allowed platters to be handed to the waiters.

  The staff room lay past the kitchens, also to the right. At the far end of the hall were quarters for our butler Pearson and his family, and a stair up to the parlor area.

  The staff room was white, with two long black tables, one for the men and boys, the other for the women and girls. Two doors at the back of the room led to the unmarried men’s and women’s quarters. Another door to the far right led to a stair which went up to the courtyard. To the right, a large dumbwaiter transported crates or large items in need of repair. Windows high up along the wall to the right let in light and air.

  To the left hung rows of bells and levers, marked for each room of the house. At present, the levers pointed down, but when we rung, they pointed up, showing what room the bell rang from.

  Tony didn’t attend the morning meeting that day. Writing his end-of-the-year accounts always took him much of the morning. So I stood in front of the staff to give their orders for the day’s work, Pearson standing beside me to my right.

  “As we will be calling on Mr. Polansky Kerr for luncheon,” this produced murmurs and glances which made Pearson frown, “you may spend the holiday with your families.”

  Essential personnel — Amelia and Michaels — would remain on duty until we left. Pearson, as our butler, was always on duty. The rest of the staff would be free until time to prepare dinner.

  “I — but not Mr. Spadros — will be ‘at home’ until noon should anyone call, and we should be back for tea. I shall message if we are delayed.”

  “Very good, mum,” Pearson said.

  John Pearson, an impeccably dressed man with thinning brown hair, came with the Manor when Tony and I married. A wedding gift, if you could consider a man and his family as such. I met Pearson the first day I entered Spadros Manor as a child, and his presence always made me feel more secure.

  “Pearson is a most proper butler,” Molly Spadros once said, “as was his father before him.”

  Meals were on time and well made, the Manor kept spotless, and not so much as a nickel was ever found missing. Pearson’s wife Jane ran the kitchens, his daughter worked as a maid, and his sons waited table and did repairs.

  Of course, the fear of your body being found in the river one morning should you trespass is a great motivator. But there was something steady and discreet about the man, making his post a natural position for him.

  The clock struck half past ten. I went to my study through the stairs to my right, which led up to the parlor.

  The small stack of items from the Ball lay in a basket on a white table by the window. I sat at my desk, the only item of furniture truly mine: dark cherry with brass handles.

  I wanted to know more about the Red Dogs, and Jacqueline Spadros couldn’t do that sort of inquiry. Thus letters to my contacts, short and coded, were often the way I worked.

  To my contact in the Clubb desk at the Bridges Daily:

  Dear Mr. Blackberry —

  Your help with any news about a lost pup. Red-haired, goes by the name of “Card.” Last seen in the shop area.

  Any information richly rewarded.

  Yours, Miss Pamela Cavendish

  And another to my contact at the employment office:

  Dear Mrs. Stake (whose name was actually Miss Stack, but there was no one else at the office with a similar name) —

  Background information on a Mr. Reddington, deals in business stamps and cards. Claims multiple residences. Prior business selling exotic dogs. Known associates appreciated.

  In Gratitude, Mr. Jack Split

  And so on.

  The clock struck eleven as I handed the letters to Pearson. “Would you bring in some bourbon?”

  He had a slight hesitation before saying, “Of course, mum.”

  “And my cigarettes, please.”

  He returned in a few moments with both, and lit a cigarette for me.

  I drank a couple glasses while I smoked and read the Bridges Daily editorial section once again. I thought I might like to talk with this reporter, Thrace Pike.

  Why speak with this annoyance?

  He interested me. I wanted to meet the man, to hear his thoughts. Did he truly want to overthrow the current regime, or
was he unaware of the implications of his work? Did he pose a threat, or was he a rash young man destined to meet a shower of bullets in an alley? I wasn’t sure, and I needed to learn if he was an ally or an enemy before whatever he planned affected my life.

  The Visit

  Dirty snow lay beside the road on the way to the Kerr residence. Mist drifted through the trees, even though the sun stood at high noon, a pale ball behind the clouds.

  The Spadros quadrant was the southeast of the city. The Hart quadrant, where Mr. Kerr lived, was the northwest. So we rode through Spadros quadrant, across the bridge to Market Center, then over the bridge to Hart. Thorny hedges, wrought iron, and patrolling guards kept the reality of the Pot and slums from view.

  The Kerr twins and I grew up together. I felt glad to see both of them again, for very different reasons. But they reminded me of my home and all I had lost. “I have never been to Mr. Kerr’s home. Is it far?”

  Tony said, “Just in the fair part of Hart … not too far.”

  “How fortunate for Mr. Kerr that he was moved to the Hart lands.” Why Hart, when Mr. Kerr lived the majority of his life in the Spadros portion of the Pot? No one entered a Family’s area from their Pot without paying a steep price. It was unheard of for one Family to take another’s Pot rag. Was this the insult which caused Roy Spadros to hate Charles Hart so? That seemed excessive even for Roy. But I did wonder what great boon Mr. Kerr gave the Harts in exchange for such a release.

  “Mr. Kerr has done well,” Tony said. “An old man shouldn’t have to languish in the Pot, especially one with such a distinguished heritage.”

  I stared at Tony. Did he mock the Kerrs? He seemed sincere.

  Anthony Spadros: so different from his father at times, and at other times, very like. He could be ruthless, and also kind; vicious, yet also gentle. I often didn’t understand Tony, or why he did what he did. Even his words the night before didn’t fully explain his actions.

  “Why did you marry me?”

  Tony took my hand in his and kissed it. “Because I love you.”

  His answer, while on the surface, fine, bordered on madness. No one in Tony’s position married for love.