She turned the coin over in her hand as she sat, waiting. The room was small and sparse of furnishings, though she was used to long periods of time within austere rooms spent in silent contemplation. She looked over the contents of the room:

The table and chairs she sat at were rickety and worn, so too the cot, chamber pot and wash basin. Nothing of any interest whatsoever.

Frustration finally seeped from her pores and she let out a huff. She was used to long silent bouts, but not very patient of them.

With a jangle of keys, a loud grating click and a squeal, the door unlocked and opened. A plain clothed gentleman entered the room and looked her up and down with a smile.

“Very good,” he said, as he took her in.

Another man followed after the first, a proud smile on his face that fell as he took her in, lounging on the chair in her underwear.

“How in the blazes did you get out?” the man bellowed, rushing forward to grab at her.

“I don’t think that will be necessary, Beechworth,” the man who had entered the room first said. He walked to the table, pulled out a chair and sat. “Why don’t you and Miller,” he indicated to a third man who loitered in the doorway, “go and see to the other one? There’s a good chap.”

Beechworth glared at the woman. “But I brought her in, I should—”

“Now, now, Beechworth. Best listen to my instructions, eh?” The man’s words held a hint of threat, but the man Beechworth took his meaning.

“You may want these back,” she said in a French accent, and tossed a metallic object at the man. “I think you may need them.”

Fumbling to catch the object, Beechworth sneered at the woman after he had recovered. He backed out of the room when the man seated across from her glanced sideways at him, the other man Miller moving ahead of him.

The door now shut and the two of them alone, the man across from her spoke once more. “I’m inspector Kaylock of Scotland Yard.”

The young woman’s mouth formed an oval in shock and she placed her hand demurely over it. “Scotland Yard? Mon dieu! Am I in very big trouble?”

The inspector grinned, his lips not parting. He hoisted a large, brown paper bag marked Evidence to the table top and placed it down with a metallic thud. He lay the bag down and methodically rolled it open and slowly unfolded its mouth. His lips pursed and he nodded, humming in appreciation at the contents as he rifled through them.

“My, my. Quite the cache the lads found on your person, wouldn’t you agree, Miss...?”

“Mademoiselle. Mademoiselle Angelique Morreaux.”

“That a fact?”

“Oui, it is a fact.”

“A rather fitting name.”

She smiled, fluttering her long lashes. “I assure you, despite your inference of it being a pseudonym, it is my real name.” She smiled and drew a silver cigarette case from somewhere under the table. Opening it, she offered him one, which he took. “But, of course, I would say that if it were indeed a pseudonym, wouldn’t I?”

“That you would,” Kaylock said with a smile.

He glanced up from the contents of the bag. His hand dipped into it and pulled out a match box, one finger deftly sliding the container open. Wood scraping on cardboard, Kaylock took out a match and first lit hers then his own cigarette. The match sputtered out as he shook it and placed the box on the tabletop, then the spent match atop it. He slid the box to the corner of the table, then ensured it was aligned squarely with the edges.

Kaylock breathed out smoke. “Very nice,” he said of the hand rolled cigarette. “You’ve expensive taste.” Then, indicating the bag, he said, “May I?”

Angelique nodded and flourished her hand, smoke spiralling to the gas lamp above them as the inspector gingerly removed and placed something else on the table.

“One razor sharp hair pin dagger with deadly tip,” he announced, his thumb testing the carefully honed edge. “A — what one can only describe as — diminutive pocket pistol,” he said of the second object. He stopped short of placing it on the wooden surface and pointed it at her, holding it with casual abandon. “I’m assuming it is loaded. I’ll put this somewhere rather more appropriate, hmm?”

She blew smoke at him and watched in faux fascination.

“A black pouch,” he tipped the contents into his palm, “containing a locket,” Kaylock pried the jewellery open, “with a painting of a fair-haired woman within.” He lay the locket gently on the pouch, spreading the delicate chain above it before he looked up. “A family memento?”

She watched on in silence.

