Somewhat closer to the gallows itself than last week’s bodies, another set of three stakes, also ominously empty, waited for today’s victims.
Crowding nearby land and water were spectators even more numerous than those along the route. Folk of high station and low were out this morning, their numbers not much diminished by the weather, which so far had not improved. Every comfortable vantage point, and some perches fit only for the stoic, even the acrobatic, had been occupied. The windows and terraces of taverns and other riverside buildings, as well as docks and jetties, were thick with onlookers. Scores of small boats passed to and fro, or had cast anchor in the river. The current was very slow just now, with the tide about to turn. A barge moored no more than forty yards offshore afforded rows of seats for those willing and able to pay. At a somewhat greater distance over the broad face of the Thames, the crews and passengers of a couple of anchored ships presented on decks and rigging rows of pale faces. Well beyond these larger craft, the shadowy shapes of docks and buildings on the south shore loomed out of cold mist and drizzle.
One of the watchers, ensconced in a high-priced seat in the window of a tavern built upon a nearby promontory, was a dark-haired, smooth-skinned woman of somewhat exotic dress and remarkable appearance. Despite the sunless pallor of her skin, her countenance was undoubtedly Asiatic. Today she was keeping to a position where she herself remained inconspicuous, her pallid face shaded from even this clouded daylight. She was sharing a table–though she was not eating or drinking–with a well-dressed, well-fed, stoutish man of middle age, named Ambrose Altamont, a commoner very recently come into startling wealth. The weathered condition of Altamont’s face suggested that he was no stranger to the sea and tropic suns.
The table was bare before the woman–she had assured her new patron that she was not hungry–but the man had dishes and bottles aplenty in front of him. He was dining early today, by way of celebration, on lamprey pie–then considered a rare treat–and sampling good wine.
As nearly as I can discover, Altamont at this point did not, strictly speaking, know that the woman with him was a vampire. That fact and all its implications still lay over his horizon. He certainly understood that she was strange–for several nights now he had reveled in excitement over her exotic antics in his bed. Whatever the limits of her strangeness, whatever disadvantages were yet to be discovered, here was an attractive female who gave delight and satisfaction, beyond anything that he had ever previously encountered in almost fifty years of a thoroughly unsheltered life. Altamont might well have betrayed a business partner for her favors alone–even had there been no jewels.
The creaking high wheels of the tall cart fell silent as the vehicle eased to a halt on Execution Dock. While the massed guards cleared a space of spectators, the prisoners–their bodies stiff with confinement, two of them reeling with drink, all three chain-laden–were helped down. The severely drunken man had to be lifted bodily. Then, one at a time, the sober Kulakov first, the three men were led–or carried–down through mud and gravel to the rude platform, which consisted of only a few boards laid in mud beneath the gallows.
Waiting for them at that threshold of eternity was the chaplain, Mr. Ford, Ordinary of Newgate, ready to lead repentant sinners in prayer or persuade them that they should seek divine forgiveness. No one today had thought to provide a Russian Orthodox clergyman; but if any had been there the Russian doubtless would only have snarled at him, as he did at Mr. Ford.
Under the circumstances whatever prayers were possible for Kulakov, the first victim, were soon said. Then a ready noose was placed around his neck and he was blindfolded.
Meanwhile, at the tavern table, the pale and sheltered but vivacious lady had allowed herself to be distracted from the show by a sudden impulse to admire yet again a gift she had very recently received. This was a wonderful bracelet, fine gold and silver filigree sparkling with red rubies and clear diamonds. This masterpiece of the jeweler’s art came into view upon her white and slender left wrist when she deliberately drew back her full sleeve to reveal it.
“It fits you loosely,” her companion commented, his voice rich with wine and satisfaction.
“I’ll not lose it. Where are the other things?” she inquired softly. “Your brother has them, perhaps?” Her voice was small but determined, her English sounding with a strong accent, hard to define, but certainly as Eastern as her face.
Altamont winked at her, and smiled. “They’re where they’ll be safe for the time being–and you may lay to that.” Turning away again, he squinted, in the practiced manner of a ship’s captain, through his sailor’s brass-tubed glass at the proceedings on shore.
Confident as Altamont was that no one could overhear their talk, he lowered his voice when he added: “My own suspicion–I’ve no proof of it, mind–is that they were meant as a gift for the Empress Catherine of Muscovy, from one of those nabobs in the East. Or they might have belonged to the Russian church, some of their clergy smuggling them abroad to keep them out of Her Imperial Majesty’s hands. I hear Catherine’s developed a taste for churchly property, as did our own dear Henry long ago.” He shot his companion a sharp glance. “The Russian might have given you a better answer than I can give, as to who the first owner of your bangle was. Not that it much matters now.”
The dark-haired woman did not
