As Vaughn did everything.
Mary hastily recalled her mind from the recollection of Vaughn's other talents, and back to Rathbone, not nearly so pleasant a subject, but far more pressing. The cast of Lady Euphemia's fiasco was replete with the sisters, daughters, and wives of men of influence, the scape-grace younger brothers of members of Parliament, the cousins of the King's advisors. Any one of them might let something slip in the casual chatter as he waited in the wings, any one might have information he wasn't supposed to have.
But why make off with the King's head? Was he using it as a shield? An excuse for his presence? An act of petty sabotage? The last seemed the most likely. It would be just like Rathbone and his group of petty revolutionaries to expend their energies in symbolic statements, like replacing the King's bust with one of Bonaparte, or sticking a large red, white, and blue cockade in the royal wig.
No matter what he was doing, it couldn't be good. Mary took quick inventory of events on the stage. At the rate Turnip was blundering along, she had a good ten minutes at least, as long as Lady Euphemia didn't bludgeon Turnip to death with the script before he got to the end of his part.
Oh, well. If that happened, it should take them some time to clean the blood off the stage.
Setting her pasteboard circlet more firmly on her brow, Mary slipped quietly through the wings, weaving her way past Charles II's spaniels, who nipped at her heels, and a pillow-stuffed Henry VIII, who attempted to nip at something else entirely. Mary gave him the sort of look reserved by princesses of Briton for impertinent mortals.
There were plenty of men in the McPhee livery scuttling about, but no large plaster head. Casting a glance over her shoulder to make sure no one noticed her departure, Mary slid into the narrow space behind the backdrop, where spare scenery was propped against the wall and props laid out on a long, wooden table.
Rathbone was there, bent over the plaster head, running a long piece of string out of the royal nostrils.
Mary paused at the very edge of the backdrop, considering her next move. Despite his gaunt frame, Rathbone was still considerably taller than she was; she still hadn't forgotten the discomfort of being backed into a corner by him at the Common Sense Society. And there they had been surrounded by people. Revolutionaries, but people, nonetheless.
He might not be too happy to be surprised at his task. And if he were the Black Tulip…Mary surreptitiously rubbed her hands along her arms. She still bore the bruises.
Glancing quickly around, her gaze fell on the table of props. The swords were all pasteboard, flimsy things that would bend at a touch, and Robin Hood's bow had a broken string. But in the midst of it all hulked Henry VIII's ham haunch.
Mary crept closer, resting one hand on the bony end. Beneath its pink and red paint, the ham haunch was solid wood. The narrow end made a convenient handle. Closing her hands around it, Mary hefted it experimentally in the air. Muttering to himself at his task, Rathbone never turned around. Adjusting her grip, Mary raised the ham haunch over her head, and swung it down.
The haunch connected with Rathbone's head with a satisfying crunch, bowling him over sideways. He thudded against the bare boards of the floor and was still.
Gathering up her draperies, Mary leaned forward to inspect him for signs of sentience. He seemed most convincingly inert. Still alive — she could tell that from the uneven rasp of his breath — but his closed lids and the darkening bruise on his temple suggested that he wouldn't be a bother to her for quite some time. Laying the ham haunch within easy reach, just in case she needed it again, Mary knelt down beside the fallen man and used two fingers to peel back one eyelid. The pupil stared straight ahead, devoid of recognition.
Feeling rather smug, Mary rose, brushing her hands on her skirt. If she'd only had a ham haunch to hand the other day when the Black Tulip appeared…Ah, well, one couldn't be expected to foresee every eventuality.
Bending over, Mary lifted the string that had fallen from Rathbone's hand when he toppled over. The waxed twine was oddly gritty to the touch, dotted with dark flecks like bits of sand.
Grimacing, Mary rubbed her fingers together to dislodge the residue. Dirt? Or something else? Either way, she didn't like the feel of it on her fingers.
For whatever reason, Rathbone had threaded the string through the enlarged nostrils of the larger-than-life-size bust. Twisting sideways, Mary peered into the royal nose. There was something inside, several somethings, in fact.
Straightening her aching back, Mary eyed the bust. There had to be some other way to get to the inside. Whatever was in there was too large to have been shoved in by the nose. And Lady Euphemia's doves would have needed an outlet, too, short of striking the King's head with a mallet. That would hardly be a spectacle calculated to please the King, seeing his head broken open in effigy.
Of course! Shoving her own hair hastily out of the way, Mary reached for the tail of the King's wig. The headpiece lifted easily off, revealing the cavity below. Inside, in the large, empty space between the King's ears, someone had packed a curious contraption contrived of three small wooden barrels, banded together with metal strips, nestled in against four cylindrical flasks sealed with wax. The whole had been padded around with shreds of paper and cloth, like the nest of a very peculiar bird. The string Rathbone had been unrolling with such care had its origin in the barrel in the middle.
Utterly baffled, Mary frowned down at the King's head. Whatever the contraption was, it was clearly not meant to be in there. But what was it?
"That is," said a voice behind her conversationally, "what is commonly known as an infernal machine."
Chapter Thirty
…his form had not yet lost
All her original brightness, nor appeared
Less than Archangel…
Mary dropped the plaster wig.
It clattered ominously behind her as she whirled to face the newcomer. Eight feet tall, he loomed in front of her, a martial apparition straight out of a stained-glass window. A red Crusader's cross burned against a cloth of gold tunic. Plumes bristled from a silver helmet, a regular cascade of crimson plumes, soaring into the air like the flames of a bonfire. In one gloved hand, a long spear reared halfway to the ceiling, its point towering a head above its bearer.
Mary pressed back hard against the statue, the royal nose jammed uncomfortably against her spine, until the apparition swept off his plumed helmet, reducing his height by a good foot and providing her with a view of a familiar and welcome face.
"Oh, Mr. St. George!" Mary said with a sigh of relief. "Were you looking for me? I hope I haven't missed our cue."
Without the distracting red plumes, St. George dwindled comfortably to his usual dimensions. Dressed as his mythic namesake, he was decked out in a sleeveless tabard over a flowing shirt and a pair of very tight black tights. Like Aunt Imogen, Lady Euphemia appreciated a good leg, and St. George was in possession of two of them, if not quite so good as Vaughn's. The tights ended in a pair of ridiculous turned-up shoes, with the toes curled up into points, another of Lady Euphemia's pseudo-medieval creations.
Mary smiled warmly at St. George, hoping that he wouldn't notice the body on the floor. If she could hustle him back into the wings, away from the fallen man and the mysteriously laden statue…
Her luck seemed to be out. Setting down his helmet, St. George squinted at Rathbone's crumpled form. Bending, he picked up the discarded ham haunch, turning it curiously over. Mary watched uneasily as he hefted it in one hand, as though testing its weight.