“A black ladies corset, removed by the constabulary for fear of further concealed arsenal, and the — and I quote — nefarious use of its wire and ribbonning.”

She smiled widely now, sitting up straighter.

“Yes, that worked spectacularly, obviously.”

“Absolument.”

His hand crept toward the open mouth of the bag, then stopped. Kaylock considered the object for a moment. “I’ll leave that particular item in the bag.”

“Dressed such as I am, you do not need to worry about my modesty, Inspector.”

“Perhaps, Mademoiselle, but my morality trumps your ease I fear.”

“In my profession, Inspector, the moral are paupers.” She eased back in the chair and drew on the cigarette.

“Of that I have no doubt.”

He too now sat back, only to open the front of his jacket and remove an item from an inner pocket. He placed the object, barely contained in his fist, on the table and watched her face.

Angelique sat quite still. Her lips stayed fast, but her pupils shrank, her line of sight flickering from his face to it and back again.

“Then there was this,” he said, flicking the corners of a red velvet cloth back to reveal the large sapphire. “Recovered from within the… décolletage.”

“Your Constable Beechworth was very gentle,” she said, puckering her lips slightly, which then turned to a pout. “Such a pity I could not keep the pretty bracelets he gave to me.”

Kaylock ignored her, seemingly over with games now.

“This,” he said, tapping the gem, “was the only item stolen from display, despite a number of other priceless stones being in its vicinity, some daresay more valuable. Why is that?”

Exhaling and fluttering her eyelids she said, “Blue is my colour.”

The inspector smiled, stared into her dark eyes as he stabbed the cigarette out on the edge of the table and tossed the remainder away. “This alone will get you time in the darkest of gaols, perhaps even sent to one of the convict colonies. I hear the war effort in Australia against the Chinese is always in need of able-bodied women to manufacture shot, and wash and sew uniforms.”

She pouted again, making a show of it. “Look at these hands, Inspector. Do they look like the hands of a seamstress or factory worker. They are made for much more… delicate work. Perhaps we could come to some understanding?”

Kaylock’s smile grew and he flashed his teeth, nodding. He stood and removed his jacket. “Now, there’s a capital idea.”

She seemed to balk at the thought, the corners of her eyes crinkling, nostrils flaring.

“Oh,” he said in amusement. “Does the thought disgust you so much?”

“Where are your morals now, Inspector?” her voice dropped to a low, accusatory tone.

“No,” he said with a smirk. “I didn’t think you would stoop to such a level.” He dipped into the brown bag once more to pull out another item. “Though you may well have to.”

He rolled a long cylindrical wrapped in heavy fabric across to her. The cigarette stopped halfway to her lips as she hefted the object. Nestling the cigarette in place, she uncovered the thing, almost dropping it and the burning tobacco from her lips in shock.

“This is—”

Kaylock nodded. “It is.”

“But I didn’t—”

He nodded again. “I know that. You know that. His majesty knows that. Yet here it is, in evidence with a criminal caught red-handed robbing The British Museum. And of royal artifacts no less.” The inspector tutted. “Very naughty, Mademoiselle Morreaux.”

Angelique covered the item and set it down gently. “What do you want?”

The Inspector removed a pipe and set it down before pulling a pouch from one of his outer jacket pockets. Angelique was certain she saw Masonic symbolism on the leather tobacco holder as he pulled a wad of brown leaves and set them beside the pipe before it was folded and put away, which seemed odd as he didn’t wear the telltale ring. Perhaps, she surmised, he didn’t want to leave marks on any of his interrogated prisoners? He didn’t seem the type to do so, though how many times had she met a man that she had thought the very same thing of and been proven wrong?

He tapped ash from the pipe on the edge of the desk and worked at cleaning it. It seemed he intended to do so quite thoroughly as he removed a small case with cleaning implements from another pocket.

“How is your history?” he said as he pulled apart the pipe and set to it with a scraping tool.

“I know what I need to know.” She stubbed out her cigarette and dropped it without thought.

The inspector grinned, not taking his eyes from his task. “To better aide you in your acquisitions?” She didn’t answer. “What of the Ottoman’s?” He glanced up briefly.

