Ring. Sister. Piano (Book 4 of The Powder Trail)

Chapter Forty Three: Bye-bye, Beethoven

Jack and Elliott drifted back down Headington Hill like ghosts. It reminded Jack of Elsie's description of Ellini, trapped in one, horrible moment in her past, and only haunting the present. He and Elliott were still stuck on the Academy's lawns, in front of that fiery circlet of mountains. Whatever it was that was drifting down to the centre of town, idly kicking out at stones, it wasn't them. It lacked all substance and conviction.

After a while, Elliott said, "How did he do it? How did he get that mad girl out of her cell?"

"I don't know," said Jack.

"All right, how would you have done it? That's pretty much the same question, isn't it?" 

There was a bit more life in his voice now, as if his Headington-Hill-self was catching up with him. Lucky bastard, thought Jack. The young got over things so quickly.

"Well, I'd like to stress that I wouldn't have done it, because somebody could have been killed," he said. "But if we're just talking about a thought exercise..."

He trailed off and rubbed his jaw. He had that bitter taste in his mouth again – bitter but heady and all-consuming. He always got it when he was trying to think like Robin. "There are lots of ways he could've got to the girls..."

"But didn't your people say he hadn't been communicating with anyone except Ellini? And what about this famous loyalty that supposedly would've taken years to overcome?"

"I didn't say years, I said time. More time than four days, anyway. And... oh." Jack stopped in his tracks, causing Elliott to come hurrying back for him.

"What?"

Jack stared right through him. "They didn't say he hadn't been communicating with anyone except Ellini. They said he hadn't been communicating with anyone except the Sahiba."

"What's the difference?" said Elliott. "She is the Sahiba, isn't she?"

"It's just an odd way of expressing it. Don't you think? They knew her name – why not use it? Calling her the Sahiba emphasises her Indianness. And there's another Indian woman who has access to the Academy. You'd have to be looking quite closely to tell them apart..."

He leaned his back against the nearest wall, feeling the now-familiar rush of piggybacking on Robin's thoughts. It was a jarring, sickening, but somehow exhilarating ride.

What a bastard. It would be attacking them on their weakest flank to target the Anglo-Indian prostitute – Mary Stryde. She'd only been with them a few weeks. She had no deeply-ingrained loyalty to be overcome. And she looked enough like Ellini that nobody would think it odd if Robin was seen meeting up with her.

"I would not be surprised," said Jack carefully, "if Mary Stryde turns out to be missing when Danvers finishes the head-count."

"Who's Mary Stryde?" asked Elliott.

"Oh, it's a long, nasty story. And you've been hearing too many of those recently."

Elliott didn't argue. He went back to kicking stones in silence for a while. It seemed as though he had just wanted to get Robin's guilt straightened out in his mind. There was no point going back to Ellini and saying, 'Look, he engineered this situation.' The damage had already been done.

"What are you going to do now?" said Jack, as they crossed the road into Holywell Street.

"I don't know. Go back to America, I suppose."

"Not to Magda?"

"God no!" said Elliott, hunching his shoulders. "The one good thing about pursuing Ellini was that it got me away from all that – society and pleasantries and dinner engagements and afternoon tea." He shuddered. "I'm not going back to that for anything. My father still lives in New Hampshire. He misses us, I think. He knows he couldn't visit Magda – oh, she'd never say so, but he knows his presence would shame her. He's too provincial. Too American. I'll go and keep him company until-"