In the quiet drawing room, the sound of the shot was almost deafening. Mrs. Russell screamed and collapsed. But what hit the floor was not Mrs. Russell—it was the small figure of Queen Tera, dressed not in the housekeeper’s black dress but in a white linen gown, on which a red stain was rapidly spreading. It matched the ruby scarab at her throat. And the two parlor maids were no longer maids, but Mrs. Raymond and Margaret Trelawny. Mrs. Raymond looked at Mary with astonishment and dismay. Miss Trelawny cried out and knelt beside the fallen figure of Tera, putting her hands on the Egyptian queen’s shoulder to staunch the blood.
“Good shot,” said Catherine. She and Justine had come through the doorway and were standing just behind Mary, to either side. “Now let’s get those two.”
From where she was kneeling on the floor, Miss Trelawny raised one hand, pointed at Mary, and said to Mrs. Raymond, “Kill her.”
CATHERINE: That was an excellent shot, Mary.
MARY: It was a lucky shot. If I had shot Margaret Trelawny instead, Queen Tera would quickly have electrocuted us, and that would have been the end of the Athena Club. Or at least three of its members!
Beatrice checked her lapel watch. It was time. “Come,” she said to Diana. “We must light the beacon fire.”
“Were you thinking of Big Ben?” asked Diana.
“Yes,” said Beatrice. It had in fact been Mary’s wristwatch, but there was no more time to play Diana’s game.
“Then why did you say it was smaller than an elephant?” asked Diana.
“Is Big Ben larger than an elephant? I meant only the clock face. You can carry the rags, and I shall carry the container. Vieni, cara mia.” Beatrice opened the trapdoor. The wind had picked up, and rain was coming down in a steady drizzle. Would they be able to light the fire? From the top of the tower, she was able to see the horizon on three sides. On the other, she could see the coast, with the houses of Marazion white against the gray hills. The ocean was gray, with white foam on the tops of the waves where they rushed in and crashed against the shore. And there—she could see the Queen’s yacht, white against the gray water, getting closer to St. Michael’s Mount. But it was still farther out than she had expected. The weather must have put it behind schedule. She should wait a little longer to light the beacon fire. Ten minutes should do it. She took off the silly waterproof coat that Mary had insisted she wear and laid it over the rucksacks filled with rags. They must be kept dry, at least. Then she pulled off her gloves and put them into her trouser pockets. She would need bare hands for what was to come.
“Are we just going to stand out here in the rain?” asked Diana.
“Yes,” she replied, checking to make sure the matchbox was still in the pocket of her coat—what the English called a mackintosh, which she found difficult to pronounce.
“Oh. All right. Look, there’s the keep. I can see it all the way from here. And there’s the inn. I wonder what Mrs. Davies will make for dinner tonight? I told her Beef Wellington was my favorite, and she said she would try to make it just for me.”
The yacht sailed closer, closer.…
Beatrice checked her watch again. It had a few water drops on it. Now was the time.
“Or sausages. She said she had some sausages from a pig that was killed in August, from a farm near Perranuthnoe.”
Beatrice was about to tell Diana to be quiet and pull out the rags when she noticed that Diana was pulling out the rags, even as she was describing some sort of special Cornish sausage called, improbably, Hog’s Pudding. Apparently, her obsession with their dinner menu did not preclude her from getting things done.
And then she heard, above the wind and rain and Diana’s chatter, a grating noise. It was the trapdoor opening. She watched it rise an inch, two inches.
Someone had followed them—presumably, someone who was going to try and stop them from signaling the Queen. Unlike Mary and Catherine, she had no pistol, only her poison. Quickly, she moved to the trapdoor and stood with her hands outstretched, her fingers curved, ready to burn the face of whomever came through it.
“I’ll slit his throat with my knife.” Diana was standing next to her, knife out, also ready. Annoying as she could be, you could always count on her in a pinch.
The trapdoor continued to rise, revealing a man’s head with dark eyes, two days’ worth of beard, and dark, tousled hair under a checked cap.
“Oh, it’s you,” said Diana, lowering her knife. “It’s only Isaac Mandelbaum,” she said to Beatrice, apparently disgusted at not being able to stick her knife into anyone. “He was pretending to work for Moriarty, but really he’s on our side.”
Beatrice stepped back and lowered her hands. “Mary said you work for Mycroft Holmes.”
Cautiously, as though afraid they might still attack him, Isaac climbed up the remaining steps and closed the trapdoor behind him. He had a leather satchel slung over one shoulder. When he saw the rags in the metal basin, he grinned. “I see that we had the same idea, more or less. I’m here to warn the Queen as well. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss—”
“Rappaccini,” she said. “We’re going to light a beacon fire. What is your plan?”
“Signal flags,” he said, pulling two sticks with pieces of cloth wrapped around their ends out of his satchel. “But I’m afraid the captain won’t see them in this rain. I have two compatriots down by the dock who will attempt to warn the Queen if she comes ashore. We tried to warn her through more direct channels, but Moriarty’s co-conspirators are still in positions of power around her. They do not yet know he is dead, and are continuing to implement his plans. We need to stop them as well, but the first step is making sure the Queen does not set foot on St. Michael’s Mount. Perhaps we could work together? It would be a pleasure to work with such a charming collaborator.”
“Are you going to flirt with Beatrice or light the fire?” asked Diana. She crossed her arms and glared at them.
“Hello, Miss Hyde,” he said, grinning. “It’s a pleasure to see you again, although we keep meeting under such inauspicious circumstances.”
“I’ll inauspicious you!” said Diana. “Who sent you? Was it that that big slug who stays in his fancy club instead of actually helping anybody? At least his brother gets out and does things!”
“All right, Mr. Mandelbaum,” said Beatrice. Per carità! Could they not concentrate on the task at hand? “Take that container and douse the rags with the liquid inside. Be careful—it’s camphine, and highly flammable. Don’t get any on yourself. You would not want to go up in flames.”
Isaac nodded, picked up the container, and unscrewed the cap. He poured the contents carefully but thoroughly over the rags. Beatrice put her hands up to her nose—the camphine smelled foul. The rags were wet—not soaked, but certainly not dry. Would they catch fire? She worried that she had waited too long.
Isaac stepped back and put the container down on the stones.
“You, too, Diana,” said Beatrice. “Step back, and give me my mack—” The word stuck in her mouth. “My coat. You should have folded it neatly instead of tossing it down in that untidy fashion.”
Diana made a rude gesture, but handed her the mackintosh. Beatrice took her matchbox out of the pocket, struck a match, and tossed it on the camphine-soaked rags. She need not have worried after all. The rags blazed up—the fire rose higher and higher, white and hot. Hastily, she stepped back, all the way to the battlements.