“I suspect I know a little more than most. But do please go on.”

He nodded, blowing black dust from the pipes chamber, peering into it and, unsatisfied, began scraping again.

“They formed at the dawn of the fourteenth century, a group of some few hundred horsemen led by a chap called Osman — from which the Anglicised name Ottoman is derived, incidentally.”

“Fascinating,” she said in feigned interest.

“Quite.” Kaylock blew out the bowl again and, now satisfied, began work on the shank that connected to the stem. “No one quite knows how the blighter gained control. Anatolia of the time was a hodge-podge of states. From there they set out, conquering the region, taking land from the Byzantines as they went — Constantinople, Greece, Jerusalem, northern Africa. In a few centuries they’d grown from a spit of land to reign across three continents.”

“Most impressive,” she said, now not even pretending to be interested as she gazed about her. “How do you English say it? Bully for them.”

“Yes. Quite an enterprising lot. Do you know, one of their Sultan’s had Leonardo da Vinci design a bridge for him. Imagine? The da Vinci. Didn’t use it, though. Perhaps that is why they were in decline in the early eighteenth century? They had the vision, but not the foresight to implement it?”

He blew through the shank, the bowl turned sideways and away from himself, then put it down and began on the stem with a pipe cleaner.

“Perhaps. Or perhaps they needed a female leader or two?” she said with some vehemence.

“By all accounts, they did, though from behind the veil, so to speak.”

“Then perhaps they had the wrong women behind their veils?”

He chuckled as he ran a long, brushed wire through the stem tube. “Less Lady Macbeth and more Joan of Arc, you mean?”

She smiled bitterly now. “Perhaps. Though who would wish to be burned alive at such a young age?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Martyrdom and sainthood has its advantageous perks.” After blowing out the pipe he re-assembled it and nestled the wad of brown leaf in place, packing it with his thumb. “I take your meaning, though. She was certainly not liege of an empire.”

Angelique crossed her arms and hung her head back. “Where is all this leading to, Inspector?”

“I’m getting to that. My you are an impatient one.” He lit another match and held it to the pipe which began to smoulder. “One would have thought,” he said around the stem, puffing to get it going, “in your line of business, patience would be a virtue.”

“Were I about my business, Inspector, you would be barely conscious enough to breathe, let alone smoke a pipe.”

Shaking the match out he laughed heartily. “I do hope you carry that enthusiasm with you wherever you go, Mademoiselle Morreaux. You will be in dire need of it I fear.”

“And just where is it, Inspector, that I will be going?”

Kaylock stood, picked up the evidence bag, and replaced all the items but the last item within it, and the sapphire, which he pocketed. “Come along. I have to give you something first.”

#

Inspector Kaylock opened the door to another interrogation room and stopped short. Turning about, he ushered Angelique in angrily. She let out a heart chuckle.

Constable Beechworth was shackled to a chair, a sock in his mouth, his colleague constable Miller in much the same predicament. The inspector marched forward and pulled Beechworth’s gag, the man spitting and cursing at his unceremonious treatment.

“What in the devil happened to you, man?” Kaylock demanded. “Where’s the prisoner?”

“It was that damned Oriental, sir,” Beechworth spat out. “We unshackled him to transport him to a cell and — I swear by God’s teeth — he used some sort of witchcraft on us! One moment I was standing, the next I woke up like this in this chair.”

“This was a very amusing present, Inspector,” Angelique laughed. “Though I fail to see what I would want with an Oriental.”

Kaylock found a key on the floor and worked on the men’s wrists. “I think you misunderstand,” he said as he released the constable. “Though I’m sure it’s no coincidence that constable Miller here arrested a suspicious Oriental gentleman outside The British Museum on the same night as you were burgling it, Beechworth here is the one we’ve come to see.”

“Come again?” the constable said, massaging his wrists.

“You’ll be accompanying Mademoiselle Morreaux on her journey, Beechworth. Best pack your bags, old chap.”

“The devil you say, sir! I’m betrothed to be married. I can’t go galavanting about London with a woman in her undergarments. What would my fiance think?”

“Lucky for you then, Beechworth, that you won’t be travelling in London.”

Inspector Kaylock was already out of the room with Beechworth in pursuit, the large bag now in Angelique’s possession. She bunched up her hair and fixed it with the hairpin blade, and affixed the locket around her neck. Tucking the locket away, she began fastening her corset.

“Miss?” Angelique turned to face Constable Miller. “Just why are you in your underclothes, miss?”

“What else would one wear to rob a museum?” She turned her back to him, cinching in her sides. “Be a darling, mon cher, and do me up,” she said taking a deep breath. “Then perhaps,” she added, trying to expel as little from her lungs as possible, “you would be so kind as to fetch me a carriage?”

#

By the time they’d let her out it was well on its way to daybreak, though still dark enough that the only person that saw her exit the constabulary was a lamplighter, going about his daily routine of extinguishing the street lamps.

“Bonjour, monsieur,” she said cheerily as she sauntered to the carriage in her opaque stockings, chemise and corset, her short heeled black boots clicking on the cobbles, then carriage steps as she climbed aboard.

The elderly man had watched her with a grin, that is until the carriage driver turned to him, his collar pulled up and hat down. All one could see of the man was his eyes, but they spoke of harm if he didn’t avert his gaze.

The lamplighter pulled his tattered cap down and turned to the next lamp, holding his pole aloft well before his target was within reach.

With a grunt and a sharp flick of the driver’s hands, the carriage pulled away.

Angelique sat in silent contemplation until the sensation of her fingernails digging into the balls of her hands no longer sufficed. Her hand whipped to her head and then at the door, which now stood ajar, the carriage having come to a stop.

With a soft slap, her hand came to a sudden halt as soon caught her wrist. The driver’s eyes went wide. She slapped off his hat with her free hand and grabbed at his collar, pulling it down.

“Nanda kore?” the drive exclaimed as she dragged him into the cab and closed the door.

“I could have killed you, Hideyoshi!” she all but yelled, fighting to control her voice and temper.

"You would have tried, nee-chan." Hideyoshi gave her a lop-sided smile and released her arm.

She stabbed the blade into the seat beside her so hard it lodged into the wood beneath. “You’d best keep to English,” she said through clenched teeth as she attempted to pry the blade free. “They’re still looking for their escaped Oriental.”

Hideyoshi put his hands on hers and bent his head down to look her in the face. “What is wrong?”

“We were caught, and I lost the sapphire, that’s what’s wrong.”

“But we escaped, as we always do. That’s what matters. Any victory is better than utter defeat,” he said, using her adoptive grandfather’s own words.

“We did not escape. You escaped.”

Hideyoshi looked puzzled. “Then how did you...” He closed his eyes, sighing heavily. “What did you do, Tenshi?”

He used the Japanese name he’d given to her as children. That generally meant he was very cross.

“I made a deal with the British empire.”

“To do what? And in exchange for what?”

“Both are the same to me, little brother. Revenge.”

“Chikushō!” he swore, tearing the narrow blade from the seat and slapping its decorative head into her palm. “I assume that means we are going to have to go home first.”

“In more ways than one, little brother.”

“And then?” He snorted through his nose. “You engineered all of this beforehand, didn’t you? Our being caught, too, so we had no choice but to go to Constantinople.”

“I did not intend on losing the sapphire, however.” She smiled, her lips pressed into a thin line as she coiled her dark, wild hair and stabbed it still with the blade. “And, I believe they call it Istanbul, not Constantinople, now.”

Hideyoshi pulled on his hat roughly and flicked up the stiff collar of his coat. “Grandfather would have been very proud of you,” he said with a stern glare, not a hint of admiration in his voice as he exited the carriage, slammed the door, and set the horses to a breakneck gallop.

As she rocked about, Angelique drew forth her locket to look at the painting within before snapping it shut in her fist.

“Soon, we will have our revenge, Maman.”

Next Chapter: Chapter Two